Inception: I woo'd thee with my sword 3/3
fandom: Inception
title: I woo'd thee with my sword
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: pg13
summary: There's a job in Antarctica, during which Ariadne slowly ropes Arthur into being her point man and Eames and Arthur make a lot of Shakespeare references.
On Archive of Our Own
Part One
Part Two
Arthur plays his part, running through the maze and ensuring that he knows it inside out, and then shadowing Eames as he picks his way through to the end, fifty feet from the base, where Dom is waiting in an all terrain vehicle. They take off, swerving away, and Arthur loops back around to meet back with Ariadne.
“It’ll do,” Arthur says, satisfied. “Although I think Dom should switch to a truck.”
“We should wire Eames,” Ariadne says thoughtfully. “wearing earpieces fits for you and Dom, so if we can hear whatever they’re saying we’ll know exactly when Curtland gives up what he knows.”
Arthur nods. “We’ll wire them both, we can put a mic on Curtland before he wakes up. gps, too. Have you thought about a shortcut?
Ariadne frowns. “The design isn’t really conducive to a shortcut--I could add another layer underneath, a tunnel that cuts straight through and then put hatches in the floor of the main tunnels.”
“But?” Arthur prompts.
“But if the dream becomes unstable, the second level could collapse in and wreck the whole plan.”
“Think of something else,” Arthur says simply. Ariadne socks him in the shoulder.
“That is not helpful.”
“It’s not my job to be helpful,” Arthur says. “It’s my job to be effective.”
“I could add a few more tunnels,” Ariadne says, “that run straight through, more or less.”
“Do it,” Arthur says, and there’s a very faint rumble beneath their feet as the stone shifts. Arthur watches the distance for Dom’s truck, the cold chapping his face, and is lost in his own thoughts until the rumble grows into more of a roar.
“I think I tried to build too many,” Ariadne says, biting her lip, “it feels--it feels like it’s giving way.”
A crack splits across the ground three feet from where Arthur is standing with a boom so loud Arthur’s eardrums burst.
“It’s collapsing,” Arthur says, even though he can’t hear himself and he assumes Ariadne can’t hear him either. Ariadne is hunched over, her hands pressed over her ears. Arthur can feel blood trickling into the edges of his hair. He pulls her close to him, the ground still shaking, and they stumble to the edge of the crack.
Arthur peers over the edge. “Good enough,” he says to no one, and topples them both into the abyss.
Arthur comes awake with a start, the jolt of falling in his belly. Ariadne jerks upright next to him, rubbing at her ears.
“My bad,” she mutters, looking sheepish. “I’ll go back and hash out the final design.”
“Good,” Arthur says. “I’ll monitor. Two hours.” Ariadne lies back, and Arthur adjusts the dosage.
“What’s wrong with the design,” Dom asks, he and Eames pulling the cannulas from their wrists.
“What do you mean,” Arthur says, “Ariadne tried to add a few tunnels and the dream collapsed--isn’t that why you woke up?”
“No,” Eames says, “we woke up because we got fucking eaten by fucking polar bears.”
“They don’t even live in this hemisphere,” Dom says like he’s been personally wronged, rubbing at his chest.
“To be fair, I did tell her that,” Arthur says, and doesn’t bother trying to hide his pleased look.
“They were sadistic,” Eames says, and claps Arthur on the shoulder. “I’m a little proud of her myself.”
“Fuck you, Arthur,” Dom says, but he says it like he used too, when Arthur got up at five in the morning to grind coffee beans after a night of drinking, when Arthur and Mal snuck into his closet and threw away all his ties. “One of them splashed water in my chest cavity and used it to wash its paws.”
“It’s true,” Eames says cheerfully, “I saw it.”
“She’s a fast learner,” Arthur says. “How was everything going until then?”
“Perfect,” Dom reports. “We actually finished the scenario before we were eaten.”
“Forge is as good as it’s going to get.” Eames says. “which is perfect, in case you were wondering.”
“I was not,” Arthur says.
“We’re doing it tomorrow,” Dom says. “I’ll go tell Miles and Theo to get ready and we’ll call to have Curtland moved here.” He leaves, and Eames rolls his chair over to Arthur’s side. Arthur ignores him, tipping himself back so he can prop his feet on the table. They sit in silence for five straight minutes. Arthur uncrosses and recrosses his ankles.
Eames blows into Arthur’s ear, making him start violently. “Fancy a drink when she’s done?”
“We’re doing the extraction tomorrow,” Arthur says disapprovingly. He turns to a new page in his little notebook and draws the maze from memory, flips back to check it against the blueprints.
“Live a little,” Eames wheedles, and uses the hollow tube from a disassembled pen to blow a wad of scrunched up paper at the skin below Arthur’s ear.
“I understand that being professional is not your forte,” Arthur says testily, refusing to reach up and wipe the spitball away. “But some of us have a reputation to uphold.”
“Have a drink with me tomorrow,” Eames says.
“I thought you were out of beer,” Arthur says, and draws the maze again, rechecks it. His scale is still a little off.
“I lied.” Eames reaches over to flick the paper off Arthur’s neck, his nail dragging over his skin in a way that makes Arthur shudder a little, all the way down his spine.
“If you stop talking until then,” Arthur says, drawing the maze yet again. He checks it. The scale is even worse than the time before. Eames is shit for Arthur’s concentration.
“As a church mouse,” Eames promises, and promptly hooks his leg around Arthur’s chair, dragging Arthur closer. Arthur’s pen flies off the page, leaving a dark streak in its wake and tearing through to the sheet behind it.
“Godammit,” Arthur curses, and Eames just holds a finger up to his mouth. Arthur drives the heel of his shoe into Eames’ thigh, driving their chairs further apart. Eames extends his leg again, going for Arthur’s chair, and Arthur moves his calf to block him. He tries to kick Eames in the instep and connects with the table leg when Eames dodges. While his bruised toes are curling up, Eames manages to hook his shoe around the armrest of Arthur’s chair, and starts to pull him in again. Arthur kicks him behind the knee and Eames grunts, his leg buckling. He spins to the side to recover and Arthur pushes off the table, advancing. He ducks as Eames throws the rest of the pen at his face and catches Eames foot with his hands, pulling them up flush and half falling into Eames’ chair as they tussle.
“Oh my god,” Ariadne says, and they freeze, Eames still in the act of shoving paper down the back of Arthur’s shirt. “I’m finished,” she tells Arthur. “I’ll draw up the final blueprints in our room.” She leaves, throwing him a pointed look, and Arthur very slowly eases himself off Eames and back into his own chair. He twists, trying to get at the half a legal pad Eames had crammed down his back, but it’s slid down his spine to the point where his fingers just brush up against it, unable to get a grip.
“Come here,” Eames says gruffly, and Arthur turns obediently. Eames looks down the collar of Arthur’s shirt, his breath huffing warm on the top of Arthur’s spine. “Your clothes are too tailored to reach it from here,” he says.
“Hold on,” Arthur says, tugging his tie loose and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He pulls his button down out of his pants, untucking it completely. He wiggles a little, trying to get the paper to fall out the back.
“I’ll get it,” Eames says, and his palm presses to the small of Arthur’s back, right against Arthur’s bare skin. Arthur arches a little, just the barest curve, and Eames slides his hand up the knobs of Arthur’s spine, his fingers dipping into the spaces between. He pulls the wad of paper out, the sheets scratching Arthur’s skin on the way down. He can hear Eames drop them, the fluttering as they fall and rustling as they settle on the floor.
“Thank you,” he says, and Eames crowds against his back.
“You are fond of me, aren’t you darling?” Eames asks, and dips his head. His eyelashes flutter across the nape of Arthur’s neck, butterfly kisses around his collar.
“No more than reason,” Arthur says.
Eames leans his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, digging into the muscle. He tilts his head a little farther and sucks at the underside of Arthur’s jaw. Arthur shivers.
“Ask me again tomorrow,” he says.
Eames draws back, presses one last kiss to Arthur’s shoulder, wet lips through the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t ask forever.” He hands Arthur his waistcoat.
Arthur wraps his fingers in the fabric. “But you will ask tomorrow?”
