Inception: No One Gets Out Alive (Arthur/Eames, PG-13, 2/2)
Part I
No One Gets Out Alive
It only rains in Los Angeles twice a year, but technically, Pasadena isn't it L.A.
Every other day of the year it's beautiful and green; on the day of Mal's funeral it's gray and overcast. Rain spatters lightly against the windshield of Arthur's Volvo.
The funeral is held at a Catholic church down the road from where the Rose Bowl floats are paraded on Colorado Boulevard and three blocks over from Cal Tech.
Miles stands at the graveside with Phillipa clutching his hand. At some point she grabs onto Arthur's fingers and he lets her. His other hand is wrapped around a black umbrella which Eames relieves him of long enough for him to step forward and say a few words.
He has a flower he means to throw on top of the casket. He reaches into his pocket to extract the white rose, but instead he crushes it in his fist.
Miles and his wife, Anouk, take James and Phillipa away, and Arthur finds himself with Eames at a bar in Los Feliz. Technically the Griffin isn't really in Los Feliz since it's on the other side of the 5, but fuck it. Arthur's not interested in semantics.
The Griffin is clean, softly lit without being totally in the dark, and people go there to drink, not pull the usual L.A. bullshit of see me, see me, see me. The interior is dark wood and nondescript carpeting. The stools at the bar are mostly vacant.
Arthur watches Eames flip a poker chip between his fingers as the bartender sets down two beers and two shots of tequila between them.
"To Mal," Eames says, slipping the chip into his pocket and picking up his shot glass.
"To Mal," Arthur agrees as they clink glasses.
After the shots are gone, Eames motions for another round and a flash of silver at Eames' left wrist catches Arthur's eye. "Are those chess piece cufflinks?"
Eames looks almost sheepish. "Yeah, they were a present from Mal."
"Can I?" Arthur says, holding out his hand.
Eames removes one of the cufflinks and drops it into Arthur's outstretched palm. It's a beautiful piece. Arthur's fingerprints smudge the flawless metal and he uses the edge of his jacket to clean it up. "I didn't know you played chess," he says, handing the cufflink back.
Eames' fingers are warm against the palm of Arthur's hand. "I used to. It was a long time ago."
"Used to? You don't play anymore?"
Eames shrugs as he refastens his cufflink. "Training takes all the fun out of it."
"Training," Arthur repeats. "You played competitively?"
"It was a long time ago," Eames repeats.
"When did you stop?"
"When you were still in short pants."
Arthur ignores the dig. "How good were you?"
Eames shrugs again. "Good enough."
Arthur licks his lips. "You were a prodigy weren't you?" If the lighting were better Arthur would be able to tell if Eames' cheeks are actually flushing or if he's just imagining it.
"Depends on who you ask," Eames says.
"Is there anything you can't do?"
Eames' laugh is raspy, hoarse. "Plenty," he says. "Like Mal said, I just try to stick with the things I have a passing knowledge of."
Arthur takes a swallow from his beer. Stella. "So you went from chess to people?"
"They all have their patterns," Eames says. "But sometimes people surprise you. The board only has so many permutations. People are infinite."
Arthur shakes his head. "You were like Bobby Fischer."
"I quite liked Bobby Fisher. Shame he turned out to be such a raging megalomaniacal xenophobic arse." Eames pauses to take a sip of his beer. "I didn't mind the megalomania bit so much, but the rest of it was beyond the pale." Eames points to a stack of games on a table in the corner. "Care to try your hand?"
Arthur makes a derisive noise. "No, I don't think I would."
"Cards then?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Do I look stupid to you?"
"No, you look utterly competent, but your half-Windsor looks a bit wonky."
Arthur reaches for the knot in his tie before he realizes Eames is fucking with him. His laugh is forced, dry, but he makes the effort. "You know what the problem with life is?" he says before knocking back his second shot.
Eames smirks. "Of course I do: nobody gets out alive."
Arthur makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
"That almost sounded like a real laugh that time," Eames says. "I knew you could do it."
"Well, I'm glad you think I was successful."
"I think you're a lot of things," Eames says before tossing back his second shot.
Arthur wants to push the issue. Wants to know what else Eames thinks he is.
But not right now. Right now all he wants is another drink.
"You know what you really need?" Eames says.
"Enlighten me."
"Whiskey. Copious amounts of it."
When Eames leans across the counter to summon the bartender, Arthur slips a paper beermat from the Griffin into the inside pocket of his jacket. It joins Mal's white rose.
Arthur works the A-lister job with Eames because he doesn't know what else to do. It's not one of their better jobs, but they get the information they need and Arthur gets to watch Eames do his best Brad Pitt impersonation. He's very good. It's the Angelina Jolie, though, that really makes Arthur's day.
Eames disappears after the job the way he always does. Arthur doesn't necessarily mind. He doesn't miss him. Actually, scratch that. He does miss Eames. A lot. Like to the point where when he talks to his mother she actually asks him if there's something wrong, but there are so many things wrong he doesn't even know where to begin. Besides, missing Eames doesn't pay his bills. It doesn't help Dom or take care of Phillipa and James. And if Arthur has an enormous AAA map stuck to the wall of the loft with poker chip stickers that he picked up when he went shopping for Phillipa's birthday, that's okay. And if there are other poker chip stickers on the map that correspond to the blank postcards Arthur keeps receiving then that's nobody's business but his own.
Brisbane, Kathmandu, Shanghai, Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro, Vancouver, Helsinki, Mombasa.
A contact of a contact puts Arthur in touch with Evan Nash. Nash is not the sort of person Arthur would work with under normal circumstances, but Mal is dead and Dom is a wanted man and Arthur is in love with Eames. There is nothing normal about this situation.
The first job with Nash is passable. The second job with Nash makes Arthur nervous. When he tries to bring this up with Dom, Dom just ignores him. He's got problems of his own. Arthur starts looking for someone else, vetting candidates, but then the Cobol job comes up.
It's a fucking disaster.
Arthur is sitting at the edge of the pool at Hearst Castle. It's an exquisite pool, encircled by classical columns and filled with water the perfect blue of chlorine and synthetic dye #45. There are dark black lines on the bottom of the pool and a Grecian design curling around the edges.
Arthur's never been to San Simeon to see the real thing, but he just saw a program about it on TV and he needs someplace he can think.
The sky is the same cornflower shade as the tie he saw at Paul Smith two days ago, and the sun is beating down on his skin with no danger of sunburn.
Arthur shifts against the tiling underneath him, his feet making ripples in the water.
He wriggles his toes and tumbles a red die against gray marble. One. One. Two. Three.
A shadow appears over the five.
"Fibonacci," Eames says.
Arthur looks up. Eames is wearing a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Arthur's subconscious even remembered the obscured tattoo on Eames' collarbone. Eames' trousers are rolled up to knees criss-crossed by scars.
Arthur's dreaming, but he wouldn't give his projection of Eames scarred knees would he?
"Of course you know the Fibonacci sequence," Arthur says.
Eames drops down next to him and slips his legs into the pool. They look almost as pale as Arthur's own underneath the water. "I would ask how you know that," Arthur says, "but at this point I'm starting to think you just breathe IQ points."
"You ask because it amuses me." Eames snaps the band on Arthur's Moleskine that sits between them. Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Because it amuses you," Eames corrects.
Arthur's been trying to work on the Fischer job. Trying to figure out how to approach it. Dom says Eames has it figured out, but this is Arthur's dream; Eames shouldn't have the answers here.
"Why are you in my dream?" Arthur says.
"Because I just arrived and you weren't even there to greet me. That's bad form you know. I suspect you spend too much time on your own and I'm terribly curious as to what you're doing."
"You know what curiosity did to the cat."
