Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 8: American Boy

[bauble]

There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 8: American Boy

Master post
Wordcount: 21,500


"What's next?" Arthur asks. "On your bucket list, I mean."

"I was thinking we could do a proper roleplay," Eames says as he sinks into the bathtub, hot water stinging against his legs. "Within a dream that I construct."

Arthur's examining his eyebrows in the bathroom mirror, attacking stray hairs with a pair of tweezers. "Interesting. What's the setting?"

"An English university," Eames says, sitting with a sigh. "I'll be forging a student that's been assigned the task of taking the newest American visiting lecturer on a tour of the campus."

"This is, what, a student-teacher fantasy?"

"I'll be a student and you'll be a lecturer, but it's not nearly as cliché as you're imagining," Eames replies. Now that he's adjusted to the temperature, the water's lovely. "You aren't my teacher and I'm only giving you a tour of the grounds."

"I'll be getting a tour of something," Arthur agrees with a waggle of his eyebrows that makes Eames snort. "How's the bath?"

"Excellent." Eames reclines and closes his eyes. He opens them a minute later when a heel drops onto his big toe. "What the-"

"Move over," Arthur says, having shucked off all his clothing and made his way into the tub. "And let out some of the water or it'll overflow."

"I don’t recall inviting you into my private bath."

"Do you have anything that makes bubbles? I like it when there are a ton of bubbles. Then you can't see how murky and dirty the water gets underneath."

"I was hoping for a moment of quiet contemplation and reflection-"

"C'mere and I'll give you a handjob in the water."

"My acceptance does not constitute approval of your actions," Eames says with great dignity as he makes his way between Arthur's legs, back resting against Arthur's chest. "I continue to protest the casual disregard of my personal bath time."

"Hm," Arthur replies, hands busy with Eames' cock and balls. "Is French one of your languages?"

"Not my strongest, but I can read it and bluff my way through a conversation in a pinch." Eames tips his head back against Arthur's shoulder. The water adds a bit of novelty to what would be an otherwise lazy handjob. "Why do you ask?"

Arthur begins sucking on Eames' earlobe, with the precise amount of pressure that Eames favors. "Do you want to come?"

"Is that even a question?"

Eames can feel Arthur's smile against his neck. "Come on, then."

* * * * *

Later, the motives behind Arthur's suspiciously timed questioning and bath interrupting become clear. "I have a letter from the French government," Arthur says. "I looked it over and I think I get the gist, but I'd like to double-check."

"I charge a fee for any services rendered," Eames says as he looks up from his Mandarin review book. "That includes impromptu translation work."

"I'm pretty sure I already submitted my payment." Arthur settles his laptop on top of the book and hooks his chin over Eames' shoulder. "I got a receipt all over my fingers."

"All fees must be negotiated and agreed upon in advance. No prepayments or vague IOUs."

Arthur wraps his arms round Eames' waist. "I'll take part in your perverted student-teacher fantasy."

"It's not a-oh, nevermind." Eames pulls the laptop closer and begins to skim the letter. "This is in regards to-a piece of property you own in Paris?"

"Yeah, an apartment."

Eames reads quickly, paging down to see if he's missing anything. "There appear to be some issues with your-ownership certificates. Not quite sure on the precise translation of that term. But you're going to have to go in person to a government office in order to sort it out, it looks like."

Arthur sighs. "I was afraid of that. I tried emailing and calling, but they insisted I come in for an appointment."

"The office is located on the outskirts of Paris," Eames says, reaching the bottom of the letter. "And they demand you appear within the month or they'll move onto the next step of what is no doubt a bureaucratic nightmare."

Arthur releases Eames' waist. "Goddamnit."

Eames pushes the laptop away and stands. "I'll start packing."

"You don’t mind?"

"Leaving behind the sauerkraut and utter lack of anything worth doing in Frankfurt does break my heart, but I'll manage somehow," Eames says. "As long as I don't have to pay for an overpriced hotel room, I could do with a change of scenery. Finances are a bit tight."

"Chulda cut you off, huh?"

Eames chooses to ignore Arthur's disturbingly accurate guess. "We can stay at yours, then? Which arrondisement is it located in? Please tell me it's not the Latin Quarter. Or the Eiffel Tower. Or any other touristy area."

An odd expression crosses Arthur's face. "We-yeah. We can stay at the apartment. It's not near-it's in a quiet area."

Eames pauses. "Is something wrong with it?"

"Nothing's wrong. I haven't been there in years. That's all."

"Years? What about inception?"

"I was staying at a hotel while we were in Paris. Near the warehouse."

"You paid outlandish hotel rates when you already own a piece of property in Paris," Eames says slowly. "Seriously now: what's wrong with it? Is it a drug lab? Am I going to swoon from vapors if I set foot in the place?"

"It's not a drug lab." A familiar wisp of irritation crosses Arthur's face. "Not everything has a nefarious reason behind it."

"In our lines of work, I feel I can hardly be blamed for suspicions," Eames says. "If it's all benign, why are you reluctant to stay there?"

Arthur fidgets, hesitates, and finally relents. "It used to belong to Mal, before she died. Before she got married." The words come out in an unsteady rush. "She-gave it to me. For safekeeping."

"Safekeeping."

"She wasn't-she wasn't sure about Cobb, at first. Or about marriage, even. You know how the French are about that stuff." Eames inclines his head in acknowledgment and Arthur continues. "Anyway, she wasn’t sure how long they'd last, being married. She couldn't afford to keep her place in Paris and live with Cobb in the US so she gave the apartment to me to take care of in case the marriage ended and she wanted to go back to Paris."

"You agreed?"

Arthur shrugs. "I was doing a lot of work in the EU at the time and having a centrally located base was convenient."

"I had no idea you and Mal were so close."

"I don't know if we really were," Arthur says. "It wasn't like we talked a lot about our feelings or any of that shit. I guess she trusted me, though, and that was enough."

"Hm," Eames says, unconvinced. Now doesn't seem the moment to press the issue. "Did Cobb know about this?"

"No. He had no idea she ever had any… doubts."

"No, he wouldn't have any idea about that, would he." Although Eames supposes he hasn't much room to speak on the subject of obliviousness to wives' feelings, given how his own marriage ended.

"Anyway, after she-I haven't been back." Arthur touches the countertop, traces the sharp edge. "I was hoping to avoid it a little longer."

"You could let it go," Eames says. "Allow it to escheat to the French government and walk away."

