The Exploits of a Forger and a Point Man
“We should fuck,” is the third sentence out of Eames’ mouth while on the phone (“Arthur, darling.” and “Fucking Hong Kong was a motherfucking bitch.” being the other two, respectively).
“How about we touch on the fact that subtlety is not one of your strongest points?”
“I can think of at least one strong point that you can touch on.” Arthur can envision him winking, and that does absolutely nothing for his libido, which is pretty much nonexistent at this moment.
“Is it your gun, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks uninterestedly, straightening his cuff links. “Or perhaps your penis?”
“Yes, my cock-gun? I gaze at the ceiling of this shabby motel room in wonder about your fetishes. Gunplay, darling? Do you get off on the thought of someone thrusting a hard, metal object in your arse? Or do you just like the idea of being held at gunpoint as you’re forced to bend over and take it?”
“I like the thought that if I had a gun, I could shoot you.”
“Ah,” Eames replies. “You like violence. I get it.”
“I like shooting people. It’s not necessarily the same thing.”
“Do you think you could handle my cock as well as you can handle a gun?”
Arthur groans. “Why are you calling, Mr. Eames? I’m supposed to be having lunch with a potential client in less than an hour.”
“Oh, alright. I should probably go before someone calls the front desk to complain about the noise at two in the morning.”
“Two? In the morning?” Arthur asks, perplexed.
“Yes. Two.”
“Two,” Arthur repeats.
“Is there a bloody echo? Yes, Arthur. I’m in Helsinki right now. It’s two in the morning and I’m jetlagged beyond fuck and Hong Kong was a fucking bitch,” Eames snaps.
The point man is unfazed. “We’ve already come to that conclusion. Why are you in Helsinki? Why are you in Finland, for that matter?” he wonders aloud. “Are you even allowed there?”
“That’s Switzerland, dear. I’m not allowed in Switzerland,” the Englishman corrects.
“How did you manage that? The Swiss are the most laidback people I’ve ever met. That’s like a Canadian turning down help for a runaway drug addict with the most potent form of syphilis in the world. It defies the laws of nature if it happens. They just can’t say no.”
“Well, only if said syphilis-infected drug addict doesn’t supply them with the right beer and maple syrup,” is Eames’s answer.
“Again, Eames, I have a meeting to get to.”
“Wait! Arthur!”
A sigh of exasperation. “Yes?”
“I can show you something that defies the laws of nature.”
“…What?”
“What? I was replying to the last thing you said.”
“That I have a meeting? Which I’m going to be late to if this keeps up.”
“No, the thing about Canadians and syphilis…”
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur shifts the phone to his other hand as he puts on a tie. “Why are you calling?”
There’s the sound of a phone being set down, and a faint shuffling on the other end.
“Eames? What are you doing?”
“I’m putting my trousers back on,” he answers honestly.
Arthur blinks. “Why were they off in the first place?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“…And, again, I ask: why were your pants off?”
“Not pants. Trousers. It doesn’t matter, anymore.”
“…”
“…Arthur? Hello?”
“Sorry, I had to put the phone down. I really need to go, Eames. I’ll contact you if I get a client. Get some sleep,” Arthur orders.
“I don’t think I can now,” Eames laughs.
“Why not?”
“I never realized how hot you sound when you order people around.”
“It’s probably just you,” Arthur groans again.
“What are you wearing?” Eames inquires slyly.
Arthur moans, in the most unsexy way possible. “Goodbye, Mr. Eames.”
Eames frantically shouts. “No! Arthur!?” The only reply he receives is the sound of silence. “Arthur? Are you touching yourself?”
The phone emits a long, inglorious beep. Dial tone.
“Shite.”
* * *
Fucking Hong Kong is a motherfucking bitch. It starts off badly, continues in that sense, and ends with a dive into the deep end of the pool of vomited shit.
According to Yusuf, of course. And Yusuf isn’t the most reliable source for information about this since he spends his time adjusting Somnacin levels, but Ariadne, Saito, and Eames all agree that they’re never ever setting foot in fucking Hong Kong ever again.
Dom thinks things go swimmingly.
Their first mistake is bringing Saito along and assuming that he can speak Chinese.
“Not all Asians can speak Chinese, Mr. Cobb,” he calmly replies. They’re already two levels under and it’s too late to back out at this point. They have less than twenty minutes (dream time) until the first kick and they aren’t even close to extracting the information they were sent in for.