“In friendly recompense,” Eames says, and Arthur laughs.
//
Arthur is wearing Dom’s suit when he raps on Eames’ door, the cuffs of the jacket rolled up sloppily and the button up shirt bunching around his shoulders. His hair is slicked back even more stringently than usually, and his pants are creased and unironed.
“Four in the bloody morning,” Eames rasps, swinging the door open and zeroing in on the steaming styrofoam cup in Arthur’s hands. “Coffee?”
Arthur shoves it at him. “I need one of your ties. None of Dom’s are ugly enough.”
“Have at it,” Eames says, gesturing to the suitcase lying open on the desk. Arthur rifles through it, grimacing. He pulls out one with light up bikini bottoms.
“Seriously?”
“I’m saving it for our first date,” Eames says. Arthur snorts, and picks out a particularly offensive pattern of purple and blue plaid. He heads over to the cracked mirror hanging on the back of the door.
“You ready?”
“Always,” Eames says, and sits on the bed, tying his shoes. Arthur finishes knotting the tie and surveys his work.
“Too put together,” Eames says. “doesn’t fit your role.”
“I suppose,” Arthur says, feeling pained, and undoes it.
“Allow me,” Eames says, and Arthur turns.
“You are uniquely suited to this line of fashion,” he says, and Eames chuckles.
“Tilt your head back, there’s a love.” Arthur tips his head towards the ceiling, breathing shallowly. Eames knots the tie quickly, the fabric slapping through his fingers and stinging on Arthur’s skin. “All done,” he says.
Arthur can smell Eames wrapped around his neck, resting in the hollow of his throat. “Good,” he says, and hands Eames a black gas mask. “Let’s go.”
Eames wins the coin toss, so he gets to kick down the door after Arthur unscrews the hinges, shouting in Russian as Arthur storms the room behind him, lobbing a single gas canister at the ground. It begins to hiss immediately, fogging the room, and Curtland screams, sitting up straight in the bed. Arthur grabs him by the front of the shirt and hauls him out of bed, slams his head at a calculated angle into the edge of the frame, just enough to stun him a little.
“Cooperate if you want to live,” Eames shouts in Russian, and catches him by the left arm. Arthur grabs his right side and they drag him out into the hallway, shoving at him so he’s constantly off balance, knocking him into the walls and keeping up a constant barrage of angry Russian. They steer him quickly into a room and throw him across the table at the chair.
Curtland lands on the floor and vomits, retching violently and wiping at the tears and mucus streaming down his face. “Please,” he begs hoarsely. “I--I don’t know anything.”
Arthur rips off his gas mask and tosses it aside. “Don’t fucking lie to me,” he snarls. Eames throws his own gas mask into a corner and drags Curtland into the chair, shoving at him until he can sit up under his own strength. Then he punches him in the gut, and even though Arthur can tell he’s pulled it, Curtland goes down like a sack of potatoes, landing hard on the floor. Eames kicks the chair out of the way.
“Tell us what you know,” he snarls. Curtland curls on his side, panting.
“I--I don’t speak Russian,” he says, “please, please don’t kill me.”
Arthur kicks him very lightly in the ribs. “Liar, do you think we are stupid?.”
“I can’t understand you,” Curtland cries, pushing himself to his hands and knees. Arthur looks at Eames, who shrugs.
“I believe him, darling,” Eames says, using the Russian word dorogoy.
“I’m still not feeling Pavlovian,” Arthur says.
“Tell us what you know,” Eames says in English, switching to the Russian accent. “Maybe you only lose a few parts.”
“I don’t know anything,” Curtland replies, still on his hands and knees. Arthur puts the heel off his boot on Curtland’s ribs, where he’d kicked him before, and pushes him onto his back.
“I take teeth first,” he says in his own Russian-tinged English, “then toes. Fingers. I work way up to dick.”
“Sometimes he gets impatient,” Eames says, “skip straight to dick.”
Arthur smiles with all of his teeth. “Sometimes,” he says, and stares into Curtland’s eyes. Arthur fully intends to do all of what he just threatened, and maybe more, to finish the job, and he’ll sleep just fine after. Arthur always sleeps just fine, and he makes sure Curtland can see all of that in his face, without blinking, and he can see the instant Curtland breaks.
“It wasn’t me,” Curtland says in a rush, “it was just--the money, it was just too good, the money--I’ll return it.” Eames pulls him back into the chair.
“Where is Dr. Jillis?”
Curtland shakes his head. “Dead.” Arthur leans back against the wall, still staring at Curtland and blinking only when necessary. Eames takes over the questioning.
“You killed him.”
“No,” Curtland insists, “it was Jergenson. He wanted to cover it up, I had nothing to do with it. All I did was deliver the packages.”
“How?”
“”I’m a geologist,” he says, “we go into the field to collect ice core samples, and I would leave the files and sample tubes at the sites.” His hands shake on the table. “I didn’t even know it was Jillis picking them up, I never saw him until he showed up at our base begging to be let in.” Curtland wipes at his face, his hands shaking. “I was helping you guys!”
“He’s ready,” Arthur says in Russian, and Eames nods. Arthur slips his hand into a pocket and pulls out a small black case. He flips it open and removes the syringe.
“No,” Curtland begs as Arthur walks towards him, “please I told you--” Arthur jabs it into the side of his neck and presses the plunger. Curtland drops in less than thirty seconds, and Arthur eases him back into the chair, takes his pulse.
“We’re good,” he says, “get his feet.” They carry him down the hall to a conference room, where Ariadne and Dom are already seated, Theo and Miles fluttering around them. Eames and Arthur toss Curtland into a chair and take their own seats, Theo and Miles hooking them up to the PASIV quickly.
“Ready?” Dom asks, and Arthur leans back and closes his eyes. He’s asleep before he can answer.
They wake in the same room, Curtland still slumped over. Ariadne and Cobb drag him out of the room, grunting with effort, and when Arthur turns around he’s faced with an exact replica of Lily Dunne, in blue slacks and a striped blouse, sensible black shoes.
“Come on,” Arthur says, and crouches next to a small briefcase on the floor. He can hear Eames undoing the buttons on her blouse, and he stands with the wire, slipping it around her the edge of her bra. “Don’t let him take off your shirt.”
Eames nods. “Make it look real,” she says, and Arthur smiles. He clips her on the outside edge of her eyesocket with the tips of his knuckles, a glancing blow designed for maximum colour and minimum injury. She stumbles back into the wall, flinching.
“I’m going to wreck you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur promises, and Eames drops the forgery around Lily’s face so he can smile with his own mouth.
“Promises,” he rasps in his own voice, and puts the forge back up before Arthur hits her in the face with an open handed slap, a red welt rising on her cheek almost immediately. Arthur yanks her back up, and pulls at her ponytail enough to muss it up.
“Good enough,” he says, and shoves a black hood over Eames’ face, stomps on the back of Eames’ calf and drags her down the hallway in a headlock. Ariadne is waiting outside the right room.
“He’s awake,” she reports.
Arthur nods. “Wired?”
“Belt buckle and top button of his shirt. We shifted him from pajamas into work clothes, but he shouldn’t question it too much.” Ariadne steps close to him and puts his earpiece in, fixing the coiled white cord to drop down his collar. She pulls his jacket open and leads the long thin piece of wire through his shirt sleeve, clips the small mic to his cuff. “Dom and I have them too, and we’ve already connected them to the mics on Eames and Curtland.”
“Good,” Arthur says, and waits until Ariadne steps out of view before slamming the door open and throwing Eames in ahead of him. Eames stumbles in so he falls against Curtland, who’d stood up at the bang of the door against the wall. He presses Lily Dunne’s breasts against Curtland’s chest and Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Dennis,” Eames says in a high voice, the right mix of breathy terrified. “What’s happening, they dragged me from my bed--they got you too?”
Curtland pushes Eames behind him and does a decent job of glaring at Arthur. “Leave her alone.” Arthur picks up the baseball bat propped up in a corner and hits the tabletop with a full swing. Eames lets out a little scream at the noise, and Curtland flinches back.