"Yes, but I hate cats so I'm quite all right with that."
Arthur can feel his mouth quirking at the corners. "So, Fibonacci."
"What about him?"
"You're a mathematical genius as well as a chess prodigy?"
Eames' laugh is warm, intimate. Arthur wants to stab everyone who's ever heard it. "Come along, Arthur," Eames snaps the band on his Moleskine again. "You could read Dan Brown and know that."
Arthur stares. "Dan who?"
"We need to work on your pop culture references."
"So you're saying you're not a genius?"
"What I'm saying is that intelligence is all relative. I could've left school before sixth form and be smarter than someone who got a double first from Oxford. People talking about how smart they are is boring. And boorish. It's like people who want to talk about how much money they have."
"Says the son of aristocracy."
Eames has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Landed gentry."
"Money, Eames."
"Arthur, do you feel compelled to talk about the millions of dollars the U.S. government spent training you?"
"Why on earth would I do that?"
"Exactly: you wouldn't. It's the same with intelligence: if you have it, you have it. If you are capable and talented -- or smart -- you don't have to talk about it. It will be apparent. It's always apparent."
"Is it?"
"You really must look in the mirror more; I suspect you're lacking a healthy streak of narcissism. Only if you were secretly afraid that you were an idiot would you feel compelled to shout from the roof tops about your IQ or your MENSA membership or your ridiculously thick piece of Egyptian card-stock from Harvard."
Arthur smirks. "So would you say you're smart?"
Eames leans in, his mouth very close to the shell of Arthur's ear. "I wouldn't say anything at all."
Arthur turns his head. Eames is so close that Arthur could kiss him. He's almost forgotten how long Eames' eyelashes are. This is a startling reminder. Arthur could end all his torment; his subconscious is clearly in agony, but no, not here. If they're doing this they're doing it for real.
Eames exhales and Arthur's heart stops. He wouldn't dream that Eames' breath is that warm.
Eames is there. Here. He's real.
This isn't a projection.
Arthur wakes up and Eames is slouching in a wicker chair on his left. "I hate wicker," Eames says as he extracts the IV and winds up his lead.
Arthur blinks at him. "You couldn't have waited until I woke up?"
Eames smiles. "Waiting is so passé."
Arthur watches him go.
He has a very unsettling feeling that something else is happening:
Arthur has never wanted to go home and masturbate while repeating the Fibonacci sequence before.
Today he has to wait six hours before he gets to go back to his pied-à-terre in Ile St. Louis and is able to look up the entirety of the Fibonacci sequence on Wikipedia. He comes three inches from his keyboard at the thirty-third number in the sequence: three-million, five-hundred twenty-four thousand, five hundred and seventy-eight.
"How long have you known Eames?"
Arthur looks up from the model in his hands and quirks an eyebrow at Ariadne. Eames is out with Dom doing recon on Browning, otherwise Arthur is sure Ariadne would be having this conversation with him. "Long enough," he says.
Ariadne's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That long, huh?"
"Maybe." Arthur sets the model down and leans back against Ariadne's work table. "I guess it depends on your point of view."
Ariadne pulls out a stool and settles on it. "So what's your point of view?"
"Time is relative. So in reality I've known him a few years, but some days I feel like I know everything possible, and then sometimes..."
"You don't know him at all."
Arthur shrugs and looks back at the model of his level of the dream. "That's how it is with most people though."
Ariadne picks up a small pad of paper and a pen and begins sketching something. "Do you know his first name?"
"Why?"
"Because I can't find it out."
Arthur smiles to himself. "Did you ask him?"
"Of course I did."
"And what did he say?"
"He wanted to know why I couldn't just call him Eames."
"And what did you say?"
"I said I could, I just wanted to know anyway." Arthur has to chuckle at that. Arthur likes Ariadne. She's smart, eager. Naturally inquisitive. Her work is complex, but she's fairly uncomplicated. That's rare.
It won't last long in this line of work.
"So," Ariadne prompts.
"So?" Arthur says.
"What's Eames' first name?"
"How do you know Eames isn't his first name?"
Ariadne huffs loudly. "Arthur, you're worse than he is."
Arthur stands up straight and rolls back his shoulders. "Would you treat him any different if his name was Reginald?"
"Is it Reginald?"
"No," he pauses. "What about if it was Jamie?"
"He doesn't really look like a Jamie."
"Paul?"
"Arthur."
"A rose is a rose is a rose, Ariadne," he says. "It doesn't matter what you call it."
"That's not true," Ariadne protests. "A turtle isn't a tortoise. A kiss isn't a slap. A kick couldn't be called a love tap."
Arthur thinks about Eames nearly tipping Arthur out of his chair earlier today.
This, Ariadne, would be a kick.
"Okay," he concedes. "Point made."
"I will tell you Eames' first name," Yusuf calls across the blackboard they're using as a work station divider.
"What is it?" Ariadne demands. "And why didn't you tell me when I asked you yesterday?"
"Because I wanted to see if you could figure it out for yourself."
Ariadne tosses her pen over the top of the blackboard.
"You missed me!" Yusuf says triumphantly.
"Yusuf," Ariadne says. "Eames' first name."
"Yes, of course."
"What is it?" Ariadne demands.
"It is an old name,"Yusuf says. "A name with history. A name with purpose." Ariadne reaches out and flips the blackboard horizontal. "Ow!" Yusuf says, coming into view.
He rubs his nose where he's clearly been smacked by the edge of the blackboard.
"The name," Ariadne repeats.
"Trouble," Yusuf says gleefully. "T-r-o-u-b-l-e. Trouble."
This time Ariadne gets Yusuf with a wad of paper.
Yusuf laughs.
Personally, Arthur couldn't agree more.
Arthur is human.
He puts his pants on one leg at a time. He sits down to go to the bathroom, scratches inappropriately and folds the pages when he wants to keep his place in his books. He bleeds and sweats and fucks up from time to time because that's what humans do.
He doesn't harass Dom about Mal showing up in every fucking job since her death, so when he fucks up during the Fischer job he wants to yell back, "I'm not fucking perfect! Nobody is; least of all you!"
Instead he needles Eames about reuniting Fischer Senior and Fischer Junior.
Instead he tells Eames to work harder.
How the hell is Eames going to fix someone else's estrangement when he and Arthur aren't even estranged but their relationship is just as awkward? Just as strangely fond and odd?
And then Eames is at his shoulder calling him "darling."
Arthur's never been distracted so fast in his entire life. It's hard to mentally eviscerate Dom or lament whatever the limbo he's stuck in with Eames when Arthur's entire thought process slows down to:
"Wait. What?"
They land in Los Angeles on Sunday morning.
Everyone leaves LAX separately. There are no shared taxis, no celebratory drinks. Perhaps they're all still in shock. Maybe it's simply a sense of "thank god that's over and please never let me see these people again."
Or maybe it's nothing more than the fact that everyone goes their own way. People always do.
Arthur gets home a little bit before eleven. He has just enough time to make a quick trip to the Ralph's on 9th Street for some groceries before he's due at his appointment.
He hasn't been to his cooking class in months, but that's no reason not to show up now.
In fact, when he arrives Rita and Moses and Christian greet him as though he's their long lost cousin.
Food brings people together.
"Arthur," Esmeralda kisses him on both cheeks. "You have not been back since I gave you the crispy-skinned salmon recipe. I was convinced you'd either burned down the house or it was such a success that you were going to be Food Network's Next Big Star."
Arthur rubs the back of his neck. "I never got to make the salmon."
"Never got to make it?" Rita says, looking up from where she's sorting out mixing bowls into groups of seven. "But yours was the best in the class. Why didn't you make it?"