Dom groans. “I just assumed-”
“Never assume,” Eames pipes in, not in his forge yet (a young boy that is supposedly the mark’s deceased grandfather). “It makes an ass of you and me.”
“You’re already an ass, Mr. Eames,” Saito responds. He turns back to Dom. “Why did you think it would be a good idea to wait until now to inquire about my language skills?”
“You’re Asian!” Dom shouts. “You should be able to speak Asian languages!”
Saito nods. “Oh, I can speak Japanese and a little bit of Mandarin. I found no interest in full Chinese, though. It sounds too Asian.”
* * *
The second mistake is allowing Eames to really get into character with the new forge, a child around eight years old who doesn’t know a lick of English.
“Cobb.” Ariadne pats his shoulder.
He holds up a hand. “Just a minute Ariadne. You already have a background with basic Chinese, if you know Mandarin. How about we just do some quick lessons-”
Ariadne glances at Saito, then out the window. “Cobb.”
Saito sees what she’s looking at, and looks between Ariadne and Dominick. “Mr. Cobb.”
“-or you could act like a foreigner, because you are, so I guess it really wouldn’t be actin-”
“Dom!”
“What?”
His eyes follow the path of her finger to the window.
“It’s a window,” he tells her.
“Outside,” she snaps.
Outside, a group of people (projections) has gathered around a young, Chinese boy who is gleefully dancing around with a stick, apparently showing off his skill.
It’s lacking.
Dom isn’t quite sure if it’s the boy who’s the horrible dancer, or if it’s Eames. He’s not sure he actually wants to know.
The projections are enjoying it, though, as a few of them are offering the boy money.
Dominick runs out amidst the shouts of, “Shit! Dom, get back here!” and “Mr. Cobb! That’s a very bad idea.”
He pulls the boy close to him. “He’s not a prostitute!” He shakes Eames, his eyes open in a demented and psychotic manner. “You’re not a prostitute!”
Eames looks at him in horror. As a father, Dominick realizes afterwards that he should’ve noticed the signs much faster. As it is, however, he watches as Eames’s mouth snaps shut, his hands shake, and his lips quiver slightly.
“Oh, no no no nonononono-”
Eames screams. He throws himself on the ground and kicks and shouts and screams. And it doesn’t matter what language it’s in, a scream is a scream is a scream is a goddamn scream. Tears stream down his face and snot forms in the cleft of his upper lip.
The projections turn and all of them look between the little boy and the strange man. A few step forward and draw guns, not quite sure who to shoot.
So, it all makes sense when Ariadne becomes the better man (woman) and shoots Dom out of the dream. She turns to Eames, whispers, “Sorry,” and shoots him in the head.
The projections scramble and come from all directions, dragging Saito and the architect to the center of the street, where they all take turns stabbing and running over their mangled bodies.
It’s not the nicest death Ariadne has had the pleasure of running across. Saito is fascinated by the old fashioned methods some of the projections are using, and is starting to consider learning more about the Chinese culture.
* * *
The third mistake is not using Arthur as a point man.
“Dobinick Cobb.”
“Arthur?”
“Why didend you dell be aboud dis?”
“You’re sick,” he answers. Obviously.
Arthur coughs loudly, as if to verify that yes, he is sick. “Ibe got a cold. Ibe been worshe. You need a poind ban.”
Dom pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not while you’re sick. I found someone else. It was supposed to be an easy job, so I wasn’t worried. It went fine. I’m more worried about you. Have you taken any medication?”
“Yeb,” Arthur laughs. “Id’s working. Ibe feelin’ all dingly inside. Dob, you shouldeb called be when you knew you needed a poind ban. Ari made id sound like id sucked donkey balls.”
Cobb laughs, because Arthur is a scary guy when he’s stern, but the medication is making him sound more like a child scolding his parents for talking during a puppet show. Cute, innocent, and completely harmless.
“Cobb? Are you lisdening to be? Cobb?”
“Yes. I’m still here. Everyone is fine. Ariadne figured things out and got us out in time. She shot me.”
Which was quite terrifying. Who wants to go out by getting shot by a girl? That does nothing for one’s masculinity.
“Cobb? Hehe, Cobb. Guess whad?”
“What?”
“Your nabe rhymes with Bob. Cobb, bob. Corn on the cob,” Arthur sings out.
“You’re very disturbing when you’re medicated, I’ll have you know. Go to sleep.”
“Okay.”
* * *
So, all in all, fucking Hong Kong was a motherfucking bitch.
