Fic: The Man Who Had Only Dreams 1/6
Title: The Man Who Had Only Dreams part 1
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13 this part
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
Author's note 1: This is a prequel to The Man who had None of the Luck, which can be found at my journal and will probably be part of a planned triology. You don't need to have read the previous story though for this to make sense (and in fact I imagine once done, this one will be better to read first).
Author's note 2: I am now back at work, this means updates will be much less frequent. I'm aiming for about a chapter a week - on the other hand the structure of the story should be that each part is relatively self-contained, so no evil cliffhangers here.
Author's note 3: I figure with the excessively long fics I could probably do with a beta, I still go over my previous offerings and find mistakes. So if anyone feels like offering, it would be gratefully appreciated.
Now with much ado, on with the fic.
Brussels, 2005: Eames
Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
The first time Eames met Arthur he was in Brussels, dreary little city that it is. Cobb had met him at Zaventem airport after bringing him in to help them out on what had turned out to be significantly more complex job than originally anticipated.
Wait.
That wasn't actually true, the first time Eames met Arthur it was in a dingy little bar just outside of some godforsaken US army base in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Eames was close to three years out of Sandhurst, lieutenants pips just starting to tarnish, red para cap starting to feel comfortable and worn in. He was in the US for some sort of joint training exercise, that frankly he could never remember nor care about and, once it was over, he and the rest of his unit did what all good British squaddies do. They went and got pissed at the nearest bar, and because they were well-training British soldiers who had no particular wish to get blown up, they did so in civvies.
Arthur, not that he knew his name at the time, was however in uniform, albeit physical training uniform, with its ugly green army t-shirt and dark trousers, but clearly marked out as a member of the US Army. Which made what Eames did next immensely, incredibility, stupid.
It didn't help that Arthur was also gorgeous, whip thin, all lean muscle and sharp intelligent eyes and Eames, not one to reign in impulses at the best of times, was just drunk enough that it seemed like a good idea. Of course his mates were not helping either.
“Oi, Dean,” because his name was James and soldiers, even officers, weren't exactly known for their originality, “Youse drooling man.” The speaker was Chuckles, who came from the bad part of Newcastle but was smart enough and determined enough to make a better life by going to Uni. Eames somehow doubted that joined the army afterwards was the best choice he'd made, but he kept that particular thought to himself.
Instead he leaned back in his chair and, not taking his eyes off the attractive soldier, drawled out, “Well, I can't help it if I appreciate a pretty face. Oh and a down-right gorgeous arse.” Her Majesty's armed forces had seen fit in the past few years, just before Eames was set to attend Sandhurst in fact, convenient timing it was, to accept that maybe poofs might be able to shoot straight just as well as anyone else. Eames has been taking full advantage of this fact, within of course the bounds of taste and decency.
“Yuh gan to git ye'self in a right spot of bother if yuh not careful man, they've git rules 'gainst that sort of thing here” The alcohol was making Chuckles even more geordie with the passing minute, so Eames decided to ignore what he was saying as unintelligible.
Spotting the handsome soldier heading up to the bar, and in an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, Eames stood up declaring, “Think it's my round, same again all round. Don't worry Barry, I'll make sure yours comes with a pretty pink umbrella this time” Lt White threw a balled up napkin at him which he ducked his face sporting a grin as he made his way, somewhat unsteadily to the bar.
Sidling up to the young solider, he leaned close and said in his lowest, best voice, “Hello gorgeous, I imagine you'd look even better out of that uniform.” Ok, so his pick up line probably needed a bit of work, he was drunk and young and that's his excuse and he's sticking to it.
The soldier in question, rather than lamping him one like he probably quite richly deserved, instead gave him a cool once over, a disdainful look on his eyes. Although Eames, even in his drunken state, was very good a reading people and noticed that his eyes lingered just a bit too long in all the wrong places for the boy to be anything but bent. His voice however betrayed none of this as he said, very calmly, “You're drunk, sir”. The sir sounded distinctly like an insult.
“Oh very much so, but I can assure you my performance is very much unimpaired” because he was drunk and the line sounded much much better in his head.
The other man clearly thought so too, because the corners of his mouth twitched in a smile that was oh so clearly laughing at him not with him. “With all due respect sir, I think you may have had enough.”
Eames was saved from what would possibly have been the worst mistake of his life by Chuckles who had come up to the bar to find out what was taking him so long. During the ensuring, half way unintelligible conversation the soldier with the attractive arse made his escape.
It would have been the worst mistake of his life too. Not because he wouldn't have been able to get him to agree, because he was pretty sure he would, or the omnipresent DADT, because despite his performance at the bar Eames did know how to be discrete. Rather because when he glimpsed the other man once around the base, before he was whisked back off the Blighty, he was wearing corporal's stripes, and Eames was an officer and not one to abuse authority like that and if he had, he doubted Arthur would have ever forgiven him.
He never did find out his name.
++++
The second time Eames met Arthur, although that wasn't the name he was using then, he had just been deployed as an agumentee to Iraq, his predecessor having had both his legs off by an IED. This particular deployment had taken him three months early out of a two year residential tour to Londonderry, and frankly, Eames is pretty certain that he prefers downtown Basra to the charms of that particular little corner of the Emerald Isle.
Not that he was particularly enjoying the Middle East either, in fact he was seriously considering getting out of the army and into something with a few less rules and regulations and even less people trying to shoot him. He'd made Captain a few months previously and his new CO, one of the exuberant go-getting type that seemed to infect the British Army, was trying to convince him to try out for the SAS. Eames was thoroughly not convinced, it seemed far too much like hard work.
So, when he got called into Lt Col Niven's office on a surprisingly sunny September afternoon, he expects it to be another one of the colonel's as subtle as a bull in a china shop 'talks' about the future of his career and how special forces was clearly it.
Instead he found the Colonel had guests, guests in plain cargo trousers, plainer shirts, dark glasses and a look that just screamed 'spook', at least to Eames. But then Eames had grown up around spies and had gotten pretty good at picking them out of a crowd and then walking quickly in the other direction. Not that the he'd have much chance doing that this time, but that still didn't stop him surreptitiously looking for the exits.
Failing an escape, he perched himself on a table-edge as near to the door as he could reasonably manage, as Niven made introductions. He paid only cursory attention to the names, dismissing them as no doubt fake. He paid slightly more attention to the confirmation that yes, these gentlemen, or at least two of them, were from 'our friends in Vauxhall', whilst the other two were merely introduced as 'American colleagues'. CIA then, or DIA, NSA at a push maybe, Eames didn't really care.
What he did care more about was the fact that apparently he and his men were being asked to conduct a foolhardy and possibly suicidal babysitting mission into warlord held parts of Basra so that the visitors could do something which was apparently beyond his 'need to know'. Probably conduct a bloody sightseeing trip knowing his luck.
It was only when the older of the British spooks, Timothy Dale apparently, gestures over to the younger of his US colleagues that he started paying attention, “Kevin will give you the details you need once we're done here,” the man was saying. Eames didn't particularly care about that, because 'Kevin' may have been a couple of years older and have longer hair, but he was most definitely familiar and still had a very nice arse.
The other man met his eyes and the slight frown that stole across his face indicated that the recognition was mutual. Eames couldn't help a grin steal across his face, 'oh this,' he thought, 'was going to be interesting.'
A promised, however, once the briefing was over, what little there was of it, Kevin came over with a file, classification clear on its front, which he handed over with a terse “This should contain all the information you need,” and a clear indication that that was the entire sum of conversation that he wanted to impart.
Eames wasn't going to let the boy get away that easily, his natural impulse to flirt shamelessly with the lad spurred on by his desire to needle any members of the boy's chosen profession. So, he allowed a lazy grin to settle over his face as he took the file off the boy, “Thank you, Kevin” His eyes trailed up and down his body suggestively, “I was right, you do look much better out of uniform.”
The boy stiffened, and his glare dropped the temperature of the room by several degrees, but Eames, student of body language that he was, noticed the slight hitch of breath at the words and barely perceptible flush at his attention. 'Kevin' was most definitely interested. He also, it appeared, had considerable self-control, because he looked Eames straight in the eye, leaned forward and spoke in a low, firm tone, “May I remind you, Cpt Eames, that I am still under the Uniform Code and this could be construed as sexual harassment.”
Eames smirked at that, because there was no way the boy would report him, but he backed off slightly, merely replying “Really, you Yanks and your rules, and they say we Brits are the uptight ones.”
'Kevin' pulled back and snorted slightly, “I doubt anyone would make that error in your case.” And what did you know, he did have a sense of humour, dry as it was.
“Some of us find life more comfortable without a stick stuck up our arses,” he smirked back, an expression tailored just right to annoy its target even as he flicked through the folder he'd been handed.