"Something happened," Arthur says.
"Something always happens," Christian agrees. "My husband's mother is about to happen. I think I'm about to commit homicide."
"It wasn't something that happened," Arthur amends. "It was someone."
"Ah," Moses and Rita say at the same time.
Arthur's laugh is dry, wracked. "I'm taking this class to impress someone and I'm pretty sure he doesn't know -- or doesn't care -- either way about it."
"You should tell him," Christian says.
"Do you love him?" Rita demands.
"Food is love," Moses says thoughtfully. "Cook something for him."
"The Taj Mahal is love," Arthur says randomly. Rita and Moses stare at him.
"You have it bad," Rita decides.
"Esmeralda, Arthur needs some sort of sex food," Christian says.
Arthur has to laugh. The problem here isn't sex. Whatever he wants from Eames, it's never been about sex. Arthur wouldn't mind seeing Eames naked, he's not dead, but they're not two sixteen-year-old boys. Arthur's brain isn't in his cock.
They're men.
Arthur is a man.
He needs to act like it.
Sunset Towers is an old hotel. Quiet. Discreet. A throwback to Old Hollywood, it's located right on the Sunset Strip, wedged between The Standard and The Mondrian and across the street from the Saddle Ranch Chop House, which has an all-you-can-drink-for-$9.99 Bloody Marys and Mimosas special on Sundays till 3 p.m.
How the Towers manages to avoid the obnoxiousness that runs rampant around it is something of a mystery, but the minute Arthur steps inside the oak paneled reception area it's as though L.A. has fallen away. The young woman manning the desk glances up at Arthur as he walks past her. He acknowledges her with a slight nod of the head, never slowing down for a moment.
One-hundred percent of fitting in is looking like you fit in. Like you belong. Like you know what you're doing.
Even if that's a lie.
Especially if that's a lie.
It's only when Arthur's waiting for the elevator that he notices the smear of chocolate batter on the sleeve of his shirt, but it doesn't matter. At least he hopes it doesn't. He doesn't think Eames has ever really cared one way or the other how Arthur dresses.
Room 1608 is two rights down the hall from the elevator. It's the last room at the end of a hallway, and Arthur clears his throat before he knocks on the door.
It takes a moment for the door to open. In fact, Arthur's just about to knock on the door again when it swings open and Arthur's faced with Eames in a white t-shirt and blue sweatpants. The shirt hugs every muscle, the sweatpants are loose. Eames' hair is free of gel or pomade: in fact it's sticking up in all directions as though attempting to liberate itself from Eames' head.
He looks utterly devastating.
"Hi," Arthur says abruptly.
Eames cocks his head to the side. "Arthur."
Arthur licks his lips. A sudden chill races down his spine and he twitches. Eames narrows his eyes. "Should we have come up with a safe word?"
"A safe word?"
"Yes, a word for when you show up unexpectedly at my hotel and make me think the men in black are right behind you."
"There are no men in black right behind me," Arthur says, and then he glances behind himself just to check. This would be a bad time to be proven wrong.
"All right," Eames says, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. "So what can I do for you?"
"I, uh, came to see you."
Eames' left eyebrow creeps upward. "Me."
"Yes."
"I'm afraid you'll have to tell me why; inception has left me a little bit less than psychic."
Arthur offers Eames the bag of cupcakes in his hand. "I made these for you."
Eames uncrosses his arms and takes the bag as though it's a Fabergé egg. "You made these for me?" he repeats, curiosity apparent as he opens the bag and peeks inside. "You made me chocolate cakes?"
"I remembered. In Italy. When we went to the trattoria with the lobster pasta you liked their chocolate soufflé. It's not the same thing, but we haven't learned how to make soufflés yet. And I'm pretty sure that a soufflé wouldn't've made it up here from downtown anyway."
Arthur has never babbled like this in his life. Except for when he was sixteen and asked out Christine Gelson. Hopefully this will go better than that did.
Eames' face is perfectly blank when he meets Arthur's eyes. "You made these for me because I like chocolate."
Arthur nods his head. "Yeah. Yes."
Eames closes up the bag. "Perhaps it's just me, but I feel compelled to ask: what's going on?"
"You," Arthur says. "You're what's going on."
Saying this is terrifying and liberating all at once. Someone's been standing on Arthur's chest for months; he just realized it was him. He can breathe again. Let his heart beat again.
"I'm what's going on?" Eames repeats.
"You're making me stupid and careless."
"I am?"
"We almost died because all I think about is you. Because I want to take you to the Taj Mahal. And tie you to the four-poster bed at the Relais Santa Croce. I'm taking these cooking classes to impress you and I don't even think you know about it."
The blank look is gone. But it's been replaced by unfettered shock. This may be worse.
"Arthur." Eames sounds pained. He doesn't sound like... isn't this the part where it all comes together, finally? The part where Arthur can finally stop trying to deflect and entice and cajole all at the same time?
"Do you have any idea how I feel about you?" he says. Eames may look pained, but Arthur feels pained.
Eames rubs his jaw. Arthur's fingers curl in on themselves. He wants to touch Eames' stubble. His mouth. The curve of his neck.
"The question isn't whether I know, the question is do you know?" Eames says.
"Do you think I would be here if I didn't?" Arthur snaps. His heart is shrinking in his chest. First it was beating too fast, then it was suffocated. Now he thinks it's in danger of disappearing altogether. He had no idea the heart could do so much. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Do you like me at all?" He sounds like he's twelve.
"Very much."
Arthur's eyes pop open. If he was unprepared for that, he's totally poleaxed by Eames' smile. It's small and kind. Wistful. Fond.
Arthur's throat is dry. He feels like he's running out of words to plead his case. "Will you let me in?" he says, taking a hopeful step forward.
Eames shakes his head. Blocks his way. "Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Perhaps."
Arthur can't take anymore of this. "Why?"
"Because, Arthur. Because I spend my entire life dealing with forgeries and impersonations," Eames raises an eyebrow. "I'm not looking for a fake -- I'm looking for the real thing."
Arthur uses his foot to block the door when Eames attempts to close it on him. "I am the real thing."
Eames looks at him consideringly. And then he leans into the hall and presses his lips to Arthur's right cheek. "Of course you are," he says after he pulls away.
Arthur couldn't say how long he spends staring at Eames' closed door.
This was their first kiss.
He kind of hoped it would go better.
Arthur drives all the way home (forty-seven minutes), parks the Volvo (twenty-three minutes), gets out of the car and goes up to his loft (twenty-eight minutes) before he realizes that this conversation is not over. Of course by the time he drives all the way back up to fucking West Hollywood, tosses his keys to the valet and races back up to Eames' room, he's only marginally surprised to see housekeeping stripping down the bed.
There are no clothes in the closet, no glasses on the bathroom counter.
Eames didn't even take the free Kiehl's products.
"You are Mr. Arthur?" the housekeeper says after Arthur kicks the green-and-yellow striped silk sofa in frustration.
Arthur's head snaps up.
She's eyeballing him warily. He doesn't blame her; he kind of bulldozed through the entire room.
"Yes," he says. "That would be me. Lo siento, Señorita."
"No te preocupes," she says, pulling an envelope out of her pocket. "Señor Eames, he asked me to give this to you."
"Señor Eames asked you to give this to me," Arthur repeats even as he takes the cream-colored envelope with the Sunset Towers logo on the back flap.
The envelope is strangely misshapen. Heavier than it would be with just a piece of paper inside.
Arthur rips it open.
There's no letter, but there is a pair of cufflinks inside.
Arthur extracts a small silver bishop from inside and rubs his thumb over the groove in the head.
Okay.
He'll play.
The flight from LAX to Heathrow takes almost eleven hours.