* * *
But, this isn’t a story about Hong Kong (although it’s definitely one of their better ones). It isn’t a story about how imprudent Dom can be at times, or how badass Ariadne is in times of stress.
No. This is a story about class, integrity, and most of all, Eames trying to get into Arthur’s pants.
* * *
“Yusuf, my man.”
The chemist looks up from his work. “Yes, Eames?”
“What do you know about everyone’s favorite point man?”
Yusuf looks confused. “Pat? How do you know about Pat? I thought you didn’t work with him.”
It’s Eames’s turn to be questioning. “Pat? No, I mean Arthur.”
Yusuf nods. “Oh. Why did you assume that Arthur is the favorite? Just because he’s the only one you’ve worked with doesn’t mean he’s the crowd favorite. I mean, that’s like choosing vanilla as your favorite ice cream. There are plenty of other flavors that still incorporate it, but they’re so much better.”
“Yusuf.” Eames snaps his fingers. “Back on track.”
“Oh. Arthur, yes.”
It’s silent.
“Yusuf!” Eames bites out. “Arthur?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know!?”
Yusuf shrugs. “Why do you want to know more about Arthur? Why don’t you just look in his files or something?”
Eames shakes his head. “No, no. I want know more about Arthur. Not his history or medical records. But, like, his hobbies-”
“-Shooting people and creating paradoxes-” Yusuf replies happily.
“-vices-”
“-Shooting people-”
“-and things he finds romantic, and don’t you dare say ‘shooting people’.”
Yusuf frowns. “I was going to say suffocation. He seems like the kind of guy to get off by erotic asphyxiation. That’s probably why he loves his ties so much. Why are you asking me about his sex life?”
“I’m not! I’m asking about Arthur! We had some conversation about maple syrup and syphilis and now I’m curious.”
“Arthur has syphilis?”
“No!” Eames recoils. “At least…I don’t think so. I don’t know. Bollocks.”
“So, you need my help getting into Arthur’s pants?”
“Christ. Help a bloke out, Yusuf.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“You’re my best mate! Who else would I ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Arthur, perhaps?”
Eames looks blank.
“Ok, then. Not Arthur.”
Eames scowls. “Any information would help, love.”
“Don’t ever call me that again,” Yusuf looks stricken.
“So you’ll help me?” the forger lights up.
“I think, and don’t you dare quote me on this, that he likes romantic gestures. Random gifts, flowers, anonymous notes, poetry, random compliments.”
“Anonymous compliments! That’s perfect! Thank you, love!”
“Don’t call me-” Yusuf starts to gripe, but before he can complete the thought, Eames has engulfed him in a hug and is running out the door.
* * *
Eames sits down next to Yusuf three days later. The team has met up with Arthur in Honolulu to learn more about the latest target.
“So,” Yusuf prods. “How’d your flirtatious devices turn out?”
“Wonderfully,” Eames replies. “Once Arthur finds all the notes, he’ll be a groveling mess in my arms. It’ll be love without restraint, dreams within dreams, life unex-”
“EAMES!”
“How did he know?” Eames asks, wide-eyed.
Yusuf stands. “Just remember, he likes shooting people.”
“Eames!” Arthur is standing in front of him, now, shoving a handful of index cards in his face. “What the hell is this!?”
Plan A. Feign innocence.
“I don’t know.”
“You-you don’t know!?” Arthur sputters. “This! This is completely and utterly unprofessional and verging on disturbing, Eames!” He shoves a couple of cards at the forger. “Why don’t you remind yourself about what you did!?”
Eames looks at the cards. Each one consists of stick figures in crudely drawn Kama Sutra positions.
I wan to kiss yur bowling ball shaped arse.
I dream of sexing myself up with yur arm. Yur musles are exkwisite.
I emagin the tisue is yur mouth when I wank. I’m sure the Kleanex isn’t nearly as soft, thouh.
Eames gapes, horrified. “I swear I didn’t write these!”
“Don’t play stupid.”
“Yusuf! It had to have been Yusuf! Damn filthy traitor.”
“Don’t drag him into this! This is you Eames! Take the goddamn blame once in a while. This,” he points to a drawing of a stick figure sucking another stick figure’s stick penis, “is not okay. If you can’t act professionally around me, then you just might have to find another point man.”
“Arthur! I didn’t write those notes! I mean, I wrote notes, yes, but they were nicer! I mean, I did compliment your arse…and arms…and I may have mentioned something about touching myself thinking of you, but it wasn’t in a creepy way! I swear, Arthur!”
