Fic: The man who had only dreams 5b/6
Title: The Man Who Had Only Dreams part 5b
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
Word count: 6468
Author's note: I'm so so sorry for the late update. The will was there but I literally have not had an internet connection between mid-friday morning (when this part wasn't quite ready) and 1am Sunday (when sleep became somewhat more important).
On another note... this part was hard to write, I realised at some point through it that I was really shit at writing arguments, which is a shame given who I'm writing about.
Kuala Lumpur, September, 2009: Arthur
Arthur frowned when he heard his cell start buzzing. Not his operational phone, the anonymous pre-paid cell he'd acquired less than a week ago with its standardized default ringtone, a result of never keeping a phone long enough to bother changing it, irrespective of any accusations a certain someone might proffer. No, this particularly buzzing was emerging from the older, battered and well-worn phone stuffed deep in the recessed of his jacket, his personal phone, with yes, its personalised ringtone. That fact left the options of possible callers down to two, and since one of them was sitting opposite him, quite clearly not on the phone, meant it could only be Eames.
This was not his turn. Their relationship, a word which Arthur only used to described it within his own mind and then only very occasionally, seemed to have developed a number of rules, entirely of its own volition. Chiefmost amongst these, behind the fact that they were never going to discuss exactly what this thing was they were doing, was the fact that they took it in turns to call. It was a simple pattern they'd fallen into without conscious awareness, but one which assuaged their need for constant competition towards dominance. It was Eames who had called last time, or more to the point turned up at Arthur's Paris flat with little to no forewarning, but the point remained, this was not his turn.
Something twisted deep in Arthur's stomach when he considered the possible implications of this change in patterns, hundreds of possibilities running through his mind as to what could have gone wrong, ways in which Eames could have been hurt or worse, which would push him towards calling him like this. It was always a danger in their line of work, especially given that Eames wasn't the most careful when choosing work partners.
Throwing Cobb an apologetic look, he extracted himself from the booth there were sitting in, before heading out of the small restaurant, if the collection of plastic chairs, strip lighting and cheap food could really be called that, to answer the call.
“Took you long enough, darling, I was starting to think that I'd be left serenading your answerphone and that would never do ,” Eames said once he answered the phone. Despite Arthur's misgivings, he didn't sound in trouble, and even given the forger's propensity toward dissimilitude Arthur was generally very good at picking up trouble, it was his job after all.
“I'm working Eames,” he replied by way of explanation, and possibly it was his own annoyance at the level of relief the forger's words caused, or maybe it was anger that Eames had caused the concern in the first place, but the words came out far sharper that he had intended. He felt off-balance, the carefuly controlled pattern of their interactions thrown out of order by the forger's unscheduled communication.
Eames, predictably, ignored both the tone and turmoil he had inadvertently managed to cause, “All work and no play makes Arthur a very dull boy.”
“It also makes Arthur a very rich one.” he snapped back, “now what it is you want?” That their normally painful banter would be tinged with something sharper was, unfortunately, far from unusual these days. Somehow the added dimension to their relationship eliciting an undercurrent to their conversations which inevitably resulted in them either fucking or fighting in equal measure, occasionally both at once.
“Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.” There was something in his voice which Arthur couldn't quite pin down, he rarely could with Eames, nonetheless it caused the anger to bleed out of him. He felt tired, was tired in truth with the gruelling schedule he'd been keeping preparing for their current job and he really didn't want this turning into an argument, not again.
“In my experience you rarely 'just' do anything,” he allowed his voice to soften, genuine warmth creeping through almost involuntarily at the memory of what had happened the last time Eames had claimed to 'just want to talk'.
“As always, my dear, you know me too well.” His voice had regained its gentle teasing, and Arthur could almost the picture the smile that was no doubt lighting up his face, affectionate and mischievous all at once.
Still there were issues to be address in that last sentence, notably “My dear?” Arthur didn't bother to keep the incredulity out of his voice because really the man's pet names were starting to get excessive, “That's a new one for you.”
“Appropriate I feel, or would you prefer my dearest? My flower, my petal, my light,” Eames continued like that for several moments, the endearments becoming more and more ridiculous and Arthur couldn't keep the amusement off his face. He didn't want to think what he looked like to any passers by, grinning down the phone like a loon.
Eventually, he had to put a stop to it before he burst out laughing, and that really would just be too much, “You could try Arthur. It is, after all, my name.”
“Ah but is it?” Eames mused, pondering, “I could quite imagine you being born a Neil, or maybe a Thomas or a Joseph, before that evil government of yours got hold of you and remoulded you into Arthur, point man extrodinaire”
“It is.” The admission slipped out almost unbidden, and Arthur froze as he said it, a rare breech of the walls of privacy he'd built up around his past, his personal information. Eames obviously realised the weight of it too, because there was a slight hitch on the other end of the line, an indrawn breath.
“And thus forever giving me images of you in shining armour at the head of a round table.” The words were clearly an attempt to clear some of the tension, and underlying seriousness despite their playful nature signally that the forger was more than aware of the admission Arthur had let slip.
Still, he'd given him an out, and Arthur wasn't so ungrateful as not to take it. “You can't sit at the head of a round table, that was the whole point.”
“Why must you feel the need to destroy all my illusions, I'm hurt love.” The conversation had regained its playful equilibrium, for which Arthur was thankful
“Not all of them, just the incorrect ones.” He glanced in through the windows of the restaurant back at Cobb who was fidgeting impatiently at the table. “Was there are reason for this phone call or was its sole purpose to distract me so I wouldn't get any work done”
“Heaven forbid I should distract you from the no doubt vitally urgent work, but as it so happens there was a reason for this little tete-a-tete.” Arthur smirked, of course there was, a phone call was never a simple phone call with Eames. “I've managed to acquire a reservation for two at the Fat Duck on Saturday and I find myself entirely bereft of company to take with me.”
“Acquired? How exactly do you just acquire reservations at the week-end to a three Michelin star restaurant on less than a week's notice?” A restaurant Arthur had always wanted to visit but never seemed to be able to find the time, he doubted this was a coincidence.
“That's neither here nor there, the important question is will you come or will I be forced to resort to taking my mother and somehow I doubt she'd quite appreciate the experience in the same way.” There was something in the man's tone, a certain hopefulness, or maybe vulnerability and Arthur had to wonder what, exactly, it was about this particular invitation which was so important. It certainly wasn't Eames' birthday, that was in May, or his own, which was in March and in any case not know to anyone not present at the particular event.
“So if I'm to understand correctly, you want me to fly half way round the world just so you can take me out on a date?” He couldn't quite keep the amused incredulity from his voice, even for Eames this was a lot.
“Well, when you put it like that love. Yes, yes I am .” The reply was so unashamedly Eames that Arthur couldn't help but grin.
But then he glanced at Cobb and considered the job they were meant to be pulling on Sunday, that one that absolutely could not be delayed and sighed. “I'm sorry, I can't. I just... can't.”
Something of the situation must have shown in his voice, because rather than try to push, cajole and persuade him as usual, there was merely a pause on the other end on the line before the other man eventually replied,“I understand darling, looks like Mother it is then.” Arthur couldn't help but wince at the hurt that managed to bleed into the other man's voice despite his clear, and usually flawless, attempts to keep the words light and carefree.
++++
Oslo, October, 2009
It was a month later than Arthur was saying the words to Cobb that he'd been dreading since starting this thing with the British thief almost a year ago, “We need a forger.”
