73. | miles from where you are (part 1)
73.
miles from where you are
i lay down on the cold ground and
cobb/arthur (11022 words)
This is completely for epicflailer. Not only did she give me the prompt in the first place (I may have deviated slightly and then run with it to strange places) but she provided resources for canon facts, cheered me on every day and then was the most BADASS BETA EVER. You have her to thank for all the awkward phrasing you don't have to see that comes from writing 1000 words a day and then coming back twelve hours later to write more. This was a LOT of fun to think about and write, and I apologize for anything that doesn't make sense or is just plain weird. This was mostly to please Nat, and everything else was looked over, haha.
PS EVERYONE GO BUY KALEIDOSCOPE HEART. SARA BAREILLES IS MY ONE TRUE GOD.
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The rain is falling in LA when Arthur lands. The sunny city is blanketed in clouds and water, and he grimaces and carefully opens his umbrella when he steps out of the airport. He only has to look a moment before he sees the car. Cobb is standing beside it, holding an umbrella with one hand and a sign with the other, which must have been decorated by James and Philippa. It’s got sparkles along the curve of the A in his name, and ten different colors on the other letters. There are two handprints in blue and red paint on the corners. He feels himself begin to smile, despite the weather.
“Was your flight okay?” Cobb asks when he reaches him, taking the bag from his hand. Arthur shrugs his shoulders; Cobb knows how flights are. He makes a slight face. “Yeah. Let’s go home and coordinate, and we’ll leave in the morning.”
Arthur smoothly closes his umbrella and slides into the car in one movement, suffering only a few drops of rain. Cobb, however, is soaked, water sluicing down his neck and over his cheeks, twisting his hair into disheveled waves. Arthur focuses on the water sliding down the windshield.
“You sure you’re ready to do this?” Arthur asks, watching the sky darken even further and listening to the sound of Cobb mumbling about his clothes being ruined. “The job, I mean.”
There’s silence for a moment, and Cobb pulls out into the airport traffic and drives. Arthur swallows, watching miles and miles of parking lots pull by. “Yeah. I mean, it’s what I’m good at. And the university’s nice, but I kind of miss it.”
Arthur nods. He can’t imagine doing anything else; dreams become you, until you can’t think of regular jobs as anything but nuisances. They lack the feelings dreams instill in you, that feeling of I can do anything I want. True inspiration. Total control.
“It’s been months since you’ve been here,” Cobb comments. “Been busy?”
Arthur sighs. “Yes. Just because the best extractor out there is gone doesn’t mean the demand is. Of course, I have a much harder time without someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“Poor darling,” Cobb teases, and Arthur glances at him, unimpressed. “Speaking of, I heard Eames was looking for you in Mombasa. He was planning something with Yusuf?”
Yeah, Arthur thinks. Cobb is “retired” but somehow manages to keep a finger on everyone’s pulse. That’s how he is. “I was busy. Besides, Eames is still annoying as hell.”
“Mmm,” Cobb says noncommittally, making a turn. They fall into a comfortable silence for the rest of the ride, Arthur resting his head against the seat and closing his eyes. He listens to Cobb breathe and feels suddenly very calm.
When they arrive, James and Philippa jump all over him, scrambling to tell him stories and things that have happened since he last was here. He smiles at them and sits down on the floor with them (ignoring the wrinkles in his suit ) and listens as they babble. Philippa has lost a tooth, and James fell down outside and got a bruise that was this big (he holds his hands up and spreads them out wider than his entire body, and Arthur struggles not to laugh). They’re full of tales and exploits and new toys and life, and Arthur settles in and lets them talk.
Eventually they tire out and Cobb insists that they go to sleep. They protest, especially since their father will be leaving for a week in the morning, but he promises to see them in the morning before he goes and to make Arthur make them breakfast. They agree very seriously and make Arthur promise, and he solemnly does. They go to bed and the house gets very quiet very fast.
“So,” Cobb says, sitting down at the dining room table. “You miss us?”
Yes. “Not a bit,” Arthur replies, smiling a little. Cobb grins at him and gestures for him to sit down too.
“Tell me about our mark.”
Arthur sits down and pulls out his files. “I don’t know if you can really call him a mark if he’s hiring us to teach him anti-extraction. His name is Luke Thomas.”
“A mark is a mark,” Cobb says, picking up files and flipping through them. “He’s a wedding planner? ”
“Yes.” Cobb sends him a look. “I don’t get to pick our clients, okay,” Arthur says a bit defensively. “Plus, he’s the top wedding designer in the country -- some people say the world. His company is famous nationwide. Plus, he’s really fucking rich.”
“What dark secrets could he want to protect?” Cobb wonders aloud, and Arthur shakes his head.
“Whatever they are, he’s willing to pay us an obscene amount of money. I almost refused out of moral propriety, but…you know. I didn’t.” Cobb smirks at him. “He wants us to be discreet about why we’re there, though. Doesn’t want anyone knowing we’ve been hired.”
“So this is like a company-against-company kind of thing?” Cobb asks.
“Don’t know yet. We’ll get the details when we meet him, apparently. This is easy money, Cobb. We just have to think of an excuse to see him every day for a week, teach him how to protect himself, and we’re done.”
Cobb is silent, flipping through files, and then he says, “We should get married.”
Arthur’s throat closes up. His world spins violently, and he coughs, reaching for the beer bottle at his elbow even though he’s only been sipping from it. “Excuse me?”
“Does he not do same sex couples?” Cobb asks, blinking, and Arthur takes another swig of drink and swallows hard.
“Of course he does, but I don’t see how that--” Wait. No way is Cobb suggesting that they pretend--
“That’s the easiest way for us to meet with him without drawing suspicion. It’s his job.” Cobb shrugs his shoulders like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We’ll go in to do the wedding stuff and coach him during our meetings. Easy.”
Easy. Cobb thinks it'll be easy. Arthur’s stomach is twisting painfully, but it makes horrible sense and would be the best way to go about doing things. Besides, Cobb won’t understand why this is a horrible idea. To him, it will be just another job, another client another scam.
Arthur tightens his jaw, jerks his head once in a nod, and falls back into planning everything. He’s still the point man, and he is still the best.
Their plane leaves in the morning for Chicago, where Thomas Wedding Design is based.
(Arthur is woken by Philippa jumping on his stomach and demanding waffles, and James chimes in from the pillow next to him that he wants chocolate chip waffles, and Cobb is shouting that their babysitter for the week -- a friend of the family with a daughter around James’ age -- is going to be here soon to pick them up, and they pull at Arthur and he is so, so fucking happy.)
It’s rainy in Chicago too, but somehow less gloomy; it matches the city, broad buildings and skyscrapers reaching up into the air. Cobb watches the sky as if he’s looking for something, and Arthur reviews notes in his head and clutches the PASIV device while their cab winds through the streets. He’s uncharacteristically nervous. They’re going to be pretending to be a couple. A couple in love.
Arthur is so fucked.
They pull up to the building and Arthur takes a deep breath. Cobb seems wholly unconcerned with everything and steps out of the car. As soon as Arthur stands up, buttoning his suit, Cobb slides a hand around his waist and pulls him close. Arthur tenses up and tries to slide away automatically, but Cobb tightens his grip and pulls harder.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” Cobb mutters, “we’re engaged. Act like it.”
Arthur grits his teeth. “Like I’ve been engaged before, Cobb.”
“Rule number one,” Cobb says, fingers digging into his hip, “don’t act like me touching you is the most horrifying thing that’s ever happened. I’ve seen you face a gun with less emotion.”
“Guns don’t feel me up,” Arthur retorts, fighting to regain his composure. He hesitates and then winds his arm around Cobb’s waist, feeling the firm press of Cobb's body against his side all the way to his hip. “Better?”
“A little,” Cobb says, and they stroll through the building doors, which are opened for them by doormen on either side. Arthur resists the urge to stare once they're inside; it’s a splash of color and fabric and women and men everywhere, running around talking all at once, or sitting in chairs and chatting animatedly. Real engaged couples flip through books; men who look absolutely bored and women with creases in their brow. There are books lying on every surface. In the waiting area, magazines on bridal fashions and cakes and flowers line the back wall in vases and Arthur unconsciously moves closer to Cobb, a little startled.
“Wow,” Cobb comments. It’s an understatement.
The receptionist is sunny and bright, with a yellow headband tucked into her dark hair and pink bubblegum smacking between her teeth. Her nameplate says Georgia Sweets. She’s on the telephone when they get up there, but it turns out to be a social call when they hear her say, “Oh gosh, and did you hear that the head of weaponry at Smithson Tech was killed last week? And the way he died! I know, it’s so horrifying, and in our own city no less and -- oh, sorry Mindy, gotta go!” She hangs up and smiles at them so hard Arthur thinks her mouth has to hurt. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks, turning to her computer and pulling up a schedule. “Your names?”
“Cobb-Smith,” Cobb says smoothly, moving to take Arthur’s hand and smiling softly at the woman. She practically beams at them and types into the computer. Arthur tries not to focus on the feel of Cobb’s thumb sliding over his knuckles as he watches her look for their name.
“Alright, Mr Cobb, Mr Smith, I’ll have Jeannie take you up to Mr Thomas. Jeannie!” A redheaded woman detaches from the swarm and sails their way, smiling. Arthur doesn’t know if he can handle this for an entire week. Weddings can not be this thrilling.
“If you’ll follow me, please,” Jeannie says, leading them towards an elevator, and Cobb pulls Arthur along by the hand. Arthur tries to look pleased and smitten. He thinks he comes across more flustered and uncomfortable.
Thomas’ office is on the fifth floor. The reception area up here is headed by a young man in a sharp suit that Arthur approves of, slate gray and pinstriped. He looks boredly up at them and gestures for them to follow him; Jeannie chirps “Have a wonderful day!” at them and turns around. They follow the receptionist to the office, which is lavishly decorated and surrounded in glass. Behind the desk, Luke Thomas is typing on a laptop and chewing on a pen absently.