“And you’re telling me Yusuf did these?”
Eames is relieved. “Yes. Thank you. Exa-”
“You’re sicker than I thought.”
“What?”
“Dragging our chemist into this? If you’re going to be jealous of him, there are better ways to bring him down. Don’t ever drag me into your pathetic wars. Ever. Are we clear?”
“Arthur…”
“Are. We. Clear?”
“…Yes.”
As soon as Arthur leaves the room, Yusuf enters, holding a cup of coffee in his hand that says “Wanted by the Law: Schrodinger's Cat, Dead And/Or Alive” with a picture of a box.
Eames turns and gives him the stink eye. “You.”
“I had to do it.”
Eames gawks. “You’re not even going to deny it?”
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “There’s no point. I got the fun out of it I wanted.”
“Why, Yusuf? Why?”
The bored chemist replies, “I was bored. I found your notes and decided to improve on them. You’re welcome.”
“‘Improve’!? ‘You’re welcome’!?” Eames repeats.
“You wanted Arthur’s attention. You got it.”
“You got his attention! And it wasn’t good attention!”
“You never specified. Specificity, Eames.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Yusuf sips his coffee and grins over the rim of the cup.
* * *
“Ariadne, my woman. How does our favorite point man kiss?”
“DAD! There’s some guy on the phone talking about points I can kiss!”
Eames is baffled. “Wha-? No. No that’s no-”
He’s interrupted by a gruff voice. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Dom?”
“Eames?”
“Dominick?”
“Do you start all your conversations this way?” Dom asks.
“What way?”
Dom sighs. “By propositioning children. Or is it just mine?”
“Why do you have Ariadne’s phone?” Eames shoots back.
“I don’t have her phone.”
“Yes! I called Ariadne and you answered,” Eames tells him because, duh.
“You called me,” Dom responds because, double duh.
Eames looks at his phone. Sure enough he had dialed Dom’s number and not the architect’s.
“Oh.”
“All that jacking off is bad for your eyesight, Eames.”
Two melodic voices pipe up, “Daddy! Daddy! We heard a joke! Listen, listen! I helped my friend Jack off a horse.” They erupt into a fit of giggles, as Dom groans unhappily. “Now look what you’ve done! Pippa! James!”
“What I did?”
There’s a click, and Eames is met by silence.
He spends approximately fifteen seconds staring at his phone, ten considering calling Dom back, and five doing just that.
“Dom, what does our favorite point man like?”
“Why do you want to know about Patrick? Do you even know Pat?”
“Not Pat! Why does everyone think I’m talking about Pat!?”
“He’s the favorite. Obviously. Everyone?”
“…Yusuf and you,” Eames admits. “I’m talking about Arthur.”
“Oh,” Dom seems genuinely disappointed. “Pat was fun. I miss Pat.”
“We’re not talking about Pat!” Eames shouts frustrated.
“Why do you want to know what Arthur likes?” Dom probes.
“Dom, please,” the forger implores.
“He likes shooting people.”
“You’re pathetically useless.”
“And puzzles. He loves a good puzzle.”
“Puzzles. Got it.”
Eames hangs up and prepares for work the next day.
* * *
“Why are there boxes of puzzles on my desk, Eames?”
Dom stares over at the forger, who is now looking at Arthur in happiness.
“And,” Arthur continues, straightening up, “I thought we had a talk about your notes.”
“We did,” Eames admits.
“Then tell me why you left me a note that says, ‘So, I heard you like enemas’?”
“Enigmas!” Eames cries. Dom is trying, and failing, to hold back his laughter.
“Oh my God. You didn’t, Eames. No way. That’s priceless.”
The Englishman glares at Cobb. “Shut up, Cobb!”
“Again, Eames. Subtlety. Tact. Show some. And don’t you dare blame Dom for this one.”
The phone rings, and Arthur stalks out of the room to answer it.
“You,” Eames points at Dominick. “How could you?”
“You seriously got him puzzles?”
“You told me to!”
“I told you he liked puzzles. Paradoxes. Enigmas,” he howls. “Enigmas, Eames. Enigmas.”
“Shut the fuck up, you sabotager.”
“I didn’t sabotage you. That’s not even a word.” He pauses to take a breath. “Why don’t you just talk to him like a normal person?”
Arthur pokes his head back in the room and calls the group to a meeting to discuss the latest extraction.
Eames glowers at the extractor. “This isn’t over.”