Cobb had nodded, clearly coming to the same conclusion, “We need Eames.” And wasn't that the heart of the problem, because any job difficult enough to require Cobb to bring in a forger was inevitably difficult enough that only the best would do, and that meant Eames.
Not, of course, that Arthur was in principle against the idea of seeing Eames again, even ignoring the fact that they'd been sharing a bed less than a week ago. He was even willing to admit they did make a good team, their skills complementing and playing off each other in a way that could be at once deadly and explosive. However, this would be the first job they pulled together since falling into bed almost a year ago and Arthur wasn't certain he could trust the infuriatingly tactile Brit to maintain the appropriate level of professionalism. Worse, he wasn't entirely certain he trusted himself either.
Still, there was little question this particular job would be considerably easier if they had a forger with them and Arthur considered it a worse aspersion on his professionalism if he were to refuse to work with him solely on the basis that they were lover... sleeping together. He would just have to make it clear that they were, under no circumstances, going to be engaging in any extracuricular activities whilst they were working together and leave it at that.
Therefore, with the appropriate level of resignation, he sighed and said, “He's in New York,” distinctly not adding where I just left him, after taking him out to a three-star restaurant for missing out on the Fat Duck the night before, muttering about plans to visit the Guggenheim and pretty much every disreputable bar imaginable.
Answering their summons with a surprising level of promptness, the forger arrived at their workspace late the next day. They were located in an old ironmongers, a large light yellow painted building which had at some point been transformed into a practice space and storage facility for some long-disbanded theatre company before in turn being abandoned to fall into disuse and disrepair, graffiti adorning the once brightly painted exterior. Arthur had mostly chosen it for its still functioning, albeit only just, heating system, mostly secure locks and, above all, central location, none of which could be lightly dismissed.
Eames, predictably, ignored these factors, greeting him with a teasing, “Exploring our theatrical sides are we Arthur?” The forger perched himself on the edge of the point man's desk, using a wooden sword, that he'd managed to pick up somewhere amongst the detritus of random props, to emphasise his point, engaging in a mock en guarde when Arthur eventually looked up.
Arthur suppressed the smile that was threatening to emerge merely at the man's presence, because that would not be a good start to his plan to exert at least some level of professionalism over the proceedings. So instead he glared, a full I'm currently contemplating all the painful ways that I could kill you with that sword right now. glare, with added emphasis on the painful. “You're sitting on my files.”
“I am, dreadfully sorry.” His tone indicated that he was far from being anything like “I suppose it wouldn't do to mess up your colour-coded filing system or anything.” Despite the teasing words, or possibly because Arthur was moving his hand towards his pen in a particularly pointed way, he hoped off the desk and went to poking his away around the workspace. Arthur allowed himself a small smile at that, before turning back to his notes, hoping to get a bit more work done before Cobb returned and started the inevitable briefing.
“So which of the delightful hotels this city has to offer are you staying in?” Eames ventured eventually, after having spent more than a few moments trying to puzzle out the function of a particularly unusual prop.
“The Grand,” Forestalling any further comments, Arthur added, “I've booked you in to the adjoining room.” Because his professionalism would probably fly out the window if they ended up actually sharing a room. Eames' professionalism, he suspected, was a lost cause, if it hadn't already died a horrible death at some point along the way. Of course the fact that he'd had to change his own room, not to mention offer a not insignificant bribe to the hotel staff to secure said rooms was neither here not there.
“Of course you have.” Eames' voice had that tone of resigned disappointment that Arthur refused to believe wasn't entirely calculated to make him feel guilty, because the forger could be an emotionally manipulative son of a bitch when he wanted to.
“Need I remind you we're here to work, Mr Eames,” he replied and its possible the words were snapped out with considerably more vehemence than originally planned, an almost automatic reaction to the feeling that he was being played, whatever the underlying reason.
“Ah yes, the infamous Arthur work ethic rears its ugly head again, crushing all opposition before it. How could I forget.” The words were biting and sarcastic and perfectly aimed to get a rise from Arthur. It was only Cobbs entrance into the room, a weary, “Nice to see you two are getting on as well as always” on his lips which stopped the sniping from turning into a full-blown argument.
Needless to say, it was not an auspicious start.
++++
The mark in this case was a Cpt (Rtd) Caroline Durston, previously of Her Majesty's armed forces, Int Corps, and since making her living as a mercenary, information broker and occasionally hitman, well woman, who had recently made it know that she had some particularly devastating information about their clients, names not mentioned for confidentialities sake, which she had made clear her intention to sell to the highest bidder. Unsurprisingly said clients were less than impressed and so, with a surprising level of practicality, had hired Cobb to find out precisely what this information contained so that they could take appropriate, and possibly violent, steps to mitigate its exposure.
Of course the issue emerged that although Durston was not, in fact, an extractor she was one of the next best things, a professional information broker who's work brought her into contact with dreamsharing on a regular basis. Frankly, even if she hadn't been trained in subconscious security, and all the evidence pointed to the fact she had, she certainly had more than enough experience and awareness of it to be an issue. She was also, apparently, Eames' ex. Arthur could feel a headache coming on just thinking about it.
He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to relieve some of the tension there. “When you say 'ex', what precisely are we talking about here, one night stand or lost love of your life?” Its possible a slight edge of bitterness might have crept in on that last one and Arthur assured himself that he was not, in the slightest bit, jealous.
“Three months of fantastic sex whilst we were both not entirely willing volunteers to the MoDs dream research program.” There was an edge to the forger's words, which Arthur couldn't quite decipher but did nothing to alleviate the already growing headache. “Of course she turned out to be a complete and utter lunatic, so it wasn't meant to be.”
“Why am I not surprised by this development,” the words were muttered under Arthur's breath and it was just possible he was being somewhat immature about the whole thing, but he liked to think it was justified. Eames clearly didn't disagreed however, his lip curling in that way it did before he starting on the particularly sarcastic commentary which was guaranteed to get perfectly under Arthur's skin.
Thankfully for the chance of them continuing to have any sort of working relationship, let alone any other sort of relationship, Cobb chose that moment to jump in, “What was her level of involvement in the dream research, is she an experienced dreamer?” and Arthur was kicking himself for not picking up on that particular detail, because that was his job. Fuck, Eames had been here less than an hour and he was already sending Arthur's competency sliding down the scale.
The question clearly caught the forger slightly off guard too, because he swallowed whatever retort he was going to say almost visibly, a distinct crack in the usually perfectly calculated façade he presented, however slapdash it might appear to others. “Yes,” he paused and rephrased, “well for a given value of experienced. She never was particularly fond of the whole thing, never understood its appeal. Terribly effective mental security however, really brought out the sadist in her that bit did.”
“Damn,” Cobb seemed to be pondering options, running his hand over his face in frustration. “Any chance we could use your previous relationship in this?”
Arthur wouldn't quite admit how gratified he was when Eames shook his head almost immediately at the suggestion, “Reignite the old flame you mean? Lovely thought but wouldn't work, she's far from the sentimental type I'm afraid.”
++++
In the end it took them less than a week to come up with a plan, and another week to flesh it out to the point that any of them were actually content with its chance of success. As far as Arthur was concerned, that was two weeks too long. The initial concept had come from Eames, pitching the idea to Arthur as they lay entwined on his bed, and it has seemed lately that their ability to communicate with each other outside of arguments seemingly reduced to moments such as these.
