(no subject)
For the prompt: Arthur has never fulfilled his ~childhood dream~ of being a fashion designer.
Now with fail!ending.
After the Inception Job, as they all referred to it as, everyone seemed to have plans. Cobb was eager to relearn how to be a good father to his kids, Yusuf had been newly struck with chemical inspiration, Saito had a monopoly to start building, Ariadne had a degree to finish, and Eames… Well, Eames had an Arthur to stalk.
Not that Eames made it a habit of stalking Arthur, of course. He simply enjoyed spending time with the other man, and if Arthur wasn’t going to make that easy by telling Eames what he was planning on doing with his new mini-fortune, then desperate times called for desperate measures. He carefully tailed the man through the airport. There was a brief, worrying moment where Eames thought he had lost the other man-and another when Arthur had randomly appeared behind him and Eames had seen his life flashing before his eyes-but eventually, Eames saw Arthur entering a limo and flagged a cab down for himself.
He wasn’t sure what to think about Arthur arriving at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. Eames knew from careful observation and years of acquaintance that Arthur had a passionate, long term love affair with his suits. However, this also meant he knew all of the places Arthur went to buy his suits, and a Los Angeles fashion institute was just not upscale enough for the point man he knew. Stalling for time while Arthur entered the building, Eames fumbled with the cash he paid the driver before eventually making his way in. However, before he could make it very far, he found himself confronted with a small, but very determined looking, intern with wide eyes and a perky ponytail.
“Name please?” she asked, bubbly and innocent. Eames smiled charmingly, wary of the girl’s upbeat personality. There were two ways this could go. One, she could fall hard and immediate for his accent and broad shoulders and rumpled attire, or two, she could alert the guards and then proceed to kick him out of here herself. After meeting Arthur, Eames had become increasingly wary of the thin, wiry ones.
“I’m looking for a friend,” was the approach he settled on. “His name is Arthur-he left some of his luggage with me,” he explained further, holding up his own bag convincingly.
“Well, you’re in luck! He just checked in!” the girl replied, and Eames could feel the relief washing over him. “You’ll have to wait here for me to get him. Show’s policy,” she explained with another bright smile before bouncing off.
“Show?” Eames mouthed, puzzled. Arthur had a warrant after him under a few aliases in a few countries, a common affliction in their line of work, and Eames couldn’t imagine the man putting himself and his work at risk by going on TV. Maybe, he thought, he had accidentally trailed a different well-dressed, gorgeous, dark-haired man named Arthur.
No, Eames thought, there was no one else who could duplicate that expression of utter fury mixed with a slight taste of exasperation and resignation. “Mr. Eames,” Arthur greeted, eyes falling briefly on the suitcase Eames was holding. “What do you want?”
“Arthur, what is this? Here I am, expecting us to catch a nice few months off in the City of Angels-or elsewhere, I’m not picky-and you’re… you’re on a programme?” Eames asked, reaching for his totem in his pocket just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. Goodbye, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replied immediately, turning sharply on his heel, but Eames reached out to grab his wrist before he got very far. Not the brightest idea, he reflected later, as he knew Arthur could very well break him apart with less contact.
“Come on, Arthur. I promise I won’t tell anyone else. I just want to make sure you’re not getting into any trouble,” he whispered into the other man’s ear. He knew he had won something when the tight lines of Arthur’s shoulders relaxed and he turned back around to face him.
“I’m not in any trouble. No one will be looking for me-Saito made sure of that,” Arthur explained succinctly as always, and Eames nodded along.
“Very nice. Now, for the second question-why are you here?” Eames asked.
He watched as Arthur’s face went through the broadest range of emotions Eames had ever seen on the other man. From stern and strong to unsure and insecure, Arthur finally settled on furrowed eyebrows and a thoughtful tilt to his lips, and he stood in almost-parade rest which reminded Eames of the other’s military background. That was his safe position, he thought, and knew that whatever was coming had to be huge.
“What is it, darling? You know you can trust me. Despite being constantly and consistently insufferable, I am above and beyond all else, your servant,” Eames coaxed, swapping his usual overblown charm for quiet sincerity. It must have worked, because Arthur spilled.
“I’m going on Project Runway,” the man exclaimed in a burst of breath.
“… Pardon?” Eames asked, because he was sure he couldn’t have heard that right.
Some flashback music was really called for, he thought, as Arthur began to explain. “Look, I’ve always been good at what I do now. Guns, research, anything dealing with the law… That was good, because when I was young, I had all the skills I needed to get out of the slums most orphans land in. But… but that wasn’t really what I wanted.”