By the time Arthur gets to London he is utterly fried.
Including the Fischer job and this trip, but excluding cooking classes, chasing Eames all over half of Los Angeles, and a trip back home for his passport and a glossy black shoe box, he's been on planes for almost twenty-four hours.
There's an address in his Moleskine written in Mal's very careful fine handwriting under the heading: For When You Stop Being Stubborn. This information appeared at some point after the Florence job, but before everything else.
She seemed to think Burns Road in Battersea might be a good place for Arthur to visit. Arthur takes a taxi, because he's pretty sure he'd fall asleep if he got on the Tube at this point.
Arthur sprawls out in the leather seat and stares at the ceiling of the black cab. He's still wearing the shirt with the chocolate stain on the sleeve. He can still feel Eames' lips on his cheek.
The cab drops Arthur off right in front of a building that looks like it was a school in another life.
Arthur stands on the doorstep for several minutes, shoebox under his arm, and then he presses the buzzer and waits. Nothing happens. He presses it again. And again. It's entirely possible that Eames went to go visit his parents. Or his sister. Or that one genderless nameless person who potentially broke Eames' heart years ago that Mal never told him about.
Arthur gives it another five minutes and then he turns around and walks down the street. There should be a park somewhere nearby on Joybert or Jaubert Street.
He's working on an old memory at this point, an ancient conversation, but soon the row houses are gone and there's a black railing on Arthur's left. He can hear Dom telling him never to work from memory. Never. But this isn't his memory. It's just a story he's heard. Something Eames told him once about where he goes to relax.
There's a cleared area with a children's jungle gym. There's a weeping willow. There are park benches.
Arthur pauses at the gate and fishes his die out of his pocket.
It feels right. He drops it on the ground anyway.
He crouches down, picks it up, and then rolls it again.
Once, twice, three times.
He looks up when scuffed brown suede loafers appear in his periphery. "I wasn't expecting you for another fifty-two minutes," Eames says.
He's got an unlit cigarette between his fingers, which he drops on the ground, and a mug in his other hand.
Arthur pockets his die as he stands up. Eames is wearing a dark jeans and a heathered gray shirt. The watch on his wrist is shiny. Arthur can't place the maker. Eames has circles under his eyes and his hair is everywhere, like it was at the hotel. Like it's never seen pomade or a comb. Like Arthur could grab it and hold on for dear life.
"I'm tired," Arthur says.
Eames reaches out and cups Arthur's neck, his fingers scratching soothingly at Arthur's scalp. Arthur closes his eyes and sighs. "C'mon," Eames says, his fingers curling around Arthur's neck.
Arthur opens his eyes and lets Eames lead him to a park bench that's peeling green paint. It's nice outside. Overcast, but cool, crisp.
Arthur sits down next to Eames, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. There are wrinkles in his trousers and traces of dirt underneath his fingernails. He's filthy; he doesn't care.
"I've been waiting for you," Eames says. He moves away briefly to set his mug on the ground. When he's upright again, Arthur slouches down and rests his head on Eames' shoulder.
"I took the scenic route," he says.
"Everything in its own time."
"Your stiff upper lip didn't exactly help matters."
"The first time we met you thought I was a whore, and now, I've morphed into the repressed Englishman."
Arthur turns and rubs his forehead against Eames' shoulder. "Do you know how many calluses I have on my cock because you wouldn't meet me halfway?"
"Did you ever ask me to meet you halfway?"
Arthur lifts his head to stare at Eames. And there's that smile again. The small intimate one. The one that makes Arthur feel like they're the only two people on earth. "You're a dick," Arthur says.
"You're an arsehole," Eames says cheerfully.
"Asshole."
"Twat."
"Fucker."
"Wanker."
"Well, everybody has to be something."
Eames' grin is blinding; Arthur's heart grows six sizes in his chest. He slumps back down; Eames' shoulder is hard. "Ow," he says mildly.
He can feel it when Eames kisses the top of his head. Feel his utterly mussed hair stir when Eames exhales on his scalp and ruffles his hair.
The exhaustion doesn't seem quite so severe now.
"I brought you something," he says, handing Eames the shoe box he's brought five-thousand miles and change.
"Yes, I clearly need another pair of shoes," Eames teases, lifting the lid.
Arthur can feel the tension shoot through Eames body. The change is instantaneous. It's like an injection of Somnacin. "Oh," Eames says softly.
Arthur watches as Eames extracts a stained beer mat from the Griffin in Los Feliz and a folded map with little poker stickers on it. There's an Abraham Lincoln quote scrawled on a plain white napkin from The Burger Joint, a sketch of St. Peter's Basilica on a piece of yellow legal paper and a gray Kangol flat cap that Arthur hasn't worn in more than a year.
There are postcards and a recipe for crispy-skinned salmon and a matchbook from a trattoria in Rome that serves lobster pasta.
"What is this?" Eames' voice is rough, strained.
Arthur sits up straight. He taps Eames on the shoulder for his attention. To make sure Eames sees him. "This is -- I've been -- I want you."
Eames parrots back. "You want me."
"I want you to be with me."
Eames opens his mouth, closes it; he looks utterly lost. "You want me," he says again.
"Yes."
"And that's what these things are? Me?"
"No. That's me being a closet romantic."
Eames bites his lip. "And this is you coming out of the closet," he says with a smile.
"Consider them an offering."
"This isn't the Church," Eames says, putting the lid back on the box and setting it on the bench beside him. "I don't want your things, your time will be quite sufficient."
"Will it?" Arthur says as Eames leans in. "I know how you feel about these things."
"And how do I feel about these things?" Eames' words are tumbling onto Arthur's lips
"'I hate giving a shit; it never ends well,'" Arthur quotes, with what he thinks is a fairly passable accent.
Eames grins in delight. "We need to work on your enunciation: Americans speak dreadful English."
"It's been translated, translations are never as good as the real thing."
"This is true."
"Do you think this won't end well?"
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Who said anything about this ending?" he says, right before he kisses Arthur.
Eames' mouth is wet; his lips, dry. The kiss isn't perfect, it doesn't set off fireworks or blow out the power station. But it does get Arthur his very first proper kiss from Eames. It gets Arthur's fingers tangled in Eames' hair and Eames' slick, glib tongue licking every worry away from Arthur's mouth.
It's the kind of kiss that ends up with Arthur on his back on a bench in a public park with Eames braced over him, his fingers tracing Arthur's mouth.
"Can we go home now?" Arthur says.
"So I can impugn your chastity?"
Arthur's laugh is riotous. "I've been flying for twenty-four hours, working for five weeks, and wearing the same clothes for almost two days. I want a shower and a nap. And then I want another shower."
"You're very demanding."
Arthur shrugs. "There might be room for a blow job in there. Maybe a hand job in the shower."
"Your condescension is appreciated."
Arthur surges upward and kisses Eames quickly. "You're appreciated," he says.
Eames' mouth opens and nothing comes out.
Arthur smirks, steals another kiss and then pushes himself upright. He gets to his feet, collects the box and the mug, and then he holds out his hand to Eames. "Now?"
Eames reaches out and takes his hand. "Now."
-end-
Everything is a joint effort. It takes a village to get stories out; some poor schmuck has to conceptualize and write the fucker and then she's got to harass other people to make sure it goes out in matching socks. This particular joint would not have been possible without the beta skills and tolerant ears of maurheti, lazlet and antheia. ♥
With very special adoration for maurheti who keeps me from stabbing myself in the hand with a fork by letting me introduce her to Bell x1 instead. (That is highly not recommended, the fork bit. Bell x1 is totally recommended.).
Arthur/JGL in a fedora thanks to futbol16_4. Eames in glasses thanks to johanirae.