“Two levels,” Eames proffered out of the blue, “if we make her think we tried and failed on the second layer, she'll be so busy on the first layer trying to track us down to exact revenge that she won't notice she's still in a dream.” Arthur couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the incongruity of Eames, of all people, starting a conversation about work at this point in time.
Of course this was not helped by the hand currently tracing patterns in the point man's skin in a way that was distinctly not conductive to having a serious conversation. He grabbed the hand in mid-motion, pressing it against his chest, “How will we ensure she knows who to chase? Leaving the timing down to chance that she wakes up just to see us slipping out the door would be messy.” There was a slight hitch in his voice towards the end of the sentence as Eames had given up trying to reclaim his hand and had instead chosen to lean forward to nibble on his ear.
“Ah, that darling, is the simple part. All we need to do is prime her suspicions slightly and she'll know exactly who to blame.” The forger had moved on to nuzzling his neck as he spoke, and it took a few seconds for the implication to process.
Once it did, however, he stiffened, a thousand different protests jumping up in his mind, most of which were, he would admit, entirely unprofessional, and certainly, definitely, not related to jealousy. Finally he settled on “Or make her so suspicious she leaves town before we have a chance to pull the job. Even for you the idea's idiotic.”
Eames stopped what he was doing, rolling off him with a sharpness that could only be down to annoyance, “As always love, your trust in my abilities is gratifying.”
“Maybe I'd have more trust in you abilities if you didn't insist on taking quite so many needless risks.” Maybe it was concern over the danger Eames would be putting himself into, maybe it was jealousy at the thought of him reacquainting himself with an old girlfriend that made him snap the words out. Either way, it was distinctly the wrong thing to say, but then Arthur didn't seem to be able to say anything right any more.
“Ah yes, whereas I imagine you'd rather not take any risks at all.” Eames' smile was sharp and mocking and Arthur had a feeling he wasn't just talking about the job any more.
Fuck, he was too tired to deal with this shit right now. He rolled over in his bed, his back to the forger, muttering, “What I'm risking at the moment is sleep deprivation. Either get back to bed or kindly fuck off.” He wasn't particularly surprised to hear the door adjoining their rooms slam shut a few minutes later. Fuck.
++++
Cobb, of course, loved the idea, the traitor.
The first part was easy. An 'accidental' meeting in the street, a mistimed step causing two bodies to collide, the instinctive, mutual apologies, because they were both British after all, even if they were in Norway, turning immediately into recognition of a familiar face.
Arthur had to admire the almost poetic nature of the whole thing, watching as he was over the top of a newspaper through the window of a café, ostensibly there to give back-up in case something went wrong.
Implementing the rest of the plan however, would be something else entirely, especially since it involved co-ordinating two layers to run around an experienced and possibly mentally unstable, if Eames was to be believed, subject. As such, Arthur couldn't entirely resent Cobb for making them run through the levels more times than was strictly necessary, ensuring that every little detail had been sufficiently accounted for.
What he could resent his for was spending most of this time on the second layer, the layer that he and Eames would be running alone since Cobb would be needed to extract the information on the level above whilst Arthur and Eames acted as a distraction, leading her on a merry chase, Eames words exactly, through the streets of Oslo. The implied slight on his competency, as much as exhaustion from a long day, was possibly making him somewhat more snappish than usual.
Which was no doubt why when he commented, “Do you think you could have made the dream somewhat less fragrant?” it came out considerably harsher than the light-hearted banter he'd been aiming for. This seemed to be happening a lot recently, and wondered if that said something he wasn't quite prepared to admit about his and Eames' relationship.
Eames gave him a look which was part disbelieving but mostly mocking, before saying slowly, as if speaking to a small child, or possibly an idiot, “Caroline's a native born Londoner. She'd twig something was wrong a mile off if the tube lacked that distinctive urine aroma.” His smile turned fully mocking, an expression that never failed to make Arthur want to commit acts of violence, “Unless of course public transportation is too low-brow for your esteemed tastes? Is that it love, worried that you might catch something from the great unwashed?” And yes, in hindsight, it was more than possible that Eames, who had never hid his disdain for mundane, repetitive tasks, was as frustrated and tense as he was. At the time however, Arthur wasn't exactly in the most charitable mood to consider this.
He forced down the urge to hit the other man, clenching his fists so hard that it left marks because no matter how satisfying the act would be it would no doubt set off the many milling projections, supplied courtesy of Cobb in this case, that were already starting to look at them with a measure of hostility.
Instead, he choose the considerably more mature route of ignoring the man, something he'd also been doing a lot of recently, and heading off down one of the off-white painted tunnels. It became clear after taking a few steps that the forger wasn't actually following him. Stamping down on his annoyance at the man's inability to take a hint, he threw behind him, “Work Eames, maybe you've heard of it.”
Eames reponse was something along the lines of 'stubborn workaholic pricks', which, in the spirit of not forcing Cobb to send them on another run after the projections tore them to shreds, he pretended not to hear.
They continued the walkthrough of the maze in a sullen silence that to Arthur merely seemed to grow heavier and more stretched with each and every step. His anger had long since cooled off, leaving him with the uncomfortable feeling that it was possible, just possible, that he was being unreasonable. Not, of course, that he'd ever admit this to Eames, not unless the man admitted he was overreacting first.
“How much time will we have before she notices its a dream?” Arthur proffered the question as a peace-offering to break the silence, falling back into what was, for them, safe territory of details and plans.
Eames shrugged, but it was a relax gesture, an indication of uncertainty more than anything else, “I only went under with her twice, and that was six years ago. Mostly, I imagine, it will depend on how close you get to her.”
Arthur nodded, it made sense. His role on this level was to follow her after she'd been handed the case containing the alleged information, so as to ramp up her paranoia and draw attention to the information's value. In theory, the closer he got to her, the more threatened she'd feel and the more likely that her subconscious security would kick in. Once she'd dealt with the intrusion, her natural arrogance and self-satisfaction should help break down some of the defences on the layer above, or at least distract them long enough with hunting down the pair of them to allow Cobb to do his job.
“Of course, when her projections do turn, they're going to be downright vicious, a bit like you first thing in the morning love.” The latter was said with a gently teasing smile, oh so different from the viciously mocking smirk that had so often adorned the forger's face this past week. Part of Arthur felt that there was something wrong with quite how relieved he was to see that particular expression again.
He could feel the corners of his mouth twitching in return, “assuming she hasn't increased her mental security.”
“Assuming she hasn't increased her mental security,” Eames agreed. “Don't think its likely, her opinion towards shared dreaming doesn't seem to have changed, and she's arrogant enough not to believe she'd have to bother.”
Finally, Arthur allowed himself a teasing smile of his own, “I take it she does know what you do for a living?” The question was mostly rhetorical, a way of keeping the conversation going.
Eames answered anyway, clearly of similar mind to keep to the familiar light banter, a comfort after the inevitable pattern of sharp words and ever sharper silences of the past coupld of weeks. “Oh most certainly. First thing she asked me in fact, whether I was planning on invading her mind.”
“I'm sure you did absolutely nothing to encourage her suspicions,” he responded drily, receiving an ironic who me? expression in return. After all, the more certain she was about Eames masterminded the invasion, the more focused she'd be on catching him on the next layer up. Thankfully Arthur had planned in detail for what would happen when, if she managed to catch up to the forger, to both of them, before Cobb had managed to get the the information, off her.
