Inception: the question is not whether I treat you rudely... (Arthur/Eames, PG-13)

[hackthis]

There is absolutely nothing that's impossible with Inception canon, and thusly I get to write stuff like this which makes me laugh like I'm deranged. I do admit some concern that the rate of writing in this fandom is making me feel like a slacker. WTF, people, is there a handbrake on this ride or what?

Inception
Arthur/Eames
PG-13

the question is not whether I treat you rudely, but whether you ever heard me treat anyone else better



"You rang; I came."

Arthur leans against the door frame of his hotel room at The Wynn and gives his guest a brief once-over. Eames' expression of delight is hazily familiar. It's been a while. "I didn't ring," Arthur points out.

Eames drops his traveling bag on the garish floral carpeting in the hall and rests his elbow on the wall by Arthur's head.

They haven't been this close in quite some time. "Semantics," Eames says dismissively.

He looks good. He's put on a few pounds. His hair has grown out a little.

He's wearing a simple white shirt that hugs his biceps intimately and dark jeans that clearly don't require that brown leather belt to stay on his hips.

And he's got stubble.

Arthur's brain gets stuck on the stubble.

Arthur straightens his perfectly starched collar. "I sent you an email."

"And here I am."

"And it had nothing to do with me being in Las Vegas, the Gambling Capital of the World."

"Las Vegas. Duluth. Athens. In cases such as this a good memory is unpardonable."

Arthur can feel his mouth twitching. "Are you really quoting Austen?"

Eames leans in. "If it gets me that smile I'd be happy to quote Austen, Shakespeare, Tennyson and my great-grandfather, Tzar Nicholas II. Do you have any requests?"

"Eames, you are not related to Nicholas the Second."

"I'm not, but I could be; they have yet to account for Anastasia."

Arthur shakes his head at the door frame. Down the hall a businessman in a drab brown suit is letting a young blond woman in glaring purple spandex into his suite. At three in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

How quintessentially Vegas.

Arthur's brief glance belies the attention he pays to the mark: Jose Rubio.

"Sorry to see you're as fit as ever; it makes me feel deprived." Eames' mouth is moving glibly, but Arthur can feel the tableau being studied intimately: Rubio, himself. Arthur can feel his clothing being picked apart and his expressions cataloged. "I was sure after that incident at the Waffle House that you'd never speak to me again."

Arthur gives Eames a sharp look. "You accosted me in the bathroom."

He's almost surprised it took Eames this long to address their last meeting.

"I did no such thing," Eames protests. "You spilled coffee on your shirt; I merely followed you into the loo to make sure the coffee hadn't done irreparable damage to your lovely skin." A pause. "And, Arthur, it really is flawless."

Arthur stands upright. "The military has this policy called Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

Eames frowns. "Yes, the colonies have always been terrifically repressed."

"You groped me in the Waffle House bathroom."

"Would you have preferred I do it in front of the squadron? I was attempting some semblance of restraint for your sake -- those mixed messages of yours were frightfully confusing."

Arthur can feel the tendons tightening in his neck. "And then you got on a plane back to Hereford."

"I was there when that happened, too -- or did you forget?"

"I did not forget," Arthur says through clenched teeth. What was he thinking contacting Eames after all this time?

Arthur can feel the vexation etched into his forehead ebb away at the expression on Eames' face. Eames seems almost distressed, yet his voice is deceptively light when he says, "Then again these things do seem to happen when you work for Her Majesty."

Arthur looks somewhere over Eames' left shoulder. He's fighting a rather exhausting battle at the moment: to punch Eames in the mouth or slam the door in his face. Or something considerably less violent. He hasn't felt this conflicted in three years.

He rolls back his shoulders and gets himself together. Special forces soldiers do not fall apart when encountering their exes. Especially when they're not exes. "Williams told me you'd left the service," Arthur says at last.

"Well, that's what I told him to tell you -- should you ever bother to ask."

"You couldn't just tell me that yourself?"

"I didn't think you wanted to hear from me."

"Like that ever stopped you before."

Arthur feels this overwhelming need to run his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He settles for shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Eames cocks his head to the right. "I have missed Condescending Expression Number Four, I must say."

