relevant userpic is relevant
+
When they actually got around to watching the movie, Cobb had excused himself, saying that he’d actually seen it about fifty times. Eames (who had just flown in from Bangkok with a bruise under his jaw that was extremely distracting, not that Arthur noticed) had insisted on popcorn and was sprawled indolently across the couch, getting butter stains all over the upholstery and his pants. Arthur stares blankly at his computer, which is currently propped on several books and the PASIV device on his desk, where Aurora/Briar-Rose (Disney was a fucking hippie, not even taking into account the talking chipmunks or whatever) was cavorting barefoot in a forest. He doesn’t really have to watch the movie, his main concern is actual information about the mark, but habits are hard to break and he finds himself imagining the kind of escape routes one could construct in an animated forest.
+
The dream concept isn’t that difficult (it needs to be simple, nine for Christ’s sake). Arthur had a rough sketch of it before he hired the team.
“I’m assuming you already read the background information I sent.” Cobb is nodding but Eames is grinning in a way that suggests he doesn’t even check his email. “But to review, the mark is Samantha Ladrone, age nine. Her mother was recently murdered, leaving a significant inheritance to her older brother. The client declined to give his name but he’s William Danford, her grandfather.”
“The William Danford? The most infamous gunrunner of the last century?” Eames has both eyebrows raised and a toothpick dangling from his lips.
“Yes, of course. He believes that Samantha witnessed her mother’s murder but has suppressed the memory. He suspects Samantha’s brother Rufus but the will makes pressing charges a bit risky. Samantha is staying with Mr. Danford for her own safety. On Saturday we’ll meet Mr. Danford at his home where Samantha will already be sedated.” Eames still looks skeptical and Cobb is inscrutable, as usual.
“So, Granddaddy Danford thinks the brother will go after Samantha. What have we got on him, the brother?”
“He’s 25, Ms. Ladrone divorced his father 17 years ago, no long term relationships, ever, or pets. Was estranged from his mother at the time of her death. Doesn’t exercise much but swims occasionally. What do you want to know?”
“Why can’t we extract from him? It seems a lot simpler than mucking about in a child’s mind, looking for something that might not even be there.”
“There’s a strong chance that he’s aware of dream technology, he has a degree in psychology from Cornell and on top of that, he’s in contact with several people from his grandfather’s circle who might have informed him. We have no way of knowing, until we go under, if he’s prepared for an attack. He’s also extremely paranoid, even without militarization I’d rather not try unless we run out of options.”
“So I’m forging a fairy for a nine year-old then.”
“We need somebody she can trust. Nine is a bit young to attempt a seduction, even for you, Eames.”
“Arthur, you wound me,” Eames says, pouting extravagantly. Arthur refrains from rolling his eyes.
“Cobb, what have you been working on?” Cobb stares blankly at Arthur’s forehead for several seconds before snapping his head to look at Eames, then back at Arthur again.
“The layout will be based on Sleeping Beauty, obviously. We’ll start in the forest; Eames will be with the mark. The goal is to introduce the idea of the spinning wheel in the tower. In our version there won’t be a spinning wheel. If it works, Samantha will put her memory of the murder there. I doubt she needs to be in the tower at all, she just needs to see it and understand what it is. That’ll your job, Eames. The dream is a spherical layout without any feeling of curvature. We need to be able to get to the castle from any direction and there are shortcuts in some of the trees.”
“What happens if she doesn’t put the memory in the right place, or if there wasn’t a murder?” The uncertainty is Arthur’s least favourite part of his job. Everything would be much easier if people could keep their subconscious minds well-organized and tidy. Cobb opens his mouth but it’s Eames that speaks.
“Within the parameters of the dream, that tower is the obvious place for something dangerous. Even if there was a safe in the dream, I doubt she’d put the memory there, it’s suppressed, not protected. It can hurt her, like the spinning wheel. It’s an elegant metaphor, well done Mr. Cobb.”