The echoes of Dom’s laughter follow Eames as he runs after Arthur.
* * *
Continued in part 2
“How about we touch on the fact that subtlety is not one of your strongest points?”
“I can think of at least one strong point that you can touch on.” Arthur can envision him winking, and that does absolutely nothing for his libido, which is pretty much nonexistent at this moment.
“Is it your gun, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks uninterestedly, straightening his cuff links. “Or perhaps your penis?”
“Yes, my cock-gun? I gaze at the ceiling of this shabby motel room in wonder about your fetishes. Gunplay, darling? Do you get off on the thought of someone thrusting a hard, metal object in your arse? Or do you just like the idea of being held at gunpoint as you’re forced to bend over and take it?”
“I like the thought that if I had a gun, I could shoot you.”
“Ah,” Eames replies. “You like violence. I get it.”
“I like shooting people. It’s not necessarily the same thing.”
“Do you think you could handle my cock as well as you can handle a gun?”
Arthur groans. “Why are you calling, Mr. Eames? I’m supposed to be having lunch with a potential client in less than an hour.”
“Oh, alright. I should probably go before someone calls the front desk to complain about the noise at two in the morning.”
“Two? In the morning?” Arthur asks, perplexed.
“Yes. Two.”
“Two,” Arthur repeats.
“Is there a bloody echo? Yes, Arthur. I’m in Helsinki right now. It’s two in the morning and I’m jetlagged beyond fuck and Hong Kong was a fucking bitch,” Eames snaps.
The point man is unfazed. “We’ve already come to that conclusion. Why are you in Helsinki? Why are you in Finland, for that matter?” he wonders aloud. “Are you even allowed there?”
“That’s Switzerland, dear. I’m not allowed in Switzerland,” the Englishman corrects.
“How did you manage that? The Swiss are the most laidback people I’ve ever met. That’s like a Canadian turning down help for a runaway drug addict with the most potent form of syphilis in the world. It defies the laws of nature if it happens. They just can’t say no.”
“Well, only if said syphilis-infected drug addict doesn’t supply them with the right beer and maple syrup,” is Eames’s answer.
“Again, Eames, I have a meeting to get to.”
“Wait! Arthur!”
A sigh of exasperation. “Yes?”
“I can show you something that defies the laws of nature.”
“…What?”
“What? I was replying to the last thing you said.”
“That I have a meeting? Which I’m going to be late to if this keeps up.”
“No, the thing about Canadians and syphilis…”
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur shifts the phone to his other hand as he puts on a tie. “Why are you calling?”
There’s the sound of a phone being set down, and a faint shuffling on the other end.
“Eames? What are you doing?”
“I’m putting my trousers back on,” he answers honestly.
Arthur blinks. “Why were they off in the first place?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“…And, again, I ask: why were your pants off?”
“Not pants. Trousers. It doesn’t matter, anymore.”
“…”
“…Arthur? Hello?”
“Sorry, I had to put the phone down. I really need to go, Eames. I’ll contact you if I get a client. Get some sleep,” Arthur orders.
“I don’t think I can now,” Eames laughs.
“Why not?”
“I never realized how hot you sound when you order people around.”
“It’s probably just you,” Arthur groans again.
“What are you wearing?” Eames inquires slyly.
Arthur moans, in the most unsexy way possible. “Goodbye, Mr. Eames.”
Eames frantically shouts. “No! Arthur!?” The only reply he receives is the sound of silence. “Arthur? Are you touching yourself?”
The phone emits a long, inglorious beep. Dial tone.
“Shite.”
* * *
Fucking Hong Kong is a motherfucking bitch. It starts off badly, continues in that sense, and ends with a dive into the deep end of the pool of vomited shit.
According to Yusuf, of course. And Yusuf isn’t the most reliable source for information about this since he spends his time adjusting Somnacin levels, but Ariadne, Saito, and Eames all agree that they’re never ever setting foot in fucking Hong Kong ever again.
Dom thinks things go swimmingly.
Their first mistake is bringing Saito along and assuming that he can speak Chinese.
“Not all Asians can speak Chinese, Mr. Cobb,” he calmly replies. They’re already two levels under and it’s too late to back out at this point. They have less than twenty minutes (dream time) until the first kick and they aren’t even close to extracting the information they were sent in for.
Dom groans. “I just assumed-”
“Never assume,” Eames pipes in, not in his forge yet (a young boy that is supposedly the mark’s deceased grandfather). “It makes an ass of you and me.”