Arthur can feel a momentary sense of disorientation in his features. It passes, but not soon enough. "Number Four," he repeats

"You have a very expressive face."

"I do not."

"Of course you don't to people who haven't studied you extensively, but you don't spend a year training with someone in the wilds of North Carolina and not learn at least one or two of their facial expressions."

Eames' smile would make a lesser man feel marginally -- exceedingly -- concerned. Arthur rubs his jaw. "So, what are you doing now?"

"Well, I assume you know or I wouldn't be here. Unless this is, in fact, the long hoped for reunion where you declare your undying affection for me and ask me to live with you in Pemberley. Shall I call you Darcy -- or would you prefer Fitzwilliam?"

"You are not worth this aggravation," Arthur says flatly.

"Of course I am." Eames picks up his bag. "So are you going to let me in or will we continue with the Spanish Inquisition in the hall? Shall I pull up a chair and torch for you to shine into my eyes?"

"You can't pull up a flashlight."

"Still as literal as ever."

"I didn't invite you here to be insulted."

"And still unable to accept a compliment."

There's a shared moment of silence. It may be the last one Arthur enjoys for some time.

""I suppose you can come in," he says eventually.

"Well, since I did fly five-thousand, two-hundred and thirty-five miles to see you, it seems like the polite thing to do." Eames' eyelashes are far too long. Arthur remembers Eames' eyes being greener when they were outside; under the fluorescent lighting they look more blue. Arthur cannot believe he's noticing these things. There are least eighteen inches between them. "And you are nothing if not polite, aren't you?" Eames says.

Arthur rolls his eyes and steps back to let Eames into his suite.

Eames' hand brushes along Arthur's exposed forearm as he sweeps by. "I missed you, too."

Sixteen days after Arthur received his undergraduate degree in architecture from the University of Chicago, he enlisted in the Army. Arthur's father was livid. His son was supposed to become an officer in the Navy, that was what he had paid for, not an enlisted grunt in the fucking Army. Arthur Senior only got over his teeth-grinding displeasure when Arthur announced at Thanksgiving dinner three years later -- which was held in the middle of June in keeping with Arthur's training schedule -- that he'd just finished basic training with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta.

Commonly known to civilians as Delta Force.

At a prearranged time, Arthur collects Eames from the suite three doors down from his own and they head down to the lobby.

Eames has changed into a navy three-piece suit with a very fine pale-gray checked pattern. It's utterly gorgeous. It's quite the deviation from the soccer t-shirts and paisley prints that Arthur has always remembered Eames in.

Gaudy prints, fatigues and shaved heads are not bespoke suits and stubble.

In the elevator, Arthur can see Eames studying him out the corner of his eye. "Stop staring," he orders their reflections in the gold-plated elevator doors.

Eames gives their reflections his most sullen look. "You never let me have any fun."

"I know your brand of fun."

Eames' eyes are luminescent in the crappy elevator lighting. "Sadly, I don't think you do."

"Is this why they kicked you out of Oxford?"

"I don't get thrown out; I leave. There's a difference."

The elevator deposits them on the ground floor before Arthur says something inappropriately rude.

The casino floor of the Wynn Las Vegas is draped in cream marble tiling, Doric columns with gold-filigreed diamond patterns and large botanical displays of opulence and imported birds. There are enormous vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows. And throughout this floral maze Arthur can feel Eames following him; Eames is always following him.

Even when he's not on the same continent.

At the bottom of a circular stairwell there's an outdoor patio firmly ensconced between two restaurants that sell forty-dollar hamburgers covered with black truffles. The outside area is highlighted by a gorgeous infinity waterfall nestled against millions of dollars of trees that have been planted in the middle of downtown Las Vegas.

The waterfall runs into a pool which is populated by statues of people.

Arthur brushes by the maître d' guarding the velvet rope and sits down at a table with two already-occupied chairs.

It's sunny and hot outside. There's not a cloud in the sky.

It's Vegas.

"This is Mal," Arthur says, making introductions. "And this is Dom. Mal and Dom, this is Sergeant -- Mr. Eames."

"Just Eames."