“Mr Thomas,” the receptionist says, “your three o’clock is here.”
“Of course, Jeremy,” Thomas says absently. “Come in, come in, just putting finishing touches on a Bel Air wedding of the century.” Jeremy gestures at them, and they move to sit in the plush chairs in front of the desk. Jeremy goes back to reception and promptly pulls up Facebook on the computer.
As soon as he’s gone, Thomas looks up from the binder and looks at them intently. “Mr Cobb, Mr Smith, I am so grateful to you for coming here like this. I just -- I needed to know that my thoughts were safe, and you’re the best, apparently.”
“That’s true,” Cobb says, letting go of Arthur’s hand finally. “We can help you make your mind an impenetrable fortress against whoever you feel is trying to get in. But to do that, we’re going to have to go into your mind, get to know you better than anyone you’ve ever known or anyone who's ever known you.”
“We’re going to teach you about utilizing your subconscious and making projections that can militarize against threats,” Arthur interjects. “They need to know what to expect, and so do we. We need to know who is after your thoughts, Mr Thomas.”
Thomas looks uncomfortable. “Luke, please. If you’re going to be in my dreams, I suppose you should call me Luke. And I can’t -- I can’t tell you just yet. I really want to be sure about all of this before I explain.”
“The best way to know is to experience it,” Cobb offers. “We can go under right now, just five minutes.”
Arthur glances at the glass panels. “We really could use some privacy, though. You are supposed to be advising us on our wedding, after all.”
“Oh, about that,” Thomas interrupts, “my staff really will need some input from you guys on what you want for your wedding, so you’ll have to keep up appearances and work with them. That’s how things run here.”
“If we have to,” Cobb says uncertainly. “What exactly are we going to be doing?”
“Talking about what you want out of the wedding, themes, cakes, flowers, venue, plates, glasses, catering, all that stuff. I know you’re not really going through with it, but it will help me out immensely if we do this the right way,” Thomas says, and picks up a remote and presses a button. The glass panels are covered by sliding curtains that fall from above, effectively blocking any prying eyes. It becomes darker in the room, but not unbearably so.
“Perfect,” Cobb says, and Arthur pops open the PASIV device. “Shall we get started?”
“That went pretty well,” Cobb comments as they unpack in their (shared) hotel suite. Arthur hums as he hangs up another three piece suit, smoothing the lapels out and trying not to think about being alone in a hotel room with Cobb after months of being alone.
“He did well for a first-timer,” Arthur says, turning to look at Cobb, who is placing a picture of James and Philippa on the table. His heart turns over once in his chest and he sighs. “His subconscious seemed fairly normal, too.”
“Yep,” Cobb agrees. “He’ll do fine. I hope he’s planning on filling us in though. I hate being surprised.”
Arthur remembers Fischer’s subconscious projections and Cobb yelling and finger pointing and being soaked to the bone and horrified and frustrated and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
Arthur picks up the phone and starts dialing the lobby. Cobb notices and asks, “What’re you doing?”
“Calling for a cot?” Arthur says, confused. “There’s only one bed in here and I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
“We’re supposed to be engaged,” Cobb says, frowning. “How’s it gonna look if we call for a bed?”
“Do you seriously believe that Luke Thomas is being watched that closely?” Arthur asks flatly. “I’m pretty sure he’s just melodramatic. I’m calling for a bed.”
“Don’t,” Cobb says firmly. “We’ll share. I’m not taking risks for something as stupid as where you sleep. Just because this is an in-and-out job doesn’t mean we cut corners.”
It’s like Cobb is trying to make this the most torturous job ever. Arthur contemplates calling for a bed anyway, but knows that Cobb might be right, and he’s too professional to endanger a client. He turns to examine the hardwood floor with deep interest.
“Fucking hell,” Cobb sighs, “Arthur, it’s not a big deal. We’ve shared a bed before.”
Arthur remembers. It was pretty fucking bad those times too. Arthur doesn’t know if he can handle being “engaged” and sleeping in the same bed at the same time. But if he goes against Cobb on this, he’ll look ridiculous. He hates sleeping on the floor and Cobb knows that.
“Fine,” he grunts, reaching into his bag for his shower kit. “I’m using the bathroom now.”
“Go ahead,” Cobb says, collapsing on the bed and tiredly unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll shower in the morning. Way too fucking tired tonight.”
Arthur watches for only three buttons before he wrenches the bathroom door open and storms in. He turns the water to scalding hot, and stays in until it mellows out, just standing there. Then he jerks off, slow and helpless and thinking about Cobb’s mouth.
When he goes out, Cobb is sleeping on top of the covers, shirt open all the way and shoes still on. Arthur clenches his fists once and then pulls Cobb’s shoes and socks off, carefully lifts his waist and shimmies him out of his slacks. He leaves the unbuttoned shirt on and curls up on the far side of the bed, under the covers. Sleep does not come easily.
The next day, Georgia greets them just as happily as before. “Mr Smith and Mr Cobb! I hope you had a wonderful morning!” Arthur can actually see the exclamation points coming out of her mouth.
(His morning had consisted of waking up from a half-sleep before Cobb, who somehow had managed to flip around and twist his arm behind him in his shirt, so that his neck stretched out almost awkwardly and his front was a long, lean line and fucking hell, Arthur would rather sleep on the floor than wake up to this every morning. He resignedly goes to the bathroom to take a shower.)
“Good morning,” Cobb says, smiling at her. His fingers are twined through Arthur’s this morning, and he thinks maybe he’s getting better at looking natural and okay with it. He doesn’t think about the warmth Cobb gives off or that he’s so close he can smell Cobb’s aftershave.
“You gentlemen are going to meet up with Penny and talk about the theme for your wedding. Did you have one already in mind?”
Cobb looks a bit startled, like he hadn’t expected to be asked something like that when they were going undercover as an engaged couple. Thankfully, Arthur is a point man for a damn good reason.
“I was thinking something classic. Church, classic white wedding, the whole deal.” He’d debated about this in his head, and decided that going for something easy was the best. No tropical theme for them, or jazzy outdoor venue, or any of the other horrors they were likely to throw at them.
“Is that what you were thinking, Mr Cobb?” Georgia asks, making notes on a pad, and Cobb pretends to think about it. Arthur hides a smile; Cobb hadn’t offered a single opinion on his wedding to Mal, and it had been perfect. He’s pretty sure he’s going to just go along with this.
“I suppose, although I’d like a bit of color to be a motif,” he says, which surprises Arthur and throws off the whole design he’d wanted to give the planners.
“What?” he asks, and Georgia glances up at them, clearly confused but not intruding, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
“You know,” Cobb says, and the little fucker is amused, Arthur can see it in his eyes, “Blues or greens. Your favorite colors, darling.” Arthur’s favorite color is blue, although he’s not sure about green, but he thinks that green is Cobb’s.
“I -- alright,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth. “If that’s what you want -- sweetie.”
Cobb barely manages to keep from laughing, and Arthur wants to remind him that they are working right now. Georgia just keeps making notes, and then stands up with a flourish and hands it to them, saying, “Penny will work with you on the theme today, and you can go over colors with Timothy after that.”
“And we meet with Mr Thomas after that, right?” Cobb asks, serious again, and Georgia beams and nods. “Alright. Where’s Penny?”
“Right here,” a blonde woman says, walking up behind them. Her attitude is friendly but no-nonsense, something Arthur appreciates greatly after Georgia’s bubbliness. “Follow me.” Her hair swishes in a ponytail and her dress is bright blue and garnished with textured flowers, and she snatches the note out of Cobb’s hand and glances perfunctorily at it before she leads them down the hall behind the front desk and past the elevator. They end up in a comfortable room with books, magazines, and color strips carefully organized, completely different from the chaos of the lobby.
“Alright,” Penny says, taking the notes Georgia wrote and reading them more closely. “Classic white wedding? With...some color, blues or greens?”
“Apparently,” Arthur says wryly. Penny looks up at them.
“Are you both planning this equally or is one of you more invested in it?” she asks bluntly, clearly used to one partner being the interested party. Arthur opens his mouth, but Cobb beats him to it.
“Equally,” Cobb says, raising the hand linked with Arthur’s and -- fuck, he rubs his mouth over the knuckles, and his eyes cut to Arthur’s, warm and completely convincing. Penny buys it; her eyes go a little gooey and she smiles at them, taking up a pad and starting a new set of notes.
“Very well,” she says, scritch-scratching her pen over the paper, and Arthur works to slow his heart rate down. Cobb looks the picture of calm.
Arthur might shoot him later during the training. Maybe.
They introduce Thomas to guns, teach him about the safety, how to hold one, how to load a magazine and all of the key components. Mostly Arthur is the one talking, since he’s the better of the two, but every now and then Cobb will interject with a gun he feels is best for certain situations.
“Your projections will need to be prepared to go up against any type of attack the extractors will come up with,” he explains. “It can’t always be missile launchers and flamethrowers.”
Thomas nods, studying the M16 Arthur is holding very carefully. Around them Arthur’s projections watch calmly, sipping tea and reading books. His projections are always this way; they only expend energy if it’s really necessary, and tend to just warily observe whatever is going on.
And then, all of a sudden, Cobb walks up to them.
Thomas blinks, looking between the real Cobb and Arthur’s projection, which, fuck, this almost never happens, and certainly not in front of Cobb himself. “Hello, Arthur,” the projection says, smiling in a way that’s a little too open for Cobb.
“What is--?” Thomas starts, but stops and just looks again. “You have a projection of Cobb?”
“Go away,” Arthur tells the projection, whose smile just grows wicked. He reaches out, takes the hand not holding the gun, and kisses Arthur’s knuckles before he can pull away. His eyes are dancing, and Thomas makes a sort of small, surprised noise. Arthur sort of wants to shoot his own subconscious.