Arthur uses the bat to point at Eames. “Maybe I start with her,” he says, thickening his Russian accent to frankly ridiculous levels. He steps forward and Curtland surges forward, trying to push him. Arthur uses the butt of the bat to hit Curtland in the sternum, knocking the wind out of him. On cue, Ariadne starts banging on the door. Eames falls to Curtland’s side, making distressed noises and pulling his head onto Lily’s lap. Eames looks up, Lily’s hair masking her face from Curtland, and throws Arthur a wink. “I’ll be back,” Arthur says menacingly, and feels a little pained at his terrible, terrible dialog.
He steps outside into the hallway and walks around the corner to where Dom and Ariadne are waiting. “Your dialog is seriously terrible,” Ariadne says and Arthur sighs.
“He tried to protect her,” Dom says. “he feels strongly about her, he’ll confide in her if Eames plays his cards right.”
“Her cards,” Ariadne says. “His cards? Forgery makes pronouns confusing.”
Arthur presses a finger to his earpiece. “Eames is competent enough. Now quiet, he’ll be making his move soon.”
“Her move,” Ariadne whispers, but falls silent under Arthur’s look.
“Who was that,” Eames says, his voice clear over the wire. “Dennis?
“I--Lily, I never meant for you to get caught up in all this,” Curtland says.
“They said you betrayed them---you were working for them?.”
“It’s not like that, Lily--look it’s not important now. Let’s focus on how we’re going to get out of here.
Ariadne makes a little huff of disappointment. “He didn’t take the bait.”
“We didn’t expect him to,” Arthur reminds her. “Not at first.”
“Let me see the gps monitor,” Dom says, and Ariadne digs it out of her knapsack.
“It’s working fine,” she says.
“Hush,” Arthur snaps.
“--left behind the bat, Eames is saying.
“Get behind me, there,” Curtland says. “I’Il hit him when he comes through the door.” Arthur sighs.
“You had to make it a baseball bat,” he complains and Ariadne shrugs at him.
“You’re up,” Dom says. Arthur checks his two guns, one in a shoulder holster and one on his hip, the grips coloured so we can tell the difference.
“Hey,” Ariadne says, “that’s not your gun.” Arthur does a double take.
“Yes it is,” he says unconvincingly.
“It is not,” Ariadne says, “you made me take apart that Glock for like a week.”
“Isn’t that a Beretta?” Dom asks, squinting. “Doesn’t Eames carry a Beretta?”
“Does he really,” Ariadne says, arching an eyebrow.
“I’m going to go now,” Arthur says, and remembers a time when he wasn’t the one being unprofessional on the job.
Arthur walks back down the hallway, dragging his heels so they can hear that he’s coming. He takes a deep breath, grits his teeth and pushes the door open, leading with his left hand. Curtland hits him solidly in the forearm, and Arthur feels the bone shatter.
“Arghhh,” he screams, only acting a little because fucking Ariadne and her fucking solid oak baseball bat. Arthur pushes himself across the room before Curtland can hit him again, grunting in pain.
“Come on,” he hears Eames shout, “Dennis, run!” Arthur catches himself on the wall with his good arm, taking deep breaths, and after a minute he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Come on,” Dom says, and leads him back to where Ariadne is waiting with a first aid kit.
“Shouldn’t we kick you out?” Ariadne asks as Dom puts two flat pieces of plastic on either side of Arthur’s arm and starts to splint it. “When you wake up you can just go under again.”
Dom finishes securing the makeshift cast and rummages in the bag again, coming up with a sling. “Going in and out will just increase the odds of Curtland’s projections getting the drop on us,” Arthur says. “I’ll deal.”
“Next time I’ll make it a foam bat,” Ariadne promises, and Arthur grins at her.
“Position on Eames and Curtland?” he asks. Ariadne holds up the monitor, and Arthur squints at it, finding the two blinking dots quickly. In his ear he can Eames gently steering Curtland along the route.
“We’re making good time,” Dom says. “I’m going to go get in position. Ariadne?”
“I know the plan,” she says, settling down into a cross legged sit against the wall, the monitor propped up in her lap.
“You good?” Dom asks Arthur as they make their way quickly down the hallway.
“Yes,” Arthur says, and smoothly swings himself one handed into the laundry chute.
He lands in an industrial sized hamper, cushioned by sheets and towels, and takes half a second to breathe through the pain in his arm. The he hooks a leg over the edge of the hamper and half-falls onto the floor. He catches himself and pushes to his feet. “They’re in the maze, Ariadne says in his ear. Arthur jogs to the entrance of the maze, disguised as a manhole, and drops down into the familiar slate-grey tunnels of Ariadne’s maze. His breath huffs out in little puffs of white fog, dissipating into the dim otherworldly light of the maze.
Arthur starts walking, a quick loping stride, a little awkward because of his arm, in a sling and strapped to his chest. He keeps his own mental map running with his location in his head, following Ariadne’s soft directions.
“Stop,” Ariadne says, and Arthur pulls up. “They’re around the corner,” Ariadne says.
“Let me catch my breath,” Eames says, and Arthur inches a little closer, so he can hear them clearly outside the wire.
“Are you okay?” Curtland asks.
“I’m fine,” Eames says, “but I want to know what the hell is going on. Why did they kidnap us?”
“It’s not important, Lily, come on--” There’s a scuffling noise and Eames’ voice rises sharply in pitch.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you know.” Eames says. “This has something to do with Jillis and Jergenson, doesn’t it? Did you--did you kill them?”
“No!” Curtland says. “No--I. I was passing information to the Russians.”
“What?” Eames gasps.
“No-listen. Jergenson told me he was working for the government, and we were passing on fake information, some kind of sting operation, I don’t know. The Russians--they must have found out.”
“Found out what?”
“Let’s get going,” Curtland says.
“He needs another push,” Dom says in Arthurs ear. Arthur unsnaps the pistol on his hip, the grip painted bright red to mark the blank clip. He steps around the corner and starts advancing, firing three even shots before ducking around into another tunnel. Eames and Curtland shout, and he listens to them scrabble away.
“We miscalculated,” Arthur says into his cuff. “he likes her too much. He won’t tell her about anything that will make him look bad. He might even lie to make himself look better.”
“Plan C?” Ariadne asks. “Rush through to Dom’s part and the file.”
“Yes,” Arthur says.
“I’ll get ready,” Dom says.
“They’re running down blue tunnel six,” Ariadne says, “two rights and a middle from your location.” Arthur takes off at a run, digging a small electronic cannister from his pocket and twisting the top open to reveal a pin. He makes the last turn and yanks the pin out, tossing it down the tunnel where Curtland and Eames are making their way through the maze. The siren rings out seconds later, signaling Eames to cut straight through the maze and move on to phase three.
Arthur calculates the fastest route through the maze and takes off, hoping Eames will buy him enough time to get to the rendezvous point before Curtland. He explodes out of the exit, slipping on the ice, and Dom leans out of the driver’s side window of the truck, waving at him.
“Come on,” he shouts, and Arthur climbs the back, splaying himself out on his stomach on the canvas roof. Dom tosses up a tarp, and Arthur pulls it over him, grunting at his weight pressing against his arm. He twists under the tarp, hissing, and pulls a knife from his boot, cutting a careful slit in the canvas so he can see into the back of the truck.
“I’m good,” he shouts to Dom, and grips the metal railings. Dom revs the engine and after a few minutes screeches to a halt, Arthur gritting his teeth as he holds himself still with one hand and his feet braced awkwardly on the edges of the roof.
“Get in!” Dom shouts, and Arthur peers through the slit, seeing Eames and Curtland jump into the back.
“Who are you?” Eames shouts, and Dom starts his spiel about being an American agent working with MI6. Arthur pulls the tarp down off his head and pulls up the binoculars, keeping an eye out for hordes of angry projections.
“Shit,” Ariadne yelps, “I’m being chased by men in fatigues shouting in fake Russian about dicks. And they kind of look like Arthur..” Dom makes a choking noise and hides it with a coughing fit.