Eames has done it on dozens of occasions-left behind possessions, people, places for good, never to return. There's a strange ache to it, cutting off a segment of your past, but a freedom as well. The chance to refresh, make yourself anew.

Arthur's not the kind of man who can let anything go, however-especially not his past. Eames is beginning to see that now.

"It's worth a lot of money," Arthur says, though they both know money's not what any of this is about. "I don't want to give that up for no reason."

"France, then," Eames says. "I'll drive."

* * * * *

Paris is as it ever was: full of fussy buildings, grand boulevards, and interminable traffic. Having someone else in the car makes it marginally more bearable; having Arthur in the car almost makes it fun.

They're sitting in a traffic snarl at a roundabout when Arthur says, "You want some road head?"

Eames ceases drumming his fingers against the wheel and looks over. "Now?"

Arthur shrugs. "We're not going anywhere."

"Tempting," Eames says with a rueful smile, "but I shall have to pass. My past experiences with sex while driving have involved rather narrow escapes from disaster."

"Almost crashed a few cars?"

"A car, a lorry, a yacht-" Eames shakes his head at the last memory; to this day he still feels faint pangs of seasickness when he smells come and ocean water together. "Both giving and receiving. Took a few tries to learn that particular lesson, but learn it I finally have."

Arthur grins. "What's the craziest sex shit you've ever done?"

"God, I can barely remember," Eames says. "Most things start to run together at some point."

"Sex is that unmemorable to you?"

"Most is." Eames shrugs. "Have sex with enough people and you'll notice similar patterns and trends. Predictable, despite different individuals."

"I guess I haven't had enough sex with strangers to be able to tell."

"No?" Eames looks over at Arthur curiously. "You seem to do fairly well for yourself."

"I like it better with someone I know," Arthur says. "Sudheer, you, a few others."

"Glad to have made the roster," Eames says dryly, rewarded with a dimple popping into Arthur's cheek.

"Was I really the only person you could ask about your sex bucket list?"

"You're not the first I asked," Eames says, and that is technically true. Mostly. "I've attempted a few things with others. Was kicked in the face and hospitalized with a broken nose thanks to some ill-fated ice play."

Arthur grins. "One time, Sudheer and I fell off a roof. I landed wrong on my ankle. It swelled up like a cantaloupe and we were both terrified it was broken. I did not want to have to explain that to my commanding officer."

"Did he disapprove of raucous gay sex?"

"Don't ask, don't tell, and especially don't get caught," Arthur replies. "Thankfully, the swelling went down the next day and my limp was barely noticeable. I wish I could say that I was smarter from then on, but I definitely wasn't."

"You engaged in more life-threatening sex acts?"

"Right after my first experience in live combat. You know that adrenaline rush that hits you at the end of a firefight? Some people throw up, others are jittery, a few pass out."

"I chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes," Eames says. "Then drank myself into a stupor and woke up on a pile of hay. No idea where the hay came from, or the goat that was licking my ear."

Arthur chuckles. "The adrenaline made me insanely hard. Sudheer blew me behind some abandoned who knows what building. The enemy took the moment to regroup and came back for more. Shot at me five seconds after I came, right here." Arthur illustrates the trajectory of the bullet against the shell of his ear. "Two inches to the left and Sudheer would have been sucking off a dead guy."

"How grisly," Eames says, peering at the faint scar.

"What about you? Ever get up to anything in your SAS days?"

"Well, I didn't have any blow jobs in combat zones if that's what you mean."

Arthur snorts. "Bullshit. I know you had a line of people ready and willing to touch your dick in any way you'd let them."

"Well," Eames allows, not bothering to deny it. "There were some dalliances. Nothing quite so exciting as your story, however."

"Me and Sudheer were kids. We didn't die of stupidity, but it was close."

"I never believed I'd live past thirty-five," Eames says. "My ex-wife and I swore we'd die young, setting the world on fire."

"For a cause?"

"For a lark. No causes. We were simply reckless bordering on a death-wish. I remember once we stole a car and were five minutes into joyriding before it ran out of petrol." Eames snorts. "You'd think someone who spent a thousand pounds on custom detailed rims would keep his tank topped off, but no."

"I take it your ex-wife wasn't a tempering influence?"

"Not in the least. She taught me nearly everything I know about cons," Eames says. "Taught me that it's about going further than anyone in their right mind would suspect you to go, and then a touch further than that."

"That's where it all began, huh?"

"Indeed." Eames thinks back on how juvenile and bored and boring he'd been. "I'd left the service and had no idea what to do next. Had a job offer, but translating business manuals into multiple languages for hours on end made me want to blow my brains out. I met Malaya, and she introduced me to a far more interesting and lucrative profession."

"And you married her."

"Yes, well, I was young, then. Impulsive. We were married after barely two months of knowing each other on a whim," Eames says. "I probably would have married virtually anyone when I was in my twenties."

Arthur huffs a quiet chuckle. "I know that feeling. Desperate for someone to love you. Desperate to love someone back."

"I thought she was my soul-mate, the only one who could ever understand me, blah blah, all that drivel." Eames looks over at Arthur and can't quite read his expression. "You know how dramatic young men can be."

"But you've outgrown all that?"

"I wouldn't say outgrown so much as seen more of the world." Eames pauses. "With seven billion people running about, nobody is irreplaceable, nothing is sacred. But histrionics about soul-mates aside, I've found that not to be such a bad thing."

"I guess that's true," Arthur says. "I used to think-well, I thought Sudheer was the only one in the world who'd ever get me. He told me I was the only one who really knew him. I was vain enough to believe it."

"Do you still believe it?"

"No." Though Arthur sounds a trifle wistful, Eames doesn't detect any deception in his voice. "We're not teenagers anymore. We don't need to hang on to fantasies like that." Arthur clears his throat. "What happened with Malaya?"

"I would have thought that'd be obvious," Eames says. "She ripped my heart out and wore it as a hat."

"Oh." Arthur blinks, clearly unsure of how to react. "I-"

"No one escapes having losing unless they sit out the game completely," Eames says, and refocuses his attention over the wheel, on the traffic. No movement. "Not even me."

There's a long silence. Eames inhales, assuming the conversation's died an unhappy death, and then Arthur speaks. "Would you take her back if she came to you today?"