“I’ll see you, Arthur,” the projection promises, and Arthur doesn’t acknowledge that. He simply turns back to the gun, and gestures to the pistol grip and butt-stock.
“It’s best if you hold it like this,” he says, demonstrating, and doesn’t look at Cobb, who hasn’t said a word; he simply stares after the projection of himself, eyes distant and dark.
Arthur closes his eyes and ignores the various projections around them that are growing more and more agitated. He tightens his jaw, forces himself to concentrate, and continues the lecture.
They call James and Philippa that night, asking about school and their day. Philippa is full of stories about grade school and their class pet (disturbingly, a giant iguana named Jake) while James talks about preschool and the teachers and Arthur just closes his eyes and listens as Cobb talks to his children.
They call him Uncle Arthur and ask him about what they’ve done. They talk about Chicago vaguely, never really lying but never explaining everything. Arthur doesn’t open his eyes the entire time, talking in the direction of the phone; he can’t see Cobb that way.
Later, Cobb and Arthur stand side-by-side in the bathroom and brush their teeth, elbows bumping every now and then. Arthur pretends not to notice Cobb watching him in the mirror, eyes like stainless steel, shrewd and thoughtful all at once.
The next morning when he wakes up, Cobb is facing him again, and his arm is slung out so that it touches Arthur’s shoulder. He sits up, letting the hand fall away, and stares for a moment. Cobb looks peaceful in sleep, and his fingers dig into the bedsheets where Arthur had been sleeping. Arthur gets out of bed and goes to make coffee.
They spend time with Trevor today, talking about floral arrangements and figuring out what type of flower they want. Sticking with the white wedding theme, he suggests white lilies or white roses. Arthur likes the idea of white roses, stark and pale against their green stems, layered around a church cathedral, draped over a reception hall; a single bud pinned to Cobb’s lapel.
“I like acacias,” Cobb says, resting his hand over Arthur’s on the chair arm. “I think they’d go well against blue.”
“Acacias are a rather unusual choice,” Trevor murmurs, “But you’re right, with the right shade of blue they could be clever and modern, yes,” and he starts shifting through color palates.
“What’s an acacia?” Arthur wants to know. Trevor reaches into his flower binder and flips to a page without looking away from his color wheel. It’s a bright yellow flower, round in shape and almost fluffy-looking. It comes in huge bunches, spilling out long stems full of blossoms, and it’s colorful and cheerful and almost silly. He glances at Cobb, who nods at the picture and smiles a little. He looks pleased at the sight of them, and Arthur feels something tighten and then loosen inside of him.
“What do you think, Mr Cobb?” Trevor says, holding up a shade of blue labeled Venezuelan Sea. “Is this a good shade of blue for you?”
Cobb studies it a moment, fingers ghosting over Arthur’s palm. “It’s perfect,” Arthur says, turning his hand over and smiling hesitantly at Cobb as he links their fingers. Cobb blinks at him once, twice.
“Very well,” Trevor says. “Our classic white wedding is going to get a punch of color, then.” He looks eager, making more notes in their binder, which is accumulating pages more rapidly than Arthur had expected. “We’ll look for a church in LA for you to work with, and you can choose where you want accents. We’ll check our database.”
Five minutes later, Arthur is surprised to find himself thumbing through the notes, approving and disapproving of certain things the planners have written. Cobb and Trevor continue talking about the acacias, how many and how much and whether they want flowers in vases or planters, spilling out or contained. He’s -- Arthur is actually getting into this. He’s curious about the churches they have marked off, and he’s interested in the color accents.
He’s forgetting that this wedding isn’t actually going to happen.
Arthur spends the rest of the time with Trevor flipping the pages without seeing anything, colors and fabrics and names, blurs that he refuses to decipher.
“We have to know, Luke,” Cobb says seriously. “Who do you believe is after you? What do they want?”
Thomas shifts around uncomfortably, biting his lower lip. His eyes are a shade of green that Arthur has never quite noticed before, possibly brought out by the light gray suit he’s wearing. They’re almost pretty, and they dart around anxiously before closing.
“Have you ever been in love, gentlemen?” he asks finally. Cobb’s eyes shutter immediately, but he nods his head nonetheless. Thomas turns to Arthur, whose stomach clenches up in fear. Thomas’ eyes are knowing, and he glances briefly at Cobb. He knows, and Arthur can’t help it.
“Yes,” he says. Cobb jerks his head and looks at Arthur, eyes still unreadable but with something different about them. Arthur looks briefly at him and then away, pretending his pulse isn’t jackhammering.
“How does that pertain?” he questions, and Thomas rubs a hand over his mouth and sighs.
“I was in love with someone who was recently killed. He was -- he knew things about a weapon that several groups would love to get their hands on; cutting edge technology that’s being developed. He was -- perhaps careless, but we loved each other.”
If he expects Arthur or Cobb to be surprised that he’s gay, he doesn’t show it, and Cobb is only listening intently.
“He told me about a hiding place he had for the things he knew. Just in case, he always said. But --” his voice breaks, “--but he’s dead now, and I’m afraid they’re going to try to find out what he trusted me with. I’m not a brave man, gentlemen. I’m just a wedding designer. But I loved him, and I will do whatever it takes to keep his secrets.”
“You loved that man who worked for Smithson Tech,” Arthur realizes, recalling the conversation Georgia had been having when they came the first day. Thomas doesn’t answer, just drops his head and grips his hands tightly together, as if he’s praying. His breathing becomes shallow and Arthur feels his heart tighten in sympathy. If Cobb died--
Arthur doesn’t think about it.
“How did he die?” Cobb asks, clearly also remembering that Georgia had been deliciously horrified by the manner of death. Arthur had wanted to ask but was unsure if it would be best. Cobb tended to look at the big picture, though, not the pieces that made it all up. Cobb’s mouth is tense and unhappy, so maybe not so oblivious this time.
“He,” Thomas says, voice hitching, “he was -- he was blown up. An explosion, in his home. Everything was destroyed. There wasn’t --” he hiccups, “-- wasn’t even enough for, for his funeral.”
Arthur and Cobb both grimace. Sloppy assassination means greedy, irresponsible groups who want answers no matter what.
“What makes you believe that they won’t torture you for information?” Arthur asks bluntly, since that would be the much more likely way to get information, no matter that extraction was neat and unnoticeable.
“I don’t think they want to alert anyone that they’re out there. The explosion in Jordan’s apartment was caused by a gas leak, and no one thinks it was intentional,” Thomas explains. “I only know because he’d been worried that he was being followed. He’d been worried all week and warned me to be careful when I was out.”
Thomas rubs his eyes; Arthur can see that they’re bloodshot now, and less beautiful with tears in them. “I know he was killed, Mr Cobb, Mr Smith. And I know that I’m the only person in the world who knows where his research is. If they want to torture me, they can. I’m not going to betray that. But my dreams? I knew that I would be in trouble if that happened.”
“I understand,” Cobb says, spreading his hands soothingly. “I’m very, very sorry for your loss.” Arthur doesn’t think about solidarity, doesn’t think about Mal. “We’ll continue your training tomorrow, Mr Thomas. You should rest now.”
They stand up, and are almost to the door before Thomas speaks up. “It’s still Luke, Mr Cobb. You’re the only people in the world who know my greatest secret. I trust you both.” He smiles weakly at them, and Arthur remembers how good it feels to be doing something good again; they've become so used to being on the other side that he's forgotten what relieved smiles are like.
“You can call us by our first names, then,” Cobb says, smiling back. Thomas’ smile grows stronger.
They call Phil and James again, a rinse and repeat of the night before. It soothes Arthur’s fraying nerves and he sips a glass of wine as they talk while Cobb nurses a beer and laughs at something James did today. His head tilts back and his neck is exposed, and Arthur stares and stares and then takes a huge gulp of wine.
They hang up an hour later, when it’s the children’s bedtime. Arthur’s glass has been emptied and refilled many, many times. The bottle is close to empty and he’s the only one that’s been drinking out of it, although occasionally Cobb will reach over to pluck the glass out of his hands.
His head is fuzzy and light and everything is bathed in a soft glow from the lamps on either side of the bed. He half-smiles, loosening his tie and sighing a little.
“You’ve been in love?” Cobb asks out of nowhere, and Arthur’s happy little buzz disappears immediately. He turns to look at Cobb, who’s laying on his back and staring at the ceiling.
“I wouldn’t lie about it,” Arthur says stiffly.
“Ah,” Cobb says, blinking slowly. Arthur wonders if Cobb drank more of the wine than he thought, but Cobb just slides onto his side and looks at Arthur. “I didn’t know that.”
“You don’t know a lot of things,” Arthur replies, setting his glass down and standing up, trying to put distance between them. He unbuttons his vest and slides out of it, pretending not to notice Cobb watching him. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Love is a very big deal,” Cobb responds quietly.
Arthur pauses and looks directly at Cobb. “Not always.”
Cobb’s mouth tightens and he rolls back onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Arthur goes into the bathroom, flips on the shower, and stands in front of the mirror, looking at himself. What he sees scares him a little, so he waits for the mirror to fog up and then rubs his hand across it, streaking condensation until everything is blurred and unrecognizable. It’s melodramatic and stupid but it helps steady him, and he gets into the shower without thinking about anything at all.
In the morning, Arthur’s head is pounding and Cobb acts like nothing happened, so he just dresses on autopilot, accepting his coffee from a smirking Cobb.
“You know how you are with wine,” Cobb admonishes, smiling slightly, and Arthur growls at him and pops aspirin.
Georgia is almost unbearable this morning, and Arthur simply stands behind Cobb and tries not to lean on him. He’s almost never hungover because he doesn’t indulge often, so when he is it tends to hit him harder than with other people. He can feel the headache start to recede every second the medicine dissolves into his system, and tries to block out the perky sounds of Georgia talking.