“Distract them for as long as you can and then kick yourself out,” Arthur orders in a low murmur. “Speed it up, Dom.” Arthur can feel the engine roar under him in response, and the wind whips freezing into his face. He watches the secondary building coming into view, larger and larger, and then something tugs his line of sight to the left. He squints, and then has to violently bite his own tongue to prevent cursing a blue streak in several languages.
“Hey,” Curtland says, interrupting Dom’s subtle threatening of charging him with treason. “Is that a polar bear?” The ground trembles a little, the dream starting to collapse as Curtland starts to think about how polar bears should be several thousand miles north, and Arthur rears up, coming down with his entire weight behind the knife.
He falls into the back of the truck, shouting a wordless warcry, and the dream abruptly stabilizes as Curtland becomes too busy worrying about the knife Arthur is waving in his face to think about the natural habitats of Arctic bears. He kicks out, catching Arthur in his broken arm, and Eames screams and flails and is generally useless. Arthur lunges at them again, ripping the canvas some more, and then Curtland catches him with a full swing of the baseball bat and Arthur lets the momentum and pain tumble him out of the truck.
He lands hard on the rocky ice, grunting, and rolls to a stop. “Finish the fucking job,” he rasps to Dom through broken ribs and what he’s reasonably sure is a punctured lung, and then grips his knife hard and slashes his femoral artery wide open.
“You,” he tells Ariadne when she wakes up, “and your fucking polar bears, Jesus Christ.”
//
Dom and Eames wake up less than five minutes later. “Got it,” Dom says, and Arthur and Eames drag an unconscious Curtland back to the security detail waiting for them in the cargo bay.
“Curtland was pretty sure he wasn’t working with the British government,” Eames tells him on the way back. “But he wanted the money bad enough to lie to himself about it. He also saw Jergenson coming back to his quarters holding a gun and bloody tarp the day Jillis disappeared.”
“Excellent,” Arthur says, “please try to be coherent in your report.”
“Your confidence inspires,” Eames says drily.
“Well now you’re just repeating yourself,” Arthur says, but he smiles, and Eames touches an index finger to Arthur’s dimple.
“Arthur!” Ariadne says, waving at him enthusiastically, and Eames starts away, coughing. “We kicked ass!” she says happily, and Arthur pulls away from her grip, watching Eames walk away.
“I have to write my report,” he says weakly.
“Do it tomorrow,” Ariadne says, “right now we’re getting totally drunk.”
//
“Where did you even get this much alcohol,” Arthur slurs, and then, “oh my god I’m drunk on the job.”
“Yes,” Ariadne says seriously, swaying a little, “and now you’re a real boy.” Arthur lets himself slide down the wall, leaning heavily on Ariadne, and they end up lying awkwardly on the floor, the dots of plaster on the ceiling swimming in Arthur’s vision.
“Mm,” he says, a little too tipsy to complain, and Ariadne wiggles closer to his side.
“You let me tie your tie,” Ariadne says, and Arthur has to take a minute to parse the sentence. “Pshi--sci--psychologically speaking, it means you trust me with your life. Because you bred--bared your throat to me.”
Arthur thinks about Eames’ calloused fingers in the hollow of his throat, his hands in Arthur’s hair, his knuckles against Arthur’s hips. Then he forgets what he was thinking about and has to go through the entire process again. “I like you,” he says finally.
“If I had an abortion,” Ariadne says, “I’d call you to pick me up.”
“That’s very confusing to me,” Arthur says, and Ariadne pillows her head on his shoulder.
“We are so drunk,” she says happily.
“That is factually accurate,” Arthur says, and falls asleep.
//
“So,” Ariadne says while Arthur frantically finishes his report and physically beats the printer into submission. “I’m putting together a team.”
Arthur picks up his report from the printer tray and paperclips it neatly. “Is that so.”
“I need a pointman,” she says. Arthur pauses. He hasn’t been associated with anyone since Cobb semi-retired, and has rejected the handful of offers he’s received without pause. He taps his fingernails on the table.
“Well,” he says. “I guess you might need a ride home from the abortion clinic someday.” Ariadne’s face lights up.
“That’s good,” she says, “since I already told Saito you were on board with a job in Berlin.”
“What.”
“We’re starting next week and also he’s sending a private jet to pick us up on the aistrip outside. Tomorrow.”
Arthur stares at her. “I see.” She bites her lip, looking nervous, and he sighs. “You have the materials?” He stops, a sudden thought occuring to him in horrifying clarity. “Is Theo the chemist?”
“No,” Ariadne says, looking equally unnerved. “Saito wants Yusuf.”
“Okay,” Arthur says, and then feels guilty. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Theo.”
Ariadne pulls a face. “He kept quoting lines from different adaptations of the Minotaur myth at me. Eames started calling him Thesus.”
“His compound worked very well,” Arthur says fairly.
“Eames also said ‘you can’t find your Domysus without first dating your Thesus’.” Arthur clears his throat to avoid smiling and then stretches to avoid frowning. He hasn’t seem Eames once since they finished the job.
“I’m going to have to talk with him about holding out on information,” Arthur says, mainly to avoid thinking about Eames.
“No polar bears,” Ariadne promises, and hits Arthur in a hug that feels more like a tackle.
//
Arthur raps on Cobb’s door, and then tries the handle. It turns easily under his hand, and he enters. Cobb is packing his bag, folding shirts carefully.
“Back to the kids?” Arthur asks. Dom smiles.
“Yeah,” he says fondly. “You will come visit us, won’t you? You did promise.” Arthur grimaces internally. He’s terrible with children, and on previous visits elected to sit on the porch drinking Mal’s expensive wine and having long staring contests with the neighbour’s cat.
“Yeah,” he says though, because abortion friends aside Dom is the closest thing he’s got to family. He hopes the neighbour’s cat is still alive. “My report.”
Dom takes it. “Thanks. I heard you’re teaming up with Ariadne.”
“I was minus a partner,” he says.
“I always pictured you with a different partner,” Dom says, and winks. “How’s Eames?”
“Don’t ever wink at me again,” Arthur says.
“Is that all you have to say?”
Arthur considers him. “Don’t ever wink at anyone again.”
//
Saito’s plane arrives exactly on time.
“You sure you don’t want to hitch a ride with us?” Ariadne asks, and Dom shrugs.
“We’re going back to debrief with MI--some number, I don’t know.”
Ariadne sighs. “How about you, Eames?”
Arthur bites his lip, and turns his head away. He watches the stairs slowly descend down to the ground and walks on the plane without looking back. Ariadne joins him a few minutes later.
“You’re a moron,” she says, and puts headphones on. Arthur leans his head on the window and closes his eyes.
He dreams of sleeping, dozing off against Eames’ side and his breath warm against Eames’ thigh.
//
Eames finds him on a train to Berlin, Arthur sitting in a private compartment.
“It occurs to me that we could drag this affair own for a number of years, finally dying tragically alone because our timing never did work out,” he says, “but I thought it might be more fun if I just ignore your tragic lack of emotional communication. Fancy a shag?”
Arthur turns the page of the novel he was pretending to read without looking up. “Wasn’t that door locked?”
“I never did ask you that question,” Eames says, and Arthur’s fingers tighten around the binding of his book.
“No,” he says, voice carefully even, “you never did.”
Eames fidgets, fussing with his wristwatch. “I suppose I was a little concerned about your answer.” His voice is as careful as Arthur’s.
“Ariadne is putting together a team,” Arthur says.
“I know,” Eames says, “darling if you could just focus on something that isn’t work for five minutes--”
“I am,” Arthur interrupts, “rather fond of you.” Eames stares at him. His eyes crinkle around the edges.
“I have been feeling the urge to settle down,” he says, “professionally, that is.”
“I’ve been feeling urges too,” Arthur says solemnly.
A grin spreads across Eames’ face, slow and joyous, the sun breaking through stormy clouds. It’s the most gorgeous thing Arthur has ever seen. “Is that so?”
Arthur reaches over and locks the compartment door. He hopes vaguely that Ariadne was serious about not leaving the buffet in the dining cart until physically hauled out by security. “Altogether Pavlovian,” he says.
“Darling,” Eames says, “I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes--and moreover I will go with you to Berlin.”