ETA: Now with art from silverotter
No One Gets Out Alive
It only rains in Los Angeles twice a year, but technically, Pasadena isn't it L.A.
Every other day of the year it's beautiful and green; on the day of Mal's funeral it's gray and overcast. Rain spatters lightly against the windshield of Arthur's Volvo.
The funeral is held at a Catholic church down the road from where the Rose Bowl floats are paraded on Colorado Boulevard and three blocks over from Cal Tech.
Miles stands at the graveside with Phillipa clutching his hand. At some point she grabs onto Arthur's fingers and he lets her. His other hand is wrapped around a black umbrella which Eames relieves him of long enough for him to step forward and say a few words.
He has a flower he means to throw on top of the casket. He reaches into his pocket to extract the white rose, but instead he crushes it in his fist.
Miles and his wife, Anouk, take James and Phillipa away, and Arthur finds himself with Eames at a bar in Los Feliz. Technically the Griffin isn't really in Los Feliz since it's on the other side of the 5, but fuck it. Arthur's not interested in semantics.
The Griffin is clean, softly lit without being totally in the dark, and people go there to drink, not pull the usual L.A. bullshit of see me, see me, see me. The interior is dark wood and nondescript carpeting. The stools at the bar are mostly vacant.
Arthur watches Eames flip a poker chip between his fingers as the bartender sets down two beers and two shots of tequila between them.
"To Mal," Eames says, slipping the chip into his pocket and picking up his shot glass.
"To Mal," Arthur agrees as they clink glasses.
After the shots are gone, Eames motions for another round and a flash of silver at Eames' left wrist catches Arthur's eye. "Are those chess piece cufflinks?"
Eames looks almost sheepish. "Yeah, they were a present from Mal."
"Can I?" Arthur says, holding out his hand.
Eames removes one of the cufflinks and drops it into Arthur's outstretched palm. It's a beautiful piece. Arthur's fingerprints smudge the flawless metal and he uses the edge of his jacket to clean it up. "I didn't know you played chess," he says, handing the cufflink back.
Eames' fingers are warm against the palm of Arthur's hand. "I used to. It was a long time ago."
"Used to? You don't play anymore?"
Eames shrugs as he refastens his cufflink. "Training takes all the fun out of it."
"Training," Arthur repeats. "You played competitively?"
"It was a long time ago," Eames repeats.
"When did you stop?"
"When you were still in short pants."
Arthur ignores the dig. "How good were you?"
Eames shrugs again. "Good enough."
Arthur licks his lips. "You were a prodigy weren't you?" If the lighting were better Arthur would be able to tell if Eames' cheeks are actually flushing or if he's just imagining it.
"Depends on who you ask," Eames says.
"Is there anything you can't do?"
Eames' laugh is raspy, hoarse. "Plenty," he says. "Like Mal said, I just try to stick with the things I have a passing knowledge of."
Arthur takes a swallow from his beer. Stella. "So you went from chess to people?"
"They all have their patterns," Eames says. "But sometimes people surprise you. The board only has so many permutations. People are infinite."
Arthur shakes his head. "You were like Bobby Fischer."
"I quite liked Bobby Fisher. Shame he turned out to be such a raging megalomaniacal xenophobic arse." Eames pauses to take a sip of his beer. "I didn't mind the megalomania bit so much, but the rest of it was beyond the pale." Eames points to a stack of games on a table in the corner. "Care to try your hand?"
Arthur makes a derisive noise. "No, I don't think I would."
"Cards then?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Do I look stupid to you?"
"No, you look utterly competent, but your half-Windsor looks a bit wonky."
Arthur reaches for the knot in his tie before he realizes Eames is fucking with him. His laugh is forced, dry, but he makes the effort. "You know what the problem with life is?" he says before knocking back his second shot.
Eames smirks. "Of course I do: nobody gets out alive."
Arthur makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
"That almost sounded like a real laugh that time," Eames says. "I knew you could do it."
"Well, I'm glad you think I was successful."
"I think you're a lot of things," Eames says before tossing back his second shot.
Arthur wants to push the issue. Wants to know what else Eames thinks he is.
But not right now. Right now all he wants is another drink.
"You know what you really need?" Eames says.
"Enlighten me."
"Whiskey. Copious amounts of it."
When Eames leans across the counter to summon the bartender, Arthur slips a paper beermat from the Griffin into the inside pocket of his jacket. It joins Mal's white rose.
Arthur works the A-lister job with Eames because he doesn't know what else to do. It's not one of their better jobs, but they get the information they need and Arthur gets to watch Eames do his best Brad Pitt impersonation. He's very good. It's the Angelina Jolie, though, that really makes Arthur's day.
Eames disappears after the job the way he always does. Arthur doesn't necessarily mind. He doesn't miss him. Actually, scratch that. He does miss Eames. A lot. Like to the point where when he talks to his mother she actually asks him if there's something wrong, but there are so many things wrong he doesn't even know where to begin. Besides, missing Eames doesn't pay his bills. It doesn't help Dom or take care of Phillipa and James. And if Arthur has an enormous AAA map stuck to the wall of the loft with poker chip stickers that he picked up when he went shopping for Phillipa's birthday, that's okay. And if there are other poker chip stickers on the map that correspond to the blank postcards Arthur keeps receiving then that's nobody's business but his own.
Brisbane, Kathmandu, Shanghai, Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro, Vancouver, Helsinki, Mombasa.
A contact of a contact puts Arthur in touch with Evan Nash. Nash is not the sort of person Arthur would work with under normal circumstances, but Mal is dead and Dom is a wanted man and Arthur is in love with Eames. There is nothing normal about this situation.
The first job with Nash is passable. The second job with Nash makes Arthur nervous. When he tries to bring this up with Dom, Dom just ignores him. He's got problems of his own. Arthur starts looking for someone else, vetting candidates, but then the Cobol job comes up.
It's a fucking disaster.
Arthur is sitting at the edge of the pool at Hearst Castle. It's an exquisite pool, encircled by classical columns and filled with water the perfect blue of chlorine and synthetic dye #45. There are dark black lines on the bottom of the pool and a Grecian design curling around the edges.
Arthur's never been to San Simeon to see the real thing, but he just saw a program about it on TV and he needs someplace he can think.
The sky is the same cornflower shade as the tie he saw at Paul Smith two days ago, and the sun is beating down on his skin with no danger of sunburn.
Arthur shifts against the tiling underneath him, his feet making ripples in the water.
He wriggles his toes and tumbles a red die against gray marble. One. One. Two. Three.
A shadow appears over the five.
"Fibonacci," Eames says.
Arthur looks up. Eames is wearing a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Arthur's subconscious even remembered the obscured tattoo on Eames' collarbone. Eames' trousers are rolled up to knees criss-crossed by scars.
Arthur's dreaming, but he wouldn't give his projection of Eames scarred knees would he?
"Of course you know the Fibonacci sequence," Arthur says.
Eames drops down next to him and slips his legs into the pool. They look almost as pale as Arthur's own underneath the water. "I would ask how you know that," Arthur says, "but at this point I'm starting to think you just breathe IQ points."
"You ask because it amuses me." Eames snaps the band on Arthur's Moleskine that sits between them. Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Because it amuses you," Eames corrects.
Arthur's been trying to work on the Fischer job. Trying to figure out how to approach it. Dom says Eames has it figured out, but this is Arthur's dream; Eames shouldn't have the answers here.
"Why are you in my dream?" Arthur says.
"Because I just arrived and you weren't even there to greet me. That's bad form you know. I suspect you spend too much time on your own and I'm terribly curious as to what you're doing."
"You know what curiosity did to the cat."
"Yes, but I hate cats so I'm quite all right with that."