“In the interests of ensuring it doesn't come back to bite us in the ass, what exactly is it she disliked about dreaming?” Arthur finally asked after a few more minutes of silence. It had been bothering him pretty much since Eames had made the statement. Arthur had known people to feel slightly uncomfortable with the concept of sharing their subconscious, but very few who seemed to have a specific dislike of the act of lucid dreaming itself.
Eames seemed to grapple with the question for a few moments, trying to figure out how to phrase it. Finally, he offered, “Dreams are all about the subconscious. The emotions, the hidden depths, that complex world built of hopes and fears and all that bollocks.” The words were a statement more than a question, basic dream theory that they all knew by heart, nonetheless, Arthur couldn't help nodding in affirmation, if nothing else an encouragement for the forger to get the point. “Since darling Caroline doens't actually have any, she doesn't exactly appreciate the experience in quite the same way.” The term darling was in this case said with such vehemence that Arthur couldn't help feel a somewhat smug sense of satisfaction which if questioned about later he'd completely deny as being highly immature and completely irrational.
Judging by the smirk on Eames' face, he noticed it too, the perceptive bastard he was, but he continued regardless, “Oh, she puts on a wonderful act, even though she has even less imagination than you, do but scratch the surface and there's nothing there.”
He had trailed off towards the end, looking over Arthur's shoulder as if noticing something in the crowd. Following his gaze, Arthur felt his feelings of dread solidify as he spotted a familiar set of dark curls attached to an even more familiar figure in a black evening dress. Typical, he should have known things were going too well.
He tensed in anticipation of the inevitable pain that always seemed to accompany her presence, usually directed at him. Arthur occasionally wondered what exactly it said about his and Cobb's friendship that his projection of his wife seemed to take such pleasure in killing him in increasingly unpleasant fashions, but he was never entirely certain how to address the issue with the man he otherwise thought of as a brother.
He supposed it served them right for using Cobb's subconscious as a training ground. Although that was somewhat the point since it would allow the extractor-cum-architect to ensure that Eames was replicating the level's design to his satisfaction, even with the addition of the 'mark''s subconscious.
Talking of which. Arthur glanced over where the blond man was standing across the main ticket area .The almost enthralled look on his face at the appearance of his dead wife made it clear exactly how much help he was going to be.
“Arthur...” There was question hanging in his companion's tone, and he cut the forger off quickly before he could say anything else. This was not something he was particularly willing to discuss now, not the with her projection bearing down on them. Or for that matter, ever.
“I think we're done here,” He said shortly, pulling out his gun as he did so.
Eames looked ready to argue, glancing at Mal, before back to his face and clearly some of what Arthur was thinking must have shown there, because eventually he nodded pulling out his own gun. “Couldn't agree more love. Time to hit the pub I'd say.”
Arthur shot himself rather than dignify that one with a response, although he couldn't quite keep the amused smirk off his face at the typically Eames comment as he did so.
They didn't discuss Mal before the job, although in hindsight it might have been an idea if they had.
Of course it might have also been an idea if Arthur had discussed with Cobb how his increasingly vicious projection of his dead wife was no longer content to stay within his own subconscious and seemed determined to bleed through into other peoples.
Or with Eames the fact that when he'd said the mark was an 'emotionless bitch', what he really meant was that she was a complete psychopath who would willing turn around and randomly stab a stranger she happened to suspect of following her. The look of surprise on her face when Eames had shot them both awake was pretty indicative of the fact that at that point she still hadn't actually realised she was dreaming.
Most of all, they probably should have discussed the fact that Arthur wasn't some amateur child on his first extraction run and actually knew what the fuck he was doing without Eames turning up to rescue him every five minutes, even if Mal was at that particular point displaying her considerable skill with a carving knife, the patronising asshole that he was. And yes, that rankled a lot, because Arthur was nothing if not proud of his abilities and the idea that he'd need anyone to rescue his like some damsel in distress was frankly downright insulting.
Somehow he managed to keep a lid on his temper as they completed the job, his sense of professionalism, which seemed to have been dying a messy death throughout this job from Eames' mere presence, somehow managing to drag itself off life support long enough for him to carefully pack away the PASIV and vacate the mark's hotel room. Although he made sure he avoided looking at the forger as he did so, ostensibly following procedure as they split up, but mostly so that he didn't end up doing something that he, but more likely Eames, would regret.
It wasn't until they were back at the hotel, the forger having followed him into his room despite all warning signs that this may be a bad idea, that he snapped. Arthur was not the type to get angry often, at least not the hot, full-blown, shouting and throwing things, or often people, around type of angry, he was willing at admit however, that when he did, it was a sight to behold.
Fighting when they were both coming down from a particularly tense and painful job was probably a bad idea. The argument had started mundanely enough, much like many fights before it, with Arthur pointing out that was not a tourist, that he didn't need this over-protective bullshit and that he was more than capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. An accusation to which Eames had responded with something along the lines of the fact that he was a stubborn control-freak who needed to be able to accept that in a relationship one half didn't exactly enjoy seeing the other getting hurt and thus might try to intervene, not that he'd actually expect Arthur to understand this fact since he seemed entirely unable to admit to them actually being in any sort of relationship at all. Or words to that effect.
Pretty soon however, it morphed however into something more, something uglier, fuelled on by adrenaline, unspent aggression and built-up frustration at their mutual inabilities to function as a couple over the past two weeks until both were in each other's faces, shouting, pushing, the words by then having lost all importance or meaning. If asked, he would not be able to pin who it was who threw the first punch, just that by the end of it they were both bruised and bloody, panting through a hurt that had nothing to do with the physical pain their blows had inflicted.
What he could remember, with crystal clarity, however, was how The Argument, its magnitude having earned it the right to capitalisation, ended.
Eames was staring at him from across the room, wiping away at the blood flowing freely from his split lip and giving him a nasty mocking smile, “Well if that's how you feel love, maybe this thing isn't going to work between us”
Arthur took a deep breath, the anger was still thrumming beneath the surface, overriding the feeling of dread and resignation the words brought out in him, leading him to lash out in return,“You're right, it isn't.” Because at that point it really wasn't.
They stood there starting at each other for a few moments, each processing the concept that, whatever it was they had, it was now over. Arthur regretted the words almost as soon as he had spoken them, but he had no conceivable notion of how he might take them back. He searched the other man's face for any indication of hope, a chance to take them back, but he saw only a viciously mocking snarl, missing that this was as much acting as a mask for the forger's underlying hurt, as he own blank mask of indifference was doing for himself.
So that's how it's to be he thought viciously, grabbing his suitcase from the bed, one of the few bits of furniture in the room seemingly untouched by their activities and left, grinding out a “Goodbye Mr Eames.” as he did so.
He was on the plane with Cobb the next morning the final remnants of the anger having faded away during the night leaving only a deep, unyielding numbness around his heart. He ignored the extractors questioning glance at his bruised and battered appearance and instead resolved to push the forger as far from his mind as possible. With alcoholic help if necessary, and it distinctly was.
He'd always known that getting involved with the man, well with anyone really, but especially Eames, would be a bad idea. That didn't, however, stop the horrible stab of disappointment at being right.
Part 6a
Author's note 2: Yes I know, I'm evil and cruel to the boys - but it's cannon's fault! The film is coming up next and I definitly read them as not being together when it starts (by the end is another matter...).