Cobb nods in thanks and squints.
“So we’ll do a run-through on Friday,” Arthur says, snaps his notebook closed, and decides to go get coffee. But before he can even pull on his jacket, Eames is clearing his throat
“It’s a lovely plan Arthur, very clever. Only, I wonder how stable the mind of a traumatized child really is. Who knows what she’s suppressing down there?”
“It is a risk Mr. Eames.” Arthur turns to face Eames and does up his buttons. “However, she will be heavily sedated and there’s no chance she’s militarized or has any knowledge of dreamsharing to make her suspicious.” Cobb wanders off towards one of the desks, fiddling with his cuffs and muttering. Arthur ignores him.
“But even an ordinary nightmare would be very dangerous for us. If we trigger some repressed memory we could all die very painfully and lose any chance of finishing the job.”
“Mr. Eames, if you do your job right, there won’t be any unnecessary risks. And stop trying to do my job.” Arthur glares at Eames as he shoves past his chair, towards the elevators.
“It’s only because I care, darling!” Arthur only barely resists the urge to flip him the bird over his shoulder and presses the elevator button viciously instead.
+
Arthur is pleased with the layout Dom made, fairly simple with some mazes and shortcuts thrown in. The castle is a bit frillier than he would like, all pink stone and wisteria, but there’s nothing really problematic. He’s walking through the castle courtyard, at the base of the spinning wheel tower (he’s started calling it the tower of doom in his head, but nobody needs to know that). Eames has taken to following him around the dream, probably to drive him crazy.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes,” Eames sings out in a surprisingly resonant baritone.
“That’s not even the right movie, asshole,” Arthur snaps, rolling his eyes. He looks up at the tower. It seems a bit short, he’ll have a word with Dom. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the delighted expression on Eames’ face and winces.
“I never would have guessed that you had a childhood, darling. I just assumed you sprang out of the ground, fully formed.”
“I can shoot this thing, you know.” He shakes the extremely anachronistic military-grade anti-sniper crossbow he made for himself.
“I never doubted you for a second, Arthur dearest.” Eames’s smirk should not be as endearing as it is so Arthur stomps off into the forest to do recon or something and of course only ends up back at the castle where Eames is still smirking.
+
Cobb seems distracted and spends a lot of time on the phone with his kids, with Mal. Arthur can hear her sharp voice from the other side of the room, something about their anniversary, Cobb’s face pinching at she gets louder. He keeps saying he won’t take these jobs anymore but he can’t stay away, leaving Mal at home with the kids. Arthur can’t stand the sad, suspicious looks Mal gives him these days (like he’s already died, it makes his skin crawl) so he’s stopped visiting. He’s worried, but the blueprints and drawings are already finished, so he leaves Cobb alone.
+
The job starts so well. Even Arthur finds the forest very peaceful, and he can hear the mark singing enthusiastically but off-key in the little cottage. All Arthur has to do is lay low and run interference if any projections get out of line. But not even ten minutes in it all goes to shit. The sky goes ominously grey and Cobb disappears. Which would have been manageable, Arthur could still get to the tower and retrieve the information, but Samantha’s subconscious has decided to take the shape of giant, purple dragon that tries to eat or immolate anybody within a hundred yards of the castle. Eames has left Samantha in some glade with her animal projections, and the last thing Arthur wants to do is leave the mark by herself but what the fuck else can he do. He and Eames are trying to figure out what went wrong and also where Dom has run off to. And then Eames inexplicably asks,
“Arthur, can you sing?”
“What? Eames, stop fucking around.” He’s trying to figure out a way to contact Cobb that won’t destabilize the dream even further. Cell phones are obviously out. Messenger pigeons?
“No, Arthur. Can you sing? You need to distract Samantha and get her as far away from the castle as possible. She definitely put something nasty in the tower; otherwise her subconscious wouldn’t be guarding it so fiercely. If she can’t see the tower anymore, perhaps her subconscious will relax enough to let us in.” Arthur sees where this is going. And it’s a brilliant plan, of course it is, Eames doesn’t have stupid ideas, not when it counts.