Eames kisses the back of Mal's hand with a wink, and when he holds out his hand to Cobb, Cobb just raises an eyebrow. "As much as I like having my hand kissed, I think I'll pass."

Eames sighs as he sits down between Mal and Arthur. "More's the pity. You do have lovely hands."

Mal laughs. "I think you may be more entertaining in person," she says, taking a sip of something neon orange and stuffed with pineapple slices.

Eames shoots Arthur a look, which Arthur ignores in favor of studying the landscape.

"We've met before?" Eames says.

"Yes," Mal says. "In Arthur's subconscious."

Arthur takes no notice of the astonished look on Eames face. Or almost no notice.

"I hope I was on my best behavior," Eames says.

"You were charming."

"Which is how you know it was a projection," Arthur interrupts.

"You like gambling and green hydrangeas," Cobb adds. "And strip poker."

Where the hell is the waiter when Arthur needs him? Arthur can feel the skin around his eyes tightening.

"Arthur's been giving us some tactical training," Cobb says, smoothly transitioning to something else.

"Has he now?" Eames says, his tone lilting slightly.

Arthur is not going to rise to this.

He's not.

His body can shut up.

It doesn't help that Eames' right thigh is pressed against Arthur's own. Why is he taking up so much room?

Arthur elbows Eames sharply in the ribs, which earns him a surprised look. Eames shifts and leans in to rest his elbows on the table. "And how's that been going for you?" he says in a quiet tone. "Tactical work."

Cobb frowns. "Mal shot me in the foot after I insulted her coq au vin."

"It was a tactical decision," Mal says breezily. "I did not like his tactics, so I shot him."

Eames chuckles; Arthur can feel his mouth turning at the corners. That had been an entertaining session.

"What do Americans know about French food?" Mal says, waving over the waiter that Arthur's been hoping for. "You think In-and-Out is the height of haute cuisine."

"I just said maybe forty pearl onions were too many," Cobb insists.

"Heathen," Mal says as Arthur orders a large scotch. He won't drink it, but it will be nice to have something do with his hands besides thinking of using them to strangle Mal and Dom.

Eames' laugh is intimate, seductive. Arthur is not going to fall for this. Not again. Not that he fell for it the first fifty times either. When he turns his smile on Arthur, Arthur just rolls his eyes.

If it breathes Eames will flirt with it.

There were a few stray kittens in Fayetteville that probably thought Eames was their daddy.

"So, you and Arthur met in the military," Cobb says. "I didn't know American Special Ops hired non-citizens."

"Oh, they don't," Eames says. "Apparently something about terrorism. But the British SAS has a lovely exchange program; I highly recommend it."

Mal pauses with her drink halfway to her mouth. "You are British Special Forces?"

Eames rubs his jaw. His stubble looks prickly. "It doesn't show does it?" he says ruefully. "It's the tie. The tie always throws people off. Alas I just don't carry it off as well as dear Arthur."

Arthur's drink arrives at this time.

He takes a large mouthful of scotch. Fuck the not-drinking part of the evening.

Cobb is giving Arthur Concerned Look Number Two. Oh, dear god.

He's naming facial expressions; Eames has only been here for three hours.

"You are not working for the government now?" Mal asks, poking at her drink with a red straw.

"No, Her Majesty and I had to part ways over certain differences of opinion."

Eames is looking at Arthur again. He seems concerned. First Cobb and now Eames. This is untenable.

"You were thrown out?" Mal presses.

"You have a little contretemps one time and no one ever lets you forget it," Eames says with a sigh.

Cobb fixes Eames with a shrewd look. "You fought someone on your team?"

"I try not to argue with people who carry large guns in reality," Eames says. "No, my issues were with the American civilian populace and the local police. Apparently I have problems with authority, and Her Majesty frowns upon my tarnishing her crown."

Arthur coughs around another mouth of scotch. "Shocking."

Eames looks at him thoughtfully. "Yes, wasn't it."

The British SAS has a one-year exchange program with Delta Force. And it was during this highly ill-advised exchange (at least in Eames' case) that Arthur first met him.