It worked on 'Kevin' too, who shot him a glacial look. “Just make sure you find your professionalism long enough for you and your men to do your jobs”
That annoyed Eames more than he'd like to admit. Insulting him is one thing, but insulting his lads was something else, “Oh don't you worry your pretty little head on that account, my lads will see you right.”At that, it appeared, the conversation was over, as Kevin merely snorted again in an expression that conveyed adequately exactly how much confidence he had in that statement, before stalking out the room.
They barely spoke a word to each other during the rest of the operation, except when strictly necessary, with all of Eames' attempts to start up conversations brutally cut down with a terse glare and any questions as to the mission or the strange silver briefcase handcuffed to the other man's wrist met with a curt “That information is need to know Cpt Eames, and you don't need to know it.”
The boy, although in Eames' more generous moments he would admit that he was only a few years younger than himself, one saving grace was that he did actually appear to be highly competent at his job. Shame that his personality left a lot to be desired.
++++
The third time he met the boy, the first time he met Arthur, however was about a year and a half later, in Brussels on a rainy Thursday afternoon in August. He had, in the intervening time, both left the army and become intimately familiar with the contents of the other man's silver briefcase, or should that be the contents of a briefcase very much like it, not necessarily in that order.
Still, the work he did now, what little of it he actually did do, was far from legitimate nor did it include, as a rule, dreaming. Which was why receiving a phone call from Dominic Cobb, dream researcher and still somewhat legitimate employee of the international Dream Institute came somewhat out of the blue, even if he had worked with the man before. The five figure fee promised for his attendance however soon cut through his surprise, especially considering that there were a number of parties in Las Vegas who were starting to display an unhealthy, at least as far as Eames was concerned, interest in his level of finances or lack thereof.
“Eames,” Cobb greeted him when he met him in arrivals, “Thank you for coming.”
“Oh I could hardly resist, Las Vegas was starting to become dull,” Eames replied as he shook the other man's hand, shifting his bag from his right to left hand.
Cobb looked at him sceptically, before shaking his head with an expression of amused exasperation, “We're working out of the Hilton,” at Eames raised eyebrow he grimaced slightly, “our clients request.”
“Which I'm sure you are in no way taking advantage of with the lovely Mal Duarte.” Eames gave the other man a knowing smile which turned smug when the other man blushed slightly before laughing.
“You never do change do you?”
“I try not to, it's important to be consistent after all.” An amusing lie coming from a con man, one Cobb clearly found equally amusing too. Eames continued, changing the topic, “so who is this mysterious employer, with it would appear considerably more money than sense.”
Cobb stiffened slightly and glanced around his meaning clear, “Later, I'll give you all the details in the car.”
True to his word, Cobb spent half the car ride to the hotel explaining the job to him and the other half cursing the skills of Belgian drivers, and really for a man who grew up in LA and spent half his life in Paris, he should be able to handle this a little better.
Apparently they'd been contacted, discretely, by some EU bigwig who's name Eames didn't recognise and didn't particularly care about, who believed he'd been extracted after an evening involving far too much alcohol, a highly attractive blonde who's name escaped him and waking up in a hotel room with pin pricks in his wrist and no memory of the evening after leaving the soiree he'd been attending. Eames had to admit, the man was probably right on his first guess, although the fact that he'd obviously figured it out quite so quickly spoke volumes about the professionalism, or lack thereof, of the extractors in question.
The man's primary concern was apparently damage control, and had brought in Cobb, world's foremost expert on dream security, completely off the books to try and drag out his memories of the evening and what might have been taken from his mind. Apparently finding the culprits was secondary to anticipating any potentially compromising news stories that might emerge out of the debacle.
“Sounds dreadfully straightforward.” Eames finally said, pausing briefly to allow Cobb to curse in fluent French at the driver who'd just cut him up, before continuing “Why exactly do you need someone of my, dare I say, not inconsiderable talents?”
“The client's subconscious is being difficult. Even though his conscious mind is clearly willing to co-operate once we go down in the dream it's a different matter. No matter what we do, his mind won't let us in.” Cobb's frowning as he talks and Eames can feel the frustration coming off him.
“Are you certain the client's not lying to you? It wouldn't be the first time after all.” It seemed the most obvious solution after all.
Cobb glanced at him with an amused expression, “That's what Arthur said.”
“Arthur?” Eames was intrigued, last time they'd worked together it was just Cobb, his lovely fiancée and an occasional researcher-come-point man called Mickey, an unreliable sod at the best of times.
“My new point man, you'll meet him when we get to the hotel,” Cobb gave him an sly smile, “Mal reckons you two should hit it off like a house on fire.”
From the look Cobb was giving him, Eames suspected she meant that there would be a lot of screaming, smoke and the occasional person dying.
His guess was proved right when less than half an hour later as he followed Cobb into the large suite they were clearly using as an office space to be greeted with an exasperated, “The plane got in an hour ago and traffic was non-existent on the Ring and the E40, so what, exactly, took you so long?”
The small part of Eames' mind which was paying attention to the conversation noted the tone of the other man's voice, the somewhat sheepish “I took the scenic route” from Cobb and the even more exasperated “You got lost again.” in response and guessed that this was a conversation the two men had already had several times over however many days they'd been involved in this job.
The majority of Eames' mind however was occupied with cataloguing the fact that the boy, previously known as the almost certainly fake 'Kevin' was standing in front of him in a sharp, and somewhat expensive suit, and was looking even more gorgeous that the first two times they'd met. The other man looked up and met his eyes and if Eames hadn't been paying significant amounts of attention to him at that moment, he might have missed the glimmer of recognition that crossed his features before being replaced with an impassive mask.
Cobb was clearly not paying as much attention to his point man as Eames, because he continued on with introductions regardless, “Eames, this is Arthur. Arthur, this is the forger I was telling you about.”
Arthur reached out to shake his hand, his face impassively blank, his manner clearly indicating that he was going to ignore their previous interactions, “Pleased to meet you, Mr Eames.” Formality could be read in every line of his body.
Frankly Eames couldn't be having that, so he said the first this which came into his mind, “You know love when I said you'd look good out of uniform, I didn't realise quite how fetching you'd look in a suit.”
++++
Brussels, 2005: Arthur
Brussels isn't the first time he sees the other man, but it is the first time that Arthur, not Corporal Miller or Kevin, meets Eames. If he'd realised at the time quite how important this moment would be in his life he might have done things differently, but as it was at the time it was all he could do to stop himself shooting the other man and being done with it.
“You know when I said you'd look good out of uniform, I didn't realise quite how fetching you'd look in a suit.” the other man had said by way of greeting, a smirk spreading across his face. Arthur stiffened, stamping down on the heat coiling in his stomach because however infuriating the other man was, and however sleazy his pick up lines, Arthur was still human and he had eyes dammit.
He kept his expression cold, hoping that the infuriating Captain, no ex-Captain now, would get the message, “I believe you must have me confused with someone else.”
Eames just smirked at him in response, “Whatever you say, Arthur.” He positively drawled on his name, as if testing the words out. Arthur pushed his expression a few notches further towards arctic, because he was a professional and frankly the alternative was simply not acceptable.
“Eames! You're here!” Mal's exclamation of joy cut through the tension in the room. The retort that had been building died on Arthur's lips and he dragged his focus back towards his research and the job at hand. It took himself a few moments, and he was eminently glad that the attention of the other individuals in the room was currently focused entirely on greetings and cheek kisses and reminisces and not on him.
This was not meant to happen to him. Oh, not the physical attraction, he'd had his fair share of crushes in high school, had even acted on one or two of them, all of them inevitably a mistake but that's what you did when you were young and stupid. He'd had his fair share of one-night stands, messy anonymous sex with men picked up in grimy bars used to relieve tension when reliance on his right hand got too stale. But he'd never met anyone who'd gotten under his skin quite so quickly, he wasn't certain if he wanted to hit the other man or jump him.
The last time he'd felt this wound up, just after coming back from a mission in Iraq as it happened, he'd done something stupid, hadn't been nearly careful enough in the bar he'd frequented or the motel he'd gone to and had ended up with a dishonourable discharge. The memory pushed him firmly over into irritation and there was nothing forced about the glare he sent the other man's way when the forger, and really Arthur would believed that particular skill when he saw it, dropped into the chair opposite him, feet planted lazily on the table.
“So, tell me all about this Gaetan Van der whatever” the other man drawled.
Arthur didn't bother to suppress his sigh of irritation at the mess Eames was making of his files and pushed his feet off the table, “Gaetan Vandendries, aged 54, married, two grown children. Works as a senior fonctionaire for the EU. Highest level of security clearance, access to highly sensitive defence information.”