“Can you deal with the dragon on your own? And where’s Cobb?” Eames sighs at that.
“If I’m right, Cobb is the sleeping beauty in this scenario. Samantha’s subconscious seems to have kidnapped him. I know, it doesn’t really make any sense but, ” Eames pauses and Arthur realizes that Eames isn’t going to say I told you so. Eames continues, a bit awkwardly, “Hopefully my Mal is convincing enough to wake him.”
“What about the dragon.” If Arthur’s ears are burning at Eames being proven right, he’s not going to mention it.
“Why, love, a dragon is nothing compared to your charming self.” Eames grins and Arthur rolls his eyes. “You’ll have to wear something a little more...regal, though, sweet pea, if you want to be a convincing prince.” Arthur looks down and he’s suddenly wearing a long red cape and tall, shiny boots.
“Arthur,” Eames said, looking at him adoringly, “you are Maleficent.” Arthur glowers.
“Fuck off. Go kill a dragon or something. And don’t die.” Eames only grins fiendishly before jogging off towards the castle. Arthur doesn’t stare at his ass, he doesn’t.
+
The singing is actually fairly painless (somewhere along the line he seems to have memorized all the words to that idiotic song). When enough time has passed and Samantha is adequately distracted in a meadow that’s actually a maze, he slips into one of the trees that are actually a shortcut to the tower.
And then there’s nothing else to do but run up the steps (should have put in an elevator, too many steps, Jesus). This takes much longer than it should have because Cobb had put windows in the tower and Arthur thought nothing of it at the time. But now, when he really doesn’t have any time to waste, he can see Eames on his knees, firing a rocket launcher up at the dragon. He can somehow make out the gleam of sweat on Eames’ forehead, the concentration in his furrowed brow, and he can’t breathe for a second. The rocket explodes into the dragon’s shoulder and it snaps Arthur out of his trance. He swears at himself and makes himself run that much faster up the stairs.
The door at the top of the stairs isn’t locked and it swings open silently. He looks around the room, an exact replica of Samantha’s living room, recreated in the tower. He expected it of course, the dead woman on the floor, blood pooling from a hundred cuts and the wet shine of viscera. A man stands in the window, idling twirling a knife. Arthur shoots him in the back, just one shot and he crumples, and walks over to look at his face. It’s the mark’s brother, Rufus, Mr. Danford was right. The knife is antique, a gift to Rufus from his mother, he is rarely without it. Arthur prides himself on his detachment but the petty treachery burns like bitter poison in his stomach. Arthur spits on his face and leaves.
+
After they’ve left the client’s house (the look on Danford’s face boded ill for Rufus and Arthur was viciously pleased) and confirmed the payment, Arthur goes back to the office building to clear it out. It’s better to do it right away, finish the job completely, because he intends to be extremely hung-over tomorrow morning. Packing up with a hangover is a bitch and Cobb never helps. Arthur boxes the computers and notebooks and the whiteboard Cobb drags all over the place and wipes everything down. Now, with only a couple bulbs flickering over the empty office it’s even more miserable and depressing than it was when they’d first arrived. He hauls the boxes down to the lobby and finds Eames there, whistling and twirling the keys to his rental car.
“I thought maybe you’d want a drink, love.” And Arthur had been planning to go alone, find some half-way decent bar and drink himself into a stupor on overpriced alcohol but fuck it.
“Yeah, okay, where’s your car?” If Eames is surprised he hides it well. He takes one of the boxes and carries it (so effortlessly that Arthur kind of hates him, more than usual) to where his car is parked illegally in front of the building. He looks at Arthur when he starts the car.
“I know just the place, trust me.”
“Whatever,” Arthur says, like the words ‘trust me’ in Eames’ voice don’t do anything to him at all.