Eames glances sidelong at Arthur, wondering if this is some sort of conversational trap. All he sees is thoughtfulness, curiosity. Perhaps, Eames fancies, the faintest flicker of jealousy. "Today? No."

Arthur nods, seeming content with that answer.

Eames doesn't know what drives him to continue speaking. "A year ago, though-I can't say what I would have done with any certainty. I'd like to think-well, my pride and ego claim indifference but she was. Well, she was unlike any other woman I'd known before or after."

Arthur puts a hand on Eames' knee. "I know a little bit about how difficult it can be to let someone go."

"One of the first things she said to me after our trip to the courthouse was: don't hold grudges, it'll give you wrinkles." Eames chuckles. "She also said, 'white men look dreadful when they grow old. I don't want to be married to a leather handbag when I'm forty.' She was Filipino and didn't plan on aging for another few decades."

"Well, you are relatively well-preserved for forty-one," Arthur replies wryly.

"I told her we'd flame out and die far before we ever reached that age." Eames shakes his head fondly at the memories. "How young we were."

"I guess that's the universal story, huh? Doing idiotic shit when you're a kid, thinking you've got it all figured out. If you manage not to get killed, eventually you realize you never had a clue anyway."

"Do you think there's any measure of learning involved in all this?" Eames asks. "Or are we doomed to believing we've finally gained some understanding in a constantly mistaken belief?"

"I don't know. Do you keep making the same mistakes or are you making new ones?"

"Hard to decipher at this point," Eames quips. "Ask me again in twenty years. I hear hindsight provides an excellent view."

Arthur squeezes Eames' knee and lifts his chin up as the car in front of them begins to move. "Looks like the traffic might be clearing up. Progress."

"At last," Eames replies.

* * * * *

The street Arthur leads them down is rather nondescript, a line of residential buildings up and down both sides of the block. As if sensing Eames' thoughts, Arthur points to the sculptural decorations along the side of the building they stop in front of. "That's the one. If you can't remember the number, remember the detailing that's like a bunch of flaccid dicks."

Eames squints at the building. "Good lord. They do look like flaccid dicks."

Upon entrance to the flat, the first thing that comes into view is an enormous painting of a nude man and woman locked in passionate embrace. It occupies the entirety of the far wall.

Arthur follows Eames' gaze. "That was Mal's. She told me it was an allegorical piece about the ecstasy of discovery and the agony of disappointed expectations."

"Allegory my arse," Eames replies. "That's a painting of two people fucking."

Arthur begins to laugh. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too."

The flat itself is small, cluttered with mismatched furniture and numerous un-hung paintings (featuring less overt sex and nudity) propped up against the walls on the floor. There's an inordinate amount of British post-war art among the lot--half of which appear to be originals.

"I keep having these shipped here and forgetting about them," Arthur says with a sigh, picking up an unopened package in the entryway. "I haven't been back since--well. You know."

"You were too busy looking after Cobb to concern yourself with redecorating, I'd imagine." Eames runs a finger along a red upholstered chair and wonders whether it was Arthur or Mal's purchase.

"Most of the furniture is--was--hers," Arthur says. "She didn't want to bring it to the US and I don't know what the hell to do with furniture in France."

"You said Mal was your doctor," Eames says. "She and Gretel worked on Project Somnacin with you?"

"They were the medical researchers assigned to monitor our health and track the experiment results, yeah."

"Was she the one that helped you make your own version of the PASIV?" Eames asks, keeping his tone light and casual.

Arthur huffs out a small chuckle. "Doing some research, huh?"

"I may have picked up a few tricks from the best," Eames says. Arthur doesn't seem angry, which is a good sign.

Arthur brushes the dust off a brocade lampshade. "I made the PASIV replica on my own. She answered a few questions I had about how the pumping mechanism interacts with the human body."

"You mean she answered your numerous and extremely detailed questions on how to inject yourself full of drugs without having a stray air bubble kill you in your sleep," Eames says. "And I'm sure she never suspected what you might have got up to with that oddly specific information."

"If she suspected, she never said," Arthur says. "Plausible deniability, maybe. Probably for the best, considering how things turned out."

"Considering how you went AWOL and were dishonorably discharged?"

Arthur grimaces. "Yeah. That."

Eames shrugs. "I'm certainly not one to judge."

"Anyway, you can put your stuff in the closet." Arthur leads them into a tidy, well-kept bedroom with a bookshelf, nightstand, and quite a few books. Most appear to be in French. "Oh yeah, the bed's pretty small."

Small is an understatement. Eames hasn't slept in a bed this narrow--willingly--since the barracks. "How the devil are we to fit?"

"I'll be the big spoon," Arthur says, and doesn't sound as though he's joking. "Don't give me that look. It'll be a squeeze, but two grown men can definitely fit."

"Oh, you know this from personal experience, do you?" Eames says, annoyance creeping in. Along with something else that bears a disturbing resemblance to jealousy.

"I do," Arthur replies calmly.

"Perhaps I don't want to squeeze."

"Perhaps you can take the couch."

"Are you seriously proposing we cuddle for the entire evening?" Eames demands. "Might I remind you that my English upbringing prohibits me from frivolous physical contact not having to do with procreation? Touching disagrees with my constitution."

"You talk a good game about being English." Arthur gives Eames a peck on the cheek and then a quick swat on the arse, as if the matter's already been settled. "But you've been away from Britain a very long time."

Eames watches, indignant and speechless, as Arthur strolls out of the room with nary a backwards glance.

* * * * *

Eames is brushing up on his French with a rather tedious novel scavenged from the bookshelf when he feels the mattress dip behind him. "Did you get a chance to take a shower?" Arthur asks, nipping at Eames' earlobe.

"A bit earlier, yes," Eames says, deliberately turning a page even though the last thing he's paying attention to is the words.

"Good," Arthur says, kissing the back of Eames' neck. "Because I want to eat you out, nice and slow."

"I'm not going to cuddle with you," Eames says after Arthur's got him sprawled across the mattress. Eames' tone is not as forceful as he'd like it to be. That may have something to do with the incredible rimjob he's receiving.

Arthur reaches for something on the nightstand and Eames hears the unmistakable buzz of a toy being switched on. "You ready to move on to coming with a vibrator?"

"Goddamn you," Eames breathes as the toy strokes the edge of his hole. "Arthur, you can do whatever you like to me but I won't--"

The rest of his words get eaten up in a gasp when Arthur pushes the vibrator all the way in.