“We’re with Jeannie today,” Cobb says, rubbing his hand up and down Arthur’s back; it startles him a little, and he arches into it instinctively. It’s an uncharacteristically sensual move for him, and he flushes. Cobb raises his eyebrow but mercifully says nothing, just guides Arthur towards the redheaded woman who took them to Thomas their first day.
“Hello,” she says, smiling. “We’re going to be discussing cakes. We have the bakeries in LA that do wedding cakes, and you can pick the design you like based off pictures we have; we can make specifications based on your wedding colors. What we’re doing here is deciding what flavor you want for the cake.”
They’re led to a room with a table full -- full -- of small slices of different wedding cakes. There’s got to be at least a dozen different flavors there, and Arthur feels his stomach revolt. Each place has a label on the table in front of it, and he can read them from here: yellow, white, strawberry, chocolate, coconut, mango, orange, all spices, carrot, raspberry, lemon, white chocolate, dark chocolate, liquor filled chocolate cake; it goes on and on.
“You can also mix flavors for a two flavored cake,” Jeannie informs them cheerfully, which is a little disgusting to think about right now.
“Can we taste test by ourselves?” Cobb asks, thumb slipping underneath Arthur’s vest to rub at his lower back through his shirt. Arthur tries not to but almost melts into the soothing touch. “Arthur and I want to be as unbiased as possible.”
“Of course,” Jeannie says brightly. “I’ll wait outside. Here’s a clipboard with a list of the cakes. You can compare them when you’re done, and we’ll figure out what works for you both.”
She leaves, and Arthur steps away from Cobb and collapses in one of the chairs at the table. “Fucking hell, we had to be tasting shit today, didn’t we.” It’s not a question. Cobb snorts with laughter, pulling a plate towards him and picking up a fork.
“This is pretty good,” he says, licking icing off the spoon. “It’s the lemon one.” He scoops up some more and holds it out to Arthur, who makes a face but eats it anyway. Part of him wants to just pick this one and be done with it, but they’ll be able to tell how much of the cake they tested and tried and he doesn’t want more choices.
The cake is bright on his tongue, and actually manages to settle his stomach when he swallows it down. It weighs heavy, but almost grounds him at the same time, and he licks his lips and nods. “It’s good.”
Cobb smiles at him, writing something on his list. They make their way through the cakes slowly, testing icing and the cake’s texture and taste. Arthur takes a bite of mango cake and he can’t help it; he spits it out into a napkin, and Cobb bursts into laughter. Arthur shoots him an unimpressed look, but gets revenge when Cobb bites into the all spice cake and makes the most disgusted face ever. He smirks, but Cobb simply swallows it down and checks it sharply off his list.
In the end, they really like the vanilla, lemon, and raspberry. Arthur presses a hand against his full stomach, glad that he no longer feels like throwing up because of his hangover. Cobb stares at him for a moment after marking down their choices, and Arthur blinks.
“What--” he starts, and Cobb reaches out and rubs his thumb along the left crease of Arthur’s mouth. Arthur stares as Cobb pulls back his thumb with a smidgen of icing on it and sticks it in his mouth, sucking it off. His eyes are dark, despite usually being unnaturally light, and Arthur swallows hard and mumbles, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Cobb replies easily. They call Jeannie in and Arthur makes sure to rub a napkin over his mouth thoroughly while Cobb is talking to her.
“Your wedding is coming along well,” Thomas says, flipping through the pages. Cobb shrugs his shoulders and smiles.
“We’re the best, Luke. That means we keep up appearances.”
Arthur’s mouth flattens out; it’s just one more reminder that he’s been forgetting why they’re really here. To teach Thomas to protect himself and pretend to be engaged. Pretend.
(God, he wishes he’d taken that job with Eames. Eames may be the bastard to end all bastards, but at least he means to annoy Arthur. With Cobb it’s all a game, another day on the job to him. Arthur can’t fucking take this anymore. He’s spent years being able to suppress all of this, four days shouldn’t be able to ruin everything. He needs to get it together.)
“Well you’re doing great. This wedding actually looks pretty amazing. Want to keep the file just in case--” Thomas is looking straight at Arthur, and fuck him and his hinting voice.
“No,” Arthur says shortly. “This is just a cover. You can keep it.”
Thomas looks disappointed. “Alright.”
They hook up to the PASIV for training and end up on a street. Cobb’s the architect, so it’s a simple street with familiar names but different shop fronts, different tea shops and coffee houses. Thomas’ subconscious projections fill up the scenery, walking around and chatting with each other. They seem relatively normal for now, only glancing briefly at the trio walking around.
“We’re going to change things up,” Cobb says. “Let’s see if your projections fight back in military style or just attack us.”
Cobb glances to the left and an entire building is somehow missing all of a sudden. The projections look at it and several mouths purse. Cobb glances up at the sky and the air is filled with balloons everywhere, bright and floating into oblivion but never really leaving the atmosphere. He makes buildings topple over, makes mirrors appear on every surface; the projections start converging on them, fingers clenched and wielding whatever’s closest.
None of them have guns, however (except the police that had been close by) and they aren’t attacking in any sort of patter, just amassing around them.
“Dammit,” Thomas says, sighing. “I don’t--”
“It’s not something that will just happen,” Arthur says, pulling his gun and shooting a warning shot at one’s feet. She makes a sort of hissing noise at him and keeps advancing. “You just need to visualize your mind being something that needs to be protected at all costs. You need to think of yourself as something that needs to be protected. They are you, and they do what you will them to do.”
“Do we kill ourselves?” Thomas asks. “I’d rather not watch you two get ripped apart.”
Cobb checks his watch. “Arthur, can you hold them off for another twenty minutes?”
“I can, but it might get messy.” Arthur fires another shot, this time hitting a man’s kneecap and watching without emotion as he collapses to the ground. The other projections crawl over him and keep coming. “We’ll need to get to higher ground to have a chance.”
“Alright,” Cobb says, grabbing hold of Arthur’s arm and pulling him into a building to their right. It’s a perfect vantage point, with only a small window for Arthur to shoot out of and heavy doors that Cobb blocks with furniture.
“This is a lot of trouble just to not kill ourselves,” Thomas comments, watching Arthur pick off three more projections and wincing.
“Obviously,” Arthur says, nailing a woman between the eyes, “you’ve never been shot.”
“It’s interesting,” Cobb says, grinning a little and handing Arthur a full magazine. He reloads and keeps picking off the projections until their time runs out; waking up is like drawing in a full breath of air after hours in the same room. Thomas blinks a few times, laying back in his chair, but Cobb is already rolling up the coils of wire and closing the PASIV.
“You’ll get it soon, Luke,” Cobb tells him. “We’ve still got three days to work on it. You’re doing well for someone who’s never worked with shared dreaming.”
Thomas adjusts his tie, not looking them in the eye. “I need for this to happen. I have to keep Jordan’s secret. That’s how love works.” Then he glances at Arthur.
Arthur abruptly stands up and grabs the PASIV. “We’d better go.” They both send him strange looks. “We don’t want to spend too long in here with the blinds closed. It’ll look strange.”
Thomas doesn’t say anything, just looks at Arthur sadly as he shows them out of the office. Arthur doesn’t acknowledge him at all.
“I think we should talk to Penny again about the church location,” Cobb mutters, flipping through the binder. “This one is too far away from our house.”
“You mean your house,” Arthur says, not looking up from cleaning his guns. Cobb makes a small sound that Arthur can’t interpret.
“Whatever, I’m just saying, I don’t like it.”
“There was that one with the chapel--”
“--that one with the balcony, yeah, we liked that one--”
“--but you were afraid the colors would clash with our theme--”
Cobb sighs. “We’re men. We can afford a little bit of clash.”
“You know, it kind of doesn’t matter.” Arthur reaches for a clean cloth and inspects the chamber. “This is a fake wedding. The colors can clash and the church can be far away. It’s not actually happening.” His lungs hurt just saying it, but it’s true. Cobb can drop the charade at the hotel.
Cobb makes a noncommittal noise. “You might wanna keep these for yourself, Arthur. It really is a pretty amazing wedding.”
Arthur lowers the gun and looks at Cobb. There’s something almost like an accusation in Cobb’s tone, and he’s nonchalantly flipping through the binder and not looking at Arthur at all. Arthur clenches his fist around his cleaning cloth.
“I’m not getting married any time soon,” Arthur replies tightly. “I don’t want it. This is a job and that’s it.”
The air between them is suddenly charged with energy but Arthur ignores it and goes back to cleaning. He hears Cobb close the binder and set it down. The bed dips and Arthur’s movements get more and more focused.
“Why don’t you have someone, Arthur?” Cobb asks, too close and far too personal; they never do this. They never talk about this.
“What are you talking about, Cobb?” Arthur presses harder at a scratch and doesn’t look up.
“You’re amazing,” Cobb says flatly. “You’re smart, and charming when you want to be, and gorgeous.” Arthur flushes. Cobb is far too fucking close. “I don’t understand why you aren’t married, or at least dating.”
“It’s not a priority,” Arthur says, setting his gun down again. He still doesn’t look up. “My life is the job right now.”
“But you don’t even like the job,” Cobb argues. “You said so yourself, without me there it’s not the same at all.” His voice is lilting, like he’s trying to make a point. Arthur can’t and doesn’t want to find it.
“Life can go on without you, Cobb,” Arthur says, swinging his head to look apathetically at Cobb. “It’s possible. I don’t need someone by my side all the time.”
Cobb looks frustrated. “I just don’t--”
“Look, I’m going to take a shower now,” Arthur interrupts. “Just in case you’ve lost all sense of subtlety, that means I’m done talking about this.”