“Fancy a shag?” Arthur asks, and licks his way into Eames’ smile.
title: I woo'd thee with my sword
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: pg13
summary: There's a job in Antarctica, during which Ariadne slowly ropes Arthur into being her point man and Eames and Arthur make a lot of Shakespeare references.
On Archive of Our Own
Part One
Part Two
Arthur plays his part, running through the maze and ensuring that he knows it inside out, and then shadowing Eames as he picks his way through to the end, fifty feet from the base, where Dom is waiting in an all terrain vehicle. They take off, swerving away, and Arthur loops back around to meet back with Ariadne.
“It’ll do,” Arthur says, satisfied. “Although I think Dom should switch to a truck.”
“We should wire Eames,” Ariadne says thoughtfully. “wearing earpieces fits for you and Dom, so if we can hear whatever they’re saying we’ll know exactly when Curtland gives up what he knows.”
Arthur nods. “We’ll wire them both, we can put a mic on Curtland before he wakes up. gps, too. Have you thought about a shortcut?
Ariadne frowns. “The design isn’t really conducive to a shortcut--I could add another layer underneath, a tunnel that cuts straight through and then put hatches in the floor of the main tunnels.”
“But?” Arthur prompts.
“But if the dream becomes unstable, the second level could collapse in and wreck the whole plan.”
“Think of something else,” Arthur says simply. Ariadne socks him in the shoulder.
“That is not helpful.”
“It’s not my job to be helpful,” Arthur says. “It’s my job to be effective.”
“I could add a few more tunnels,” Ariadne says, “that run straight through, more or less.”
“Do it,” Arthur says, and there’s a very faint rumble beneath their feet as the stone shifts. Arthur watches the distance for Dom’s truck, the cold chapping his face, and is lost in his own thoughts until the rumble grows into more of a roar.
“I think I tried to build too many,” Ariadne says, biting her lip, “it feels--it feels like it’s giving way.”
A crack splits across the ground three feet from where Arthur is standing with a boom so loud Arthur’s eardrums burst.
“It’s collapsing,” Arthur says, even though he can’t hear himself and he assumes Ariadne can’t hear him either. Ariadne is hunched over, her hands pressed over her ears. Arthur can feel blood trickling into the edges of his hair. He pulls her close to him, the ground still shaking, and they stumble to the edge of the crack.
Arthur peers over the edge. “Good enough,” he says to no one, and topples them both into the abyss.
Arthur comes awake with a start, the jolt of falling in his belly. Ariadne jerks upright next to him, rubbing at her ears.
“My bad,” she mutters, looking sheepish. “I’ll go back and hash out the final design.”
“Good,” Arthur says. “I’ll monitor. Two hours.” Ariadne lies back, and Arthur adjusts the dosage.
“What’s wrong with the design,” Dom asks, he and Eames pulling the cannulas from their wrists.
“What do you mean,” Arthur says, “Ariadne tried to add a few tunnels and the dream collapsed--isn’t that why you woke up?”
“No,” Eames says, “we woke up because we got fucking eaten by fucking polar bears.”
“They don’t even live in this hemisphere,” Dom says like he’s been personally wronged, rubbing at his chest.
“To be fair, I did tell her that,” Arthur says, and doesn’t bother trying to hide his pleased look.
“They were sadistic,” Eames says, and claps Arthur on the shoulder. “I’m a little proud of her myself.”
“Fuck you, Arthur,” Dom says, but he says it like he used too, when Arthur got up at five in the morning to grind coffee beans after a night of drinking, when Arthur and Mal snuck into his closet and threw away all his ties. “One of them splashed water in my chest cavity and used it to wash its paws.”
“It’s true,” Eames says cheerfully, “I saw it.”
“She’s a fast learner,” Arthur says. “How was everything going until then?”
“Perfect,” Dom reports. “We actually finished the scenario before we were eaten.”
“Forge is as good as it’s going to get.” Eames says. “which is perfect, in case you were wondering.”
“I was not,” Arthur says.
“We’re doing it tomorrow,” Dom says. “I’ll go tell Miles and Theo to get ready and we’ll call to have Curtland moved here.” He leaves, and Eames rolls his chair over to Arthur’s side. Arthur ignores him, tipping himself back so he can prop his feet on the table. They sit in silence for five straight minutes. Arthur uncrosses and recrosses his ankles.
Eames blows into Arthur’s ear, making him start violently. “Fancy a drink when she’s done?”
“We’re doing the extraction tomorrow,” Arthur says disapprovingly. He turns to a new page in his little notebook and draws the maze from memory, flips back to check it against the blueprints.
“Live a little,” Eames wheedles, and uses the hollow tube from a disassembled pen to blow a wad of scrunched up paper at the skin below Arthur’s ear.
“I understand that being professional is not your forte,” Arthur says testily, refusing to reach up and wipe the spitball away. “But some of us have a reputation to uphold.”
“Have a drink with me tomorrow,” Eames says.
“I thought you were out of beer,” Arthur says, and draws the maze again, rechecks it. His scale is still a little off.
“I lied.” Eames reaches over to flick the paper off Arthur’s neck, his nail dragging over his skin in a way that makes Arthur shudder a little, all the way down his spine.
“If you stop talking until then,” Arthur says, drawing the maze yet again. He checks it. The scale is even worse than the time before. Eames is shit for Arthur’s concentration.
“As a church mouse,” Eames promises, and promptly hooks his leg around Arthur’s chair, dragging Arthur closer. Arthur’s pen flies off the page, leaving a dark streak in its wake and tearing through to the sheet behind it.
“Godammit,” Arthur curses, and Eames just holds a finger up to his mouth. Arthur drives the heel of his shoe into Eames’ thigh, driving their chairs further apart. Eames extends his leg again, going for Arthur’s chair, and Arthur moves his calf to block him. He tries to kick Eames in the instep and connects with the table leg when Eames dodges. While his bruised toes are curling up, Eames manages to hook his shoe around the armrest of Arthur’s chair, and starts to pull him in again. Arthur kicks him behind the knee and Eames grunts, his leg buckling. He spins to the side to recover and Arthur pushes off the table, advancing. He ducks as Eames throws the rest of the pen at his face and catches Eames foot with his hands, pulling them up flush and half falling into Eames’ chair as they tussle.
“Oh my god,” Ariadne says, and they freeze, Eames still in the act of shoving paper down the back of Arthur’s shirt. “I’m finished,” she tells Arthur. “I’ll draw up the final blueprints in our room.” She leaves, throwing him a pointed look, and Arthur very slowly eases himself off Eames and back into his own chair. He twists, trying to get at the half a legal pad Eames had crammed down his back, but it’s slid down his spine to the point where his fingers just brush up against it, unable to get a grip.
“Come here,” Eames says gruffly, and Arthur turns obediently. Eames looks down the collar of Arthur’s shirt, his breath huffing warm on the top of Arthur’s spine. “Your clothes are too tailored to reach it from here,” he says.
“Hold on,” Arthur says, tugging his tie loose and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He pulls his button down out of his pants, untucking it completely. He wiggles a little, trying to get the paper to fall out the back.
“I’ll get it,” Eames says, and his palm presses to the small of Arthur’s back, right against Arthur’s bare skin. Arthur arches a little, just the barest curve, and Eames slides his hand up the knobs of Arthur’s spine, his fingers dipping into the spaces between. He pulls the wad of paper out, the sheets scratching Arthur’s skin on the way down. He can hear Eames drop them, the fluttering as they fall and rustling as they settle on the floor.
“Thank you,” he says, and Eames crowds against his back.
“You are fond of me, aren’t you darling?” Eames asks, and dips his head. His eyelashes flutter across the nape of Arthur’s neck, butterfly kisses around his collar.
“No more than reason,” Arthur says.
Eames leans his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, digging into the muscle. He tilts his head a little farther and sucks at the underside of Arthur’s jaw. Arthur shivers.
“Ask me again tomorrow,” he says.
Eames draws back, presses one last kiss to Arthur’s shoulder, wet lips through the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t ask forever.” He hands Arthur his waistcoat.
Arthur wraps his fingers in the fabric. “But you will ask tomorrow?”