Some time later, after Arthur has made Eames come with a dazzling combination of vibrator, fingers, and tongue, Arthur leaves him lying at the foot of the mattress and returns with a damp towel.

"Roll over," Arthur says when he's finished cleaning up Eames' front. "You want a pillow?"

"Mmm," Eames hums, thoroughly contented as he buries his face in Egyptian cotton. He's slipping into unconsciousness when Arthur rudely pulls the sheets back and crawls in. Eames yelps as Arthur's cold feet meet the back of his calves.

"Stop wriggling away," Arthur says, arms twining round Eames' waist. "I'm trying to sleep."

"All this was a ploy for you to steal my warmth with your frozen extremities," Eames accuses. His desire to escape is somewhat dampened by his orgasm-induced drowsiness, something Arthur was clearly relying upon in his nefarious plot.

"If you keep shuffling forward you're going to fall off the bed," Arthur informs Eames, sounding not the least bit ashamed of himself. "If you'd prefer the floor or the couch, you're welcome to them."

Eames makes more grumbling noises as he shifts to get comfortable. The coolness of Arthur's hands and feet isn't entirely unpleasant, as they serve to soothe Eames' overheated body, still sweaty from climax and exertion. Not that Eames would ever say such a thing out loud. Arthur already takes such liberties as it is.

Despite his dissatisfaction with his predicament, Eames finds himself drifting off easily, Arthur's inordinately long arms caging him without remorse.

* * * * *

"Want to go jogging with me?"

Eames groans piteously as he tries to shut out the indignities of the following: early morning sunshine creeping in through the curtains, Arthur's morning breath, and the fact that he received an excellent night's rest while being snuggled like a stuffed animal. "Why are you awake?"

"I gotta piss," Arthur says, not releasing his grip on Eames' waist. "Come on. It's a beautiful day to go jogging."

"No."

"It'll be fun," Arthur says in a wheedling tone.

"That is an outrageous falsehood."

"Well," Arthur amends, "watching my ass in jogging shorts will be fun."

Eames considers that. "Yes, but I can watch from the sidelines. Without jogging."

"If you can keep up with me, I'll let you do whatever you want with my ass later."

Eames turns his head sideways until his cheek collides with Arthur's lips. "Are you offering what I think you're offering?"

"I don't know." Arthur climbs out of bed. "Let's find out."

* * * * *

Keeping up with Arthur turns out to be a much more difficult proposition than first envisioned. Eames stays gamely beside Arthur for the first ten minutes, drops behind him for the next fifteen (ostensibly to leer, but truthfully to catch his breath), and slows to a pained shuffle for the remainder of Arthur's god-awful route.

"You bastard," Eames pants as he heaves himself onto the chartreuse chaise lounge dominating the middle of Arthur's living room. He feels like a dying behemoth.

"Okay, that was a little tough," Arthur says as he shuts the door of the flat behind them, glistening quite attractively thanks to the exercise. "Good effort, though."

"Don't patronize me." Eames drapes an arm over his eyes to block the sunlight mocking him through the window.

"I mean it. That was a tough route and you stuck it out all the way. I think that merits at least a blowjob."

Eames sighs. "Ten minutes to be sure my lungs won't collapse of stress and then I'll pop in the shower."

"No need," Arthur says as he peels Eames' trousers down.

"It's going to smell like murder down there," Eames warns, making no effort to stop Arthur.

"That's okay." Arthur grins wolfishly as he kneels. "I kind of like it."

Eames watches with some surprise as Arthur takes him in enthusiastically. Arthur strokes his own cock while he sucks, seeming to enjoy the pungency rather than be off put. Eames, for his part, finds himself mirroring Arthur's eagerness, climax spurred on by it.

Afterwards, Eames reciprocates with a quick handjob, Arthur needing no more than three jerks. Eames allows Arthur to catch his breath, head resting against Eames' chest, despite both of them smelling absolutely vile.

"After my shower, I'm meeting someone for lunch," Arthur says, words muffled by Eames' shoulder. "You good to stay here?"

"I was planning to wither and die without your presence to sustain my life force, but now I've decided on another course of action," Eames says and is rewarded with a chuckle.

"I've scheduled my appointment with the French government office for next week." Arthur lifts his head. His eyes are calm and lovely. "You'll drive me, right?"

"Am I to be your unpaid chauffeur as well as your translator?"

"I prefer to think of you as my quaint British butler."

Eames gives Arthur a light push backwards while Arthur chortles to himself. It does no good, however, for Arthur comes back in to steal a kiss immediately.

* * * * *

"Would you like to drive sometime?" Eames asks as they zip down the Boulevard Périphérique at a satisfying clip. The infernal traffic patterns of Paris are, for once, cooperating, and it puts him in a generous mood. He wonders idly whether Arthur has ever known the pleasure of driving a Porsche before. He chooses not to wonder why he cares.

"Nah, it's okay," Arthur replies. "Not really a fan of driving."

"No?"

"No," Arthur pauses. "My dad died in a car crash when I was ten. My sort-of dad."

"Sort of?"

"I never met my biological father," Arthur says, and this may be the most information he's ever volunteered about himself to Eames in the entire time they've known each other. "Just the guy I called Dad."

"You're certain it wasn't him?"

"Well, he was black, so." Arthur shrugs. "Probably not."

Eames chuckles. "I see. Have you ever looked for your biological father?"

"Not really."

"You were never curious?"

"Aiden searched, for a while, I think. I don't know if he found anything. But as far as I was concerned, the man I called Dad was my father." Arthur shrugs again. "If there's one thing having an identical twin has taught me, it's that genetics don't tell you who a person is."

"Then I shouldn't envision a dapper, grey-haired clone wandering the USA eagerly awaiting a threesome with us?"

"Even if that weren't so disgusting it makes my cock shrink three sizes thinking about it, Aiden is straight."

"Completely straight?" Eames inquires. "Because I have converted-"

"I am not having sex with my twin."

"What about a dream-"

"Dream whatever you want, but I will not be participating."

"Hm."

"Don't bother scheming. Unless it's about how you're going to herd your projections into a threesome."

"I was not scheming," Eames lies, haughtily. "I was thinking about what you said earlier, regarding your father. Your mother never remarried after your 'dad' died?"

"No." Arthur pauses. "Mom used to say that car accidents run in the family."

"Bad drivers?"