“Darling, are you telling me that your fitted three piece suits and color coordination aren’t just part of your obsessive compulsive nature?” Eames inquired, feeling faint with giddiness. He had always known that there was something different about Arthur, something that separated him from all of the other anal retentive point men he had met, but he had never imagined this.
“Don’t patronize me,” the man scowled, crossing his arms over his beautifully sculpted chest. However, he had clearly relaxed, annoyance with Eames being as natural and comforting as a grey linen suit.
“I’m not, dear, promise.” Carefully reaching out for the other, Eames clasped Arthur by his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. “I’m glad you’re finally going to live your dream of being a fashion designer, and regardless of the jokes that I will not be able to refrain from making, I am rooting for you. I’ll stick around until you’re done, so drop me a call every so often and let me know how you’re doing.” The cautious, happy twitch of Arthur’s lips was encouraging, so Eames pushed his luck and kissed the other man on both cheeks before sending him back to the competition.
So Eames proceeded to find a hotel nearby and happily booked the room for the estimated length of the competition. He had confidence that Arthur would sweep through the contest. After all, they had just performed inception on a troubled, militarized mind: Eames doubted there was much left Arthur couldn’t do. He was proven right by every call Arthur made, which were frequent, constant, and punctual. Their conversations, while short, were increasingly enlightening. Arthur was opening up, Eames realized with a jolt after a particularly satisfying talk during which he could actually hear Arthur’s pride in his performance.
Overall, things seemed to be going well.
Then, the phone call came. Arthur sounded oddly frightened, which was all it took to make Eames nervous, but when the limo pulled up to take him to the Fashion Institute, he found himself regaining his calm. It wasn’t like he lacked modeling experience-that had been one of the few legitimate jobs he had actually enjoyed for a while, until it got too boring. Besides, he couldn’t imagine how modeling for Arthur would be anything less than a joy. So, he threw on a wifebeater and jeans that mostly fit and got into the limo.
The room was already packed by the time he got there. Happy friends and relatives mixed with the designers, who frantically measured and worked while catching up with their visitors, and a few coaches already talking to the inexperienced models. Arthur stood to the side, already cutting into some rolls of fabric. Eames had no doubt that Arthur already knew his approximate measurements. They would just need to do a fitting, Arthur could do the appropriate tailoring, and they would be set.
However, he should have known that nothing would ever be that easy on American television. “Mr. Eames,” Arthur greeted him with a nod of his head. He didn’t say anything, but Eames could read the thanks in his eyes.
“Arthur,” he returned, looking over the various fabrics. “Are you going to show me your good work?”
The silence surprised him, and Eames looked up to notice that Arthur was staring at him. “You don’t usually dress like that.”
“Yes, well. Wifebeaters don’t exactly scream professional, do they?”
“And ugly, ill-fitting dress shirts do?” Arthur returned dryly, although Eames noted with some glee that his eyes were still roving over every inch of inked skin that was showing.
“Well, I apologize for offending your delicate sartorial senses.” Eames apologized with an overemphasized pout that Arthur actually laughed off. He couldn’t keep the responding grin off his face, which only grew wider when Arthur realized that they might as well take exact measurements instead of working off of his estimations.
Eventually, after Eames felt he had fully managed to harass Arthur and flirt with a few of the designers and guests who were openly leering at him, a man named Tim came in to usher the visitors out. Eames blew Arthur a kiss as he left, relishing the familiar roll of the eyes he received in return. They were led to the infamous runway from the show, where several people were prepared to instruct them on the basics of walking down the runway. While everyone took their turn, demonstrating what they already knew before being split into groups according to skill, Eames noticed a particularly beautiful young woman staring at him. She was one of the guests who would be modeling with him, and upon making eye contact, she left her spot in line to fall in behind him.
“So, why are you here?” she asked, warm with a hint of flirtatiousness. Eames gave her a small grin in return.
“The same reason you are, I would expect.”
“Oh? So, that gorgeous man in the three piece suit is your boyfriend?” she asked, batting her eyelashes innocently.
“I only wish,” Eames purred in reply, winning a laugh out of her. “So, you’re taken?”
“Happily so. Did you see the beautiful woman with the penchant for scarves?” Eames had, actually. The short brunette with the teal scarf and gold flats had reminded him oddly of Ariadne, if Ariadne had worn thick, hipster glasses, been more adventurous with her hair gel, and had five more piercings. “I like this challenge. She’s never been so happy to have a model for a girlfriend before.”