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
Word count: 6468
Author's note: I'm so so sorry for the late update. The will was there but I literally have not had an internet connection between mid-friday morning (when this part wasn't quite ready) and 1am Sunday (when sleep became somewhat more important).
On another note... this part was hard to write, I realised at some point through it that I was really shit at writing arguments, which is a shame given who I'm writing about.
Kuala Lumpur, September, 2009: Arthur
Arthur frowned when he heard his cell start buzzing. Not his operational phone, the anonymous pre-paid cell he'd acquired less than a week ago with its standardized default ringtone, a result of never keeping a phone long enough to bother changing it, irrespective of any accusations a certain someone might proffer. No, this particularly buzzing was emerging from the older, battered and well-worn phone stuffed deep in the recessed of his jacket, his personal phone, with yes, its personalised ringtone. That fact left the options of possible callers down to two, and since one of them was sitting opposite him, quite clearly not on the phone, meant it could only be Eames.
This was not his turn. Their relationship, a word which Arthur only used to described it within his own mind and then only very occasionally, seemed to have developed a number of rules, entirely of its own volition. Chiefmost amongst these, behind the fact that they were never going to discuss exactly what this thing was they were doing, was the fact that they took it in turns to call. It was a simple pattern they'd fallen into without conscious awareness, but one which assuaged their need for constant competition towards dominance. It was Eames who had called last time, or more to the point turned up at Arthur's Paris flat with little to no forewarning, but the point remained, this was not his turn.
Something twisted deep in Arthur's stomach when he considered the possible implications of this change in patterns, hundreds of possibilities running through his mind as to what could have gone wrong, ways in which Eames could have been hurt or worse, which would push him towards calling him like this. It was always a danger in their line of work, especially given that Eames wasn't the most careful when choosing work partners.
Throwing Cobb an apologetic look, he extracted himself from the booth there were sitting in, before heading out of the small restaurant, if the collection of plastic chairs, strip lighting and cheap food could really be called that, to answer the call.
“Took you long enough, darling, I was starting to think that I'd be left serenading your answerphone and that would never do ,” Eames said once he answered the phone. Despite Arthur's misgivings, he didn't sound in trouble, and even given the forger's propensity toward dissimilitude Arthur was generally very good at picking up trouble, it was his job after all.
“I'm working Eames,” he replied by way of explanation, and possibly it was his own annoyance at the level of relief the forger's words caused, or maybe it was anger that Eames had caused the concern in the first place, but the words came out far sharper that he had intended. He felt off-balance, the carefuly controlled pattern of their interactions thrown out of order by the forger's unscheduled communication.
Eames, predictably, ignored both the tone and turmoil he had inadvertently managed to cause, “All work and no play makes Arthur a very dull boy.”
“It also makes Arthur a very rich one.” he snapped back, “now what it is you want?” That their normally painful banter would be tinged with something sharper was, unfortunately, far from unusual these days. Somehow the added dimension to their relationship eliciting an undercurrent to their conversations which inevitably resulted in them either fucking or fighting in equal measure, occasionally both at once.
“Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.” There was something in his voice which Arthur couldn't quite pin down, he rarely could with Eames, nonetheless it caused the anger to bleed out of him. He felt tired, was tired in truth with the gruelling schedule he'd been keeping preparing for their current job and he really didn't want this turning into an argument, not again.
“In my experience you rarely 'just' do anything,” he allowed his voice to soften, genuine warmth creeping through almost involuntarily at the memory of what had happened the last time Eames had claimed to 'just want to talk'.
“As always, my dear, you know me too well.” His voice had regained its gentle teasing, and Arthur could almost the picture the smile that was no doubt lighting up his face, affectionate and mischievous all at once.
Still there were issues to be address in that last sentence, notably “My dear?” Arthur didn't bother to keep the incredulity out of his voice because really the man's pet names were starting to get excessive, “That's a new one for you.”
“Appropriate I feel, or would you prefer my dearest? My flower, my petal, my light,” Eames continued like that for several moments, the endearments becoming more and more ridiculous and Arthur couldn't keep the amusement off his face. He didn't want to think what he looked like to any passers by, grinning down the phone like a loon.
Eventually, he had to put a stop to it before he burst out laughing, and that really would just be too much, “You could try Arthur. It is, after all, my name.”
“Ah but is it?” Eames mused, pondering, “I could quite imagine you being born a Neil, or maybe a Thomas or a Joseph, before that evil government of yours got hold of you and remoulded you into Arthur, point man extrodinaire”
“It is.” The admission slipped out almost unbidden, and Arthur froze as he said it, a rare breech of the walls of privacy he'd built up around his past, his personal information. Eames obviously realised the weight of it too, because there was a slight hitch on the other end of the line, an indrawn breath.
“And thus forever giving me images of you in shining armour at the head of a round table.” The words were clearly an attempt to clear some of the tension, and underlying seriousness despite their playful nature signally that the forger was more than aware of the admission Arthur had let slip.
Still, he'd given him an out, and Arthur wasn't so ungrateful as not to take it. “You can't sit at the head of a round table, that was the whole point.”
“Why must you feel the need to destroy all my illusions, I'm hurt love.” The conversation had regained its playful equilibrium, for which Arthur was thankful
“Not all of them, just the incorrect ones.” He glanced in through the windows of the restaurant back at Cobb who was fidgeting impatiently at the table. “Was there are reason for this phone call or was its sole purpose to distract me so I wouldn't get any work done”
“Heaven forbid I should distract you from the no doubt vitally urgent work, but as it so happens there was a reason for this little tete-a-tete.” Arthur smirked, of course there was, a phone call was never a simple phone call with Eames. “I've managed to acquire a reservation for two at the Fat Duck on Saturday and I find myself entirely bereft of company to take with me.”
“Acquired? How exactly do you just acquire reservations at the week-end to a three Michelin star restaurant on less than a week's notice?” A restaurant Arthur had always wanted to visit but never seemed to be able to find the time, he doubted this was a coincidence.
“That's neither here nor there, the important question is will you come or will I be forced to resort to taking my mother and somehow I doubt she'd quite appreciate the experience in the same way.” There was something in the man's tone, a certain hopefulness, or maybe vulnerability and Arthur had to wonder what, exactly, it was about this particular invitation which was so important. It certainly wasn't Eames' birthday, that was in May, or his own, which was in March and in any case not know to anyone not present at the particular event.
“So if I'm to understand correctly, you want me to fly half way round the world just so you can take me out on a date?” He couldn't quite keep the amused incredulity from his voice, even for Eames this was a lot.
“Well, when you put it like that love. Yes, yes I am .” The reply was so unashamedly Eames that Arthur couldn't help but grin.
But then he glanced at Cobb and considered the job they were meant to be pulling on Sunday, that one that absolutely could not be delayed and sighed. “I'm sorry, I can't. I just... can't.”
Something of the situation must have shown in his voice, because rather than try to push, cajole and persuade him as usual, there was merely a pause on the other end on the line before the other man eventually replied,“I understand darling, looks like Mother it is then.” Arthur couldn't help but wince at the hurt that managed to bleed into the other man's voice despite his clear, and usually flawless, attempts to keep the words light and carefree.
++++
Oslo, October, 2009
It was a month later than Arthur was saying the words to Cobb that he'd been dreading since starting this thing with the British thief almost a year ago, “We need a forger.”