"Bad drivers and bad luck, I guess." Arthur looks out the window. "She also used to say that I was lucky. I had Aiden and I'd never be alone. Guess the bad luck won there, too."

Eames glances at the thin, unhappy line of Arthur's mouth. "What was she like, your mother?"

"She was-" The corners of Arthur's lips quirk up. "She could spot a deal or make a sale anywhere. She used to say she talked God into giving her two babies for the price of one pregnancy."

Eames smiles. "That's an interesting way of putting it."

"Yeah, she was a talker. Could talk her way out of anything and sell you a ten-pack of steak knives while she was at it." Arthur shakes his head. "I remember for a few years she went around selling-magazines? Newspaper subscriptions? I don't know what it was, there were so many things. But she'd drag me and Aiden around in matching outfits and have us knock on doors. We had lines we'd use based on who answered: a middle-aged housewife, a bachelor, a teenage babysitter. Sold a shit-ton of books and encyclopedias and whatever."

"That's quite the hustle."

"Yeah, I guess it was." Arthur's tone is fond. "She always said it's not who you know but how well you know them, and whether they'll buy from you."

"I take it she sold any number of things?"

"Anything that could turn a profit, she'd try selling it. Makeup, vitamins, juice-" Arthur shakes his head. "I remember she made me and Aiden run a lemonade stand one summer for six hours. It was the worst lemonade-sour and piss-warm in tiny paper cups. But she told us we couldn't come in until we sold the whole pitcher. After a few hours of whining and complaining about the heat, we got down to business and sold it."

"How much money did you make?"

"Five dollars. A lot of money for kids at the time-especially considering we were selling piss-warm sour lemonade," Arthur says. "But that was Mom. She'd sell anything not bolted down-"

"For a buck, hm?" Eames finishes for Arthur.

Arthur looks over at Eames. "Yeah, I guess you kind of remind me of her that way. Is that weird? That's probably weird."

"It's Oedipal at the very least," Eames agrees.

Arthur's brow furrows as he looks out the window.

"She sounds like she was quite a hellion," Eames says, and takes Arthur's hand. It's clumsy, but some of the tension disappears from Arthur's jaw.

"Yeah." Arthur squeezes Eames' hand and points to a building ahead of them. "There's the store. Let's pull in on the right."

* * * * *

It's a supermarket like any other, with bright lights and a dozen cashiers all working at a snail's pace. Arthur set off immediately, intent upon gathering enough ingredients to make proper meals. When Eames had suggested they subsist on take-away and dinners out for the duration of their stay in Paris (as they had in Frankfurt), Arthur first laughed then looked scandalized by the projected expense.

While Arthur marches efficiently to the beat of his list, Eames wanders through the aisles aimlessly, stopping to peer at intriguing labels and baffling food descriptions.

"Come here for a second," Arthur says, and Eames glances up from the wheel of cheese he's examining.

"Something gone awry?" Eames murmurs as he saunters over, eying all exits and the heavier signage he could use as weaponry. "Do you need me to cover your blind spots?"

"No, I--" Arthur touches Eames' lapel, adjusts it. "You looked very intent, over there."

"That's my favorite type of cheese," Eames says, half-turning to gesture at it. "Not many stores carry it and--"

Arthur kisses him. It's a brief kiss--a press of lips, a thumb swept over Eames' forehead, a palm against his chest. Then Arthur backs off.

"Er." Eames glances round. There's nobody in their immediate vicinity.

"What?" Arthur asks, not confrontational or defensive, but-playful. Mischievous, maybe.

"You're in a mood."

"Yeah. In the mood for a blowjob."

"Oh?" Arthur takes Eames by the hand, leading him towards the cash register. "And does my interest level factor into this decision at all? Or has sex been unilaterally determined to happen?"

The line is blessedly short and Arthur murmurs, sotto voce, as the cashier is bagging their groceries, "You're always in the mood when you don't have to do any work."

"This is true," Eames agrees. They walk outside. "Does that mean--"

"Yes, all you have to do is sit there." Arthur tosses the groceries carelessly into the car. Once they're both inside, he pins Eames' thighs to the seat and works open his zipper. Thankfully, they're parked in a quiet, isolated area. "I'll do everything."

Before Arthur can bend down, Eames catches him by the elbow. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." Arthur leans forward to brush his lips against Eames'. "Just feel like it."

Eames searches for an ulterior motive, but Arthur's smile is genuine, light wrinkling under his eyes along with crow's feet at the corners. He looks--happy. "Alright."

Arthur's mouth is lovely, the angle strange. Eames strokes the delicate shell of Arthur's ear, a contentment settling over him alongside the arousal. A series of undignified moans escape as Eames comes, too relaxed to remember to squelch them.

"Mm." Arthur sits up and swipes the back of his hand across his reddened mouth. "Don't hold back. I like it when you're loud."

"Really?" Eames says, post-coital and unsure if Arthur is mocking him. "The first girl who ever wanked me off told me I sounded like a dying seagull."

"No, no." Arthur kisses Eames' shoulder, rests his forehead against it. "I like hearing you. Knowing you're enjoying it. Gets me hot."

"Really?" Eames repeats. Arthur grabs Eames' wrist and brings his fingers to Arthur's cock, which is blood warm and erect. "Well then."

"Mmhm." Arthur kisses Eames' neck. "I like it loud and dirty."

"The dirty part I gathered." Eames begins to stroke. It's not a criticism.

"You know, aside from the bucket list stuff you're very vanilla." Arthur pants wetly against Eames' collarbone. "I'd have thought you'd be into kinkier shit after going to an all-boys boarding school."

"Did you imagine me participating in all sorts of homo-erotically charged sports?" Eames asks, amused now. Americans and their predictable fascination with uniforms and public schools.

"I was thinking more like group jerk-off sessions or orgies, but sure, homoerotic cricket matches work." Arthur gasps a little as Eames twists on an upstroke.

"At the school I attended, all the older lads were assigned a younger boy as a de facto servant. Most boys hated their first few years, but I rather enjoyed it. Then again, I never had to lift a finger," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear, gratified to hear Arthur's breathing pick up a notch. "I had my first blowjob from a lad before my first kiss with one."

"Giving or getting?"

"Getting. It was satisfactory, though my standards were admittedly low at that juncture," Eames says. "I didn't suck anyone off properly until I seventeen. Never seemed worth the trouble before then."

"Fucking hell." Arthur groans and practically shoves his tongue into Eames' mouth. "Suck me like that. Like you did when you were-were seventeen."