The word in the ranks was that the Brits were a little bit more lax in their respect, a little bit more unorthodox in their methods. They could still kick your ass quite competently, but they came from a different school of training. On occasion it seemed like another planet.

So when Arthur met Eames in a room full of highly-trained, highly-observant Special Ops soldiers, Arthur took a brief mental note and thought nothing more of it. Until after introductions had been made and Eames stepped right into Arthur's space and gave him the most brazenly inappropriate look it was possible to give someone who was fully-dressed.

"So, Sergeant, is Arthur your first name or your surname?" he asked.

Out the corner of his eye, Arthur could see at least two of the other Brits -- a lanky black guy named Williams and enormous redhead named Big Tom -- circling them

Arthur pursed his lips. "I don't see how my name affects our relationship one way or the other."

Eames smiled broadly. "So we have a relationship already. Delightful."

Arthur shook his head and turned away, but not before he overheard a heavy non-American accent whisper, "You know they don't approve of that 'round here."

Followed by Eames' unmistakable reply, "It's sucking cock, not raiding the pantry."

They're standing in the middle of an enormous city block with cathedrals and glass-effaced high-rises and a Famima!! on the corner. Arthur's been crazy about the chain of Japanese convenience stores since a job in Kyoto last year.

Eames is wearing a shockingly mauve colored t-shirt that has a huge sunflower-colored teddy bear on the front with the letters WWKD? underneath it, threadbare jeans and a pair of green Pumas with a hole in the left big toe.

Eames looks down at himself and then back up at Arthur with the most ridiculously ecstatic expression on his face. "You remembered!"

The very first time the SAS and the Unit went out for a team-bonding drinking exercise, Eames showed up in this exact ensemble. Arthur gives him a dismissive wave. "Hard to forget the man who quotes Kanye West before he does his tequila shots."

"Kanye is a poet; a man greatly abused and underestimated in his time."

"The man is a narcissistic megalomaniac. Nobody cares about what he does more than he does."

Eames smiles. "Exactly."

"I shouldn't be surprised you like him," Arthur says.

"I don't think 'like' quite covers it -- 'ardently admire' seems more appropriate. At least that's what I said when I met him."

Arthur blanches. "You met Kanye West?"

"He's got lovely skin," Eames says agreeably. "Not as lovely as yours, but the man does like to drink and buy suits. And gamble away his hard-earned money. You might get on -- would you care to meet him?"

No, Arthur does not want to meet Eames celebrity crush. "No, I do not want to meet your celebrity crush," he snaps indignantly.

Eames' mouth falls open, but he's momentarily distracted by the projections streaming out of the surrounding buildings.

Eames looks around and takes several steps towards Arthur. "You know you're my favorite; I promise."

"Shut up," Arthur says mildly. However, the projections suddenly pause on the sidewalks as though unsure of how to proceed, and then they begin walking back indoors. Except for the few that mill around watching. Waiting.

Eames scratches the back of his neck. "This is quite the leap from Fort Bragg," he says, looking around. "I can see the Parisian influence. All those Greek classics I teased you about. A little of Raleigh. A lot of Los Angeles. That is where you've been, isn't it?"

Arthur narrows his eyes. "You know where I live."

Eames does a little dance away from Arthur's immediate strike range. "Of course I do."

"Why?"

"Why did you leave Special Ops?"

"You're not supposed to answer a question with a question."

"You're so adorable when you're flustered."

Arthur can't think of a reply at the moment; he needs a minute.

"I must say what you've created is an improvement over the Lieutenant Colonel's summer house in Annapolis."

"We can't all do our training in Goldfinger."

"But you must admit you enjoyed yourself. Have you tried Casino Royale yet?"

"My current line of work doesn't have much need for training acquired in James Bond films."

"Are you having any fun at all, Arthur? I hoped you might be happier now."

Happiness is all relative; Arthur can feel the tension causing a crick in his neck. "I'm fine," he says. "And my imagination does not need more James Bond films."

"I think we both know you need all the help you can get. After all, you'd never come up with this," Eames says waving over his shoulder as a brain-searingly pink Bradley Attack Vehicle rolls down the middle of the street.