He was cut off mid-brief by a yawn from Eames, “Really darling, I could find any of that out from a quick search on wikipedia. Could you please skip over the background fluff and get on to the juicy bits before I die of boredom.” Any stirrings of attraction had now firmly been stamped out, replaced with an over-riding desire to slap that smirk off the other man's face.
++++
The bar was too loud, too bright and too crowded, in sum everything that Arthur hated about a place. It was Eames' dream, so really, it figured. Trying desperately to ignore the headache which was started to emerge from the pounding music and even more painful décor, he grabbed a seat at the bar, a horrifically tacky, not to mention uncomfortable, chrome monstrosity of a chair, and ordered a drink. He wondered briefly how drunk you could get within a dream then dismissed the idea as frankly unprofessional.
The bartender smiled flirtatiously as him as she pored him a drink, he smiled politely back at her in a way which he hoped was in no way encouraging but which she unfortunately seemed to interpret it a little differently and slipped him her number alongside his beer. He ignored it. The projections were all Mal's who had developed, it seemed, a rather big sisterly affection towards him in the time they'd been working together. In truth, if forced, he would admit that he enjoyed the affection. It was a novel experience, being wanted, and not one he was easily willing to give up.
Unfortunately, at the moment this sisterly affection appeared to be manifesting itself in a desire to find him a girlfriend, because, and he quotes, 'Arthur, a lovely young man like yourself shouldn't be alone. It's more than a shame, it's a tragedy!'. He hadn't worked up the courage yet to tell her she was looking in the wrong place, in part because he was certain that all that would do was change the focus of her matchmaking attentions but mostly because Arthur felt far too new in his friendship with both of them to be able to accurately predict how they would react to the news and he wasn't exactly known for taking risks at the best of times.
Brushing off the advances of a petite Asian girl, he scanned the room, trying to spot their British colleague. That was after all the whole point of the exercise, to demonstrate Eames' alleged shape-shifting abilities. Arthur remained unconvinced. As much as he'd heard rumours that the British had developed a 'forging' technique, evidence remained, as yet, scarce on the ground. So much so that up until now Arthur had been content to file forging in alongside inception into the box firmly labelled 'urban myths'.
As such he expected the current demonstration to be short-lived. Maybe the other man would be able to change small aspects of his features, but Arthur was blindly confident that there was no way he would be able to change enough about himself to make him unrecognisable. It was one of the basic tenants about dreaming, such was the strength of the self-image was such that the the dreamer would always represent themselves in a way which reflected reality.
He was mildly surprised when almost an hour had passed in the dream without having seen even a glimmer of Eames in the crowds. If it hadn't been for Cobb's assurances that the other man was in the dream from the beginning, he might has suspected some form of trick. It was possible that he might have missed the man in the heaving crowds, which was, he contemplated, probably why the forger had chosen to dream up such a bar in the first place.
In contrast to his luck at finding the forger, his 'luck' with the ladies was significant, having had no fewer than a dozen propositions from women of all ethnicities, sizes and shapes. He glared over at where Mal was sitting as he politely declined the latest invitation to dance, and she raised her glass at him in a mock salute, a mischievous smile on her lips. She was, he suspected, trying to figure out his 'type'.
As a result, when a buxom blonde slid into the chair besides him and, after ordering a drink, a Bloody Mary no less, he merely assumed this was yet another in the long line of projections trying to gain his interesting. The blonde took a dainty sip before leaning quite clearly into his personal space and purring in a low voice, “What is a handsome man like you doing drinking all alone in a place like this.”
Arthur frowned, figuring that Mal was taking his appreciation of film noir far too seriously, before looking the woman straight in the eye and saying, as clearly as he could, “I'm sorry, I'm really not interested,” before turning back to his observation of the bar.
Unlike the other projections who'd approached him, this one clearly didn't take the brush off lightly because she leaned over and slide a hand seductively up his knee. “Oh, but I think you are darling,” she purred, moving even closer into his personal space.
He sighed, “I'm waiting for a friend, if you'll excuse me” he tried to pull away, wondering briefly how exactly he would be able to extricate himself should the blonde become more persistent without attracting the ire of the other projections. Mal's mind may not have been militarized, but her projections could be downright rabid when inflamed.
The issue became considerably more immediate as the woman leaned in to kiss him before he could make his escape, one hand trailing behind his back, the other hand grasping his wrist in what he found, as he tried to pull away, was a surprisingly strong grasp. “You really aren't interested are you darling, no worries I'm sure I can find something a little more to your liking” she whispered in his ear after a moment, and even as he was processing how the voice, and the accent sounded wrong coming from her lips, not to mention strangely familiar, he felt the body pressed up against him shift and change to become something distinctly male.
To Arthur's great disgust, his groin responded immediately to this new stimuli, even as his conscious mind forced himself to push away. Cursing the treacherousness of his own anatomy, he looked over at the smirking face of Eames and stamping very firmly on any feelings of admiration he may have for the other man's skill, because really the blonde had been very convincing, he did the only thing he really could. He shot him.
Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself and bring his raging hormones back under control, he proceeded to shoot himself in turn.
He was up and out of the chair almost before his mind had fully returned to consciousness. Ignoring Eames indignant retort about the manners of men who feel the need to shoot people who were kind enough to bestow a kiss on them, he stormed out the hotel room and down the corridor. He wasn't certain exactly where he was going, he just knew he needed to get out the vicinity of the other man before he did something he regretted. Although what exactly that something would be was another matter altogether.
He slowed down only slightly when he heard Mal's calling to him, “Arthur, attends!” She was annoyed, she always resorted to French when she was, feeling that her native language was much more proficient at conveying her displeasure.
“Arrête, m'enfin!” He finally stopped as she asked, turning to face her, despite all temptation to just keep walking. “Faut pas lui prendre comme ça, Eames est le même avec tout le monde. Tu sais bien qu'il te taquine!”
He sighed, frustrated, “I know,” and yes he did know that Eames was only teasing, that he was like that with everyone, he bit down on his treacherous tongue before it could continue 'that's the problem.' Instead he ran a hand through his hair, bringing himself back under control before saying, “I'm going out, tell Cobb I'll be back in the morning.”
She didn't look particularly happy about that but she nodded, telling him to be careful even as he was heading down the corridor and out in the sharp evening air.
Almost without conscious thought he found himself in a gay bar, not, in many ways, unlike the one he had just left in the dreamscape. And if the man Arthur picked up that evening happened to bear a strong English accent and a passing resemblance to the forger he'd left behind at the hotel, that was neither here nor there. After all there was a significant British expat community in the area and Arthur always had gone for the broad-shouldered ruggedly handsome type.
++++
Despite the late night, Arthur was back in the hotel suite first thing in the morning as promised, a shower and a changed suit ensuring that no evidence remained of the previous night's activities. Mal gave him a worried look when he came in, clearly concerned that he hadn't come back to the hotel the night before, he ignored it, considering it far to early, and himself far too lacking caffeine, to deal with her concern.
Eames, predictably, smirked at him as he came in, a knowing look which seemed to indicate that he was perfectly aware of what he'd been up to. “Good night last night then pet?”
Arthur stiffened, because this was not something to talk about here, at work, in front of Mal. He turned on Eames one of his colder glares, snapping “I hardly think that's any of your business.” The glare failed to work and the other man opened his mouth to retort, no doubt commenting on his surprise that Arthur did anything outside of work, because frankly even after a week of working together their banter was starting to get somewhat predictable.
“Oh I'm sure I could make it my business,” was what the other man said instead and there was no mistaking the invitation in those words.
Suppressing brutally his body's instinctive reaction to that tone of voice, instead he snorted and said curtly, “I have standards Mr Eames.” He turned his attention back to his files, hoping that with that the conversation would be over before he went and did or said something thoroughly unprofessional.
Any snappy comeback the forger may have had to that was pre-empted by Cobb clearing his throat, drawing the attention of all those in the room back to the job at hand.
One of the better things about working with Cobb was that he was good at getting straight to the point, this morning was no exception. “Whatever Mr Vandendries may say, its clear from our previous attempts that his subconscious has significant trust issues. He also has a level of militarization to contend with.”
Eames raised an eyebrow at that and Arthur elaborated, feeling the need to make it clear that this was not a failure of intelligence on their part, “Standard level of training for someone with his level of security clearance. It was not anticipated to be an issue as the client in this case is voluntarily undergoing to procedure.”
“Let me guess, this too is apparently beyond his conscious control.” The forger's tone of voice made his scepticism at this claim clear.
“Oui, his mind appears to be trying to protect itself from something. It may be a fear of discovering what exactly happened that night, a trauma maybe, or it could be that his mind is unwilling to open to strangers through fear we would learn something greater than he is wishes to disclose.” It was often easy, given how skilled Mal was at creation within the dreamscape, that her original interest was as a psychologist.