Cobb had nodded, clearly coming to the same conclusion, “We need Eames.” And wasn't that the heart of the problem, because any job difficult enough to require Cobb to bring in a forger was inevitably difficult enough that only the best would do, and that meant Eames.
Not, of course, that Arthur was in principle against the idea of seeing Eames again, even ignoring the fact that they'd been sharing a bed less than a week ago. He was even willing to admit they did make a good team, their skills complementing and playing off each other in a way that could be at once deadly and explosive. However, this would be the first job they pulled together since falling into bed almost a year ago and Arthur wasn't certain he could trust the infuriatingly tactile Brit to maintain the appropriate level of professionalism. Worse, he wasn't entirely certain he trusted himself either.
Still, there was little question this particular job would be considerably easier if they had a forger with them and Arthur considered it a worse aspersion on his professionalism if he were to refuse to work with him solely on the basis that they were lover... sleeping together. He would just have to make it clear that they were, under no circumstances, going to be engaging in any extracuricular activities whilst they were working together and leave it at that.
Therefore, with the appropriate level of resignation, he sighed and said, “He's in New York,” distinctly not adding where I just left him, after taking him out to a three-star restaurant for missing out on the Fat Duck the night before, muttering about plans to visit the Guggenheim and pretty much every disreputable bar imaginable.
Answering their summons with a surprising level of promptness, the forger arrived at their workspace late the next day. They were located in an old ironmongers, a large light yellow painted building which had at some point been transformed into a practice space and storage facility for some long-disbanded theatre company before in turn being abandoned to fall into disuse and disrepair, graffiti adorning the once brightly painted exterior. Arthur had mostly chosen it for its still functioning, albeit only just, heating system, mostly secure locks and, above all, central location, none of which could be lightly dismissed.
Eames, predictably, ignored these factors, greeting him with a teasing, “Exploring our theatrical sides are we Arthur?” The forger perched himself on the edge of the point man's desk, using a wooden sword, that he'd managed to pick up somewhere amongst the detritus of random props, to emphasise his point, engaging in a mock en guarde when Arthur eventually looked up.
Arthur suppressed the smile that was threatening to emerge merely at the man's presence, because that would not be a good start to his plan to exert at least some level of professionalism over the proceedings. So instead he glared, a full I'm currently contemplating all the painful ways that I could kill you with that sword right now. glare, with added emphasis on the painful. “You're sitting on my files.”
“I am, dreadfully sorry.” His tone indicated that he was far from being anything like “I suppose it wouldn't do to mess up your colour-coded filing system or anything.” Despite the teasing words, or possibly because Arthur was moving his hand towards his pen in a particularly pointed way, he hoped off the desk and went to poking his away around the workspace. Arthur allowed himself a small smile at that, before turning back to his notes, hoping to get a bit more work done before Cobb returned and started the inevitable briefing.
“So which of the delightful hotels this city has to offer are you staying in?” Eames ventured eventually, after having spent more than a few moments trying to puzzle out the function of a particularly unusual prop.
“The Grand,” Forestalling any further comments, Arthur added, “I've booked you in to the adjoining room.” Because his professionalism would probably fly out the window if they ended up actually sharing a room. Eames' professionalism, he suspected, was a lost cause, if it hadn't already died a horrible death at some point along the way. Of course the fact that he'd had to change his own room, not to mention offer a not insignificant bribe to the hotel staff to secure said rooms was neither here not there.
“Of course you have.” Eames' voice had that tone of resigned disappointment that Arthur refused to believe wasn't entirely calculated to make him feel guilty, because the forger could be an emotionally manipulative son of a bitch when he wanted to.
“Need I remind you we're here to work, Mr Eames,” he replied and its possible the words were snapped out with considerably more vehemence than originally planned, an almost automatic reaction to the feeling that he was being played, whatever the underlying reason.
“Ah yes, the infamous Arthur work ethic rears its ugly head again, crushing all opposition before it. How could I forget.” The words were biting and sarcastic and perfectly aimed to get a rise from Arthur. It was only Cobbs entrance into the room, a weary, “Nice to see you two are getting on as well as always” on his lips which stopped the sniping from turning into a full-blown argument.
Needless to say, it was not an auspicious start.
++++
The mark in this case was a Cpt (Rtd) Caroline Durston, previously of Her Majesty's armed forces, Int Corps, and since making her living as a mercenary, information broker and occasionally hitman, well woman, who had recently made it know that she had some particularly devastating information about their clients, names not mentioned for confidentialities sake, which she had made clear her intention to sell to the highest bidder. Unsurprisingly said clients were less than impressed and so, with a surprising level of practicality, had hired Cobb to find out precisely what this information contained so that they could take appropriate, and possibly violent, steps to mitigate its exposure.
Of course the issue emerged that although Durston was not, in fact, an extractor she was one of the next best things, a professional information broker who's work brought her into contact with dreamsharing on a regular basis. Frankly, even if she hadn't been trained in subconscious security, and all the evidence pointed to the fact she had, she certainly had more than enough experience and awareness of it to be an issue. She was also, apparently, Eames' ex. Arthur could feel a headache coming on just thinking about it.
He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to relieve some of the tension there. “When you say 'ex', what precisely are we talking about here, one night stand or lost love of your life?” Its possible a slight edge of bitterness might have crept in on that last one and Arthur assured himself that he was not, in the slightest bit, jealous.
“Three months of fantastic sex whilst we were both not entirely willing volunteers to the MoDs dream research program.” There was an edge to the forger's words, which Arthur couldn't quite decipher but did nothing to alleviate the already growing headache. “Of course she turned out to be a complete and utter lunatic, so it wasn't meant to be.”
“Why am I not surprised by this development,” the words were muttered under Arthur's breath and it was just possible he was being somewhat immature about the whole thing, but he liked to think it was justified. Eames clearly didn't disagreed however, his lip curling in that way it did before he starting on the particularly sarcastic commentary which was guaranteed to get perfectly under Arthur's skin.
Thankfully for the chance of them continuing to have any sort of working relationship, let alone any other sort of relationship, Cobb chose that moment to jump in, “What was her level of involvement in the dream research, is she an experienced dreamer?” and Arthur was kicking himself for not picking up on that particular detail, because that was his job. Fuck, Eames had been here less than an hour and he was already sending Arthur's competency sliding down the scale.
The question clearly caught the forger slightly off guard too, because he swallowed whatever retort he was going to say almost visibly, a distinct crack in the usually perfectly calculated façade he presented, however slapdash it might appear to others. “Yes,” he paused and rephrased, “well for a given value of experienced. She never was particularly fond of the whole thing, never understood its appeal. Terribly effective mental security however, really brought out the sadist in her that bit did.”
“Damn,” Cobb seemed to be pondering options, running his hand over his face in frustration. “Any chance we could use your previous relationship in this?”
Arthur wouldn't quite admit how gratified he was when Eames shook his head almost immediately at the suggestion, “Reignite the old flame you mean? Lovely thought but wouldn't work, she's far from the sentimental type I'm afraid.”
++++
In the end it took them less than a week to come up with a plan, and another week to flesh it out to the point that any of them were actually content with its chance of success. As far as Arthur was concerned, that was two weeks too long. The initial concept had come from Eames, pitching the idea to Arthur as they lay entwined on his bed, and it has seemed lately that their ability to communicate with each other outside of arguments seemingly reduced to moments such as these.