+
“I know what we do is wrong, morally, but fuck. Eames, his own mother. Just cut, all over, and bleeding. And Samantha. Nobody should see that.” Arthur rubs his face and leaves his hand over his eyes. Sometimes he really fucking hates his job, hates the secrets he steals so much he can’t stand it. Eames seems to have a special gift for telepathy because all he does is look at the bartender and Arthur suddenly has another whiskey sour in front of him. This deserves a glare, Arthur’s sure of it, but he’s tipsy already and he can’t be bothered. He takes a long swallow instead and slouches further into the booth, trying not to remember why he never drinks with Eames.
+
Many drinks later (if Arthur was counting he’s long since forgotten how) and they’re still in the same bar. Eames just stares at him over the rim of his glass and lets him babble on about whatever nonsense is floating through his mind. He’ll probably regret this in the morning.
“I’m not normally such an asshole. Most people like me, really. I’m never like this. I just-I , I’m a professional, I don’t let petty shit get in the way. But when you-it’s just, fuck Eames-I just want-” Everything is spinning, the lights of the bar fuzzy and golden. His mouth is dry from talking so much. He knows he’ll regret this tomorrow, and for days after. Never be honest with a thief. Arthur stares down at his glass, what the fuck did he even order?
Eames clears his throat. And then, for no apparent reason, he reaches out and pulls Arthur’s glass away.
“The fuck, what?”
“Arthur, dearest, you should have said something.”
“Give me my drink.”
“I think you’ve had enough, frankly.” This is beyond infuriating, condescending bastard.
“Fuck you. I had to wear fucking tights. Tights, Eames.” Arthur couldn’t quite remember what he’d said ten seconds ago so his repartee was a bit more pathetic than he’d like to think about. He also feels like he missed something important in this conversation so he tries to be especially rude to Eames.
“I thought they suited you rather well. But you’re changing the subject. Why didn’t you say something?” Arthur doesn’t like Eames’ tone, it’s a serious fucking conversation tone of voice. He just wants his fucking drink so he could stop remembering the way Eames looked, silhouetted by fire using a rocket launcher on a dragon, the ridiculous man. His hair had glowed. Whose hair fucking glows when they’re in mortal peril? Dream mortal peril, whatever.
“What are you talking about? What was I supposed to say?” Arthur needs his drink back.
“Well it would have been nice to know you wanted to fuck me.” Arthur looks at him then, jaw hanging open a bit. Then he feels his face twist into something ugly, out of control, and he doesn’t care.
“Fuck you-”
“That you were in love with me,” Eames says and pushes the glass back across the table. Arthur’s hands are shaking and he realizes that he’s never wanted to kill anybody more in his life, or not kill, but hurt. Hurt badly and beyond repair until Eames’ blood stains his hands and the floor and Eames stops looking at him that way, like he know everything that Arthur’s ever thought. He’s on his feet before he can think about it, he grabs the glass and means to throw it at Eames’ face but it hits the floor somehow and shatters like a scream. He’s drunk, so drunk, and so fucking angry.
“Darling--” Eames looks alarmed, fucking finally.
“Don’t. Don’t even-if you-don’t fucking talk to me.” The floor is unbalanced but Arthur tries to take a few steps anyway. And Eames is there, always a little bit shorter but still in the fucking way. Arthur can’t even think of anything else to say because Eames is reaching forward and there’s a hand on his jaw and one on his waist and leaning and leaning and then where their mouths touch feels like the only warm place in the universe.
+
Arthur wakes up in a hotel room that isn’t his. He forces down the sudden burst of panic and makes himself stay relaxed as he tries to process his situation. Somebody has taken off everything but his underwear, which means his gun and his totem are gone. The pounding in his skull when he experimentally opens his eyes means he got very, very drunk the night before. So it’s possible that he hasn’t been kidnapped, just seduced. By somebody with an appreciation for high thread-count sheets. There’s a creak from the foot of the bed, like somebody shifting their weight and Arthur springs up, headache be damned.