“So, we're dealing with a paranoid, militarized subconscious which we may or may not be trying to remind of a horribly traumatizing event. Lovely” Eames summed up with a sardonic look.
Cobb gave him an ironic smile in response, “Something like that. Our main issue has been trying to convince his mind to trust us before his projections tear us apart,” and Arthur had to suppress a grimace as he said that, because keeping the projections off them was his job and he felt the failure keenly, “We need you to forge someone he already trusts, make his subconscious believe it is safe enough to give up his secrets.”
Eames nodded at that, his expression thoughtful as he flipped through the file in front of him, “I'll need access to the mark,” cutting Cobb off before he could comment that that was hardly an issue, given that the client was the mark to continue, “without him knowing about it. I need to see who he really trusts, not who he says he does.”
Arthur nodded at that, made sense, he mentally flipped through what he knew of the man and considered possible options, “Outside of his home life, and I'm assuming we're discounting the wife as a possible source of trust, he spends almost all of his time at the office or socialising with work colleagues. Getting you a position within his office should be easy enough, although it may take me a few days to source the appropriate references.”
The other man gave him a smug grin, “Luckily for you, my forging skills extend beyond the dreamscape.” there was a challenge in there somewhere, but Arthur refused to let himself take the bait, the man got under his skin far to easily as it was without giving him any encouragement.
++++
The job was going well, almost too well and Arthur was just waiting for something to fuck up and the other shoe to drop. Oh, Vandendries' projections were aggressive in their pursuit still, but Eames' forging of the man's colleague and best friend seemed to have calmed them down enough that it was relatively easy to lead them on a chase around the maze of back streets, twists and paradoxes that Cobb had designed for the task.
But then, predictably, the projections start getting nastier and more vicious and Arthur couldn't help but wonder what Eames had done to set them off. He doesn't even question why he's so certain that this was Eames' fault, it just seemed to fit with the way the rest of his life was going right now.
Ducking through a doorway as bullets splintered the brickwork next to his ear, he leaned back out getting off a couple of shots before running round the corner and through a gate at the end of the alleyway into a small private garden. There were two more projections there and he managed to get one of them before they can react, but then the other is shooting at him and all he can do is use one of the large birtch trees as cover, wood splintering around him.
He waited until the man had exhausted his ammo and stopped to reload, feeling blood starting to drip down his cheek from where a sliver of wood had grazed his face. Taking his chance, he shot the projection in the middle of sliding a new clip into his gun. An AK-47 of course, and really, Eames accused him of having no imagination. Hearing more projections approaching, he ran out the gate on the other side of the garden and straight into Eames, apparently having shifted at some point back into his own form, who was at that moment attempting to hold off the on-coming projections with an SA80.
The forger whirled as he heard him approach and, Arthur noted, only just managed to stop himself from shooting the point man, which would have been embarrassing for all concerned. “Ah, there you are love. I think we may have run into a spot of bother.” Arthur rolled his eyes at the typically British capacity for understatement. “Cobb's getting the goods now, reckons he needs about ten minutes.” the other man continued, after a pause to reload.
Arthur knew all about Cobb's estimates.“We'll give him fifteen to be safe,” he replied. Glancing around quickly he considered their options, if he remembered rightly there should be a way through the house attached garden he'd just come out of.
“This way,” he nodded to the other man and ducked back into the small space of greenery, heading instead up for the house the house. “What did you do?” he shouted as he finally skidding to a stop besides the one of large windows looking out of the front of the street, peering out as he did to check on their pursuers. The coast seemed clear
“What makes you think this is my fault.” Eames asked as he flattened himself the other side of the corridor, peering back at where the projections were making their way through the garden towards them.
Arthur gave him a Look, before nodding towards the front entrance, “Street's clear, I'll cover you.”
Despite everything, Eames was a trained soldier and didn't question the order, instead nodded in thanks as he headed out into the street, taking up a position further down to cover Arthur's retreat from the house. Squeezing off a couple of shoots at the projections who were now heading through the house towards the back door, he followed him out. It wasn't until they were pressed against the entrance and exit to a small alley respectively, catching their breaths, that the forger answered his question, “I may, possibly, have given him the impression I was sleeping with his wife.” He sounded almost sheepish as he said it.
“You what?” Arthur stopped himself from shouting, just, because that would have been a particularly bad idea at this point, but he couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice as he said it.
“It was an innocent comment! How was I to know he already suspected them of having an affair.” Eames defended himself before peering round the corner and raising his gun to get off some shots. “As lovely as this little alleyway is, looks like we've got company.”
Eventually, after eleven minutes and twelve seconds they ended up caught between two oncoming crowds of projections with no obvious way out. Eames let off a final burst of fire before looking back at Arthur, “Well I don't know about you darling, but I think its about time we took the easy way out of this little sojourn. Being torn apart by an angry mob wasn't really on my 'to do' list today.” He raised the gun to his chin and pulled the trigger.
It clicked, “Bugger.” was all the other man said, before throwing a questioning glance over at Arthur's glock.
Arthur checked his own ammo, one bullet left and no guarantee that Cobb had managed to get the information yet. There really was only one sensible option left so he shot the forger in the head, telling himself it was entirely because the man would merely end up being a distraction and not because he didn't really have to stomach to watch him being torn apart, and then steeled himself to try and buy as much time for Cobb as possible before succumbing to the mob.
++++
Arthur opened his eyes shakily, being torn apart by an angry mob was never a nice death at the best of times, unfortunately however vicious the client's projections had been when they just thought they were attempting to steal his secrets they were even worse once they believed the theft had actually happened. Frankly, given the trouble they'd had when the client was supposedly consenting, Arthur wondered how the original team had extracted anything from him in the first place.
Giving himself a couple of seconds to compose himself, he pushed himself up off the bed and look at his companions. Cobb and Mal appeared to be in their own process of waking, whereas Eames, having been ejected some minutes sooner, had already removed his IV line and was looking at Arthur with an expression on his face that Arthur couldn't quite decode and really wasn't sure he wanted to in any case. He ignored him, helping Cobb and Mal instead to pack up the PASIV and wake up the client. He half heard the other leave, no stalk out the room, a comment of needing a smoke floating behind him on the way out
It wasn't until later that evening that he saw the other man again, long after they had packed up the office and debriefed the client with what they'd learned. Almost typically for how their luck was going on the current job, it turned out he hadn't even been extracted in the first place, the assumption having come from the results of a perfectly ordinary attempt to blackmail him involving a sedative, a blonde and a camera, and his own paranoid mind.
Arthur was packing the last of his clothes in his case, hoping to be on a plane and out of this miserable city as soon as humanly possible when the other man strode into his room. The point man wasn't going to insult them both by asking how he'd bypassed the lock, saying instead “In polite company people knock first.” He continued packing as he spoke, not daring to look at the other man.
“Apparently Cobb managed to get the information after only nine minutes, so it seems your little self-sacrificing stunt was wasted.” For some reason the forger seemed angry, which didn't make much sense to Arthur since he was the one who'd ended up ripped to shreds by the projections.
“Forgive me for not wanting to take any chances with this job, especially after someone managed to convince the mark his best friend was sleeping with his wife.” He glared briefly at the other man as he moved around him to grab the last of his suits our the wardrobe.
“It's not my fault, Arthur, that our client had serious mental problems. The man, in case you hadn't realised yet, is borderline paranoid schizophrenic.” Eames hissed out in his own defence, before looking at Arthur with a nasty, smirk on his face, “Of course, it might be that he wasn't the only one with mental problems. Didn't take you for a closet masochist love, enjoyed being ripped apart by projections did you?”
Arthur resisted, just, the urge to punch the other man, shutting his suitcase with distinctly more force than was necessary, “Goodbye, Mr Eames.” He kept his tone calm and icy, but something of the suppressed anger must have shown in it, because Eames took a step back as he moved past with his suitcase. “Your fee will be wired to you,” the final 'fuck you' left unsaid but distinctly present in the words as he shut the door behind him.
At the time he had hoped that would be the last he'd ever see of the infuriating forger. He should have known his life would never work out that way.
Part 2
Author's notes/explanations:
Paras - Parachute regiment, one of the elite units of the British Army - generally considered equivalent to US Army Rangers.
As for the french, hopefully it should have been clear from the context but translations:
“Arthur, attends!” - Arthur wait
“Arrete, m'enfin!” - Stop, at last (more an expression of exasperation, a bit like 'for pity's sake')
“Faut pas lui prendre comme ca, Eames est le meme avec tout le monde. Tu says bien qu'il te taquine!” - You shouldn't take him like that, Eames is the same with everyone. You know he's only teasing you.