“Two levels,” Eames proffered out of the blue, “if we make her think we tried and failed on the second layer, she'll be so busy on the first layer trying to track us down to exact revenge that she won't notice she's still in a dream.” Arthur couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the incongruity of Eames, of all people, starting a conversation about work at this point in time.
Of course this was not helped by the hand currently tracing patterns in the point man's skin in a way that was distinctly not conductive to having a serious conversation. He grabbed the hand in mid-motion, pressing it against his chest, “How will we ensure she knows who to chase? Leaving the timing down to chance that she wakes up just to see us slipping out the door would be messy.” There was a slight hitch in his voice towards the end of the sentence as Eames had given up trying to reclaim his hand and had instead chosen to lean forward to nibble on his ear.
“Ah, that darling, is the simple part. All we need to do is prime her suspicions slightly and she'll know exactly who to blame.” The forger had moved on to nuzzling his neck as he spoke, and it took a few seconds for the implication to process.
Once it did, however, he stiffened, a thousand different protests jumping up in his mind, most of which were, he would admit, entirely unprofessional, and certainly, definitely, not related to jealousy. Finally he settled on “Or make her so suspicious she leaves town before we have a chance to pull the job. Even for you the idea's idiotic.”
Eames stopped what he was doing, rolling off him with a sharpness that could only be down to annoyance, “As always love, your trust in my abilities is gratifying.”
“Maybe I'd have more trust in you abilities if you didn't insist on taking quite so many needless risks.” Maybe it was concern over the danger Eames would be putting himself into, maybe it was jealousy at the thought of him reacquainting himself with an old girlfriend that made him snap the words out. Either way, it was distinctly the wrong thing to say, but then Arthur didn't seem to be able to say anything right any more.
“Ah yes, whereas I imagine you'd rather not take any risks at all.” Eames' smile was sharp and mocking and Arthur had a feeling he wasn't just talking about the job any more.
Fuck, he was too tired to deal with this shit right now. He rolled over in his bed, his back to the forger, muttering, “What I'm risking at the moment is sleep deprivation. Either get back to bed or kindly fuck off.” He wasn't particularly surprised to hear the door adjoining their rooms slam shut a few minutes later. Fuck.
++++
Cobb, of course, loved the idea, the traitor.
The first part was easy. An 'accidental' meeting in the street, a mistimed step causing two bodies to collide, the instinctive, mutual apologies, because they were both British after all, even if they were in Norway, turning immediately into recognition of a familiar face.
Arthur had to admire the almost poetic nature of the whole thing, watching as he was over the top of a newspaper through the window of a café, ostensibly there to give back-up in case something went wrong.
Implementing the rest of the plan however, would be something else entirely, especially since it involved co-ordinating two layers to run around an experienced and possibly mentally unstable, if Eames was to be believed, subject. As such, Arthur couldn't entirely resent Cobb for making them run through the levels more times than was strictly necessary, ensuring that every little detail had been sufficiently accounted for.
What he could resent his for was spending most of this time on the second layer, the layer that he and Eames would be running alone since Cobb would be needed to extract the information on the level above whilst Arthur and Eames acted as a distraction, leading her on a merry chase, Eames words exactly, through the streets of Oslo. The implied slight on his competency, as much as exhaustion from a long day, was possibly making him somewhat more snappish than usual.
Which was no doubt why when he commented, “Do you think you could have made the dream somewhat less fragrant?” it came out considerably harsher than the light-hearted banter he'd been aiming for. This seemed to be happening a lot recently, and wondered if that said something he wasn't quite prepared to admit about his and Eames' relationship.
Eames gave him a look which was part disbelieving but mostly mocking, before saying slowly, as if speaking to a small child, or possibly an idiot, “Caroline's a native born Londoner. She'd twig something was wrong a mile off if the tube lacked that distinctive urine aroma.” His smile turned fully mocking, an expression that never failed to make Arthur want to commit acts of violence, “Unless of course public transportation is too low-brow for your esteemed tastes? Is that it love, worried that you might catch something from the great unwashed?” And yes, in hindsight, it was more than possible that Eames, who had never hid his disdain for mundane, repetitive tasks, was as frustrated and tense as he was. At the time however, Arthur wasn't exactly in the most charitable mood to consider this.
He forced down the urge to hit the other man, clenching his fists so hard that it left marks because no matter how satisfying the act would be it would no doubt set off the many milling projections, supplied courtesy of Cobb in this case, that were already starting to look at them with a measure of hostility.
Instead, he choose the considerably more mature route of ignoring the man, something he'd also been doing a lot of recently, and heading off down one of the off-white painted tunnels. It became clear after taking a few steps that the forger wasn't actually following him. Stamping down on his annoyance at the man's inability to take a hint, he threw behind him, “Work Eames, maybe you've heard of it.”
Eames reponse was something along the lines of 'stubborn workaholic pricks', which, in the spirit of not forcing Cobb to send them on another run after the projections tore them to shreds, he pretended not to hear.
They continued the walkthrough of the maze in a sullen silence that to Arthur merely seemed to grow heavier and more stretched with each and every step. His anger had long since cooled off, leaving him with the uncomfortable feeling that it was possible, just possible, that he was being unreasonable. Not, of course, that he'd ever admit this to Eames, not unless the man admitted he was overreacting first.
“How much time will we have before she notices its a dream?” Arthur proffered the question as a peace-offering to break the silence, falling back into what was, for them, safe territory of details and plans.
Eames shrugged, but it was a relax gesture, an indication of uncertainty more than anything else, “I only went under with her twice, and that was six years ago. Mostly, I imagine, it will depend on how close you get to her.”
Arthur nodded, it made sense. His role on this level was to follow her after she'd been handed the case containing the alleged information, so as to ramp up her paranoia and draw attention to the information's value. In theory, the closer he got to her, the more threatened she'd feel and the more likely that her subconscious security would kick in. Once she'd dealt with the intrusion, her natural arrogance and self-satisfaction should help break down some of the defences on the layer above, or at least distract them long enough with hunting down the pair of them to allow Cobb to do his job.
“Of course, when her projections do turn, they're going to be downright vicious, a bit like you first thing in the morning love.” The latter was said with a gently teasing smile, oh so different from the viciously mocking smirk that had so often adorned the forger's face this past week. Part of Arthur felt that there was something wrong with quite how relieved he was to see that particular expression again.
He could feel the corners of his mouth twitching in return, “assuming she hasn't increased her mental security.”
“Assuming she hasn't increased her mental security,” Eames agreed. “Don't think its likely, her opinion towards shared dreaming doesn't seem to have changed, and she's arrogant enough not to believe she'd have to bother.”
Finally, Arthur allowed himself a teasing smile of his own, “I take it she does know what you do for a living?” The question was mostly rhetorical, a way of keeping the conversation going.
Eames answered anyway, clearly of similar mind to keep to the familiar light banter, a comfort after the inevitable pattern of sharp words and ever sharper silences of the past coupld of weeks. “Oh most certainly. First thing she asked me in fact, whether I was planning on invading her mind.”
“I'm sure you did absolutely nothing to encourage her suspicions,” he responded drily, receiving an ironic who me? expression in return. After all, the more certain she was about Eames masterminded the invasion, the more focused she'd be on catching him on the next layer up. Thankfully Arthur had planned in detail for what would happen when, if she managed to catch up to the forger, to both of them, before Cobb had managed to get the the information, off her.