Cobb’s mouth tightens but he leans back and lets Arthur walk to the bathroom without saying anything else. When Arthur comes out later, toweling off his hair, Cobb is reading the binder again, making notes. Neither of them speaks again until midnight when they finally turn off the lights.
part two.
miles from where you are
i lay down on the cold ground and
cobb/arthur (11022 words)
This is completely for epicflailer. Not only did she give me the prompt in the first place (I may have deviated slightly and then run with it to strange places) but she provided resources for canon facts, cheered me on every day and then was the most BADASS BETA EVER. You have her to thank for all the awkward phrasing you don't have to see that comes from writing 1000 words a day and then coming back twelve hours later to write more. This was a LOT of fun to think about and write, and I apologize for anything that doesn't make sense or is just plain weird. This was mostly to please Nat, and everything else was looked over, haha.
PS EVERYONE GO BUY KALEIDOSCOPE HEART. SARA BAREILLES IS MY ONE TRUE GOD.
ETA: NOW WITH AWESOME ART BY ellegen! CHECK IT OUT~!
The rain is falling in LA when Arthur lands. The sunny city is blanketed in clouds and water, and he grimaces and carefully opens his umbrella when he steps out of the airport. He only has to look a moment before he sees the car. Cobb is standing beside it, holding an umbrella with one hand and a sign with the other, which must have been decorated by James and Philippa. It’s got sparkles along the curve of the A in his name, and ten different colors on the other letters. There are two handprints in blue and red paint on the corners. He feels himself begin to smile, despite the weather.
“Was your flight okay?” Cobb asks when he reaches him, taking the bag from his hand. Arthur shrugs his shoulders; Cobb knows how flights are. He makes a slight face. “Yeah. Let’s go home and coordinate, and we’ll leave in the morning.”
Arthur smoothly closes his umbrella and slides into the car in one movement, suffering only a few drops of rain. Cobb, however, is soaked, water sluicing down his neck and over his cheeks, twisting his hair into disheveled waves. Arthur focuses on the water sliding down the windshield.
“You sure you’re ready to do this?” Arthur asks, watching the sky darken even further and listening to the sound of Cobb mumbling about his clothes being ruined. “The job, I mean.”
There’s silence for a moment, and Cobb pulls out into the airport traffic and drives. Arthur swallows, watching miles and miles of parking lots pull by. “Yeah. I mean, it’s what I’m good at. And the university’s nice, but I kind of miss it.”
Arthur nods. He can’t imagine doing anything else; dreams become you, until you can’t think of regular jobs as anything but nuisances. They lack the feelings dreams instill in you, that feeling of I can do anything I want. True inspiration. Total control.
“It’s been months since you’ve been here,” Cobb comments. “Been busy?”
Arthur sighs. “Yes. Just because the best extractor out there is gone doesn’t mean the demand is. Of course, I have a much harder time without someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“Poor darling,” Cobb teases, and Arthur glances at him, unimpressed. “Speaking of, I heard Eames was looking for you in Mombasa. He was planning something with Yusuf?”
Yeah, Arthur thinks. Cobb is “retired” but somehow manages to keep a finger on everyone’s pulse. That’s how he is. “I was busy. Besides, Eames is still annoying as hell.”
“Mmm,” Cobb says noncommittally, making a turn. They fall into a comfortable silence for the rest of the ride, Arthur resting his head against the seat and closing his eyes. He listens to Cobb breathe and feels suddenly very calm.
When they arrive, James and Philippa jump all over him, scrambling to tell him stories and things that have happened since he last was here. He smiles at them and sits down on the floor with them (ignoring the wrinkles in his suit ) and listens as they babble. Philippa has lost a tooth, and James fell down outside and got a bruise that was this big (he holds his hands up and spreads them out wider than his entire body, and Arthur struggles not to laugh). They’re full of tales and exploits and new toys and life, and Arthur settles in and lets them talk.
Eventually they tire out and Cobb insists that they go to sleep. They protest, especially since their father will be leaving for a week in the morning, but he promises to see them in the morning before he goes and to make Arthur make them breakfast. They agree very seriously and make Arthur promise, and he solemnly does. They go to bed and the house gets very quiet very fast.
“So,” Cobb says, sitting down at the dining room table. “You miss us?”
Yes. “Not a bit,” Arthur replies, smiling a little. Cobb grins at him and gestures for him to sit down too.
“Tell me about our mark.”
Arthur sits down and pulls out his files. “I don’t know if you can really call him a mark if he’s hiring us to teach him anti-extraction. His name is Luke Thomas.”
“A mark is a mark,” Cobb says, picking up files and flipping through them. “He’s a wedding planner? ”
“Yes.” Cobb sends him a look. “I don’t get to pick our clients, okay,” Arthur says a bit defensively. “Plus, he’s the top wedding designer in the country -- some people say the world. His company is famous nationwide. Plus, he’s really fucking rich.”
“What dark secrets could he want to protect?” Cobb wonders aloud, and Arthur shakes his head.
“Whatever they are, he’s willing to pay us an obscene amount of money. I almost refused out of moral propriety, but…you know. I didn’t.” Cobb smirks at him. “He wants us to be discreet about why we’re there, though. Doesn’t want anyone knowing we’ve been hired.”
“So this is like a company-against-company kind of thing?” Cobb asks.
“Don’t know yet. We’ll get the details when we meet him, apparently. This is easy money, Cobb. We just have to think of an excuse to see him every day for a week, teach him how to protect himself, and we’re done.”
Cobb is silent, flipping through files, and then he says, “We should get married.”
Arthur’s throat closes up. His world spins violently, and he coughs, reaching for the beer bottle at his elbow even though he’s only been sipping from it. “Excuse me?”
“Does he not do same sex couples?” Cobb asks, blinking, and Arthur takes another swig of drink and swallows hard.
“Of course he does, but I don’t see how that--” Wait. No way is Cobb suggesting that they pretend--
“That’s the easiest way for us to meet with him without drawing suspicion. It’s his job.” Cobb shrugs his shoulders like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We’ll go in to do the wedding stuff and coach him during our meetings. Easy.”
Easy. Cobb thinks it'll be easy. Arthur’s stomach is twisting painfully, but it makes horrible sense and would be the best way to go about doing things. Besides, Cobb won’t understand why this is a horrible idea. To him, it will be just another job, another client another scam.
Arthur tightens his jaw, jerks his head once in a nod, and falls back into planning everything. He’s still the point man, and he is still the best.
Their plane leaves in the morning for Chicago, where Thomas Wedding Design is based.
(Arthur is woken by Philippa jumping on his stomach and demanding waffles, and James chimes in from the pillow next to him that he wants chocolate chip waffles, and Cobb is shouting that their babysitter for the week -- a friend of the family with a daughter around James’ age -- is going to be here soon to pick them up, and they pull at Arthur and he is so, so fucking happy.)
It’s rainy in Chicago too, but somehow less gloomy; it matches the city, broad buildings and skyscrapers reaching up into the air. Cobb watches the sky as if he’s looking for something, and Arthur reviews notes in his head and clutches the PASIV device while their cab winds through the streets. He’s uncharacteristically nervous. They’re going to be pretending to be a couple. A couple in love.
Arthur is so fucked.
They pull up to the building and Arthur takes a deep breath. Cobb seems wholly unconcerned with everything and steps out of the car. As soon as Arthur stands up, buttoning his suit, Cobb slides a hand around his waist and pulls him close. Arthur tenses up and tries to slide away automatically, but Cobb tightens his grip and pulls harder.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” Cobb mutters, “we’re engaged. Act like it.”
Arthur grits his teeth. “Like I’ve been engaged before, Cobb.”
“Rule number one,” Cobb says, fingers digging into his hip, “don’t act like me touching you is the most horrifying thing that’s ever happened. I’ve seen you face a gun with less emotion.”
“Guns don’t feel me up,” Arthur retorts, fighting to regain his composure. He hesitates and then winds his arm around Cobb’s waist, feeling the firm press of Cobb's body against his side all the way to his hip. “Better?”
“A little,” Cobb says, and they stroll through the building doors, which are opened for them by doormen on either side. Arthur resists the urge to stare once they're inside; it’s a splash of color and fabric and women and men everywhere, running around talking all at once, or sitting in chairs and chatting animatedly. Real engaged couples flip through books; men who look absolutely bored and women with creases in their brow. There are books lying on every surface. In the waiting area, magazines on bridal fashions and cakes and flowers line the back wall in vases and Arthur unconsciously moves closer to Cobb, a little startled.
“Wow,” Cobb comments. It’s an understatement.
The receptionist is sunny and bright, with a yellow headband tucked into her dark hair and pink bubblegum smacking between her teeth. Her nameplate says Georgia Sweets. She’s on the telephone when they get up there, but it turns out to be a social call when they hear her say, “Oh gosh, and did you hear that the head of weaponry at Smithson Tech was killed last week? And the way he died! I know, it’s so horrifying, and in our own city no less and -- oh, sorry Mindy, gotta go!” She hangs up and smiles at them so hard Arthur thinks her mouth has to hurt. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks, turning to her computer and pulling up a schedule. “Your names?”
“Cobb-Smith,” Cobb says smoothly, moving to take Arthur’s hand and smiling softly at the woman. She practically beams at them and types into the computer. Arthur tries not to focus on the feel of Cobb’s thumb sliding over his knuckles as he watches her look for their name.
“Alright, Mr Cobb, Mr Smith, I’ll have Jeannie take you up to Mr Thomas. Jeannie!” A redheaded woman detaches from the swarm and sails their way, smiling. Arthur doesn’t know if he can handle this for an entire week. Weddings can not be this thrilling.
“If you’ll follow me, please,” Jeannie says, leading them towards an elevator, and Cobb pulls Arthur along by the hand. Arthur tries to look pleased and smitten. He thinks he comes across more flustered and uncomfortable.
Thomas’ office is on the fifth floor. The reception area up here is headed by a young man in a sharp suit that Arthur approves of, slate gray and pinstriped. He looks boredly up at them and gestures for them to follow him; Jeannie chirps “Have a wonderful day!” at them and turns around. They follow the receptionist to the office, which is lavishly decorated and surrounded in glass. Behind the desk, Luke Thomas is typing on a laptop and chewing on a pen absently.