"Oh, I don't know if you want a blowjob exactly like that one," Eames drawls as Arthur pulls at the back of his head insistently. "There were some incidents with teeth, as I recall."

"What was he like?" Arthur asks, finally abandoning forcing Eames' head down. "The first guy you ever made an effort with. Was he older?"

Eames releases Arthur's cock and sits back, assessing. "He was."

"Someone confident and sexy who knew what he was doing." Arthur rubs his thumb along the corner of Eames' mouth. "He told you what to do and you listened. Because you liked it."

"I never thought I'd put my legs in the air for anyone." Eames flicks his tongue against Arthur's fingertip, then sinks his teeth in slightly. "After him, it was years before I did again with anyone else."

"Do you want that again? Do you want someone to tell you that you've been a good boy?"

Eames' spent cock twitches as he surges forward and sucks Arthur's dick down, hard and deep. Arthur comes with hardly any urging, seeming almost startled as he does.

* * * * *

Eames is dreaming about Arthur's hanging gardens. Or, to be more accurate, he is attempting to have a threesome which has somehow set itself in Arthur's hanging gardens.

"What are you doing here?" Eames asks grumpily of Malaya, who is fully clothed and seems unlikely to change that state anytime soon.

"No idea. This is your subconscious," she replies, craning her neck up to admire the scenery. "Impressive. Who'd you steal this from?"

"Not stolen. Was contaminated by. My aim was hotel room."

"Arthur's right. You are vanilla," she replies, scanning the horizon. "We should try another level. They may be waiting for you there."

Astoundingly enough, her advice works. Eames takes the stairs down a level in the temple and discovers a harem of Arthur-shaped projections in various states of undress. It's all very titillating except they pay him no attention.

"You're welcome to join," Eames says to Malaya as he strips and settles in the middle of a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. "I may be vanilla, but I'm a superb ride regardless."

She chuckles. "You were at that. I've never been much for sharing, though." She departs before he can respond.

Some of the Arthur (and presumably Aiden)-shaped projections begin speaking to Eames. Rather than trading smoldering glances or engaging in flirtatious banter, however, the Arthurs say things like, "Did you take out the garbage?" and "Thai or sushi for dinner today?"

"Who cares?" Eames replies. "Come over here and take your clothes off."

"If Chulda's not bankrolling you anymore, you're going to run out of money at the rate you're spending," one Arthur chides. He's artfully draped in a thin white shirt and evades Eames' attempts to grab him. "Don't expect me to bail you out if you get into trouble. I don't loan money to people."

"I am spread naked before you on a gold silk platter," Eames says. "And you're lecturing me on my finances?"

Another Arthur, this one wearing a full suit, presents his bum to Eames. "Do these pants make my ass look fat?"

"What?" Eames stares at Arthur's arse in blank confusion. "Of course not. Your arse is a work of art."

Another projection, one who looks like Arthur but is dressed in ill-fitting jeans and a tee shirt with some American sports logo on it, begins to speak. "I bet you're wondering what Aiden's like."

"No," Eames says. "All I want is a threesome. I'd greatly appreciate an orgy filled with voyeuristic, incestuous delight, but I'll settle for any two of you I can get."

"Is he clever like Arthur? Will he find you funny the way Arthur does?" The Aiden projection cocks his head to one side. "Will he approve of you? Or will he prefer Sudheer, forever and always?"

Eames sucks in a quick breath. "I don’t care about any of these things."

"I wonder what color his hair is. Not this." Aiden touches his dark hair, slicked back in Arthur's usual style. "Snow white? Salt and pepper?"

"You should take off your clothes."

"Who cares what Aiden thinks?" the suit-clad Arthur says. "I'm not going to introduce you two, anyway."

That last comment hits somewhere in Eames' chest harder than he expects. "That's correct," he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. "We'll likely never meet."

"That's the way you want it, right?" Aiden says as he begins to disrobe, smiling coyly in a way the real Arthur never does.

"Are you sure my ass doesn't look fat in this?" Arthur tips Eames' chin towards him with a feather's touch. "You can tell me if it does."

"You are so lovely," Eames says, something cracking open inside him. "So much more than I ever could have imagined."

"You shouldn't say that stuff to me," Arthur replies quietly. "I can't say it back."

"You're my projection. Can I at least hear a comforting word from you?"

"I enjoy having sex with you," Arthur says, patting Eames on the arm. "I sincerely hope we can continue."

It should be enough. It should be.

Aiden guides Eames onto his hands and knees, brings a cock to his mouth. In this position, it's difficult to see much of anything, and the projections have ceased speaking. It almost defeats the purpose of the dream, having no view of Arthur, unable to watch his doppelgangers interact.

Eames finds himself oddly relieved. He's not certain of what he'd find if he looked deeply into the eyes of his projections. He suspects it'd be something raw, something the real Arthur might not feel at all.

* * * * *

Eames wanders the streets with a vague notion of where he's going, stumbling by chance onto a street he'd jogged down with Arthur earlier. He follows the roundabout route back to the flat, crowing in triumph when a building decorated with flaccid cocks comes into view.

He alternates between banging on the front entrance and calling one of Arthur's mobiles incessantly until Arthur finally appears. He's clad in pinstriped satin pajamas and has a rather endearing case of bed-head.

"I gave you a spare key. You can let yourself in," Arthur says as they trudge inside.

"Really?" Eames turns his pockets inside out. Several notes, balls of lint, and a key fall out. "So you did."

"Have a good night?"

"I may have spent too much money." Eames sighs.

"Wow," Arthur says, sounding genuinely surprised. "If you're saying that, it must have been a hell of a lot."

"Fortunately for you, the festivities truly begin here and now," Eames says, reaching for Arthur's waist. His fingers somehow land on Arthur's sleeve instead. He gives the silky fabric a good tug.

"I'm pretty sure you're too drunk to get hard," Arthur says, sounding more wry than aroused by Eames' advances.

"I can muster a round or two." Eames bends forward to nip at Arthur's lovely, swan-like neck.

"Okay, ow." Arthur catches Eames' face in his palm and pushes it back. "What are you, a vampire?"

"Have I given you a hurt, darling? My deepest apologies. I swear I'll be more careful."

"Well, you're definitely not giving me any blowjobs while you're like this," Arthur mutters as he heads towards the loo and checks his neck in the mirror. "You didn't break skin, which is good. No hickeys and no biting while you're drunk."