“Oh, so you’re the one to beat, then?” Eames teased, but before she could give her answer, it was Eames’ turn down the catwalk.
They exchanged names after being sorted into the same group-the group that was allowed to go home right away, with everyone else grumbling about previous modeling experience behind them-and Eames bid Amanda goodbye until tomorrow.
Despite the comforting slowness of the previous day, the next morning was full of frantic activity. Eames arrived in another wifebeater and jeans ensemble to see Arthur with a familiar expression on his face. Stoic, perfectly calm, with his lips firmly pressed together, Arthur looked exactly like he always did before they jumped into a dangerous job. Eames had seen that countenance coupled with chained explosions, bazookas, and (on one really memorable occasion) katanas. He had never imagined it paired with haute couture. So, when Arthur barked at him to “Strip. Now,” Eames didn’t even think about how that would sound like in bed.
Or, he did, but at least he didn’t attempt the strip tease that had popped into his head.
After the fitting, they were quickly rushed to hair and makeup. Arthur carefully chose accessories while simultaneously dictating to the hairdresser every last detail of Eames’ look. Forever the Point Man, Arthur made sure every little detail was perfect before he was summoned out to the runway. Then, he left, running his hands over his design one last time before looking up into Eames’ eyes.
“I’ll do you proud, darling. Promise,” he whispered.
“I know,” Arthur replied, nodding his head sternly. His expression had finally relaxed out of panic mode, although his back was still ramrod straight.
Eames lined up behind Amanda, and when his turn was up, walked out with the devil-may-care ease Arthur had told him to play up. “Be you, but less infuriating,” he had said. Eames reached the end of the walk before shrugging off his charcoal grey jacket (complete with stylish epaulets, the military brat) and flinging it over his shoulder. Arthur had made a last minute adjustment to his design, and the waistcoat and dress shirt he wore underneath was perfectly tailored to show off hints of Eames’ tattoos.
In general, the outfit was perfect, and when the judges later asked Eames if Arthur had managed to capture him correctly, all he needed to do was tip the crooked fedora (complete with a poker chip tucked into its band) and purr out his yes in order to win laughs and smiles out of everyone in the room.
It was almost not a surprise that Arthur won the challenge, but Eames basked in the glory of his proud smile anyway, accepting the congratulations Amanda threw his way before watching her walk off to enjoy the free night with her girlfriend. “Lovely, aren’t they?” he asked Arthur, throwing an arm carelessly around the other’s shoulders.
“Do you really want to talk about hot lesbians during our night together?” Arthur asked him, reaching up to readjust Eames’ fedora.
“Our night together?” Eames echoed, the hope making his voice waver and his knees weak. “We’re going to have a night together?”
“Shut up, Mr. Eames, and lead me to your bed before the uplifting effects of couture wear off.”
--
A year later, during the three day extravaganza that was the team’s reunion, everyone gathered at Cobb’s house to catch up and celebrate. Ariadne had graduated with honors and been instantly snatched up by Saito. Yusuf had refrained from bringing any chemicals on threat of death from Cobb, but Phillipa and James loved the cat he had flown in with him. Saito funded the whole celebration, bringing in catering, a big screen TV, and various extravagant presents for all in attendance (although Cobb did decline Saito’s offering to pay for Phillipa’s future dowry). Eames and Arthur had flown in from Paris Fashion Week a very important season of Project Runway on DVD.
“I can’t believe you did this without telling us, Arthur,” Ariadne complained good-naturedly, throwing a popcorn kernel at the ex-point man.
“What I can’t believe is that you went on a TV show to do this. You couldn’t just take the small fortune Saito gave you to start up your own line?” Cobb asked, one eye on the TV where Arthur’s Audrey Hepburn-inspired design was making its way down the runway and the other on Phillipa, who seemed to be in love with it.
“Oh, you know Arthur, Cobb. If there’s no competition to crush, then what’s the use?” Eames joked, a proprietary arm around Arthur’s waist until the dark haired man replied by twisting his hand off.
“It was more about advertising,” Arthur corrected, smirking at the pained expression on Eames’ face.
“Well, congratulations on winning anyway,” Saito offered, handing Arthur a small glass of sake before offering a toast. “Now, what does a man need to do to get a good suit?”
“You are not buying my clothing line, Saito,” Arthur told him point blank, “but you can bribe me with more sake.”