“Mr Thomas,” the receptionist says, “your three o’clock is here.”
“Of course, Jeremy,” Thomas says absently. “Come in, come in, just putting finishing touches on a Bel Air wedding of the century.” Jeremy gestures at them, and they move to sit in the plush chairs in front of the desk. Jeremy goes back to reception and promptly pulls up Facebook on the computer.
As soon as he’s gone, Thomas looks up from the binder and looks at them intently. “Mr Cobb, Mr Smith, I am so grateful to you for coming here like this. I just -- I needed to know that my thoughts were safe, and you’re the best, apparently.”
“That’s true,” Cobb says, letting go of Arthur’s hand finally. “We can help you make your mind an impenetrable fortress against whoever you feel is trying to get in. But to do that, we’re going to have to go into your mind, get to know you better than anyone you’ve ever known or anyone who's ever known you.”
“We’re going to teach you about utilizing your subconscious and making projections that can militarize against threats,” Arthur interjects. “They need to know what to expect, and so do we. We need to know who is after your thoughts, Mr Thomas.”
Thomas looks uncomfortable. “Luke, please. If you’re going to be in my dreams, I suppose you should call me Luke. And I can’t -- I can’t tell you just yet. I really want to be sure about all of this before I explain.”
“The best way to know is to experience it,” Cobb offers. “We can go under right now, just five minutes.”
Arthur glances at the glass panels. “We really could use some privacy, though. You are supposed to be advising us on our wedding, after all.”
“Oh, about that,” Thomas interrupts, “my staff really will need some input from you guys on what you want for your wedding, so you’ll have to keep up appearances and work with them. That’s how things run here.”
“If we have to,” Cobb says uncertainly. “What exactly are we going to be doing?”
“Talking about what you want out of the wedding, themes, cakes, flowers, venue, plates, glasses, catering, all that stuff. I know you’re not really going through with it, but it will help me out immensely if we do this the right way,” Thomas says, and picks up a remote and presses a button. The glass panels are covered by sliding curtains that fall from above, effectively blocking any prying eyes. It becomes darker in the room, but not unbearably so.
“Perfect,” Cobb says, and Arthur pops open the PASIV device. “Shall we get started?”
“That went pretty well,” Cobb comments as they unpack in their (shared) hotel suite. Arthur hums as he hangs up another three piece suit, smoothing the lapels out and trying not to think about being alone in a hotel room with Cobb after months of being alone.
“He did well for a first-timer,” Arthur says, turning to look at Cobb, who is placing a picture of James and Philippa on the table. His heart turns over once in his chest and he sighs. “His subconscious seemed fairly normal, too.”
“Yep,” Cobb agrees. “He’ll do fine. I hope he’s planning on filling us in though. I hate being surprised.”
Arthur remembers Fischer’s subconscious projections and Cobb yelling and finger pointing and being soaked to the bone and horrified and frustrated and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
Arthur picks up the phone and starts dialing the lobby. Cobb notices and asks, “What’re you doing?”
“Calling for a cot?” Arthur says, confused. “There’s only one bed in here and I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
“We’re supposed to be engaged,” Cobb says, frowning. “How’s it gonna look if we call for a bed?”
“Do you seriously believe that Luke Thomas is being watched that closely?” Arthur asks flatly. “I’m pretty sure he’s just melodramatic. I’m calling for a bed.”
“Don’t,” Cobb says firmly. “We’ll share. I’m not taking risks for something as stupid as where you sleep. Just because this is an in-and-out job doesn’t mean we cut corners.”
It’s like Cobb is trying to make this the most torturous job ever. Arthur contemplates calling for a bed anyway, but knows that Cobb might be right, and he’s too professional to endanger a client. He turns to examine the hardwood floor with deep interest.
“Fucking hell,” Cobb sighs, “Arthur, it’s not a big deal. We’ve shared a bed before.”
Arthur remembers. It was pretty fucking bad those times too. Arthur doesn’t know if he can handle being “engaged” and sleeping in the same bed at the same time. But if he goes against Cobb on this, he’ll look ridiculous. He hates sleeping on the floor and Cobb knows that.
“Fine,” he grunts, reaching into his bag for his shower kit. “I’m using the bathroom now.”
“Go ahead,” Cobb says, collapsing on the bed and tiredly unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll shower in the morning. Way too fucking tired tonight.”
Arthur watches for only three buttons before he wrenches the bathroom door open and storms in. He turns the water to scalding hot, and stays in until it mellows out, just standing there. Then he jerks off, slow and helpless and thinking about Cobb’s mouth.
When he goes out, Cobb is sleeping on top of the covers, shirt open all the way and shoes still on. Arthur clenches his fists once and then pulls Cobb’s shoes and socks off, carefully lifts his waist and shimmies him out of his slacks. He leaves the unbuttoned shirt on and curls up on the far side of the bed, under the covers. Sleep does not come easily.
The next day, Georgia greets them just as happily as before. “Mr Smith and Mr Cobb! I hope you had a wonderful morning!” Arthur can actually see the exclamation points coming out of her mouth.
(His morning had consisted of waking up from a half-sleep before Cobb, who somehow had managed to flip around and twist his arm behind him in his shirt, so that his neck stretched out almost awkwardly and his front was a long, lean line and fucking hell, Arthur would rather sleep on the floor than wake up to this every morning. He resignedly goes to the bathroom to take a shower.)
“Good morning,” Cobb says, smiling at her. His fingers are twined through Arthur’s this morning, and he thinks maybe he’s getting better at looking natural and okay with it. He doesn’t think about the warmth Cobb gives off or that he’s so close he can smell Cobb’s aftershave.
“You gentlemen are going to meet up with Penny and talk about the theme for your wedding. Did you have one already in mind?”
Cobb looks a bit startled, like he hadn’t expected to be asked something like that when they were going undercover as an engaged couple. Thankfully, Arthur is a point man for a damn good reason.
“I was thinking something classic. Church, classic white wedding, the whole deal.” He’d debated about this in his head, and decided that going for something easy was the best. No tropical theme for them, or jazzy outdoor venue, or any of the other horrors they were likely to throw at them.
“Is that what you were thinking, Mr Cobb?” Georgia asks, making notes on a pad, and Cobb pretends to think about it. Arthur hides a smile; Cobb hadn’t offered a single opinion on his wedding to Mal, and it had been perfect. He’s pretty sure he’s going to just go along with this.
“I suppose, although I’d like a bit of color to be a motif,” he says, which surprises Arthur and throws off the whole design he’d wanted to give the planners.
“What?” he asks, and Georgia glances up at them, clearly confused but not intruding, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
“You know,” Cobb says, and the little fucker is amused, Arthur can see it in his eyes, “Blues or greens. Your favorite colors, darling.” Arthur’s favorite color is blue, although he’s not sure about green, but he thinks that green is Cobb’s.
“I -- alright,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth. “If that’s what you want -- sweetie.”
Cobb barely manages to keep from laughing, and Arthur wants to remind him that they are working right now. Georgia just keeps making notes, and then stands up with a flourish and hands it to them, saying, “Penny will work with you on the theme today, and you can go over colors with Timothy after that.”
“And we meet with Mr Thomas after that, right?” Cobb asks, serious again, and Georgia beams and nods. “Alright. Where’s Penny?”
“Right here,” a blonde woman says, walking up behind them. Her attitude is friendly but no-nonsense, something Arthur appreciates greatly after Georgia’s bubbliness. “Follow me.” Her hair swishes in a ponytail and her dress is bright blue and garnished with textured flowers, and she snatches the note out of Cobb’s hand and glances perfunctorily at it before she leads them down the hall behind the front desk and past the elevator. They end up in a comfortable room with books, magazines, and color strips carefully organized, completely different from the chaos of the lobby.
“Alright,” Penny says, taking the notes Georgia wrote and reading them more closely. “Classic white wedding? With...some color, blues or greens?”
“Apparently,” Arthur says wryly. Penny looks up at them.
“Are you both planning this equally or is one of you more invested in it?” she asks bluntly, clearly used to one partner being the interested party. Arthur opens his mouth, but Cobb beats him to it.
“Equally,” Cobb says, raising the hand linked with Arthur’s and -- fuck, he rubs his mouth over the knuckles, and his eyes cut to Arthur’s, warm and completely convincing. Penny buys it; her eyes go a little gooey and she smiles at them, taking up a pad and starting a new set of notes.
“Very well,” she says, scritch-scratching her pen over the paper, and Arthur works to slow his heart rate down. Cobb looks the picture of calm.
Arthur might shoot him later during the training. Maybe.
They introduce Thomas to guns, teach him about the safety, how to hold one, how to load a magazine and all of the key components. Mostly Arthur is the one talking, since he’s the better of the two, but every now and then Cobb will interject with a gun he feels is best for certain situations.
“Your projections will need to be prepared to go up against any type of attack the extractors will come up with,” he explains. “It can’t always be missile launchers and flamethrowers.”
Thomas nods, studying the M16 Arthur is holding very carefully. Around them Arthur’s projections watch calmly, sipping tea and reading books. His projections are always this way; they only expend energy if it’s really necessary, and tend to just warily observe whatever is going on.
And then, all of a sudden, Cobb walks up to them.
Thomas blinks, looking between the real Cobb and Arthur’s projection, which, fuck, this almost never happens, and certainly not in front of Cobb himself. “Hello, Arthur,” the projection says, smiling in a way that’s a little too open for Cobb.
“What is--?” Thomas starts, but stops and just looks again. “You have a projection of Cobb?”
“Go away,” Arthur tells the projection, whose smile just grows wicked. He reaches out, takes the hand not holding the gun, and kisses Arthur’s knuckles before he can pull away. His eyes are dancing, and Thomas makes a sort of small, surprised noise. Arthur sort of wants to shoot his own subconscious.