"Your wish is my command." Eames punctuates the grandness of his promise with a bow and ends up head-butting Arthur's shoulder-blade.

"Come on. Let's get you on the mattress before you fall over."

"I won't-" Eames miscalculates a step and pitches forward, nearly cracking his forehead open on a footstool before Arthur catches him.

"Up and at 'em," Arthur says as he hauls Eames through the doorway. "I'm not carrying you."

He is, though, mostly. Eames can't feel his feet. They make it to the bed and Arthur tugs off Eames' shoes.

"Can't wait to undress me, can you?" Eames says, and Arthur grunts what can only be amorous agreement.

"Did you spill whisky on yourself or are you sweating alcohol at this point?" Arthur asks as he wrestles Eames out of his jacket.

Eames vocalizes his displeasure at such treatment but can't quite manage to get himself back up. "I would never spill a drop of Fliddith-Glennith-Fleniffig. Do you know how much that bloody costs?"

"Glenfiddich," Arthur corrects, enunciating every syllable like the supercilious, punctilious wanker he is. "Undo your pants and I'll pull them off by the ankles."

"Ankle-biters," Eames says, enjoying the way it rolls on his tongue. "What a silly word. What a silly concept, that children could bite at your legs, nip and annoy no matter how you try to escape." Eames waggles his toes at Arthur alluringly. "Do my bare ankles inspire naughty ideas in you?"

"Yep." Arthur taps one. "Now can you do your shirt buttons or should I?"

Eames drags a hand over his chest, aiming for a seductive caress. He fails to locate any buttons. "I shall allow you the honor."

"You're lucky I'm pretty horny tonight," Arthur says as he settles on top of Eames' lap. "If you fall asleep before I finish can I keep going?"

"I shan't fall asleep," Eames declares, then cracks a yawn. "Alright, yes."

"Okay, turn over," Arthur says, finished with Eames' shirt.

"No, no, let's do it like this."

"It'll be a little awkward if you fall asleep with your legs in the air."

"But I might suffocate if I fall asleep on my front," Eames wheedles. "Slain by your enormous cock."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches. "Seriously?"

"I'll stay awake, I promise." To demonstrate his seriousness, Eames hikes his legs up round Arthur's waist and bats his eyes. "It's not only your face, you know," Eames continues, not sure what he's saying at this point. "There's your droll sense of humor and the fact that you're cleverer than people generally give you credit for."

"Uh, thanks, I guess."

"You're ruthlessly charming when you want to be, which you already know," Eames speaks blithely as Arthur fingers him. "You're surprisingly adaptable and therefore useful to have around in a pinch. I've been having a rather splendid time traveling about these past few months and I suspect that's due to you."

Arthur is quiet as he looks down at Eames. If Eames were sober, the scrutiny would be quite unsettling. Fortunately, he is nowhere near sober.

"I'm happy I'm here," Eames says. "I'm happy that we-that we engaged in this series of lewd acts together over the past few months."

"Yeah." Arthur bends down to give Eames a kiss. "Me, too."

* * * * *

The next morning is sheer, unadulterated misery.

Arthur is merciful for once in Eames' life, allowing him to sleep undisturbed by the terrors of jogging.

When Eames eventually slinks out of the bedroom, clutching his head piteously, Arthur gets up from his laptop and makes Eames a fresh cup of tea.

"Ta," Eames mumbles as he takes the proffered mug. He squints at Arthur. "Did you do something with your hair?"

Arthur runs a hand self-consciously over the waves. "I ran out of gel and I can't find the kind I use around here."

Eames studies Arthur blearily for another few seconds. "Makes you look younger, having your hair loose like that."

"Yeah." Arthur sighs. "I tried a couple of other brands but they flake like crazy. It's like I'm raining dandruff."

Eames snorts, then instantly regrets it as the noise reverberates round his skull. "Oy."

Arthur glances at the clock. "I don't think I'll have time to go searching for more today. I guess I'll have to wear my hair loose a few days."

"I'd make a witty remark about your jailbait appearance but I'm far too hungover to summon up original material at the moment." Eames manages to haul himself onto a stool without stumbling and congratulates himself.

Arthur chuckles. "How was last night?"

"Excellent. You were a stallion."

"Thanks." Eames can hear the smile in Arthur's voice. "Did you have fun with your friend before that?"

"No." Eames takes a sip of his tea, mouth abruptly dry. His head pounds. "I was informed that a full half of our mutual acquaintances are deceased. Most were barely older than I."

He feels a hand come down to rest on the back of his neck, a thumb stroking lightly against his hairline. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Eames turns until his face brushes the crook between Arthur's chest and his arm. "My mate looks like shit. Like he's old enough to be my father."

Arthur kisses the top of Eames' head. "You don't look like shit."

Eames sighs and burrows into Arthur's shirt. It's not quite soft, woven fabric too firm and unyielding for that. Still, between the warmth of Arthur's body and the clean scent of it, Eames finds himself soothed all the same.

* * * * *

"I'm heading out to dinner," Arthur says. "You okay to entertain yourself here?"

Eames lifts his head from the arm of the chaise lounge minutely. "Am I not invited?"

"Reservation is only for two, unfortunately," Arthur says, inflectionless in that way Eames has grown wary of. "You want me to pick something up for you on the way back?"

"You smell exquisite." Eames sits up fully, ignoring his hungover body's protest at the sudden movement. "New cologne?"

"Oh, it's-" Arthur shakes his head. "Not new. I don't wear it that often. It's a pain to pack liquids on flights."

Eames stands and surveys Arthur. He looks stunning, which isn't unusual, but there's something slightly different in how he's dressed. Eames eyes the fashionable sunglasses tucked into Arthur's breast pocket and wishes he could put his finger on what, precisely, it is. "Special occasion?"

"I'm in Paris. I figure I might as well go all out."

"Of course." Eames walks forward until he's nearly chest to chest with Arthur. Eames glides his fingers along Arthur's jaw, down his neck to adjust his collar-which is in no need of adjusting. "Enjoy your dinner."

"I will." Arthur hesitates a moment before turning on his heel and leaving.

* * * * *

It takes barely any effort to determine the identity of Arthur's dinner companion. It takes considerable effort to refrain from punching something.

Eames eats a slab of cheese and the remainder of a day-old baguette, which is akin to gnawing on granite. He casts lingering glances at an unopened bottle of Beaujolais, and ends up washing dinner down with Orangina instead.