Now with fail!ending.
After the Inception Job, as they all referred to it as, everyone seemed to have plans. Cobb was eager to relearn how to be a good father to his kids, Yusuf had been newly struck with chemical inspiration, Saito had a monopoly to start building, Ariadne had a degree to finish, and Eames… Well, Eames had an Arthur to stalk.
Not that Eames made it a habit of stalking Arthur, of course. He simply enjoyed spending time with the other man, and if Arthur wasn’t going to make that easy by telling Eames what he was planning on doing with his new mini-fortune, then desperate times called for desperate measures. He carefully tailed the man through the airport. There was a brief, worrying moment where Eames thought he had lost the other man-and another when Arthur had randomly appeared behind him and Eames had seen his life flashing before his eyes-but eventually, Eames saw Arthur entering a limo and flagged a cab down for himself.
He wasn’t sure what to think about Arthur arriving at the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. Eames knew from careful observation and years of acquaintance that Arthur had a passionate, long term love affair with his suits. However, this also meant he knew all of the places Arthur went to buy his suits, and a Los Angeles fashion institute was just not upscale enough for the point man he knew. Stalling for time while Arthur entered the building, Eames fumbled with the cash he paid the driver before eventually making his way in. However, before he could make it very far, he found himself confronted with a small, but very determined looking, intern with wide eyes and a perky ponytail.
“Name please?” she asked, bubbly and innocent. Eames smiled charmingly, wary of the girl’s upbeat personality. There were two ways this could go. One, she could fall hard and immediate for his accent and broad shoulders and rumpled attire, or two, she could alert the guards and then proceed to kick him out of here herself. After meeting Arthur, Eames had become increasingly wary of the thin, wiry ones.
“I’m looking for a friend,” was the approach he settled on. “His name is Arthur-he left some of his luggage with me,” he explained further, holding up his own bag convincingly.
“Well, you’re in luck! He just checked in!” the girl replied, and Eames could feel the relief washing over him. “You’ll have to wait here for me to get him. Show’s policy,” she explained with another bright smile before bouncing off.
“Show?” Eames mouthed, puzzled. Arthur had a warrant after him under a few aliases in a few countries, a common affliction in their line of work, and Eames couldn’t imagine the man putting himself and his work at risk by going on TV. Maybe, he thought, he had accidentally trailed a different well-dressed, gorgeous, dark-haired man named Arthur.
No, Eames thought, there was no one else who could duplicate that expression of utter fury mixed with a slight taste of exasperation and resignation. “Mr. Eames,” Arthur greeted, eyes falling briefly on the suitcase Eames was holding. “What do you want?”
“Arthur, what is this? Here I am, expecting us to catch a nice few months off in the City of Angels-or elsewhere, I’m not picky-and you’re… you’re on a programme?” Eames asked, reaching for his totem in his pocket just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. Goodbye, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replied immediately, turning sharply on his heel, but Eames reached out to grab his wrist before he got very far. Not the brightest idea, he reflected later, as he knew Arthur could very well break him apart with less contact.
“Come on, Arthur. I promise I won’t tell anyone else. I just want to make sure you’re not getting into any trouble,” he whispered into the other man’s ear. He knew he had won something when the tight lines of Arthur’s shoulders relaxed and he turned back around to face him.
“I’m not in any trouble. No one will be looking for me-Saito made sure of that,” Arthur explained succinctly as always, and Eames nodded along.
“Very nice. Now, for the second question-why are you here?” Eames asked.
He watched as Arthur’s face went through the broadest range of emotions Eames had ever seen on the other man. From stern and strong to unsure and insecure, Arthur finally settled on furrowed eyebrows and a thoughtful tilt to his lips, and he stood in almost-parade rest which reminded Eames of the other’s military background. That was his safe position, he thought, and knew that whatever was coming had to be huge.
“What is it, darling? You know you can trust me. Despite being constantly and consistently insufferable, I am above and beyond all else, your servant,” Eames coaxed, swapping his usual overblown charm for quiet sincerity. It must have worked, because Arthur spilled.
“I’m going on Project Runway,” the man exclaimed in a burst of breath.
“… Pardon?” Eames asked, because he was sure he couldn’t have heard that right.
Some flashback music was really called for, he thought, as Arthur began to explain. “Look, I’ve always been good at what I do now. Guns, research, anything dealing with the law… That was good, because when I was young, I had all the skills I needed to get out of the slums most orphans land in. But… but that wasn’t really what I wanted.”