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13 this part
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
Author's note 1: This is a prequel to The Man who had None of the Luck, which can be found at my journal and will probably be part of a planned triology. You don't need to have read the previous story though for this to make sense (and in fact I imagine once done, this one will be better to read first).
Author's note 2: I am now back at work, this means updates will be much less frequent. I'm aiming for about a chapter a week - on the other hand the structure of the story should be that each part is relatively self-contained, so no evil cliffhangers here.
Author's note 3: I figure with the excessively long fics I could probably do with a beta, I still go over my previous offerings and find mistakes. So if anyone feels like offering, it would be gratefully appreciated.
Now with much ado, on with the fic.
Brussels, 2005: Eames
Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
The first time Eames met Arthur he was in Brussels, dreary little city that it is. Cobb had met him at Zaventem airport after bringing him in to help them out on what had turned out to be significantly more complex job than originally anticipated.
Wait.
That wasn't actually true, the first time Eames met Arthur it was in a dingy little bar just outside of some godforsaken US army base in the middle of nowhere, Texas. Eames was close to three years out of Sandhurst, lieutenants pips just starting to tarnish, red para cap starting to feel comfortable and worn in. He was in the US for some sort of joint training exercise, that frankly he could never remember nor care about and, once it was over, he and the rest of his unit did what all good British squaddies do. They went and got pissed at the nearest bar, and because they were well-training British soldiers who had no particular wish to get blown up, they did so in civvies.
Arthur, not that he knew his name at the time, was however in uniform, albeit physical training uniform, with its ugly green army t-shirt and dark trousers, but clearly marked out as a member of the US Army. Which made what Eames did next immensely, incredibility, stupid.
It didn't help that Arthur was also gorgeous, whip thin, all lean muscle and sharp intelligent eyes and Eames, not one to reign in impulses at the best of times, was just drunk enough that it seemed like a good idea. Of course his mates were not helping either.
“Oi, Dean,” because his name was James and soldiers, even officers, weren't exactly known for their originality, “Youse drooling man.” The speaker was Chuckles, who came from the bad part of Newcastle but was smart enough and determined enough to make a better life by going to Uni. Eames somehow doubted that joined the army afterwards was the best choice he'd made, but he kept that particular thought to himself.
Instead he leaned back in his chair and, not taking his eyes off the attractive soldier, drawled out, “Well, I can't help it if I appreciate a pretty face. Oh and a down-right gorgeous arse.” Her Majesty's armed forces had seen fit in the past few years, just before Eames was set to attend Sandhurst in fact, convenient timing it was, to accept that maybe poofs might be able to shoot straight just as well as anyone else. Eames has been taking full advantage of this fact, within of course the bounds of taste and decency.
“Yuh gan to git ye'self in a right spot of bother if yuh not careful man, they've git rules 'gainst that sort of thing here” The alcohol was making Chuckles even more geordie with the passing minute, so Eames decided to ignore what he was saying as unintelligible.
Spotting the handsome soldier heading up to the bar, and in an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, Eames stood up declaring, “Think it's my round, same again all round. Don't worry Barry, I'll make sure yours comes with a pretty pink umbrella this time” Lt White threw a balled up napkin at him which he ducked his face sporting a grin as he made his way, somewhat unsteadily to the bar.
Sidling up to the young solider, he leaned close and said in his lowest, best voice, “Hello gorgeous, I imagine you'd look even better out of that uniform.” Ok, so his pick up line probably needed a bit of work, he was drunk and young and that's his excuse and he's sticking to it.
The soldier in question, rather than lamping him one like he probably quite richly deserved, instead gave him a cool once over, a disdainful look on his eyes. Although Eames, even in his drunken state, was very good a reading people and noticed that his eyes lingered just a bit too long in all the wrong places for the boy to be anything but bent. His voice however betrayed none of this as he said, very calmly, “You're drunk, sir”. The sir sounded distinctly like an insult.
“Oh very much so, but I can assure you my performance is very much unimpaired” because he was drunk and the line sounded much much better in his head.
The other man clearly thought so too, because the corners of his mouth twitched in a smile that was oh so clearly laughing at him not with him. “With all due respect sir, I think you may have had enough.”
Eames was saved from what would possibly have been the worst mistake of his life by Chuckles who had come up to the bar to find out what was taking him so long. During the ensuring, half way unintelligible conversation the soldier with the attractive arse made his escape.
It would have been the worst mistake of his life too. Not because he wouldn't have been able to get him to agree, because he was pretty sure he would, or the omnipresent DADT, because despite his performance at the bar Eames did know how to be discrete. Rather because when he glimpsed the other man once around the base, before he was whisked back off the Blighty, he was wearing corporal's stripes, and Eames was an officer and not one to abuse authority like that and if he had, he doubted Arthur would have ever forgiven him.
He never did find out his name.
++++
The second time Eames met Arthur, although that wasn't the name he was using then, he had just been deployed as an agumentee to Iraq, his predecessor having had both his legs off by an IED. This particular deployment had taken him three months early out of a two year residential tour to Londonderry, and frankly, Eames is pretty certain that he prefers downtown Basra to the charms of that particular little corner of the Emerald Isle.
Not that he was particularly enjoying the Middle East either, in fact he was seriously considering getting out of the army and into something with a few less rules and regulations and even less people trying to shoot him. He'd made Captain a few months previously and his new CO, one of the exuberant go-getting type that seemed to infect the British Army, was trying to convince him to try out for the SAS. Eames was thoroughly not convinced, it seemed far too much like hard work.
So, when he got called into Lt Col Niven's office on a surprisingly sunny September afternoon, he expects it to be another one of the colonel's as subtle as a bull in a china shop 'talks' about the future of his career and how special forces was clearly it.
Instead he found the Colonel had guests, guests in plain cargo trousers, plainer shirts, dark glasses and a look that just screamed 'spook', at least to Eames. But then Eames had grown up around spies and had gotten pretty good at picking them out of a crowd and then walking quickly in the other direction. Not that the he'd have much chance doing that this time, but that still didn't stop him surreptitiously looking for the exits.
Failing an escape, he perched himself on a table-edge as near to the door as he could reasonably manage, as Niven made introductions. He paid only cursory attention to the names, dismissing them as no doubt fake. He paid slightly more attention to the confirmation that yes, these gentlemen, or at least two of them, were from 'our friends in Vauxhall', whilst the other two were merely introduced as 'American colleagues'. CIA then, or DIA, NSA at a push maybe, Eames didn't really care.
What he did care more about was the fact that apparently he and his men were being asked to conduct a foolhardy and possibly suicidal babysitting mission into warlord held parts of Basra so that the visitors could do something which was apparently beyond his 'need to know'. Probably conduct a bloody sightseeing trip knowing his luck.
It was only when the older of the British spooks, Timothy Dale apparently, gestures over to the younger of his US colleagues that he started paying attention, “Kevin will give you the details you need once we're done here,” the man was saying. Eames didn't particularly care about that, because 'Kevin' may have been a couple of years older and have longer hair, but he was most definitely familiar and still had a very nice arse.
The other man met his eyes and the slight frown that stole across his face indicated that the recognition was mutual. Eames couldn't help a grin steal across his face, 'oh this,' he thought, 'was going to be interesting.'
A promised, however, once the briefing was over, what little there was of it, Kevin came over with a file, classification clear on its front, which he handed over with a terse “This should contain all the information you need,” and a clear indication that that was the entire sum of conversation that he wanted to impart.
Eames wasn't going to let the boy get away that easily, his natural impulse to flirt shamelessly with the lad spurred on by his desire to needle any members of the boy's chosen profession. So, he allowed a lazy grin to settle over his face as he took the file off the boy, “Thank you, Kevin” His eyes trailed up and down his body suggestively, “I was right, you do look much better out of uniform.”
The boy stiffened, and his glare dropped the temperature of the room by several degrees, but Eames, student of body language that he was, noticed the slight hitch of breath at the words and barely perceptible flush at his attention. 'Kevin' was most definitely interested. He also, it appeared, had considerable self-control, because he looked Eames straight in the eye, leaned forward and spoke in a low, firm tone, “May I remind you, Cpt Eames, that I am still under the Uniform Code and this could be construed as sexual harassment.”
Eames smirked at that, because there was no way the boy would report him, but he backed off slightly, merely replying “Really, you Yanks and your rules, and they say we Brits are the uptight ones.”
'Kevin' pulled back and snorted slightly, “I doubt anyone would make that error in your case.” And what did you know, he did have a sense of humour, dry as it was.
“Some of us find life more comfortable without a stick stuck up our arses,” he smirked back, an expression tailored just right to annoy its target even as he flicked through the folder he'd been handed.