“In friendly recompense,” Eames says, and Arthur laughs.
//
Arthur is wearing Dom’s suit when he raps on Eames’ door, the cuffs of the jacket rolled up sloppily and the button up shirt bunching around his shoulders. His hair is slicked back even more stringently than usually, and his pants are creased and unironed.
“Four in the bloody morning,” Eames rasps, swinging the door open and zeroing in on the steaming styrofoam cup in Arthur’s hands. “Coffee?”
Arthur shoves it at him. “I need one of your ties. None of Dom’s are ugly enough.”
“Have at it,” Eames says, gesturing to the suitcase lying open on the desk. Arthur rifles through it, grimacing. He pulls out one with light up bikini bottoms.
“Seriously?”
“I’m saving it for our first date,” Eames says. Arthur snorts, and picks out a particularly offensive pattern of purple and blue plaid. He heads over to the cracked mirror hanging on the back of the door.
“You ready?”
“Always,” Eames says, and sits on the bed, tying his shoes. Arthur finishes knotting the tie and surveys his work.
“Too put together,” Eames says. “doesn’t fit your role.”
“I suppose,” Arthur says, feeling pained, and undoes it.
“Allow me,” Eames says, and Arthur turns.
“You are uniquely suited to this line of fashion,” he says, and Eames chuckles.
“Tilt your head back, there’s a love.” Arthur tips his head towards the ceiling, breathing shallowly. Eames knots the tie quickly, the fabric slapping through his fingers and stinging on Arthur’s skin. “All done,” he says.
Arthur can smell Eames wrapped around his neck, resting in the hollow of his throat. “Good,” he says, and hands Eames a black gas mask. “Let’s go.”
Eames wins the coin toss, so he gets to kick down the door after Arthur unscrews the hinges, shouting in Russian as Arthur storms the room behind him, lobbing a single gas canister at the ground. It begins to hiss immediately, fogging the room, and Curtland screams, sitting up straight in the bed. Arthur grabs him by the front of the shirt and hauls him out of bed, slams his head at a calculated angle into the edge of the frame, just enough to stun him a little.
“Cooperate if you want to live,” Eames shouts in Russian, and catches him by the left arm. Arthur grabs his right side and they drag him out into the hallway, shoving at him so he’s constantly off balance, knocking him into the walls and keeping up a constant barrage of angry Russian. They steer him quickly into a room and throw him across the table at the chair.
Curtland lands on the floor and vomits, retching violently and wiping at the tears and mucus streaming down his face. “Please,” he begs hoarsely. “I--I don’t know anything.”
Arthur rips off his gas mask and tosses it aside. “Don’t fucking lie to me,” he snarls. Eames throws his own gas mask into a corner and drags Curtland into the chair, shoving at him until he can sit up under his own strength. Then he punches him in the gut, and even though Arthur can tell he’s pulled it, Curtland goes down like a sack of potatoes, landing hard on the floor. Eames kicks the chair out of the way.
“Tell us what you know,” he snarls. Curtland curls on his side, panting.
“I--I don’t speak Russian,” he says, “please, please don’t kill me.”
Arthur kicks him very lightly in the ribs. “Liar, do you think we are stupid?.”
“I can’t understand you,” Curtland cries, pushing himself to his hands and knees. Arthur looks at Eames, who shrugs.
“I believe him, darling,” Eames says, using the Russian word dorogoy.
“I’m still not feeling Pavlovian,” Arthur says.
“Tell us what you know,” Eames says in English, switching to the Russian accent. “Maybe you only lose a few parts.”
“I don’t know anything,” Curtland replies, still on his hands and knees. Arthur puts the heel off his boot on Curtland’s ribs, where he’d kicked him before, and pushes him onto his back.
“I take teeth first,” he says in his own Russian-tinged English, “then toes. Fingers. I work way up to dick.”
“Sometimes he gets impatient,” Eames says, “skip straight to dick.”
Arthur smiles with all of his teeth. “Sometimes,” he says, and stares into Curtland’s eyes. Arthur fully intends to do all of what he just threatened, and maybe more, to finish the job, and he’ll sleep just fine after. Arthur always sleeps just fine, and he makes sure Curtland can see all of that in his face, without blinking, and he can see the instant Curtland breaks.
“It wasn’t me,” Curtland says in a rush, “it was just--the money, it was just too good, the money--I’ll return it.” Eames pulls him back into the chair.
“Where is Dr. Jillis?”
Curtland shakes his head. “Dead.” Arthur leans back against the wall, still staring at Curtland and blinking only when necessary. Eames takes over the questioning.
“You killed him.”
“No,” Curtland insists, “it was Jergenson. He wanted to cover it up, I had nothing to do with it. All I did was deliver the packages.”
“How?”
“”I’m a geologist,” he says, “we go into the field to collect ice core samples, and I would leave the files and sample tubes at the sites.” His hands shake on the table. “I didn’t even know it was Jillis picking them up, I never saw him until he showed up at our base begging to be let in.” Curtland wipes at his face, his hands shaking. “I was helping you guys!”
“He’s ready,” Arthur says in Russian, and Eames nods. Arthur slips his hand into a pocket and pulls out a small black case. He flips it open and removes the syringe.
“No,” Curtland begs as Arthur walks towards him, “please I told you--” Arthur jabs it into the side of his neck and presses the plunger. Curtland drops in less than thirty seconds, and Arthur eases him back into the chair, takes his pulse.
“We’re good,” he says, “get his feet.” They carry him down the hall to a conference room, where Ariadne and Dom are already seated, Theo and Miles fluttering around them. Eames and Arthur toss Curtland into a chair and take their own seats, Theo and Miles hooking them up to the PASIV quickly.
“Ready?” Dom asks, and Arthur leans back and closes his eyes. He’s asleep before he can answer.
They wake in the same room, Curtland still slumped over. Ariadne and Cobb drag him out of the room, grunting with effort, and when Arthur turns around he’s faced with an exact replica of Lily Dunne, in blue slacks and a striped blouse, sensible black shoes.
“Come on,” Arthur says, and crouches next to a small briefcase on the floor. He can hear Eames undoing the buttons on her blouse, and he stands with the wire, slipping it around her the edge of her bra. “Don’t let him take off your shirt.”
Eames nods. “Make it look real,” she says, and Arthur smiles. He clips her on the outside edge of her eyesocket with the tips of his knuckles, a glancing blow designed for maximum colour and minimum injury. She stumbles back into the wall, flinching.
“I’m going to wreck you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur promises, and Eames drops the forgery around Lily’s face so he can smile with his own mouth.
“Promises,” he rasps in his own voice, and puts the forge back up before Arthur hits her in the face with an open handed slap, a red welt rising on her cheek almost immediately. Arthur yanks her back up, and pulls at her ponytail enough to muss it up.
“Good enough,” he says, and shoves a black hood over Eames’ face, stomps on the back of Eames’ calf and drags her down the hallway in a headlock. Ariadne is waiting outside the right room.
“He’s awake,” she reports.
Arthur nods. “Wired?”
“Belt buckle and top button of his shirt. We shifted him from pajamas into work clothes, but he shouldn’t question it too much.” Ariadne steps close to him and puts his earpiece in, fixing the coiled white cord to drop down his collar. She pulls his jacket open and leads the long thin piece of wire through his shirt sleeve, clips the small mic to his cuff. “Dom and I have them too, and we’ve already connected them to the mics on Eames and Curtland.”
“Good,” Arthur says, and waits until Ariadne steps out of view before slamming the door open and throwing Eames in ahead of him. Eames stumbles in so he falls against Curtland, who’d stood up at the bang of the door against the wall. He presses Lily Dunne’s breasts against Curtland’s chest and Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Dennis,” Eames says in a high voice, the right mix of breathy terrified. “What’s happening, they dragged me from my bed--they got you too?”
Curtland pushes Eames behind him and does a decent job of glaring at Arthur. “Leave her alone.” Arthur picks up the baseball bat propped up in a corner and hits the tabletop with a full swing. Eames lets out a little scream at the noise, and Curtland flinches back.