Arthur can feel his mouth quirking at the corners. "So, Fibonacci."
"What about him?"
"You're a mathematical genius as well as a chess prodigy?"
Eames' laugh is warm, intimate. Arthur wants to stab everyone who's ever heard it. "Come along, Arthur," Eames snaps the band on his Moleskine again. "You could read Dan Brown and know that."
Arthur stares. "Dan who?"
"We need to work on your pop culture references."
"So you're saying you're not a genius?"
"What I'm saying is that intelligence is all relative. I could've left school before sixth form and be smarter than someone who got a double first from Oxford. People talking about how smart they are is boring. And boorish. It's like people who want to talk about how much money they have."
"Says the son of aristocracy."
Eames has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Landed gentry."
"Money, Eames."
"Arthur, do you feel compelled to talk about the millions of dollars the U.S. government spent training you?"
"Why on earth would I do that?"
"Exactly: you wouldn't. It's the same with intelligence: if you have it, you have it. If you are capable and talented -- or smart -- you don't have to talk about it. It will be apparent. It's always apparent."
"Is it?"
"You really must look in the mirror more; I suspect you're lacking a healthy streak of narcissism. Only if you were secretly afraid that you were an idiot would you feel compelled to shout from the roof tops about your IQ or your MENSA membership or your ridiculously thick piece of Egyptian card-stock from Harvard."
Arthur smirks. "So would you say you're smart?"
Eames leans in, his mouth very close to the shell of Arthur's ear. "I wouldn't say anything at all."
Arthur turns his head. Eames is so close that Arthur could kiss him. He's almost forgotten how long Eames' eyelashes are. This is a startling reminder. Arthur could end all his torment; his subconscious is clearly in agony, but no, not here. If they're doing this they're doing it for real.
Eames exhales and Arthur's heart stops. He wouldn't dream that Eames' breath is that warm.
Eames is there. Here. He's real.
This isn't a projection.
Arthur wakes up and Eames is slouching in a wicker chair on his left. "I hate wicker," Eames says as he extracts the IV and winds up his lead.
Arthur blinks at him. "You couldn't have waited until I woke up?"
Eames smiles. "Waiting is so passé."
Arthur watches him go.
He has a very unsettling feeling that something else is happening:
Arthur has never wanted to go home and masturbate while repeating the Fibonacci sequence before.
Today he has to wait six hours before he gets to go back to his pied-à-terre in Ile St. Louis and is able to look up the entirety of the Fibonacci sequence on Wikipedia. He comes three inches from his keyboard at the thirty-third number in the sequence: three-million, five-hundred twenty-four thousand, five hundred and seventy-eight.
"How long have you known Eames?"
Arthur looks up from the model in his hands and quirks an eyebrow at Ariadne. Eames is out with Dom doing recon on Browning, otherwise Arthur is sure Ariadne would be having this conversation with him. "Long enough," he says.
Ariadne's eyes crinkle at the corners. "That long, huh?"
"Maybe." Arthur sets the model down and leans back against Ariadne's work table. "I guess it depends on your point of view."
Ariadne pulls out a stool and settles on it. "So what's your point of view?"
"Time is relative. So in reality I've known him a few years, but some days I feel like I know everything possible, and then sometimes..."
"You don't know him at all."
Arthur shrugs and looks back at the model of his level of the dream. "That's how it is with most people though."
Ariadne picks up a small pad of paper and a pen and begins sketching something. "Do you know his first name?"
"Why?"
"Because I can't find it out."
Arthur smiles to himself. "Did you ask him?"
"Of course I did."
"And what did he say?"
"He wanted to know why I couldn't just call him Eames."
"And what did you say?"
"I said I could, I just wanted to know anyway." Arthur has to chuckle at that. Arthur likes Ariadne. She's smart, eager. Naturally inquisitive. Her work is complex, but she's fairly uncomplicated. That's rare.
It won't last long in this line of work.
"So," Ariadne prompts.
"So?" Arthur says.
"What's Eames' first name?"
"How do you know Eames isn't his first name?"
Ariadne huffs loudly. "Arthur, you're worse than he is."
Arthur stands up straight and rolls back his shoulders. "Would you treat him any different if his name was Reginald?"
"Is it Reginald?"
"No," he pauses. "What about if it was Jamie?"
"He doesn't really look like a Jamie."
"Paul?"
"Arthur."
"A rose is a rose is a rose, Ariadne," he says. "It doesn't matter what you call it."
"That's not true," Ariadne protests. "A turtle isn't a tortoise. A kiss isn't a slap. A kick couldn't be called a love tap."
Arthur thinks about Eames nearly tipping Arthur out of his chair earlier today.
This, Ariadne, would be a kick.
"Okay," he concedes. "Point made."
"I will tell you Eames' first name," Yusuf calls across the blackboard they're using as a work station divider.
"What is it?" Ariadne demands. "And why didn't you tell me when I asked you yesterday?"
"Because I wanted to see if you could figure it out for yourself."
Ariadne tosses her pen over the top of the blackboard.
"You missed me!" Yusuf says triumphantly.
"Yusuf," Ariadne says. "Eames' first name."
"Yes, of course."
"What is it?" Ariadne demands.
"It is an old name,"Yusuf says. "A name with history. A name with purpose." Ariadne reaches out and flips the blackboard horizontal. "Ow!" Yusuf says, coming into view.
He rubs his nose where he's clearly been smacked by the edge of the blackboard.
"The name," Ariadne repeats.
"Trouble," Yusuf says gleefully. "T-r-o-u-b-l-e. Trouble."
This time Ariadne gets Yusuf with a wad of paper.
Yusuf laughs.
Personally, Arthur couldn't agree more.
Arthur is human.
He puts his pants on one leg at a time. He sits down to go to the bathroom, scratches inappropriately and folds the pages when he wants to keep his place in his books. He bleeds and sweats and fucks up from time to time because that's what humans do.
He doesn't harass Dom about Mal showing up in every fucking job since her death, so when he fucks up during the Fischer job he wants to yell back, "I'm not fucking perfect! Nobody is; least of all you!"
Instead he needles Eames about reuniting Fischer Senior and Fischer Junior.
Instead he tells Eames to work harder.
How the hell is Eames going to fix someone else's estrangement when he and Arthur aren't even estranged but their relationship is just as awkward? Just as strangely fond and odd?
And then Eames is at his shoulder calling him "darling."
Arthur's never been distracted so fast in his entire life. It's hard to mentally eviscerate Dom or lament whatever the limbo he's stuck in with Eames when Arthur's entire thought process slows down to:
"Wait. What?"
They land in Los Angeles on Sunday morning.
Everyone leaves LAX separately. There are no shared taxis, no celebratory drinks. Perhaps they're all still in shock. Maybe it's simply a sense of "thank god that's over and please never let me see these people again."
Or maybe it's nothing more than the fact that everyone goes their own way. People always do.
Arthur gets home a little bit before eleven. He has just enough time to make a quick trip to the Ralph's on 9th Street for some groceries before he's due at his appointment.
He hasn't been to his cooking class in months, but that's no reason not to show up now.
In fact, when he arrives Rita and Moses and Christian greet him as though he's their long lost cousin.
Food brings people together.
"Arthur," Esmeralda kisses him on both cheeks. "You have not been back since I gave you the crispy-skinned salmon recipe. I was convinced you'd either burned down the house or it was such a success that you were going to be Food Network's Next Big Star."
Arthur rubs the back of his neck. "I never got to make the salmon."
"Never got to make it?" Rita says, looking up from where she's sorting out mixing bowls into groups of seven. "But yours was the best in the class. Why didn't you make it?"
"Something happened," Arthur says.