It worked on 'Kevin' too, who shot him a glacial look. “Just make sure you find your professionalism long enough for you and your men to do your jobs”
That annoyed Eames more than he'd like to admit. Insulting him is one thing, but insulting his lads was something else, “Oh don't you worry your pretty little head on that account, my lads will see you right.”At that, it appeared, the conversation was over, as Kevin merely snorted again in an expression that conveyed adequately exactly how much confidence he had in that statement, before stalking out the room.
They barely spoke a word to each other during the rest of the operation, except when strictly necessary, with all of Eames' attempts to start up conversations brutally cut down with a terse glare and any questions as to the mission or the strange silver briefcase handcuffed to the other man's wrist met with a curt “That information is need to know Cpt Eames, and you don't need to know it.”
The boy, although in Eames' more generous moments he would admit that he was only a few years younger than himself, one saving grace was that he did actually appear to be highly competent at his job. Shame that his personality left a lot to be desired.
++++
The third time he met the boy, the first time he met Arthur, however was about a year and a half later, in Brussels on a rainy Thursday afternoon in August. He had, in the intervening time, both left the army and become intimately familiar with the contents of the other man's silver briefcase, or should that be the contents of a briefcase very much like it, not necessarily in that order.
Still, the work he did now, what little of it he actually did do, was far from legitimate nor did it include, as a rule, dreaming. Which was why receiving a phone call from Dominic Cobb, dream researcher and still somewhat legitimate employee of the international Dream Institute came somewhat out of the blue, even if he had worked with the man before. The five figure fee promised for his attendance however soon cut through his surprise, especially considering that there were a number of parties in Las Vegas who were starting to display an unhealthy, at least as far as Eames was concerned, interest in his level of finances or lack thereof.
“Eames,” Cobb greeted him when he met him in arrivals, “Thank you for coming.”
“Oh I could hardly resist, Las Vegas was starting to become dull,” Eames replied as he shook the other man's hand, shifting his bag from his right to left hand.
Cobb looked at him sceptically, before shaking his head with an expression of amused exasperation, “We're working out of the Hilton,” at Eames raised eyebrow he grimaced slightly, “our clients request.”
“Which I'm sure you are in no way taking advantage of with the lovely Mal Duarte.” Eames gave the other man a knowing smile which turned smug when the other man blushed slightly before laughing.
“You never do change do you?”
“I try not to, it's important to be consistent after all.” An amusing lie coming from a con man, one Cobb clearly found equally amusing too. Eames continued, changing the topic, “so who is this mysterious employer, with it would appear considerably more money than sense.”
Cobb stiffened slightly and glanced around his meaning clear, “Later, I'll give you all the details in the car.”
True to his word, Cobb spent half the car ride to the hotel explaining the job to him and the other half cursing the skills of Belgian drivers, and really for a man who grew up in LA and spent half his life in Paris, he should be able to handle this a little better.
Apparently they'd been contacted, discretely, by some EU bigwig who's name Eames didn't recognise and didn't particularly care about, who believed he'd been extracted after an evening involving far too much alcohol, a highly attractive blonde who's name escaped him and waking up in a hotel room with pin pricks in his wrist and no memory of the evening after leaving the soiree he'd been attending. Eames had to admit, the man was probably right on his first guess, although the fact that he'd obviously figured it out quite so quickly spoke volumes about the professionalism, or lack thereof, of the extractors in question.
The man's primary concern was apparently damage control, and had brought in Cobb, world's foremost expert on dream security, completely off the books to try and drag out his memories of the evening and what might have been taken from his mind. Apparently finding the culprits was secondary to anticipating any potentially compromising news stories that might emerge out of the debacle.
“Sounds dreadfully straightforward.” Eames finally said, pausing briefly to allow Cobb to curse in fluent French at the driver who'd just cut him up, before continuing “Why exactly do you need someone of my, dare I say, not inconsiderable talents?”
“The client's subconscious is being difficult. Even though his conscious mind is clearly willing to co-operate once we go down in the dream it's a different matter. No matter what we do, his mind won't let us in.” Cobb's frowning as he talks and Eames can feel the frustration coming off him.
“Are you certain the client's not lying to you? It wouldn't be the first time after all.” It seemed the most obvious solution after all.
Cobb glanced at him with an amused expression, “That's what Arthur said.”
“Arthur?” Eames was intrigued, last time they'd worked together it was just Cobb, his lovely fiancée and an occasional researcher-come-point man called Mickey, an unreliable sod at the best of times.
“My new point man, you'll meet him when we get to the hotel,” Cobb gave him an sly smile, “Mal reckons you two should hit it off like a house on fire.”
From the look Cobb was giving him, Eames suspected she meant that there would be a lot of screaming, smoke and the occasional person dying.
His guess was proved right when less than half an hour later as he followed Cobb into the large suite they were clearly using as an office space to be greeted with an exasperated, “The plane got in an hour ago and traffic was non-existent on the Ring and the E40, so what, exactly, took you so long?”
The small part of Eames' mind which was paying attention to the conversation noted the tone of the other man's voice, the somewhat sheepish “I took the scenic route” from Cobb and the even more exasperated “You got lost again.” in response and guessed that this was a conversation the two men had already had several times over however many days they'd been involved in this job.
The majority of Eames' mind however was occupied with cataloguing the fact that the boy, previously known as the almost certainly fake 'Kevin' was standing in front of him in a sharp, and somewhat expensive suit, and was looking even more gorgeous that the first two times they'd met. The other man looked up and met his eyes and if Eames hadn't been paying significant amounts of attention to him at that moment, he might have missed the glimmer of recognition that crossed his features before being replaced with an impassive mask.
Cobb was clearly not paying as much attention to his point man as Eames, because he continued on with introductions regardless, “Eames, this is Arthur. Arthur, this is the forger I was telling you about.”
Arthur reached out to shake his hand, his face impassively blank, his manner clearly indicating that he was going to ignore their previous interactions, “Pleased to meet you, Mr Eames.” Formality could be read in every line of his body.
Frankly Eames couldn't be having that, so he said the first this which came into his mind, “You know love when I said you'd look good out of uniform, I didn't realise quite how fetching you'd look in a suit.”
++++
Brussels, 2005: Arthur
Brussels isn't the first time he sees the other man, but it is the first time that Arthur, not Corporal Miller or Kevin, meets Eames. If he'd realised at the time quite how important this moment would be in his life he might have done things differently, but as it was at the time it was all he could do to stop himself shooting the other man and being done with it.
“You know when I said you'd look good out of uniform, I didn't realise quite how fetching you'd look in a suit.” the other man had said by way of greeting, a smirk spreading across his face. Arthur stiffened, stamping down on the heat coiling in his stomach because however infuriating the other man was, and however sleazy his pick up lines, Arthur was still human and he had eyes dammit.
He kept his expression cold, hoping that the infuriating Captain, no ex-Captain now, would get the message, “I believe you must have me confused with someone else.”
Eames just smirked at him in response, “Whatever you say, Arthur.” He positively drawled on his name, as if testing the words out. Arthur pushed his expression a few notches further towards arctic, because he was a professional and frankly the alternative was simply not acceptable.
“Eames! You're here!” Mal's exclamation of joy cut through the tension in the room. The retort that had been building died on Arthur's lips and he dragged his focus back towards his research and the job at hand. It took himself a few moments, and he was eminently glad that the attention of the other individuals in the room was currently focused entirely on greetings and cheek kisses and reminisces and not on him.
This was not meant to happen to him. Oh, not the physical attraction, he'd had his fair share of crushes in high school, had even acted on one or two of them, all of them inevitably a mistake but that's what you did when you were young and stupid. He'd had his fair share of one-night stands, messy anonymous sex with men picked up in grimy bars used to relieve tension when reliance on his right hand got too stale. But he'd never met anyone who'd gotten under his skin quite so quickly, he wasn't certain if he wanted to hit the other man or jump him.
The last time he'd felt this wound up, just after coming back from a mission in Iraq as it happened, he'd done something stupid, hadn't been nearly careful enough in the bar he'd frequented or the motel he'd gone to and had ended up with a dishonourable discharge. The memory pushed him firmly over into irritation and there was nothing forced about the glare he sent the other man's way when the forger, and really Arthur would believed that particular skill when he saw it, dropped into the chair opposite him, feet planted lazily on the table.
“So, tell me all about this Gaetan Van der whatever” the other man drawled.
Arthur didn't bother to suppress his sigh of irritation at the mess Eames was making of his files and pushed his feet off the table, “Gaetan Vandendries, aged 54, married, two grown children. Works as a senior fonctionaire for the EU. Highest level of security clearance, access to highly sensitive defence information.”