“Darling, are you telling me that your fitted three piece suits and color coordination aren’t just part of your obsessive compulsive nature?” Eames inquired, feeling faint with giddiness. He had always known that there was something different about Arthur, something that separated him from all of the other anal retentive point men he had met, but he had never imagined this.
“Don’t patronize me,” the man scowled, crossing his arms over his beautifully sculpted chest. However, he had clearly relaxed, annoyance with Eames being as natural and comforting as a grey linen suit.
“I’m not, dear, promise.” Carefully reaching out for the other, Eames clasped Arthur by his shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. “I’m glad you’re finally going to live your dream of being a fashion designer, and regardless of the jokes that I will not be able to refrain from making, I am rooting for you. I’ll stick around until you’re done, so drop me a call every so often and let me know how you’re doing.” The cautious, happy twitch of Arthur’s lips was encouraging, so Eames pushed his luck and kissed the other man on both cheeks before sending him back to the competition.
So Eames proceeded to find a hotel nearby and happily booked the room for the estimated length of the competition. He had confidence that Arthur would sweep through the contest. After all, they had just performed inception on a troubled, militarized mind: Eames doubted there was much left Arthur couldn’t do. He was proven right by every call Arthur made, which were frequent, constant, and punctual. Their conversations, while short, were increasingly enlightening. Arthur was opening up, Eames realized with a jolt after a particularly satisfying talk during which he could actually hear Arthur’s pride in his performance.
Overall, things seemed to be going well.
Then, the phone call came. Arthur sounded oddly frightened, which was all it took to make Eames nervous, but when the limo pulled up to take him to the Fashion Institute, he found himself regaining his calm. It wasn’t like he lacked modeling experience-that had been one of the few legitimate jobs he had actually enjoyed for a while, until it got too boring. Besides, he couldn’t imagine how modeling for Arthur would be anything less than a joy. So, he threw on a wifebeater and jeans that mostly fit and got into the limo.
The room was already packed by the time he got there. Happy friends and relatives mixed with the designers, who frantically measured and worked while catching up with their visitors, and a few coaches already talking to the inexperienced models. Arthur stood to the side, already cutting into some rolls of fabric. Eames had no doubt that Arthur already knew his approximate measurements. They would just need to do a fitting, Arthur could do the appropriate tailoring, and they would be set.
However, he should have known that nothing would ever be that easy on American television. “Mr. Eames,” Arthur greeted him with a nod of his head. He didn’t say anything, but Eames could read the thanks in his eyes.
“Arthur,” he returned, looking over the various fabrics. “Are you going to show me your good work?”
The silence surprised him, and Eames looked up to notice that Arthur was staring at him. “You don’t usually dress like that.”
“Yes, well. Wifebeaters don’t exactly scream professional, do they?”
“And ugly, ill-fitting dress shirts do?” Arthur returned dryly, although Eames noted with some glee that his eyes were still roving over every inch of inked skin that was showing.
“Well, I apologize for offending your delicate sartorial senses.” Eames apologized with an overemphasized pout that Arthur actually laughed off. He couldn’t keep the responding grin off his face, which only grew wider when Arthur realized that they might as well take exact measurements instead of working off of his estimations.
Eventually, after Eames felt he had fully managed to harass Arthur and flirt with a few of the designers and guests who were openly leering at him, a man named Tim came in to usher the visitors out. Eames blew Arthur a kiss as he left, relishing the familiar roll of the eyes he received in return. They were led to the infamous runway from the show, where several people were prepared to instruct them on the basics of walking down the runway. While everyone took their turn, demonstrating what they already knew before being split into groups according to skill, Eames noticed a particularly beautiful young woman staring at him. She was one of the guests who would be modeling with him, and upon making eye contact, she left her spot in line to fall in behind him.
“So, why are you here?” she asked, warm with a hint of flirtatiousness. Eames gave her a small grin in return.
“The same reason you are, I would expect.”
“Oh? So, that gorgeous man in the three piece suit is your boyfriend?” she asked, batting her eyelashes innocently.
“I only wish,” Eames purred in reply, winning a laugh out of her. “So, you’re taken?”
“Happily so. Did you see the beautiful woman with the penchant for scarves?” Eames had, actually. The short brunette with the teal scarf and gold flats had reminded him oddly of Ariadne, if Ariadne had worn thick, hipster glasses, been more adventurous with her hair gel, and had five more piercings. “I like this challenge. She’s never been so happy to have a model for a girlfriend before.”