“I’ll see you, Arthur,” the projection promises, and Arthur doesn’t acknowledge that. He simply turns back to the gun, and gestures to the pistol grip and butt-stock.
“It’s best if you hold it like this,” he says, demonstrating, and doesn’t look at Cobb, who hasn’t said a word; he simply stares after the projection of himself, eyes distant and dark.
Arthur closes his eyes and ignores the various projections around them that are growing more and more agitated. He tightens his jaw, forces himself to concentrate, and continues the lecture.
They call James and Philippa that night, asking about school and their day. Philippa is full of stories about grade school and their class pet (disturbingly, a giant iguana named Jake) while James talks about preschool and the teachers and Arthur just closes his eyes and listens as Cobb talks to his children.
They call him Uncle Arthur and ask him about what they’ve done. They talk about Chicago vaguely, never really lying but never explaining everything. Arthur doesn’t open his eyes the entire time, talking in the direction of the phone; he can’t see Cobb that way.
Later, Cobb and Arthur stand side-by-side in the bathroom and brush their teeth, elbows bumping every now and then. Arthur pretends not to notice Cobb watching him in the mirror, eyes like stainless steel, shrewd and thoughtful all at once.
The next morning when he wakes up, Cobb is facing him again, and his arm is slung out so that it touches Arthur’s shoulder. He sits up, letting the hand fall away, and stares for a moment. Cobb looks peaceful in sleep, and his fingers dig into the bedsheets where Arthur had been sleeping. Arthur gets out of bed and goes to make coffee.
They spend time with Trevor today, talking about floral arrangements and figuring out what type of flower they want. Sticking with the white wedding theme, he suggests white lilies or white roses. Arthur likes the idea of white roses, stark and pale against their green stems, layered around a church cathedral, draped over a reception hall; a single bud pinned to Cobb’s lapel.
“I like acacias,” Cobb says, resting his hand over Arthur’s on the chair arm. “I think they’d go well against blue.”
“Acacias are a rather unusual choice,” Trevor murmurs, “But you’re right, with the right shade of blue they could be clever and modern, yes,” and he starts shifting through color palates.
“What’s an acacia?” Arthur wants to know. Trevor reaches into his flower binder and flips to a page without looking away from his color wheel. It’s a bright yellow flower, round in shape and almost fluffy-looking. It comes in huge bunches, spilling out long stems full of blossoms, and it’s colorful and cheerful and almost silly. He glances at Cobb, who nods at the picture and smiles a little. He looks pleased at the sight of them, and Arthur feels something tighten and then loosen inside of him.
“What do you think, Mr Cobb?” Trevor says, holding up a shade of blue labeled Venezuelan Sea. “Is this a good shade of blue for you?”
Cobb studies it a moment, fingers ghosting over Arthur’s palm. “It’s perfect,” Arthur says, turning his hand over and smiling hesitantly at Cobb as he links their fingers. Cobb blinks at him once, twice.
“Very well,” Trevor says. “Our classic white wedding is going to get a punch of color, then.” He looks eager, making more notes in their binder, which is accumulating pages more rapidly than Arthur had expected. “We’ll look for a church in LA for you to work with, and you can choose where you want accents. We’ll check our database.”
Five minutes later, Arthur is surprised to find himself thumbing through the notes, approving and disapproving of certain things the planners have written. Cobb and Trevor continue talking about the acacias, how many and how much and whether they want flowers in vases or planters, spilling out or contained. He’s -- Arthur is actually getting into this. He’s curious about the churches they have marked off, and he’s interested in the color accents.
He’s forgetting that this wedding isn’t actually going to happen.
Arthur spends the rest of the time with Trevor flipping the pages without seeing anything, colors and fabrics and names, blurs that he refuses to decipher.
“We have to know, Luke,” Cobb says seriously. “Who do you believe is after you? What do they want?”
Thomas shifts around uncomfortably, biting his lower lip. His eyes are a shade of green that Arthur has never quite noticed before, possibly brought out by the light gray suit he’s wearing. They’re almost pretty, and they dart around anxiously before closing.
“Have you ever been in love, gentlemen?” he asks finally. Cobb’s eyes shutter immediately, but he nods his head nonetheless. Thomas turns to Arthur, whose stomach clenches up in fear. Thomas’ eyes are knowing, and he glances briefly at Cobb. He knows, and Arthur can’t help it.
“Yes,” he says. Cobb jerks his head and looks at Arthur, eyes still unreadable but with something different about them. Arthur looks briefly at him and then away, pretending his pulse isn’t jackhammering.
“How does that pertain?” he questions, and Thomas rubs a hand over his mouth and sighs.
“I was in love with someone who was recently killed. He was -- he knew things about a weapon that several groups would love to get their hands on; cutting edge technology that’s being developed. He was -- perhaps careless, but we loved each other.”
If he expects Arthur or Cobb to be surprised that he’s gay, he doesn’t show it, and Cobb is only listening intently.
“He told me about a hiding place he had for the things he knew. Just in case, he always said. But --” his voice breaks, “--but he’s dead now, and I’m afraid they’re going to try to find out what he trusted me with. I’m not a brave man, gentlemen. I’m just a wedding designer. But I loved him, and I will do whatever it takes to keep his secrets.”
“You loved that man who worked for Smithson Tech,” Arthur realizes, recalling the conversation Georgia had been having when they came the first day. Thomas doesn’t answer, just drops his head and grips his hands tightly together, as if he’s praying. His breathing becomes shallow and Arthur feels his heart tighten in sympathy. If Cobb died--
Arthur doesn’t think about it.
“How did he die?” Cobb asks, clearly also remembering that Georgia had been deliciously horrified by the manner of death. Arthur had wanted to ask but was unsure if it would be best. Cobb tended to look at the big picture, though, not the pieces that made it all up. Cobb’s mouth is tense and unhappy, so maybe not so oblivious this time.
“He,” Thomas says, voice hitching, “he was -- he was blown up. An explosion, in his home. Everything was destroyed. There wasn’t --” he hiccups, “-- wasn’t even enough for, for his funeral.”
Arthur and Cobb both grimace. Sloppy assassination means greedy, irresponsible groups who want answers no matter what.
“What makes you believe that they won’t torture you for information?” Arthur asks bluntly, since that would be the much more likely way to get information, no matter that extraction was neat and unnoticeable.
“I don’t think they want to alert anyone that they’re out there. The explosion in Jordan’s apartment was caused by a gas leak, and no one thinks it was intentional,” Thomas explains. “I only know because he’d been worried that he was being followed. He’d been worried all week and warned me to be careful when I was out.”
Thomas rubs his eyes; Arthur can see that they’re bloodshot now, and less beautiful with tears in them. “I know he was killed, Mr Cobb, Mr Smith. And I know that I’m the only person in the world who knows where his research is. If they want to torture me, they can. I’m not going to betray that. But my dreams? I knew that I would be in trouble if that happened.”
“I understand,” Cobb says, spreading his hands soothingly. “I’m very, very sorry for your loss.” Arthur doesn’t think about solidarity, doesn’t think about Mal. “We’ll continue your training tomorrow, Mr Thomas. You should rest now.”
They stand up, and are almost to the door before Thomas speaks up. “It’s still Luke, Mr Cobb. You’re the only people in the world who know my greatest secret. I trust you both.” He smiles weakly at them, and Arthur remembers how good it feels to be doing something good again; they've become so used to being on the other side that he's forgotten what relieved smiles are like.
“You can call us by our first names, then,” Cobb says, smiling back. Thomas’ smile grows stronger.
They call Phil and James again, a rinse and repeat of the night before. It soothes Arthur’s fraying nerves and he sips a glass of wine as they talk while Cobb nurses a beer and laughs at something James did today. His head tilts back and his neck is exposed, and Arthur stares and stares and then takes a huge gulp of wine.
They hang up an hour later, when it’s the children’s bedtime. Arthur’s glass has been emptied and refilled many, many times. The bottle is close to empty and he’s the only one that’s been drinking out of it, although occasionally Cobb will reach over to pluck the glass out of his hands.
His head is fuzzy and light and everything is bathed in a soft glow from the lamps on either side of the bed. He half-smiles, loosening his tie and sighing a little.
“You’ve been in love?” Cobb asks out of nowhere, and Arthur’s happy little buzz disappears immediately. He turns to look at Cobb, who’s laying on his back and staring at the ceiling.
“I wouldn’t lie about it,” Arthur says stiffly.
“Ah,” Cobb says, blinking slowly. Arthur wonders if Cobb drank more of the wine than he thought, but Cobb just slides onto his side and looks at Arthur. “I didn’t know that.”
“You don’t know a lot of things,” Arthur replies, setting his glass down and standing up, trying to put distance between them. He unbuttons his vest and slides out of it, pretending not to notice Cobb watching him. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Love is a very big deal,” Cobb responds quietly.
Arthur pauses and looks directly at Cobb. “Not always.”
Cobb’s mouth tightens and he rolls back onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Arthur goes into the bathroom, flips on the shower, and stands in front of the mirror, looking at himself. What he sees scares him a little, so he waits for the mirror to fog up and then rubs his hand across it, streaking condensation until everything is blurred and unrecognizable. It’s melodramatic and stupid but it helps steady him, and he gets into the shower without thinking about anything at all.
In the morning, Arthur’s head is pounding and Cobb acts like nothing happened, so he just dresses on autopilot, accepting his coffee from a smirking Cobb.
“You know how you are with wine,” Cobb admonishes, smiling slightly, and Arthur growls at him and pops aspirin.
Georgia is almost unbearable this morning, and Arthur simply stands behind Cobb and tries not to lean on him. He’s almost never hungover because he doesn’t indulge often, so when he is it tends to hit him harder than with other people. He can feel the headache start to recede every second the medicine dissolves into his system, and tries to block out the perky sounds of Georgia talking.