Arthur uses the bat to point at Eames. “Maybe I start with her,” he says, thickening his Russian accent to frankly ridiculous levels. He steps forward and Curtland surges forward, trying to push him. Arthur uses the butt of the bat to hit Curtland in the sternum, knocking the wind out of him. On cue, Ariadne starts banging on the door. Eames falls to Curtland’s side, making distressed noises and pulling his head onto Lily’s lap. Eames looks up, Lily’s hair masking her face from Curtland, and throws Arthur a wink. “I’ll be back,” Arthur says menacingly, and feels a little pained at his terrible, terrible dialog.
He steps outside into the hallway and walks around the corner to where Dom and Ariadne are waiting. “Your dialog is seriously terrible,” Ariadne says and Arthur sighs.
“He tried to protect her,” Dom says. “he feels strongly about her, he’ll confide in her if Eames plays his cards right.”
“Her cards,” Ariadne says. “His cards? Forgery makes pronouns confusing.”
Arthur presses a finger to his earpiece. “Eames is competent enough. Now quiet, he’ll be making his move soon.”
“Her move,” Ariadne whispers, but falls silent under Arthur’s look.
“Who was that,” Eames says, his voice clear over the wire. “Dennis?
“I--Lily, I never meant for you to get caught up in all this,” Curtland says.
“They said you betrayed them---you were working for them?.”
“It’s not like that, Lily--look it’s not important now. Let’s focus on how we’re going to get out of here.
Ariadne makes a little huff of disappointment. “He didn’t take the bait.”
“We didn’t expect him to,” Arthur reminds her. “Not at first.”
“Let me see the gps monitor,” Dom says, and Ariadne digs it out of her knapsack.
“It’s working fine,” she says.
“Hush,” Arthur snaps.
“--left behind the bat, Eames is saying.
“Get behind me, there,” Curtland says. “I’Il hit him when he comes through the door.” Arthur sighs.
“You had to make it a baseball bat,” he complains and Ariadne shrugs at him.
“You’re up,” Dom says. Arthur checks his two guns, one in a shoulder holster and one on his hip, the grips coloured so we can tell the difference.
“Hey,” Ariadne says, “that’s not your gun.” Arthur does a double take.
“Yes it is,” he says unconvincingly.
“It is not,” Ariadne says, “you made me take apart that Glock for like a week.”
“Isn’t that a Beretta?” Dom asks, squinting. “Doesn’t Eames carry a Beretta?”
“Does he really,” Ariadne says, arching an eyebrow.
“I’m going to go now,” Arthur says, and remembers a time when he wasn’t the one being unprofessional on the job.
Arthur walks back down the hallway, dragging his heels so they can hear that he’s coming. He takes a deep breath, grits his teeth and pushes the door open, leading with his left hand. Curtland hits him solidly in the forearm, and Arthur feels the bone shatter.
“Arghhh,” he screams, only acting a little because fucking Ariadne and her fucking solid oak baseball bat. Arthur pushes himself across the room before Curtland can hit him again, grunting in pain.
“Come on,” he hears Eames shout, “Dennis, run!” Arthur catches himself on the wall with his good arm, taking deep breaths, and after a minute he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Come on,” Dom says, and leads him back to where Ariadne is waiting with a first aid kit.
“Shouldn’t we kick you out?” Ariadne asks as Dom puts two flat pieces of plastic on either side of Arthur’s arm and starts to splint it. “When you wake up you can just go under again.”
Dom finishes securing the makeshift cast and rummages in the bag again, coming up with a sling. “Going in and out will just increase the odds of Curtland’s projections getting the drop on us,” Arthur says. “I’ll deal.”
“Next time I’ll make it a foam bat,” Ariadne promises, and Arthur grins at her.
“Position on Eames and Curtland?” he asks. Ariadne holds up the monitor, and Arthur squints at it, finding the two blinking dots quickly. In his ear he can Eames gently steering Curtland along the route.
“We’re making good time,” Dom says. “I’m going to go get in position. Ariadne?”
“I know the plan,” she says, settling down into a cross legged sit against the wall, the monitor propped up in her lap.
“You good?” Dom asks Arthur as they make their way quickly down the hallway.
“Yes,” Arthur says, and smoothly swings himself one handed into the laundry chute.
He lands in an industrial sized hamper, cushioned by sheets and towels, and takes half a second to breathe through the pain in his arm. The he hooks a leg over the edge of the hamper and half-falls onto the floor. He catches himself and pushes to his feet. “They’re in the maze, Ariadne says in his ear. Arthur jogs to the entrance of the maze, disguised as a manhole, and drops down into the familiar slate-grey tunnels of Ariadne’s maze. His breath huffs out in little puffs of white fog, dissipating into the dim otherworldly light of the maze.
Arthur starts walking, a quick loping stride, a little awkward because of his arm, in a sling and strapped to his chest. He keeps his own mental map running with his location in his head, following Ariadne’s soft directions.
“Stop,” Ariadne says, and Arthur pulls up. “They’re around the corner,” Ariadne says.
“Let me catch my breath,” Eames says, and Arthur inches a little closer, so he can hear them clearly outside the wire.
“Are you okay?” Curtland asks.
“I’m fine,” Eames says, “but I want to know what the hell is going on. Why did they kidnap us?”
“It’s not important, Lily, come on--” There’s a scuffling noise and Eames’ voice rises sharply in pitch.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you know.” Eames says. “This has something to do with Jillis and Jergenson, doesn’t it? Did you--did you kill them?”
“No!” Curtland says. “No--I. I was passing information to the Russians.”
“What?” Eames gasps.
“No-listen. Jergenson told me he was working for the government, and we were passing on fake information, some kind of sting operation, I don’t know. The Russians--they must have found out.”
“Found out what?”
“Let’s get going,” Curtland says.
“He needs another push,” Dom says in Arthurs ear. Arthur unsnaps the pistol on his hip, the grip painted bright red to mark the blank clip. He steps around the corner and starts advancing, firing three even shots before ducking around into another tunnel. Eames and Curtland shout, and he listens to them scrabble away.
“We miscalculated,” Arthur says into his cuff. “he likes her too much. He won’t tell her about anything that will make him look bad. He might even lie to make himself look better.”
“Plan C?” Ariadne asks. “Rush through to Dom’s part and the file.”
“Yes,” Arthur says.
“I’ll get ready,” Dom says.
“They’re running down blue tunnel six,” Ariadne says, “two rights and a middle from your location.” Arthur takes off at a run, digging a small electronic cannister from his pocket and twisting the top open to reveal a pin. He makes the last turn and yanks the pin out, tossing it down the tunnel where Curtland and Eames are making their way through the maze. The siren rings out seconds later, signaling Eames to cut straight through the maze and move on to phase three.
Arthur calculates the fastest route through the maze and takes off, hoping Eames will buy him enough time to get to the rendezvous point before Curtland. He explodes out of the exit, slipping on the ice, and Dom leans out of the driver’s side window of the truck, waving at him.
“Come on,” he shouts, and Arthur climbs the back, splaying himself out on his stomach on the canvas roof. Dom tosses up a tarp, and Arthur pulls it over him, grunting at his weight pressing against his arm. He twists under the tarp, hissing, and pulls a knife from his boot, cutting a careful slit in the canvas so he can see into the back of the truck.
“I’m good,” he shouts to Dom, and grips the metal railings. Dom revs the engine and after a few minutes screeches to a halt, Arthur gritting his teeth as he holds himself still with one hand and his feet braced awkwardly on the edges of the roof.
“Get in!” Dom shouts, and Arthur peers through the slit, seeing Eames and Curtland jump into the back.
“Who are you?” Eames shouts, and Dom starts his spiel about being an American agent working with MI6. Arthur pulls the tarp down off his head and pulls up the binoculars, keeping an eye out for hordes of angry projections.
“Shit,” Ariadne yelps, “I’m being chased by men in fatigues shouting in fake Russian about dicks. And they kind of look like Arthur..” Dom makes a choking noise and hides it with a coughing fit.