“You seem tense, duckling. Something on your mind?” Eames isn’t smiling (or wearing a shirt), just standing there, holding a cup of coffee.
“What the fuck is going on, Eames?” He spots his totem on the bedside table but doesn’t grab it, not in front of Eames.
“That’s up to you, love. The coffee’s yours though.” He walks around the bed and places it carefully on the table, next to the totem. “I’m going to take a shower, feel free to join me.” He doesn’t smile at that either, like it’s actually a serious offer, not just another joke. Arthur’s too bemused (and distracted by the way Eames’ sleep pants wrap around his ass) to respond until the door has clicked shut behind him.
He grabs the coffee first, takes a long, burning gulp, before rolling the die. This is reality, not that he expected any different. He leans back on the headboard, noticing for the first time that the other side of the bed is mussed. Eames must have slept there.
His heart slams against his ribs and memories come rushing back: rambling for hours in the bar, the broken glass, the kiss, and then more kisses in the taxi, pressed to Eames’ chin, neck, wherever he could reach, Eames smiling down at him, kissing his forehead and then being pushed into bed, arguing and reaching for Eames. And he must have fallen asleep, next to Eames. Arthur wants to shoot something, mostly himself. Eames will never let him live this down. He should make a run for it now, before Eames comes back and he has to deal with this.
He throws back the rest of the coffee and eases out of bed, totem clenched in his fist. The floor is wobbly and he wants to throw up but he’s dealt with worse before. He doesn’t see his clothes anywhere but Eames’ suitcase is on the floor. He stumbles to it and pulls out the first shirt he finds, deep purple and wickedly soft. The urge to rub is face all over it is overwhelming but he pulls it on and starts to button it.
The door to the bathroom opens and Eames is standing there, damp and only wearing a towel. He looks at the shirt, pulls his gaze all the way down Arthur’s legs and then snaps his eyes back up to Arthur’s face. Something in his expression makes the bottom of Arthur’s stomach drop out.
“Are you running away, Arthur?” His voice is deep and rumbling and Arthur has to admit that he wants him.
“No I’m, I’m-what would I be running away from? You?” It sounds pathetic even to Arthur. He wishes he was wearing pants.
“It would seem so, love, though I can’t seem to understand why.” Eames is stepping closer, until Arthur can see the drops of water slipping down his chest and into the towel.
“I...no, I...” If anybody asks, Arthur is going to blame the hangover but he honestly cannot think to save his life.
“I think it’s about time you stopped running away.” And that has to be the worst line Arthur’s ever heard.
“That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.” He drags his gaze away from Eames’ chest to meet his eyes, which aren’t blinking, just watching Arthur. “Okay.” And he feels like Eames should be kissing him now but they’re still just staring at each other. His fingers flex convulsively and his chin makes an odd sort of jerk towards Eames. Then, somehow, they’re on the bed, fighting like cats. But they’re not fighting, Eames has his hands pressed up under Arthur’s shirt-Eames’ shirt-and Arthur twists his fingers into Eames’ hair so he can push their mouths together in a sloppy kiss.
“I’m to fuck you so hard you see stars, my darling Mr. Arthur,” Eames pants against his mouth. Arthur can’t help the burst of happiness that bubbles out as laughter. Eames grins down at him and Arthur thinks that maybe he can live with himself for once.
+
When they leave the hotel room several days later he has twenty-eight calls from Dom and one text that says, meet me in tokyo after the funeral. He’s on a plane to LA within the hour, alone. When he sees Eames again they don’t speak of it and Eames finds his own hotel room.
fin
notes: this took wayyyy too long to finish, what is even wrong with me. also, i am aware of the many holes in the plot. if i tried to fix them this story would never get done and i just don't care anymore. maybe i might actually get work done on one of my other plot bunnies HA I'M SO FUNNY. sleep now.