“You’re already an ass, Mr. Eames,” Saito responds. He turns back to Dom. “Why did you think it would be a good idea to wait until now to inquire about my language skills?”
“You’re Asian!” Dom shouts. “You should be able to speak Asian languages!”
Saito nods. “Oh, I can speak Japanese and a little bit of Mandarin. I found no interest in full Chinese, though. It sounds too Asian.”
* * *
The second mistake is allowing Eames to really get into character with the new forge, a child around eight years old who doesn’t know a lick of English.
“Cobb.” Ariadne pats his shoulder.
He holds up a hand. “Just a minute Ariadne. You already have a background with basic Chinese, if you know Mandarin. How about we just do some quick lessons-”
Ariadne glances at Saito, then out the window. “Cobb.”
Saito sees what she’s looking at, and looks between Ariadne and Dominick. “Mr. Cobb.”
“-or you could act like a foreigner, because you are, so I guess it really wouldn’t be actin-”
“Dom!”
“What?”
His eyes follow the path of her finger to the window.
“It’s a window,” he tells her.
“Outside,” she snaps.
Outside, a group of people (projections) has gathered around a young, Chinese boy who is gleefully dancing around with a stick, apparently showing off his skill.
It’s lacking.
Dom isn’t quite sure if it’s the boy who’s the horrible dancer, or if it’s Eames. He’s not sure he actually wants to know.
The projections are enjoying it, though, as a few of them are offering the boy money.
Dominick runs out amidst the shouts of, “Shit! Dom, get back here!” and “Mr. Cobb! That’s a very bad idea.”
He pulls the boy close to him. “He’s not a prostitute!” He shakes Eames, his eyes open in a demented and psychotic manner. “You’re not a prostitute!”
Eames looks at him in horror. As a father, Dominick realizes afterwards that he should’ve noticed the signs much faster. As it is, however, he watches as Eames’s mouth snaps shut, his hands shake, and his lips quiver slightly.
“Oh, no no no nonononono-”
Eames screams. He throws himself on the ground and kicks and shouts and screams. And it doesn’t matter what language it’s in, a scream is a scream is a scream is a goddamn scream. Tears stream down his face and snot forms in the cleft of his upper lip.
The projections turn and all of them look between the little boy and the strange man. A few step forward and draw guns, not quite sure who to shoot.
So, it all makes sense when Ariadne becomes the better man (woman) and shoots Dom out of the dream. She turns to Eames, whispers, “Sorry,” and shoots him in the head.
The projections scramble and come from all directions, dragging Saito and the architect to the center of the street, where they all take turns stabbing and running over their mangled bodies.
It’s not the nicest death Ariadne has had the pleasure of running across. Saito is fascinated by the old fashioned methods some of the projections are using, and is starting to consider learning more about the Chinese culture.
* * *
The third mistake is not using Arthur as a point man.
“Dobinick Cobb.”
“Arthur?”
“Why didend you dell be aboud dis?”
“You’re sick,” he answers. Obviously.
Arthur coughs loudly, as if to verify that yes, he is sick. “Ibe got a cold. Ibe been worshe. You need a poind ban.”
Dom pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not while you’re sick. I found someone else. It was supposed to be an easy job, so I wasn’t worried. It went fine. I’m more worried about you. Have you taken any medication?”
“Yeb,” Arthur laughs. “Id’s working. Ibe feelin’ all dingly inside. Dob, you shouldeb called be when you knew you needed a poind ban. Ari made id sound like id sucked donkey balls.”
Cobb laughs, because Arthur is a scary guy when he’s stern, but the medication is making him sound more like a child scolding his parents for talking during a puppet show. Cute, innocent, and completely harmless.
“Cobb? Are you lisdening to be? Cobb?”
“Yes. I’m still here. Everyone is fine. Ariadne figured things out and got us out in time. She shot me.”
Which was quite terrifying. Who wants to go out by getting shot by a girl? That does nothing for one’s masculinity.
“Cobb? Hehe, Cobb. Guess whad?”
“What?”
“Your nabe rhymes with Bob. Cobb, bob. Corn on the cob,” Arthur sings out.
“You’re very disturbing when you’re medicated, I’ll have you know. Go to sleep.”
“Okay.”
* * *
So, all in all, fucking Hong Kong was a motherfucking bitch.
* * *
But, this isn’t a story about Hong Kong (although it’s definitely one of their better ones). It isn’t a story about how imprudent Dom can be at times, or how badass Ariadne is in times of stress.