“Oh, so you’re the one to beat, then?” Eames teased, but before she could give her answer, it was Eames’ turn down the catwalk.
They exchanged names after being sorted into the same group-the group that was allowed to go home right away, with everyone else grumbling about previous modeling experience behind them-and Eames bid Amanda goodbye until tomorrow.
Despite the comforting slowness of the previous day, the next morning was full of frantic activity. Eames arrived in another wifebeater and jeans ensemble to see Arthur with a familiar expression on his face. Stoic, perfectly calm, with his lips firmly pressed together, Arthur looked exactly like he always did before they jumped into a dangerous job. Eames had seen that countenance coupled with chained explosions, bazookas, and (on one really memorable occasion) katanas. He had never imagined it paired with haute couture. So, when Arthur barked at him to “Strip. Now,” Eames didn’t even think about how that would sound like in bed.
Or, he did, but at least he didn’t attempt the strip tease that had popped into his head.
After the fitting, they were quickly rushed to hair and makeup. Arthur carefully chose accessories while simultaneously dictating to the hairdresser every last detail of Eames’ look. Forever the Point Man, Arthur made sure every little detail was perfect before he was summoned out to the runway. Then, he left, running his hands over his design one last time before looking up into Eames’ eyes.
“I’ll do you proud, darling. Promise,” he whispered.
“I know,” Arthur replied, nodding his head sternly. His expression had finally relaxed out of panic mode, although his back was still ramrod straight.
Eames lined up behind Amanda, and when his turn was up, walked out with the devil-may-care ease Arthur had told him to play up. “Be you, but less infuriating,” he had said. Eames reached the end of the walk before shrugging off his charcoal grey jacket (complete with stylish epaulets, the military brat) and flinging it over his shoulder. Arthur had made a last minute adjustment to his design, and the waistcoat and dress shirt he wore underneath was perfectly tailored to show off hints of Eames’ tattoos.
In general, the outfit was perfect, and when the judges later asked Eames if Arthur had managed to capture him correctly, all he needed to do was tip the crooked fedora (complete with a poker chip tucked into its band) and purr out his yes in order to win laughs and smiles out of everyone in the room.
It was almost not a surprise that Arthur won the challenge, but Eames basked in the glory of his proud smile anyway, accepting the congratulations Amanda threw his way before watching her walk off to enjoy the free night with her girlfriend. “Lovely, aren’t they?” he asked Arthur, throwing an arm carelessly around the other’s shoulders.
“Do you really want to talk about hot lesbians during our night together?” Arthur asked him, reaching up to readjust Eames’ fedora.
“Our night together?” Eames echoed, the hope making his voice waver and his knees weak. “We’re going to have a night together?”
“Shut up, Mr. Eames, and lead me to your bed before the uplifting effects of couture wear off.”
--
A year later, during the three day extravaganza that was the team’s reunion, everyone gathered at Cobb’s house to catch up and celebrate. Ariadne had graduated with honors and been instantly snatched up by Saito. Yusuf had refrained from bringing any chemicals on threat of death from Cobb, but Phillipa and James loved the cat he had flown in with him. Saito funded the whole celebration, bringing in catering, a big screen TV, and various extravagant presents for all in attendance (although Cobb did decline Saito’s offering to pay for Phillipa’s future dowry). Eames and Arthur had flown in from Paris Fashion Week a very important season of Project Runway on DVD.
“I can’t believe you did this without telling us, Arthur,” Ariadne complained good-naturedly, throwing a popcorn kernel at the ex-point man.
“What I can’t believe is that you went on a TV show to do this. You couldn’t just take the small fortune Saito gave you to start up your own line?” Cobb asked, one eye on the TV where Arthur’s Audrey Hepburn-inspired design was making its way down the runway and the other on Phillipa, who seemed to be in love with it.
“Oh, you know Arthur, Cobb. If there’s no competition to crush, then what’s the use?” Eames joked, a proprietary arm around Arthur’s waist until the dark haired man replied by twisting his hand off.
“It was more about advertising,” Arthur corrected, smirking at the pained expression on Eames’ face.
“Well, congratulations on winning anyway,” Saito offered, handing Arthur a small glass of sake before offering a toast. “Now, what does a man need to do to get a good suit?”
“You are not buying my clothing line, Saito,” Arthur told him point blank, “but you can bribe me with more sake.”