"Something always happens," Christian agrees. "My husband's mother is about to happen. I think I'm about to commit homicide."
"It wasn't something that happened," Arthur amends. "It was someone."
"Ah," Moses and Rita say at the same time.
Arthur's laugh is dry, wracked. "I'm taking this class to impress someone and I'm pretty sure he doesn't know -- or doesn't care -- either way about it."
"You should tell him," Christian says.
"Do you love him?" Rita demands.
"Food is love," Moses says thoughtfully. "Cook something for him."
"The Taj Mahal is love," Arthur says randomly. Rita and Moses stare at him.
"You have it bad," Rita decides.
"Esmeralda, Arthur needs some sort of sex food," Christian says.
Arthur has to laugh. The problem here isn't sex. Whatever he wants from Eames, it's never been about sex. Arthur wouldn't mind seeing Eames naked, he's not dead, but they're not two sixteen-year-old boys. Arthur's brain isn't in his cock.
They're men.
Arthur is a man.
He needs to act like it.
Sunset Towers is an old hotel. Quiet. Discreet. A throwback to Old Hollywood, it's located right on the Sunset Strip, wedged between The Standard and The Mondrian and across the street from the Saddle Ranch Chop House, which has an all-you-can-drink-for-$9.99 Bloody Marys and Mimosas special on Sundays till 3 p.m.
How the Towers manages to avoid the obnoxiousness that runs rampant around it is something of a mystery, but the minute Arthur steps inside the oak paneled reception area it's as though L.A. has fallen away. The young woman manning the desk glances up at Arthur as he walks past her. He acknowledges her with a slight nod of the head, never slowing down for a moment.
One-hundred percent of fitting in is looking like you fit in. Like you belong. Like you know what you're doing.
Even if that's a lie.
Especially if that's a lie.
It's only when Arthur's waiting for the elevator that he notices the smear of chocolate batter on the sleeve of his shirt, but it doesn't matter. At least he hopes it doesn't. He doesn't think Eames has ever really cared one way or the other how Arthur dresses.
Room 1608 is two rights down the hall from the elevator. It's the last room at the end of a hallway, and Arthur clears his throat before he knocks on the door.
It takes a moment for the door to open. In fact, Arthur's just about to knock on the door again when it swings open and Arthur's faced with Eames in a white t-shirt and blue sweatpants. The shirt hugs every muscle, the sweatpants are loose. Eames' hair is free of gel or pomade: in fact it's sticking up in all directions as though attempting to liberate itself from Eames' head.
He looks utterly devastating.
"Hi," Arthur says abruptly.
Eames cocks his head to the side. "Arthur."
Arthur licks his lips. A sudden chill races down his spine and he twitches. Eames narrows his eyes. "Should we have come up with a safe word?"
"A safe word?"
"Yes, a word for when you show up unexpectedly at my hotel and make me think the men in black are right behind you."
"There are no men in black right behind me," Arthur says, and then he glances behind himself just to check. This would be a bad time to be proven wrong.
"All right," Eames says, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. "So what can I do for you?"
"I, uh, came to see you."
Eames' left eyebrow creeps upward. "Me."
"Yes."
"I'm afraid you'll have to tell me why; inception has left me a little bit less than psychic."
Arthur offers Eames the bag of cupcakes in his hand. "I made these for you."
Eames uncrosses his arms and takes the bag as though it's a Fabergé egg. "You made these for me?" he repeats, curiosity apparent as he opens the bag and peeks inside. "You made me chocolate cakes?"
"I remembered. In Italy. When we went to the trattoria with the lobster pasta you liked their chocolate soufflé. It's not the same thing, but we haven't learned how to make soufflés yet. And I'm pretty sure that a soufflé wouldn't've made it up here from downtown anyway."
Arthur has never babbled like this in his life. Except for when he was sixteen and asked out Christine Gelson. Hopefully this will go better than that did.
Eames' face is perfectly blank when he meets Arthur's eyes. "You made these for me because I like chocolate."
Arthur nods his head. "Yeah. Yes."
Eames closes up the bag. "Perhaps it's just me, but I feel compelled to ask: what's going on?"
"You," Arthur says. "You're what's going on."
Saying this is terrifying and liberating all at once. Someone's been standing on Arthur's chest for months; he just realized it was him. He can breathe again. Let his heart beat again.
"I'm what's going on?" Eames repeats.
"You're making me stupid and careless."
"I am?"
"We almost died because all I think about is you. Because I want to take you to the Taj Mahal. And tie you to the four-poster bed at the Relais Santa Croce. I'm taking these cooking classes to impress you and I don't even think you know about it."
The blank look is gone. But it's been replaced by unfettered shock. This may be worse.
"Arthur." Eames sounds pained. He doesn't sound like... isn't this the part where it all comes together, finally? The part where Arthur can finally stop trying to deflect and entice and cajole all at the same time?
"Do you have any idea how I feel about you?" he says. Eames may look pained, but Arthur feels pained.
Eames rubs his jaw. Arthur's fingers curl in on themselves. He wants to touch Eames' stubble. His mouth. The curve of his neck.
"The question isn't whether I know, the question is do you know?" Eames says.
"Do you think I would be here if I didn't?" Arthur snaps. His heart is shrinking in his chest. First it was beating too fast, then it was suffocated. Now he thinks it's in danger of disappearing altogether. He had no idea the heart could do so much. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Do you like me at all?" He sounds like he's twelve.
"Very much."
Arthur's eyes pop open. If he was unprepared for that, he's totally poleaxed by Eames' smile. It's small and kind. Wistful. Fond.
Arthur's throat is dry. He feels like he's running out of words to plead his case. "Will you let me in?" he says, taking a hopeful step forward.
Eames shakes his head. Blocks his way. "Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Perhaps."
Arthur can't take anymore of this. "Why?"
"Because, Arthur. Because I spend my entire life dealing with forgeries and impersonations," Eames raises an eyebrow. "I'm not looking for a fake -- I'm looking for the real thing."
Arthur uses his foot to block the door when Eames attempts to close it on him. "I am the real thing."
Eames looks at him consideringly. And then he leans into the hall and presses his lips to Arthur's right cheek. "Of course you are," he says after he pulls away.
Arthur couldn't say how long he spends staring at Eames' closed door.
This was their first kiss.
He kind of hoped it would go better.
Arthur drives all the way home (forty-seven minutes), parks the Volvo (twenty-three minutes), gets out of the car and goes up to his loft (twenty-eight minutes) before he realizes that this conversation is not over. Of course by the time he drives all the way back up to fucking West Hollywood, tosses his keys to the valet and races back up to Eames' room, he's only marginally surprised to see housekeeping stripping down the bed.
There are no clothes in the closet, no glasses on the bathroom counter.
Eames didn't even take the free Kiehl's products.
"You are Mr. Arthur?" the housekeeper says after Arthur kicks the green-and-yellow striped silk sofa in frustration.
Arthur's head snaps up.
She's eyeballing him warily. He doesn't blame her; he kind of bulldozed through the entire room.
"Yes," he says. "That would be me. Lo siento, Señorita."
"No te preocupes," she says, pulling an envelope out of her pocket. "Señor Eames, he asked me to give this to you."
"Señor Eames asked you to give this to me," Arthur repeats even as he takes the cream-colored envelope with the Sunset Towers logo on the back flap.
The envelope is strangely misshapen. Heavier than it would be with just a piece of paper inside.
Arthur rips it open.
There's no letter, but there is a pair of cufflinks inside.
Arthur extracts a small silver bishop from inside and rubs his thumb over the groove in the head.
Okay.
He'll play.
The flight from LAX to Heathrow takes almost eleven hours.
By the time Arthur gets to London he is utterly fried.