No. This is a story about class, integrity, and most of all, Eames trying to get into Arthur’s pants.
* * *
“Yusuf, my man.”
The chemist looks up from his work. “Yes, Eames?”
“What do you know about everyone’s favorite point man?”
Yusuf looks confused. “Pat? How do you know about Pat? I thought you didn’t work with him.”
It’s Eames’s turn to be questioning. “Pat? No, I mean Arthur.”
Yusuf nods. “Oh. Why did you assume that Arthur is the favorite? Just because he’s the only one you’ve worked with doesn’t mean he’s the crowd favorite. I mean, that’s like choosing vanilla as your favorite ice cream. There are plenty of other flavors that still incorporate it, but they’re so much better.”
“Yusuf.” Eames snaps his fingers. “Back on track.”
“Oh. Arthur, yes.”
It’s silent.
“Yusuf!” Eames bites out. “Arthur?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know!?”
Yusuf shrugs. “Why do you want to know more about Arthur? Why don’t you just look in his files or something?”
Eames shakes his head. “No, no. I want know more about Arthur. Not his history or medical records. But, like, his hobbies-”
“-Shooting people and creating paradoxes-” Yusuf replies happily.
“-vices-”
“-Shooting people-”
“-and things he finds romantic, and don’t you dare say ‘shooting people’.”
Yusuf frowns. “I was going to say suffocation. He seems like the kind of guy to get off by erotic asphyxiation. That’s probably why he loves his ties so much. Why are you asking me about his sex life?”
“I’m not! I’m asking about Arthur! We had some conversation about maple syrup and syphilis and now I’m curious.”
“Arthur has syphilis?”
“No!” Eames recoils. “At least…I don’t think so. I don’t know. Bollocks.”
“So, you need my help getting into Arthur’s pants?”
“Christ. Help a bloke out, Yusuf.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“You’re my best mate! Who else would I ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Arthur, perhaps?”
Eames looks blank.
“Ok, then. Not Arthur.”
Eames scowls. “Any information would help, love.”
“Don’t ever call me that again,” Yusuf looks stricken.
“So you’ll help me?” the forger lights up.
“I think, and don’t you dare quote me on this, that he likes romantic gestures. Random gifts, flowers, anonymous notes, poetry, random compliments.”
“Anonymous compliments! That’s perfect! Thank you, love!”
“Don’t call me-” Yusuf starts to gripe, but before he can complete the thought, Eames has engulfed him in a hug and is running out the door.
* * *
Eames sits down next to Yusuf three days later. The team has met up with Arthur in Honolulu to learn more about the latest target.
“So,” Yusuf prods. “How’d your flirtatious devices turn out?”
“Wonderfully,” Eames replies. “Once Arthur finds all the notes, he’ll be a groveling mess in my arms. It’ll be love without restraint, dreams within dreams, life unex-”
“EAMES!”
“How did he know?” Eames asks, wide-eyed.
Yusuf stands. “Just remember, he likes shooting people.”
“Eames!” Arthur is standing in front of him, now, shoving a handful of index cards in his face. “What the hell is this!?”
Plan A. Feign innocence.
“I don’t know.”
“You-you don’t know!?” Arthur sputters. “This! This is completely and utterly unprofessional and verging on disturbing, Eames!” He shoves a couple of cards at the forger. “Why don’t you remind yourself about what you did!?”
Eames looks at the cards. Each one consists of stick figures in crudely drawn Kama Sutra positions.
I wan to kiss yur bowling ball shaped arse.
I dream of sexing myself up with yur arm. Yur musles are exkwisite.
I emagin the tisue is yur mouth when I wank. I’m sure the Kleanex isn’t nearly as soft, thouh.
Eames gapes, horrified. “I swear I didn’t write these!”
“Don’t play stupid.”
“Yusuf! It had to have been Yusuf! Damn filthy traitor.”
“Don’t drag him into this! This is you Eames! Take the goddamn blame once in a while. This,” he points to a drawing of a stick figure sucking another stick figure’s stick penis, “is not okay. If you can’t act professionally around me, then you just might have to find another point man.”
“Arthur! I didn’t write those notes! I mean, I wrote notes, yes, but they were nicer! I mean, I did compliment your arse…and arms…and I may have mentioned something about touching myself thinking of you, but it wasn’t in a creepy way! I swear, Arthur!”
“And you’re telling me Yusuf did these?”