He was cut off mid-brief by a yawn from Eames, “Really darling, I could find any of that out from a quick search on wikipedia. Could you please skip over the background fluff and get on to the juicy bits before I die of boredom.” Any stirrings of attraction had now firmly been stamped out, replaced with an over-riding desire to slap that smirk off the other man's face.
++++
The bar was too loud, too bright and too crowded, in sum everything that Arthur hated about a place. It was Eames' dream, so really, it figured. Trying desperately to ignore the headache which was started to emerge from the pounding music and even more painful décor, he grabbed a seat at the bar, a horrifically tacky, not to mention uncomfortable, chrome monstrosity of a chair, and ordered a drink. He wondered briefly how drunk you could get within a dream then dismissed the idea as frankly unprofessional.
The bartender smiled flirtatiously as him as she pored him a drink, he smiled politely back at her in a way which he hoped was in no way encouraging but which she unfortunately seemed to interpret it a little differently and slipped him her number alongside his beer. He ignored it. The projections were all Mal's who had developed, it seemed, a rather big sisterly affection towards him in the time they'd been working together. In truth, if forced, he would admit that he enjoyed the affection. It was a novel experience, being wanted, and not one he was easily willing to give up.
Unfortunately, at the moment this sisterly affection appeared to be manifesting itself in a desire to find him a girlfriend, because, and he quotes, 'Arthur, a lovely young man like yourself shouldn't be alone. It's more than a shame, it's a tragedy!'. He hadn't worked up the courage yet to tell her she was looking in the wrong place, in part because he was certain that all that would do was change the focus of her matchmaking attentions but mostly because Arthur felt far too new in his friendship with both of them to be able to accurately predict how they would react to the news and he wasn't exactly known for taking risks at the best of times.
Brushing off the advances of a petite Asian girl, he scanned the room, trying to spot their British colleague. That was after all the whole point of the exercise, to demonstrate Eames' alleged shape-shifting abilities. Arthur remained unconvinced. As much as he'd heard rumours that the British had developed a 'forging' technique, evidence remained, as yet, scarce on the ground. So much so that up until now Arthur had been content to file forging in alongside inception into the box firmly labelled 'urban myths'.
As such he expected the current demonstration to be short-lived. Maybe the other man would be able to change small aspects of his features, but Arthur was blindly confident that there was no way he would be able to change enough about himself to make him unrecognisable. It was one of the basic tenants about dreaming, such was the strength of the self-image was such that the the dreamer would always represent themselves in a way which reflected reality.
He was mildly surprised when almost an hour had passed in the dream without having seen even a glimmer of Eames in the crowds. If it hadn't been for Cobb's assurances that the other man was in the dream from the beginning, he might has suspected some form of trick. It was possible that he might have missed the man in the heaving crowds, which was, he contemplated, probably why the forger had chosen to dream up such a bar in the first place.
In contrast to his luck at finding the forger, his 'luck' with the ladies was significant, having had no fewer than a dozen propositions from women of all ethnicities, sizes and shapes. He glared over at where Mal was sitting as he politely declined the latest invitation to dance, and she raised her glass at him in a mock salute, a mischievous smile on her lips. She was, he suspected, trying to figure out his 'type'.
As a result, when a buxom blonde slid into the chair besides him and, after ordering a drink, a Bloody Mary no less, he merely assumed this was yet another in the long line of projections trying to gain his interesting. The blonde took a dainty sip before leaning quite clearly into his personal space and purring in a low voice, “What is a handsome man like you doing drinking all alone in a place like this.”
Arthur frowned, figuring that Mal was taking his appreciation of film noir far too seriously, before looking the woman straight in the eye and saying, as clearly as he could, “I'm sorry, I'm really not interested,” before turning back to his observation of the bar.
Unlike the other projections who'd approached him, this one clearly didn't take the brush off lightly because she leaned over and slide a hand seductively up his knee. “Oh, but I think you are darling,” she purred, moving even closer into his personal space.
He sighed, “I'm waiting for a friend, if you'll excuse me” he tried to pull away, wondering briefly how exactly he would be able to extricate himself should the blonde become more persistent without attracting the ire of the other projections. Mal's mind may not have been militarized, but her projections could be downright rabid when inflamed.
The issue became considerably more immediate as the woman leaned in to kiss him before he could make his escape, one hand trailing behind his back, the other hand grasping his wrist in what he found, as he tried to pull away, was a surprisingly strong grasp. “You really aren't interested are you darling, no worries I'm sure I can find something a little more to your liking” she whispered in his ear after a moment, and even as he was processing how the voice, and the accent sounded wrong coming from her lips, not to mention strangely familiar, he felt the body pressed up against him shift and change to become something distinctly male.
To Arthur's great disgust, his groin responded immediately to this new stimuli, even as his conscious mind forced himself to push away. Cursing the treacherousness of his own anatomy, he looked over at the smirking face of Eames and stamping very firmly on any feelings of admiration he may have for the other man's skill, because really the blonde had been very convincing, he did the only thing he really could. He shot him.
Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself and bring his raging hormones back under control, he proceeded to shoot himself in turn.
He was up and out of the chair almost before his mind had fully returned to consciousness. Ignoring Eames indignant retort about the manners of men who feel the need to shoot people who were kind enough to bestow a kiss on them, he stormed out the hotel room and down the corridor. He wasn't certain exactly where he was going, he just knew he needed to get out the vicinity of the other man before he did something he regretted. Although what exactly that something would be was another matter altogether.
He slowed down only slightly when he heard Mal's calling to him, “Arthur, attends!” She was annoyed, she always resorted to French when she was, feeling that her native language was much more proficient at conveying her displeasure.
“Arrête, m'enfin!” He finally stopped as she asked, turning to face her, despite all temptation to just keep walking. “Faut pas lui prendre comme ça, Eames est le même avec tout le monde. Tu sais bien qu'il te taquine!”
He sighed, frustrated, “I know,” and yes he did know that Eames was only teasing, that he was like that with everyone, he bit down on his treacherous tongue before it could continue 'that's the problem.' Instead he ran a hand through his hair, bringing himself back under control before saying, “I'm going out, tell Cobb I'll be back in the morning.”
She didn't look particularly happy about that but she nodded, telling him to be careful even as he was heading down the corridor and out in the sharp evening air.
Almost without conscious thought he found himself in a gay bar, not, in many ways, unlike the one he had just left in the dreamscape. And if the man Arthur picked up that evening happened to bear a strong English accent and a passing resemblance to the forger he'd left behind at the hotel, that was neither here nor there. After all there was a significant British expat community in the area and Arthur always had gone for the broad-shouldered ruggedly handsome type.
++++
Despite the late night, Arthur was back in the hotel suite first thing in the morning as promised, a shower and a changed suit ensuring that no evidence remained of the previous night's activities. Mal gave him a worried look when he came in, clearly concerned that he hadn't come back to the hotel the night before, he ignored it, considering it far to early, and himself far too lacking caffeine, to deal with her concern.
Eames, predictably, smirked at him as he came in, a knowing look which seemed to indicate that he was perfectly aware of what he'd been up to. “Good night last night then pet?”
Arthur stiffened, because this was not something to talk about here, at work, in front of Mal. He turned on Eames one of his colder glares, snapping “I hardly think that's any of your business.” The glare failed to work and the other man opened his mouth to retort, no doubt commenting on his surprise that Arthur did anything outside of work, because frankly even after a week of working together their banter was starting to get somewhat predictable.
“Oh I'm sure I could make it my business,” was what the other man said instead and there was no mistaking the invitation in those words.
Suppressing brutally his body's instinctive reaction to that tone of voice, instead he snorted and said curtly, “I have standards Mr Eames.” He turned his attention back to his files, hoping that with that the conversation would be over before he went and did or said something thoroughly unprofessional.
Any snappy comeback the forger may have had to that was pre-empted by Cobb clearing his throat, drawing the attention of all those in the room back to the job at hand.
One of the better things about working with Cobb was that he was good at getting straight to the point, this morning was no exception. “Whatever Mr Vandendries may say, its clear from our previous attempts that his subconscious has significant trust issues. He also has a level of militarization to contend with.”
Eames raised an eyebrow at that and Arthur elaborated, feeling the need to make it clear that this was not a failure of intelligence on their part, “Standard level of training for someone with his level of security clearance. It was not anticipated to be an issue as the client in this case is voluntarily undergoing to procedure.”
“Let me guess, this too is apparently beyond his conscious control.” The forger's tone of voice made his scepticism at this claim clear.
“Oui, his mind appears to be trying to protect itself from something. It may be a fear of discovering what exactly happened that night, a trauma maybe, or it could be that his mind is unwilling to open to strangers through fear we would learn something greater than he is wishes to disclose.” It was often easy, given how skilled Mal was at creation within the dreamscape, that her original interest was as a psychologist.