Including the Fischer job and this trip, but excluding cooking classes, chasing Eames all over half of Los Angeles, and a trip back home for his passport and a glossy black shoe box, he's been on planes for almost twenty-four hours.
There's an address in his Moleskine written in Mal's very careful fine handwriting under the heading: For When You Stop Being Stubborn. This information appeared at some point after the Florence job, but before everything else.
She seemed to think Burns Road in Battersea might be a good place for Arthur to visit. Arthur takes a taxi, because he's pretty sure he'd fall asleep if he got on the Tube at this point.
Arthur sprawls out in the leather seat and stares at the ceiling of the black cab. He's still wearing the shirt with the chocolate stain on the sleeve. He can still feel Eames' lips on his cheek.
The cab drops Arthur off right in front of a building that looks like it was a school in another life.
Arthur stands on the doorstep for several minutes, shoebox under his arm, and then he presses the buzzer and waits. Nothing happens. He presses it again. And again. It's entirely possible that Eames went to go visit his parents. Or his sister. Or that one genderless nameless person who potentially broke Eames' heart years ago that Mal never told him about.
Arthur gives it another five minutes and then he turns around and walks down the street. There should be a park somewhere nearby on Joybert or Jaubert Street.
He's working on an old memory at this point, an ancient conversation, but soon the row houses are gone and there's a black railing on Arthur's left. He can hear Dom telling him never to work from memory. Never. But this isn't his memory. It's just a story he's heard. Something Eames told him once about where he goes to relax.
There's a cleared area with a children's jungle gym. There's a weeping willow. There are park benches.
Arthur pauses at the gate and fishes his die out of his pocket.
It feels right. He drops it on the ground anyway.
He crouches down, picks it up, and then rolls it again.
Once, twice, three times.
He looks up when scuffed brown suede loafers appear in his periphery. "I wasn't expecting you for another fifty-two minutes," Eames says.
He's got an unlit cigarette between his fingers, which he drops on the ground, and a mug in his other hand.
Arthur pockets his die as he stands up. Eames is wearing a dark jeans and a heathered gray shirt. The watch on his wrist is shiny. Arthur can't place the maker. Eames has circles under his eyes and his hair is everywhere, like it was at the hotel. Like it's never seen pomade or a comb. Like Arthur could grab it and hold on for dear life.
"I'm tired," Arthur says.
Eames reaches out and cups Arthur's neck, his fingers scratching soothingly at Arthur's scalp. Arthur closes his eyes and sighs. "C'mon," Eames says, his fingers curling around Arthur's neck.
Arthur opens his eyes and lets Eames lead him to a park bench that's peeling green paint. It's nice outside. Overcast, but cool, crisp.
Arthur sits down next to Eames, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. There are wrinkles in his trousers and traces of dirt underneath his fingernails. He's filthy; he doesn't care.
"I've been waiting for you," Eames says. He moves away briefly to set his mug on the ground. When he's upright again, Arthur slouches down and rests his head on Eames' shoulder.
"I took the scenic route," he says.
"Everything in its own time."
"Your stiff upper lip didn't exactly help matters."
"The first time we met you thought I was a whore, and now, I've morphed into the repressed Englishman."
Arthur turns and rubs his forehead against Eames' shoulder. "Do you know how many calluses I have on my cock because you wouldn't meet me halfway?"
"Did you ever ask me to meet you halfway?"
Arthur lifts his head to stare at Eames. And there's that smile again. The small intimate one. The one that makes Arthur feel like they're the only two people on earth. "You're a dick," Arthur says.
"You're an arsehole," Eames says cheerfully.
"Asshole."
"Twat."
"Fucker."
"Wanker."
"Well, everybody has to be something."
Eames' grin is blinding; Arthur's heart grows six sizes in his chest. He slumps back down; Eames' shoulder is hard. "Ow," he says mildly.
He can feel it when Eames kisses the top of his head. Feel his utterly mussed hair stir when Eames exhales on his scalp and ruffles his hair.
The exhaustion doesn't seem quite so severe now.
"I brought you something," he says, handing Eames the shoe box he's brought five-thousand miles and change.
"Yes, I clearly need another pair of shoes," Eames teases, lifting the lid.
Arthur can feel the tension shoot through Eames body. The change is instantaneous. It's like an injection of Somnacin. "Oh," Eames says softly.
Arthur watches as Eames extracts a stained beer mat from the Griffin in Los Feliz and a folded map with little poker stickers on it. There's an Abraham Lincoln quote scrawled on a plain white napkin from The Burger Joint, a sketch of St. Peter's Basilica on a piece of yellow legal paper and a gray Kangol flat cap that Arthur hasn't worn in more than a year.
There are postcards and a recipe for crispy-skinned salmon and a matchbook from a trattoria in Rome that serves lobster pasta.
"What is this?" Eames' voice is rough, strained.
Arthur sits up straight. He taps Eames on the shoulder for his attention. To make sure Eames sees him. "This is -- I've been -- I want you."
Eames parrots back. "You want me."
"I want you to be with me."
Eames opens his mouth, closes it; he looks utterly lost. "You want me," he says again.
"Yes."
"And that's what these things are? Me?"
"No. That's me being a closet romantic."
Eames bites his lip. "And this is you coming out of the closet," he says with a smile.
"Consider them an offering."
"This isn't the Church," Eames says, putting the lid back on the box and setting it on the bench beside him. "I don't want your things, your time will be quite sufficient."
"Will it?" Arthur says as Eames leans in. "I know how you feel about these things."
"And how do I feel about these things?" Eames' words are tumbling onto Arthur's lips
"'I hate giving a shit; it never ends well,'" Arthur quotes, with what he thinks is a fairly passable accent.
Eames grins in delight. "We need to work on your enunciation: Americans speak dreadful English."
"It's been translated, translations are never as good as the real thing."
"This is true."
"Do you think this won't end well?"
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Who said anything about this ending?" he says, right before he kisses Arthur.
Eames' mouth is wet; his lips, dry. The kiss isn't perfect, it doesn't set off fireworks or blow out the power station. But it does get Arthur his very first proper kiss from Eames. It gets Arthur's fingers tangled in Eames' hair and Eames' slick, glib tongue licking every worry away from Arthur's mouth.
It's the kind of kiss that ends up with Arthur on his back on a bench in a public park with Eames braced over him, his fingers tracing Arthur's mouth.
"Can we go home now?" Arthur says.
"So I can impugn your chastity?"
Arthur's laugh is riotous. "I've been flying for twenty-four hours, working for five weeks, and wearing the same clothes for almost two days. I want a shower and a nap. And then I want another shower."
"You're very demanding."
Arthur shrugs. "There might be room for a blow job in there. Maybe a hand job in the shower."
"Your condescension is appreciated."
Arthur surges upward and kisses Eames quickly. "You're appreciated," he says.
Eames' mouth opens and nothing comes out.
Arthur smirks, steals another kiss and then pushes himself upright. He gets to his feet, collects the box and the mug, and then he holds out his hand to Eames. "Now?"
Eames reaches out and takes his hand. "Now."
-end-
Everything is a joint effort. It takes a village to get stories out; some poor schmuck has to conceptualize and write the fucker and then she's got to harass other people to make sure it goes out in matching socks. This particular joint would not have been possible without the beta skills and tolerant ears of maurheti, lazlet and antheia. ♥
With very special adoration for maurheti who keeps me from stabbing myself in the hand with a fork by letting me introduce her to Bell x1 instead. (That is highly not recommended, the fork bit. Bell x1 is totally recommended.).
Arthur/JGL in a fedora thanks to futbol16_4. Eames in glasses thanks to johanirae.
ETA: Now with art from silverotter