Eames is relieved. “Yes. Thank you. Exa-”
“You’re sicker than I thought.”
“What?”
“Dragging our chemist into this? If you’re going to be jealous of him, there are better ways to bring him down. Don’t ever drag me into your pathetic wars. Ever. Are we clear?”
“Arthur…”
“Are. We. Clear?”
“…Yes.”
As soon as Arthur leaves the room, Yusuf enters, holding a cup of coffee in his hand that says “Wanted by the Law: Schrodinger's Cat, Dead And/Or Alive” with a picture of a box.
Eames turns and gives him the stink eye. “You.”
“I had to do it.”
Eames gawks. “You’re not even going to deny it?”
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “There’s no point. I got the fun out of it I wanted.”
“Why, Yusuf? Why?”
The bored chemist replies, “I was bored. I found your notes and decided to improve on them. You’re welcome.”
“‘Improve’!? ‘You’re welcome’!?” Eames repeats.
“You wanted Arthur’s attention. You got it.”
“You got his attention! And it wasn’t good attention!”
“You never specified. Specificity, Eames.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Yusuf sips his coffee and grins over the rim of the cup.
* * *
“Ariadne, my woman. How does our favorite point man kiss?”
“DAD! There’s some guy on the phone talking about points I can kiss!”
Eames is baffled. “Wha-? No. No that’s no-”
He’s interrupted by a gruff voice. “Who the fuck is this?”
“Dom?”
“Eames?”
“Dominick?”
“Do you start all your conversations this way?” Dom asks.
“What way?”
Dom sighs. “By propositioning children. Or is it just mine?”
“Why do you have Ariadne’s phone?” Eames shoots back.
“I don’t have her phone.”
“Yes! I called Ariadne and you answered,” Eames tells him because, duh.
“You called me,” Dom responds because, double duh.
Eames looks at his phone. Sure enough he had dialed Dom’s number and not the architect’s.
“Oh.”
“All that jacking off is bad for your eyesight, Eames.”
Two melodic voices pipe up, “Daddy! Daddy! We heard a joke! Listen, listen! I helped my friend Jack off a horse.” They erupt into a fit of giggles, as Dom groans unhappily. “Now look what you’ve done! Pippa! James!”
“What I did?”
There’s a click, and Eames is met by silence.
He spends approximately fifteen seconds staring at his phone, ten considering calling Dom back, and five doing just that.
“Dom, what does our favorite point man like?”
“Why do you want to know about Patrick? Do you even know Pat?”
“Not Pat! Why does everyone think I’m talking about Pat!?”
“He’s the favorite. Obviously. Everyone?”
“…Yusuf and you,” Eames admits. “I’m talking about Arthur.”
“Oh,” Dom seems genuinely disappointed. “Pat was fun. I miss Pat.”
“We’re not talking about Pat!” Eames shouts frustrated.
“Why do you want to know what Arthur likes?” Dom probes.
“Dom, please,” the forger implores.
“He likes shooting people.”
“You’re pathetically useless.”
“And puzzles. He loves a good puzzle.”
“Puzzles. Got it.”
Eames hangs up and prepares for work the next day.
* * *
“Why are there boxes of puzzles on my desk, Eames?”
Dom stares over at the forger, who is now looking at Arthur in happiness.
“And,” Arthur continues, straightening up, “I thought we had a talk about your notes.”
“We did,” Eames admits.
“Then tell me why you left me a note that says, ‘So, I heard you like enemas’?”
“Enigmas!” Eames cries. Dom is trying, and failing, to hold back his laughter.
“Oh my God. You didn’t, Eames. No way. That’s priceless.”
The Englishman glares at Cobb. “Shut up, Cobb!”
“Again, Eames. Subtlety. Tact. Show some. And don’t you dare blame Dom for this one.”
The phone rings, and Arthur stalks out of the room to answer it.
“You,” Eames points at Dominick. “How could you?”
“You seriously got him puzzles?”
“You told me to!”
“I told you he liked puzzles. Paradoxes. Enigmas,” he howls. “Enigmas, Eames. Enigmas.”
“Shut the fuck up, you sabotager.”
“I didn’t sabotage you. That’s not even a word.” He pauses to take a breath. “Why don’t you just talk to him like a normal person?”
Arthur pokes his head back in the room and calls the group to a meeting to discuss the latest extraction.
Eames glowers at the extractor. “This isn’t over.”
The echoes of Dom’s laughter follow Eames as he runs after Arthur.
* * *
Continued in part 2