“So, we're dealing with a paranoid, militarized subconscious which we may or may not be trying to remind of a horribly traumatizing event. Lovely” Eames summed up with a sardonic look.
Cobb gave him an ironic smile in response, “Something like that. Our main issue has been trying to convince his mind to trust us before his projections tear us apart,” and Arthur had to suppress a grimace as he said that, because keeping the projections off them was his job and he felt the failure keenly, “We need you to forge someone he already trusts, make his subconscious believe it is safe enough to give up his secrets.”
Eames nodded at that, his expression thoughtful as he flipped through the file in front of him, “I'll need access to the mark,” cutting Cobb off before he could comment that that was hardly an issue, given that the client was the mark to continue, “without him knowing about it. I need to see who he really trusts, not who he says he does.”
Arthur nodded at that, made sense, he mentally flipped through what he knew of the man and considered possible options, “Outside of his home life, and I'm assuming we're discounting the wife as a possible source of trust, he spends almost all of his time at the office or socialising with work colleagues. Getting you a position within his office should be easy enough, although it may take me a few days to source the appropriate references.”
The other man gave him a smug grin, “Luckily for you, my forging skills extend beyond the dreamscape.” there was a challenge in there somewhere, but Arthur refused to let himself take the bait, the man got under his skin far to easily as it was without giving him any encouragement.
++++
The job was going well, almost too well and Arthur was just waiting for something to fuck up and the other shoe to drop. Oh, Vandendries' projections were aggressive in their pursuit still, but Eames' forging of the man's colleague and best friend seemed to have calmed them down enough that it was relatively easy to lead them on a chase around the maze of back streets, twists and paradoxes that Cobb had designed for the task.
But then, predictably, the projections start getting nastier and more vicious and Arthur couldn't help but wonder what Eames had done to set them off. He doesn't even question why he's so certain that this was Eames' fault, it just seemed to fit with the way the rest of his life was going right now.
Ducking through a doorway as bullets splintered the brickwork next to his ear, he leaned back out getting off a couple of shots before running round the corner and through a gate at the end of the alleyway into a small private garden. There were two more projections there and he managed to get one of them before they can react, but then the other is shooting at him and all he can do is use one of the large birtch trees as cover, wood splintering around him.
He waited until the man had exhausted his ammo and stopped to reload, feeling blood starting to drip down his cheek from where a sliver of wood had grazed his face. Taking his chance, he shot the projection in the middle of sliding a new clip into his gun. An AK-47 of course, and really, Eames accused him of having no imagination. Hearing more projections approaching, he ran out the gate on the other side of the garden and straight into Eames, apparently having shifted at some point back into his own form, who was at that moment attempting to hold off the on-coming projections with an SA80.
The forger whirled as he heard him approach and, Arthur noted, only just managed to stop himself from shooting the point man, which would have been embarrassing for all concerned. “Ah, there you are love. I think we may have run into a spot of bother.” Arthur rolled his eyes at the typically British capacity for understatement. “Cobb's getting the goods now, reckons he needs about ten minutes.” the other man continued, after a pause to reload.
Arthur knew all about Cobb's estimates.“We'll give him fifteen to be safe,” he replied. Glancing around quickly he considered their options, if he remembered rightly there should be a way through the house attached garden he'd just come out of.
“This way,” he nodded to the other man and ducked back into the small space of greenery, heading instead up for the house the house. “What did you do?” he shouted as he finally skidding to a stop besides the one of large windows looking out of the front of the street, peering out as he did to check on their pursuers. The coast seemed clear
“What makes you think this is my fault.” Eames asked as he flattened himself the other side of the corridor, peering back at where the projections were making their way through the garden towards them.
Arthur gave him a Look, before nodding towards the front entrance, “Street's clear, I'll cover you.”
Despite everything, Eames was a trained soldier and didn't question the order, instead nodded in thanks as he headed out into the street, taking up a position further down to cover Arthur's retreat from the house. Squeezing off a couple of shoots at the projections who were now heading through the house towards the back door, he followed him out. It wasn't until they were pressed against the entrance and exit to a small alley respectively, catching their breaths, that the forger answered his question, “I may, possibly, have given him the impression I was sleeping with his wife.” He sounded almost sheepish as he said it.
“You what?” Arthur stopped himself from shouting, just, because that would have been a particularly bad idea at this point, but he couldn't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice as he said it.
“It was an innocent comment! How was I to know he already suspected them of having an affair.” Eames defended himself before peering round the corner and raising his gun to get off some shots. “As lovely as this little alleyway is, looks like we've got company.”
Eventually, after eleven minutes and twelve seconds they ended up caught between two oncoming crowds of projections with no obvious way out. Eames let off a final burst of fire before looking back at Arthur, “Well I don't know about you darling, but I think its about time we took the easy way out of this little sojourn. Being torn apart by an angry mob wasn't really on my 'to do' list today.” He raised the gun to his chin and pulled the trigger.
It clicked, “Bugger.” was all the other man said, before throwing a questioning glance over at Arthur's glock.
Arthur checked his own ammo, one bullet left and no guarantee that Cobb had managed to get the information yet. There really was only one sensible option left so he shot the forger in the head, telling himself it was entirely because the man would merely end up being a distraction and not because he didn't really have to stomach to watch him being torn apart, and then steeled himself to try and buy as much time for Cobb as possible before succumbing to the mob.
++++
Arthur opened his eyes shakily, being torn apart by an angry mob was never a nice death at the best of times, unfortunately however vicious the client's projections had been when they just thought they were attempting to steal his secrets they were even worse once they believed the theft had actually happened. Frankly, given the trouble they'd had when the client was supposedly consenting, Arthur wondered how the original team had extracted anything from him in the first place.
Giving himself a couple of seconds to compose himself, he pushed himself up off the bed and look at his companions. Cobb and Mal appeared to be in their own process of waking, whereas Eames, having been ejected some minutes sooner, had already removed his IV line and was looking at Arthur with an expression on his face that Arthur couldn't quite decode and really wasn't sure he wanted to in any case. He ignored him, helping Cobb and Mal instead to pack up the PASIV and wake up the client. He half heard the other leave, no stalk out the room, a comment of needing a smoke floating behind him on the way out
It wasn't until later that evening that he saw the other man again, long after they had packed up the office and debriefed the client with what they'd learned. Almost typically for how their luck was going on the current job, it turned out he hadn't even been extracted in the first place, the assumption having come from the results of a perfectly ordinary attempt to blackmail him involving a sedative, a blonde and a camera, and his own paranoid mind.
Arthur was packing the last of his clothes in his case, hoping to be on a plane and out of this miserable city as soon as humanly possible when the other man strode into his room. The point man wasn't going to insult them both by asking how he'd bypassed the lock, saying instead “In polite company people knock first.” He continued packing as he spoke, not daring to look at the other man.
“Apparently Cobb managed to get the information after only nine minutes, so it seems your little self-sacrificing stunt was wasted.” For some reason the forger seemed angry, which didn't make much sense to Arthur since he was the one who'd ended up ripped to shreds by the projections.
“Forgive me for not wanting to take any chances with this job, especially after someone managed to convince the mark his best friend was sleeping with his wife.” He glared briefly at the other man as he moved around him to grab the last of his suits our the wardrobe.
“It's not my fault, Arthur, that our client had serious mental problems. The man, in case you hadn't realised yet, is borderline paranoid schizophrenic.” Eames hissed out in his own defence, before looking at Arthur with a nasty, smirk on his face, “Of course, it might be that he wasn't the only one with mental problems. Didn't take you for a closet masochist love, enjoyed being ripped apart by projections did you?”
Arthur resisted, just, the urge to punch the other man, shutting his suitcase with distinctly more force than was necessary, “Goodbye, Mr Eames.” He kept his tone calm and icy, but something of the suppressed anger must have shown in it, because Eames took a step back as he moved past with his suitcase. “Your fee will be wired to you,” the final 'fuck you' left unsaid but distinctly present in the words as he shut the door behind him.
At the time he had hoped that would be the last he'd ever see of the infuriating forger. He should have known his life would never work out that way.
Part 2
Author's notes/explanations:
Paras - Parachute regiment, one of the elite units of the British Army - generally considered equivalent to US Army Rangers.
As for the french, hopefully it should have been clear from the context but translations:
“Arthur, attends!” - Arthur wait
“Arrete, m'enfin!” - Stop, at last (more an expression of exasperation, a bit like 'for pity's sake')
“Faut pas lui prendre comme ca, Eames est le meme avec tout le monde. Tu says bien qu'il te taquine!” - You shouldn't take him like that, Eames is the same with everyone. You know he's only teasing you.