He settles on the chaise lounge with a French textbook and practices his pronunciation. Several hours pass with no appearance by Arthur, nor any calls or text messages. Arthur is hardly a man for long dinners under ordinary circumstances, but one can never account for the slowness of Parisian wait staff.

Eames reads, fidgets, goes to take a piss, then returns to the book. He is not waiting up for Arthur. He's simply not tired yet.

It's nearly midnight when Arthur returns, as impeccably turned out as he was when he left. Eames surreptitiously scans him from toes to hair and detects no sign of dishevelment or debauchery.

"I got you some chocolates," Arthur says, holding out a gold-beribboned box. He doesn't appear surprised to see Eames up.

"Thank you," Eames says, sparing a glance. "Much obliged."

"Reading anything good?" Arthur approaches-carefully.

"Brushing up on my grammar," Eames replies as he closes his book. "Would you like a chocolate?"

"No, I'm stuffed." There's tension in Arthur's stance, as if he's waiting for something. As if he suspects Eames knows.

"Dinner was enjoyable, I take it?"

"It was delicious."

Eames tugs apart the bow and opens the box, revealing an assortment of intricately painted chocolates. He takes a bite of one, savoring the sweetness, aware of Arthur's attention-which takes on new flavor.

"You know, I really thought I'd gotten over your mouth," Arthur says, voice deepening. He touches the side of Eames' cheek meaningfully.

There's a part of Eames-several parts, really-that wants to sink into Arthur's husky words and the promise of sugar-drenched pleasure. How easy would it be to slide into sex and avoid the uncomfortable cloud hanging over them, as of yet unnamed and intangible.

Unbidden, a voice inside Eames' mind whispers, avoidance is what ruined your marriage.

And why should that matter? Such a fact seems hardly relevant. Arthur and he are certainly not-

"Eames?"

Eames turns his face up to Arthur, who is watching him, cautious and uncertain. He's waiting for Eames' cue, one way or another.

The words spill out, unbidden and unwelcome. "I thought you were no longer on speaking terms with Sudheer."

Arthur takes a deep breath, as if he'd been bracing for this. "I haven't been. Before today."

"Yet you decided to have a three hour dinner with him?"

"He's not going to-to drop by if that's what you're worried about. He's working on a job in Serbia and was only in town for the day."

"Stopover for a quickie, then? Very kind of him not to muss your suit."

"What? Jesus, Eames," Arthur says irritably. "I had questions about how to prepare for my meeting with the French bureaucrats next week. We reviewed some documents and he helped me translate."

"Translate?" Eames echoes, feeling stung and then instantly foolish for it.

"You made it clear you had no desire to help." Arthur crosses his arms. "Like I said, he won't be dropping by. And no more fleeing the country. I think we're getting better at-at talking."

Bully for you, Eames thinks, but doesn't say. "He's back in your life, then?"

"He's not staying here, you are," Arthur says. "Besides, what do you care? You sleep with plenty of your 'friends.'"

"That's different and you know it."

"Yeah, well, maybe it shouldn't be," Arthur says. "I told you I'm not interested in a relationship, I'm not interested in monogamy, and I'm not-"

"Oh, get over yourself, Arthur, as if I'd ever-" Eames hurls himself off the lounge, upending his textbook and sending chocolates skittering across the floor. "I'm going out. Don't expect me back tonight."

Arthur doesn't try to stop Eames as he walks out the door.

* * * * *

Eames spends several days away. He chats up locals, peruses forged artwork at the Louvre, and engages in ill-advised cavorting. This includes sex with a pretty woman whose laugh bears a strong resemblance to a horse's neigh on the first night. On the second, he wrangles a threesome with an open-minded couple that devolves into shouting and broken dishware. He falls in with a Croatian tourist, who takes him back to a hostel and is baffled when Eames objects to sharing the top bunk.

Eames ends up paying for his own room. He's reminded of why he avoids hostels when a loud brawl breaks out on the floor above his.

Due to the unexpected expense of having to pay for all of his meals and lodging, Eames' funds are running low. It takes a rather disappointing crepe (all butter, hardly any sugar) for him to set aside his pride and reach out to the person he's been avoiding the past few days.

He calls and leaves a message asking to meet at the café located in the Grand Hotel. Arthur sends a text message back an hour later: Ok.

Arthur's greeting at the café is cool, not angry. His hair is loose, arranged to frame his face artfully. He is heart-stoppingly gorgeous and it makes Eames want to turn around and leave. Such thoughts-such fondness-are most unbecoming.

Rather than fleeing, however, Eames musters his fortitude, takes a deep breath, and opens the menu.

They're in the midst of ordering tea when Eames notices a young woman at the edge of the room. She has a waterfall of sleek dark hair to the small of her back, the way she's dressed marking her clearly not part of the wait staff. Her expression as she approaches them is one Eames recognizes; he's seen it on any number of women's faces throughout his life. Steely determination, without the slightest glimmer of good humor.

There's something about her that niggles at Eames' memory, a familiarity despite his certainty that they have never met before. It isn't until she's standing in front of him that he understands--and by then, it's far too late.

"Walter Parsons," she says, in a familiar English accent. "Reginald Watson. Thomas Eames. Whatever you're going by these days--I'd like to introduce myself. My name is Tansy."

She's beautiful. She has her mother's heart-shaped face and dark complexion, his eyes, and--most damning of all--his mouth. There's no mistaking it: she's his daughter.

Eames puts on his most benignly confused face along with his most nasal American accent. "I'm sorry--who are you looking for?"

Arthur stills beside him, expression neutral, and says nothing.

"I was hoping to do this in a quieter locale," Tansy says. "But after months of chasing you about, I'm afraid you've forced my hand. I'm your daughter. My mother is Bittu--"

"That's--I'm pretty sure that's impossible," Eames says, and glances over at Arthur nervously. "Honey, I swear I don't know this girl and I've never--"

"There's no mistake," Tansy says, raising her voice to be heard over Eames. "You can put on another accent or name, but you're exactly who I think you are. I'm going to leave you to finish your tea in peace, but we'll be seeing each other again soon, I promise you that."

She strides away, ignoring all of Eames' further protests.

After she's gone, Arthur says, "That was interesting."

"Quite," Eames replies shortly, still in his American accent. "Let's get out of here."



Next: Chapter 8, Part 2