“We’re with Jeannie today,” Cobb says, rubbing his hand up and down Arthur’s back; it startles him a little, and he arches into it instinctively. It’s an uncharacteristically sensual move for him, and he flushes. Cobb raises his eyebrow but mercifully says nothing, just guides Arthur towards the redheaded woman who took them to Thomas their first day.
“Hello,” she says, smiling. “We’re going to be discussing cakes. We have the bakeries in LA that do wedding cakes, and you can pick the design you like based off pictures we have; we can make specifications based on your wedding colors. What we’re doing here is deciding what flavor you want for the cake.”
They’re led to a room with a table full -- full -- of small slices of different wedding cakes. There’s got to be at least a dozen different flavors there, and Arthur feels his stomach revolt. Each place has a label on the table in front of it, and he can read them from here: yellow, white, strawberry, chocolate, coconut, mango, orange, all spices, carrot, raspberry, lemon, white chocolate, dark chocolate, liquor filled chocolate cake; it goes on and on.
“You can also mix flavors for a two flavored cake,” Jeannie informs them cheerfully, which is a little disgusting to think about right now.
“Can we taste test by ourselves?” Cobb asks, thumb slipping underneath Arthur’s vest to rub at his lower back through his shirt. Arthur tries not to but almost melts into the soothing touch. “Arthur and I want to be as unbiased as possible.”
“Of course,” Jeannie says brightly. “I’ll wait outside. Here’s a clipboard with a list of the cakes. You can compare them when you’re done, and we’ll figure out what works for you both.”
She leaves, and Arthur steps away from Cobb and collapses in one of the chairs at the table. “Fucking hell, we had to be tasting shit today, didn’t we.” It’s not a question. Cobb snorts with laughter, pulling a plate towards him and picking up a fork.
“This is pretty good,” he says, licking icing off the spoon. “It’s the lemon one.” He scoops up some more and holds it out to Arthur, who makes a face but eats it anyway. Part of him wants to just pick this one and be done with it, but they’ll be able to tell how much of the cake they tested and tried and he doesn’t want more choices.
The cake is bright on his tongue, and actually manages to settle his stomach when he swallows it down. It weighs heavy, but almost grounds him at the same time, and he licks his lips and nods. “It’s good.”
Cobb smiles at him, writing something on his list. They make their way through the cakes slowly, testing icing and the cake’s texture and taste. Arthur takes a bite of mango cake and he can’t help it; he spits it out into a napkin, and Cobb bursts into laughter. Arthur shoots him an unimpressed look, but gets revenge when Cobb bites into the all spice cake and makes the most disgusted face ever. He smirks, but Cobb simply swallows it down and checks it sharply off his list.
In the end, they really like the vanilla, lemon, and raspberry. Arthur presses a hand against his full stomach, glad that he no longer feels like throwing up because of his hangover. Cobb stares at him for a moment after marking down their choices, and Arthur blinks.
“What--” he starts, and Cobb reaches out and rubs his thumb along the left crease of Arthur’s mouth. Arthur stares as Cobb pulls back his thumb with a smidgen of icing on it and sticks it in his mouth, sucking it off. His eyes are dark, despite usually being unnaturally light, and Arthur swallows hard and mumbles, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Cobb replies easily. They call Jeannie in and Arthur makes sure to rub a napkin over his mouth thoroughly while Cobb is talking to her.
“Your wedding is coming along well,” Thomas says, flipping through the pages. Cobb shrugs his shoulders and smiles.
“We’re the best, Luke. That means we keep up appearances.”
Arthur’s mouth flattens out; it’s just one more reminder that he’s been forgetting why they’re really here. To teach Thomas to protect himself and pretend to be engaged. Pretend.
(God, he wishes he’d taken that job with Eames. Eames may be the bastard to end all bastards, but at least he means to annoy Arthur. With Cobb it’s all a game, another day on the job to him. Arthur can’t fucking take this anymore. He’s spent years being able to suppress all of this, four days shouldn’t be able to ruin everything. He needs to get it together.)
“Well you’re doing great. This wedding actually looks pretty amazing. Want to keep the file just in case--” Thomas is looking straight at Arthur, and fuck him and his hinting voice.
“No,” Arthur says shortly. “This is just a cover. You can keep it.”
Thomas looks disappointed. “Alright.”
They hook up to the PASIV for training and end up on a street. Cobb’s the architect, so it’s a simple street with familiar names but different shop fronts, different tea shops and coffee houses. Thomas’ subconscious projections fill up the scenery, walking around and chatting with each other. They seem relatively normal for now, only glancing briefly at the trio walking around.
“We’re going to change things up,” Cobb says. “Let’s see if your projections fight back in military style or just attack us.”
Cobb glances to the left and an entire building is somehow missing all of a sudden. The projections look at it and several mouths purse. Cobb glances up at the sky and the air is filled with balloons everywhere, bright and floating into oblivion but never really leaving the atmosphere. He makes buildings topple over, makes mirrors appear on every surface; the projections start converging on them, fingers clenched and wielding whatever’s closest.
None of them have guns, however (except the police that had been close by) and they aren’t attacking in any sort of patter, just amassing around them.
“Dammit,” Thomas says, sighing. “I don’t--”
“It’s not something that will just happen,” Arthur says, pulling his gun and shooting a warning shot at one’s feet. She makes a sort of hissing noise at him and keeps advancing. “You just need to visualize your mind being something that needs to be protected at all costs. You need to think of yourself as something that needs to be protected. They are you, and they do what you will them to do.”
“Do we kill ourselves?” Thomas asks. “I’d rather not watch you two get ripped apart.”
Cobb checks his watch. “Arthur, can you hold them off for another twenty minutes?”
“I can, but it might get messy.” Arthur fires another shot, this time hitting a man’s kneecap and watching without emotion as he collapses to the ground. The other projections crawl over him and keep coming. “We’ll need to get to higher ground to have a chance.”
“Alright,” Cobb says, grabbing hold of Arthur’s arm and pulling him into a building to their right. It’s a perfect vantage point, with only a small window for Arthur to shoot out of and heavy doors that Cobb blocks with furniture.
“This is a lot of trouble just to not kill ourselves,” Thomas comments, watching Arthur pick off three more projections and wincing.
“Obviously,” Arthur says, nailing a woman between the eyes, “you’ve never been shot.”
“It’s interesting,” Cobb says, grinning a little and handing Arthur a full magazine. He reloads and keeps picking off the projections until their time runs out; waking up is like drawing in a full breath of air after hours in the same room. Thomas blinks a few times, laying back in his chair, but Cobb is already rolling up the coils of wire and closing the PASIV.
“You’ll get it soon, Luke,” Cobb tells him. “We’ve still got three days to work on it. You’re doing well for someone who’s never worked with shared dreaming.”
Thomas adjusts his tie, not looking them in the eye. “I need for this to happen. I have to keep Jordan’s secret. That’s how love works.” Then he glances at Arthur.
Arthur abruptly stands up and grabs the PASIV. “We’d better go.” They both send him strange looks. “We don’t want to spend too long in here with the blinds closed. It’ll look strange.”
Thomas doesn’t say anything, just looks at Arthur sadly as he shows them out of the office. Arthur doesn’t acknowledge him at all.
“I think we should talk to Penny again about the church location,” Cobb mutters, flipping through the binder. “This one is too far away from our house.”
“You mean your house,” Arthur says, not looking up from cleaning his guns. Cobb makes a small sound that Arthur can’t interpret.
“Whatever, I’m just saying, I don’t like it.”
“There was that one with the chapel--”
“--that one with the balcony, yeah, we liked that one--”
“--but you were afraid the colors would clash with our theme--”
Cobb sighs. “We’re men. We can afford a little bit of clash.”
“You know, it kind of doesn’t matter.” Arthur reaches for a clean cloth and inspects the chamber. “This is a fake wedding. The colors can clash and the church can be far away. It’s not actually happening.” His lungs hurt just saying it, but it’s true. Cobb can drop the charade at the hotel.
Cobb makes a noncommittal noise. “You might wanna keep these for yourself, Arthur. It really is a pretty amazing wedding.”
Arthur lowers the gun and looks at Cobb. There’s something almost like an accusation in Cobb’s tone, and he’s nonchalantly flipping through the binder and not looking at Arthur at all. Arthur clenches his fist around his cleaning cloth.
“I’m not getting married any time soon,” Arthur replies tightly. “I don’t want it. This is a job and that’s it.”
The air between them is suddenly charged with energy but Arthur ignores it and goes back to cleaning. He hears Cobb close the binder and set it down. The bed dips and Arthur’s movements get more and more focused.
“Why don’t you have someone, Arthur?” Cobb asks, too close and far too personal; they never do this. They never talk about this.
“What are you talking about, Cobb?” Arthur presses harder at a scratch and doesn’t look up.
“You’re amazing,” Cobb says flatly. “You’re smart, and charming when you want to be, and gorgeous.” Arthur flushes. Cobb is far too fucking close. “I don’t understand why you aren’t married, or at least dating.”
“It’s not a priority,” Arthur says, setting his gun down again. He still doesn’t look up. “My life is the job right now.”
“But you don’t even like the job,” Cobb argues. “You said so yourself, without me there it’s not the same at all.” His voice is lilting, like he’s trying to make a point. Arthur can’t and doesn’t want to find it.
“Life can go on without you, Cobb,” Arthur says, swinging his head to look apathetically at Cobb. “It’s possible. I don’t need someone by my side all the time.”
Cobb looks frustrated. “I just don’t--”
“Look, I’m going to take a shower now,” Arthur interrupts. “Just in case you’ve lost all sense of subtlety, that means I’m done talking about this.”
Cobb’s mouth tightens but he leans back and lets Arthur walk to the bathroom without saying anything else. When Arthur comes out later, toweling off his hair, Cobb is reading the binder again, making notes. Neither of them speaks again until midnight when they finally turn off the lights.
part two.