“Distract them for as long as you can and then kick yourself out,” Arthur orders in a low murmur. “Speed it up, Dom.” Arthur can feel the engine roar under him in response, and the wind whips freezing into his face. He watches the secondary building coming into view, larger and larger, and then something tugs his line of sight to the left. He squints, and then has to violently bite his own tongue to prevent cursing a blue streak in several languages.
“Hey,” Curtland says, interrupting Dom’s subtle threatening of charging him with treason. “Is that a polar bear?” The ground trembles a little, the dream starting to collapse as Curtland starts to think about how polar bears should be several thousand miles north, and Arthur rears up, coming down with his entire weight behind the knife.
He falls into the back of the truck, shouting a wordless warcry, and the dream abruptly stabilizes as Curtland becomes too busy worrying about the knife Arthur is waving in his face to think about the natural habitats of Arctic bears. He kicks out, catching Arthur in his broken arm, and Eames screams and flails and is generally useless. Arthur lunges at them again, ripping the canvas some more, and then Curtland catches him with a full swing of the baseball bat and Arthur lets the momentum and pain tumble him out of the truck.
He lands hard on the rocky ice, grunting, and rolls to a stop. “Finish the fucking job,” he rasps to Dom through broken ribs and what he’s reasonably sure is a punctured lung, and then grips his knife hard and slashes his femoral artery wide open.
“You,” he tells Ariadne when she wakes up, “and your fucking polar bears, Jesus Christ.”
//
Dom and Eames wake up less than five minutes later. “Got it,” Dom says, and Arthur and Eames drag an unconscious Curtland back to the security detail waiting for them in the cargo bay.
“Curtland was pretty sure he wasn’t working with the British government,” Eames tells him on the way back. “But he wanted the money bad enough to lie to himself about it. He also saw Jergenson coming back to his quarters holding a gun and bloody tarp the day Jillis disappeared.”
“Excellent,” Arthur says, “please try to be coherent in your report.”
“Your confidence inspires,” Eames says drily.
“Well now you’re just repeating yourself,” Arthur says, but he smiles, and Eames touches an index finger to Arthur’s dimple.
“Arthur!” Ariadne says, waving at him enthusiastically, and Eames starts away, coughing. “We kicked ass!” she says happily, and Arthur pulls away from her grip, watching Eames walk away.
“I have to write my report,” he says weakly.
“Do it tomorrow,” Ariadne says, “right now we’re getting totally drunk.”
//
“Where did you even get this much alcohol,” Arthur slurs, and then, “oh my god I’m drunk on the job.”
“Yes,” Ariadne says seriously, swaying a little, “and now you’re a real boy.” Arthur lets himself slide down the wall, leaning heavily on Ariadne, and they end up lying awkwardly on the floor, the dots of plaster on the ceiling swimming in Arthur’s vision.
“Mm,” he says, a little too tipsy to complain, and Ariadne wiggles closer to his side.
“You let me tie your tie,” Ariadne says, and Arthur has to take a minute to parse the sentence. “Pshi--sci--psychologically speaking, it means you trust me with your life. Because you bred--bared your throat to me.”
Arthur thinks about Eames’ calloused fingers in the hollow of his throat, his hands in Arthur’s hair, his knuckles against Arthur’s hips. Then he forgets what he was thinking about and has to go through the entire process again. “I like you,” he says finally.
“If I had an abortion,” Ariadne says, “I’d call you to pick me up.”
“That’s very confusing to me,” Arthur says, and Ariadne pillows her head on his shoulder.
“We are so drunk,” she says happily.
“That is factually accurate,” Arthur says, and falls asleep.
//
“So,” Ariadne says while Arthur frantically finishes his report and physically beats the printer into submission. “I’m putting together a team.”
Arthur picks up his report from the printer tray and paperclips it neatly. “Is that so.”
“I need a pointman,” she says. Arthur pauses. He hasn’t been associated with anyone since Cobb semi-retired, and has rejected the handful of offers he’s received without pause. He taps his fingernails on the table.
“Well,” he says. “I guess you might need a ride home from the abortion clinic someday.” Ariadne’s face lights up.
“That’s good,” she says, “since I already told Saito you were on board with a job in Berlin.”
“What.”
“We’re starting next week and also he’s sending a private jet to pick us up on the aistrip outside. Tomorrow.”
Arthur stares at her. “I see.” She bites her lip, looking nervous, and he sighs. “You have the materials?” He stops, a sudden thought occuring to him in horrifying clarity. “Is Theo the chemist?”
“No,” Ariadne says, looking equally unnerved. “Saito wants Yusuf.”
“Okay,” Arthur says, and then feels guilty. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Theo.”
Ariadne pulls a face. “He kept quoting lines from different adaptations of the Minotaur myth at me. Eames started calling him Thesus.”
“His compound worked very well,” Arthur says fairly.
“Eames also said ‘you can’t find your Domysus without first dating your Thesus’.” Arthur clears his throat to avoid smiling and then stretches to avoid frowning. He hasn’t seem Eames once since they finished the job.
“I’m going to have to talk with him about holding out on information,” Arthur says, mainly to avoid thinking about Eames.
“No polar bears,” Ariadne promises, and hits Arthur in a hug that feels more like a tackle.
//
Arthur raps on Cobb’s door, and then tries the handle. It turns easily under his hand, and he enters. Cobb is packing his bag, folding shirts carefully.
“Back to the kids?” Arthur asks. Dom smiles.
“Yeah,” he says fondly. “You will come visit us, won’t you? You did promise.” Arthur grimaces internally. He’s terrible with children, and on previous visits elected to sit on the porch drinking Mal’s expensive wine and having long staring contests with the neighbour’s cat.
“Yeah,” he says though, because abortion friends aside Dom is the closest thing he’s got to family. He hopes the neighbour’s cat is still alive. “My report.”
Dom takes it. “Thanks. I heard you’re teaming up with Ariadne.”
“I was minus a partner,” he says.
“I always pictured you with a different partner,” Dom says, and winks. “How’s Eames?”
“Don’t ever wink at me again,” Arthur says.
“Is that all you have to say?”
Arthur considers him. “Don’t ever wink at anyone again.”
//
Saito’s plane arrives exactly on time.
“You sure you don’t want to hitch a ride with us?” Ariadne asks, and Dom shrugs.
“We’re going back to debrief with MI--some number, I don’t know.”
Ariadne sighs. “How about you, Eames?”
Arthur bites his lip, and turns his head away. He watches the stairs slowly descend down to the ground and walks on the plane without looking back. Ariadne joins him a few minutes later.
“You’re a moron,” she says, and puts headphones on. Arthur leans his head on the window and closes his eyes.
He dreams of sleeping, dozing off against Eames’ side and his breath warm against Eames’ thigh.
//
Eames finds him on a train to Berlin, Arthur sitting in a private compartment.
“It occurs to me that we could drag this affair own for a number of years, finally dying tragically alone because our timing never did work out,” he says, “but I thought it might be more fun if I just ignore your tragic lack of emotional communication. Fancy a shag?”
Arthur turns the page of the novel he was pretending to read without looking up. “Wasn’t that door locked?”
“I never did ask you that question,” Eames says, and Arthur’s fingers tighten around the binding of his book.
“No,” he says, voice carefully even, “you never did.”
Eames fidgets, fussing with his wristwatch. “I suppose I was a little concerned about your answer.” His voice is as careful as Arthur’s.
“Ariadne is putting together a team,” Arthur says.
“I know,” Eames says, “darling if you could just focus on something that isn’t work for five minutes--”
“I am,” Arthur interrupts, “rather fond of you.” Eames stares at him. His eyes crinkle around the edges.
“I have been feeling the urge to settle down,” he says, “professionally, that is.”
“I’ve been feeling urges too,” Arthur says solemnly.
A grin spreads across Eames’ face, slow and joyous, the sun breaking through stormy clouds. It’s the most gorgeous thing Arthur has ever seen. “Is that so?”
Arthur reaches over and locks the compartment door. He hopes vaguely that Ariadne was serious about not leaving the buffet in the dining cart until physically hauled out by security. “Altogether Pavlovian,” he says.
“Darling,” Eames says, “I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes--and moreover I will go with you to Berlin.”
“Fancy a shag?” Arthur asks, and licks his way into Eames’ smile.