“In the interests of ensuring it doesn't come back to bite us in the ass, what exactly is it she disliked about dreaming?” Arthur finally asked after a few more minutes of silence. It had been bothering him pretty much since Eames had made the statement. Arthur had known people to feel slightly uncomfortable with the concept of sharing their subconscious, but very few who seemed to have a specific dislike of the act of lucid dreaming itself.
Eames seemed to grapple with the question for a few moments, trying to figure out how to phrase it. Finally, he offered, “Dreams are all about the subconscious. The emotions, the hidden depths, that complex world built of hopes and fears and all that bollocks.” The words were a statement more than a question, basic dream theory that they all knew by heart, nonetheless, Arthur couldn't help nodding in affirmation, if nothing else an encouragement for the forger to get the point. “Since darling Caroline doens't actually have any, she doesn't exactly appreciate the experience in quite the same way.” The term darling was in this case said with such vehemence that Arthur couldn't help feel a somewhat smug sense of satisfaction which if questioned about later he'd completely deny as being highly immature and completely irrational.
Judging by the smirk on Eames' face, he noticed it too, the perceptive bastard he was, but he continued regardless, “Oh, she puts on a wonderful act, even though she has even less imagination than you, do but scratch the surface and there's nothing there.”
He had trailed off towards the end, looking over Arthur's shoulder as if noticing something in the crowd. Following his gaze, Arthur felt his feelings of dread solidify as he spotted a familiar set of dark curls attached to an even more familiar figure in a black evening dress. Typical, he should have known things were going too well.
He tensed in anticipation of the inevitable pain that always seemed to accompany her presence, usually directed at him. Arthur occasionally wondered what exactly it said about his and Cobb's friendship that his projection of his wife seemed to take such pleasure in killing him in increasingly unpleasant fashions, but he was never entirely certain how to address the issue with the man he otherwise thought of as a brother.
He supposed it served them right for using Cobb's subconscious as a training ground. Although that was somewhat the point since it would allow the extractor-cum-architect to ensure that Eames was replicating the level's design to his satisfaction, even with the addition of the 'mark''s subconscious.
Talking of which. Arthur glanced over where the blond man was standing across the main ticket area .The almost enthralled look on his face at the appearance of his dead wife made it clear exactly how much help he was going to be.
“Arthur...” There was question hanging in his companion's tone, and he cut the forger off quickly before he could say anything else. This was not something he was particularly willing to discuss now, not the with her projection bearing down on them. Or for that matter, ever.
“I think we're done here,” He said shortly, pulling out his gun as he did so.
Eames looked ready to argue, glancing at Mal, before back to his face and clearly some of what Arthur was thinking must have shown there, because eventually he nodded pulling out his own gun. “Couldn't agree more love. Time to hit the pub I'd say.”
Arthur shot himself rather than dignify that one with a response, although he couldn't quite keep the amused smirk off his face at the typically Eames comment as he did so.
They didn't discuss Mal before the job, although in hindsight it might have been an idea if they had.
Of course it might have also been an idea if Arthur had discussed with Cobb how his increasingly vicious projection of his dead wife was no longer content to stay within his own subconscious and seemed determined to bleed through into other peoples.
Or with Eames the fact that when he'd said the mark was an 'emotionless bitch', what he really meant was that she was a complete psychopath who would willing turn around and randomly stab a stranger she happened to suspect of following her. The look of surprise on her face when Eames had shot them both awake was pretty indicative of the fact that at that point she still hadn't actually realised she was dreaming.
Most of all, they probably should have discussed the fact that Arthur wasn't some amateur child on his first extraction run and actually knew what the fuck he was doing without Eames turning up to rescue him every five minutes, even if Mal was at that particular point displaying her considerable skill with a carving knife, the patronising asshole that he was. And yes, that rankled a lot, because Arthur was nothing if not proud of his abilities and the idea that he'd need anyone to rescue his like some damsel in distress was frankly downright insulting.
Somehow he managed to keep a lid on his temper as they completed the job, his sense of professionalism, which seemed to have been dying a messy death throughout this job from Eames' mere presence, somehow managing to drag itself off life support long enough for him to carefully pack away the PASIV and vacate the mark's hotel room. Although he made sure he avoided looking at the forger as he did so, ostensibly following procedure as they split up, but mostly so that he didn't end up doing something that he, but more likely Eames, would regret.
It wasn't until they were back at the hotel, the forger having followed him into his room despite all warning signs that this may be a bad idea, that he snapped. Arthur was not the type to get angry often, at least not the hot, full-blown, shouting and throwing things, or often people, around type of angry, he was willing at admit however, that when he did, it was a sight to behold.
Fighting when they were both coming down from a particularly tense and painful job was probably a bad idea. The argument had started mundanely enough, much like many fights before it, with Arthur pointing out that was not a tourist, that he didn't need this over-protective bullshit and that he was more than capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. An accusation to which Eames had responded with something along the lines of the fact that he was a stubborn control-freak who needed to be able to accept that in a relationship one half didn't exactly enjoy seeing the other getting hurt and thus might try to intervene, not that he'd actually expect Arthur to understand this fact since he seemed entirely unable to admit to them actually being in any sort of relationship at all. Or words to that effect.
Pretty soon however, it morphed however into something more, something uglier, fuelled on by adrenaline, unspent aggression and built-up frustration at their mutual inabilities to function as a couple over the past two weeks until both were in each other's faces, shouting, pushing, the words by then having lost all importance or meaning. If asked, he would not be able to pin who it was who threw the first punch, just that by the end of it they were both bruised and bloody, panting through a hurt that had nothing to do with the physical pain their blows had inflicted.
What he could remember, with crystal clarity, however, was how The Argument, its magnitude having earned it the right to capitalisation, ended.
Eames was staring at him from across the room, wiping away at the blood flowing freely from his split lip and giving him a nasty mocking smile, “Well if that's how you feel love, maybe this thing isn't going to work between us”
Arthur took a deep breath, the anger was still thrumming beneath the surface, overriding the feeling of dread and resignation the words brought out in him, leading him to lash out in return,“You're right, it isn't.” Because at that point it really wasn't.
They stood there starting at each other for a few moments, each processing the concept that, whatever it was they had, it was now over. Arthur regretted the words almost as soon as he had spoken them, but he had no conceivable notion of how he might take them back. He searched the other man's face for any indication of hope, a chance to take them back, but he saw only a viciously mocking snarl, missing that this was as much acting as a mask for the forger's underlying hurt, as he own blank mask of indifference was doing for himself.
So that's how it's to be he thought viciously, grabbing his suitcase from the bed, one of the few bits of furniture in the room seemingly untouched by their activities and left, grinding out a “Goodbye Mr Eames.” as he did so.
He was on the plane with Cobb the next morning the final remnants of the anger having faded away during the night leaving only a deep, unyielding numbness around his heart. He ignored the extractors questioning glance at his bruised and battered appearance and instead resolved to push the forger as far from his mind as possible. With alcoholic help if necessary, and it distinctly was.
He'd always known that getting involved with the man, well with anyone really, but especially Eames, would be a bad idea. That didn't, however, stop the horrible stab of disappointment at being right.
Part 6a
Author's note 2: Yes I know, I'm evil and cruel to the boys - but it's cannon's fault! The film is coming up next and I definitly read them as not being together when it starts (by the end is another matter...).