The projections stare after the vehicle for a moment as though in shock and then they begin to follow it. Every projection from every building -- including a priest from the nearest cathedral -- appears. The melee starts as a a slow jog, soon followed by an all-out chase with screaming and blood-curdling cries.

Eames looks at the riot and shakes his head. "Do try to calm yourself," he says, stepping into Arthur's personal space and resting a hand just above Arthur's heart.

There's a horrifying sound of metal crunching over human bones.

Arthur can feel his muscles tightening, his nostrils flaring. Eames' thumb is rubbing his sternum. "Try harder," Eames whispers into the shell of Arthur's ear.

"You are not helping matters," Arthur says through clenched teeth.

Which is the truth. The hard-on Arthur's sporting courtesy of Eames is not helping matters at all.

"Well, I suppose you killing projections is better than you killing me. Which does raise the question: do you still have that desperate habit of cheating in war games?"

Arthur can feel his face going hot. "I don't cheat!"

Eames laughs delightedly. "You always cheated. You were a terrible cheater. You'd smile and then shoot someone in the head. Terribly distracting that."

"I'm going to shoot you in the head," Arthur warns, releasing the safety on the Sig Sauer that's materialized in his hand.

Eames turns on his heel. "You'll have to catch me first," he tosses over his shoulder.

"I am not chasing you," Arthur says stubbornly.

"Yes, you are," Eames calls back. "And a merry chase it shall be."

On their first joint SAS/Delta training mission, Eames inveigled his way into Arthur's helicopter and practically wedged Arthur against the door with his thighs and broad shoulders and the stupid grin on his face as though this was fun and not a serious fucking exercise.

When they were two miles out from the coast and everybody began clearing out of the helos and straight into the Carolina water, Arthur made sure to help Eames along with a sharp push between the shoulder blades.

If they hadn't been the same rank Arthur might've been concerned about being hauled in by the MPs for assaulting a superior officer.

On land, after what could only be termed a grueling two-mile swim, Eames had the audacity to smile at Arthur as though they were friends -- as though he thought Arthur liked him -- right before he stripped out of his wetsuit.

Eames didn't even have the decency to wear underwear on the mission.

Apparently the British didn't dwell on things like modesty.

Or at least Eames didn't.

Reentry into reality is different every time.

Sometimes Arthur's reintroduction is tinged by agitation, sometimes by concern, a need to make sure reality is reality and not another layer of the dream. Sometimes Arthur awakes with a smile, sometimes he wakes up with a frown or a stomachache or a headache or an erection. Sometimes it's a mixture of all of the above, plus more.

It's never the same.

This time he wakes up on his back, staring at the eggshell-colored ceiling and caramel-colored shantung wallpaper of one of the Wynn's executive suites. Underneath him are 300 thread-count Egyptian sheets and a Wynn-patented Dream Bed.

There's a smile turning Arthur's lips that slips away when he realizes Eames is propped up next to him, one hand cupping his chin as he watches Arthur wake up.

Arthur twitches when Eames takes his hand and begins removing his IV infusion line. Eames' fingers are warm and dry, callused. "Calm down," Eames says. "Your virtue is still intact; I like my partners to be willing, able and conscious."

Arthur glances down at his feet. He's still fully clothed. "I wasn't concerned until you said something."

"You're always concerned around me," Eames says. "Is that why you won't let me be the dreamer?"

"Because I'm convinced I'd end up naked? Could be."

Eames shakes his head. "I would never do anything without your consent," he says, straightening Arthur's cuff before replacing Arthur's hand by his side. "That's not how I operate."

There's something occurring here. Arthur can feel his forehead furrowing.

Eames smiles. "Don't do that," he says, pointing to Arthur's forehead. "It mars your lovely features."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Enough."

Eames shrugs. "So, The Mozambique as a killing style. Intriguing."

Arthur looks up at Eames hovering over him. His eyes are soft and his mouth is pink, full. His eyes crinkle at the corners. Arthur wonders if his stubble is rough or soft. "I thought a double tap might not be effective enough," he says.

"And they say overkill is a bad thing."

Out the corner of his eye, Arthur can see the hotel notepad on the corner of the nightstand. He picks it up and taps Eames on the head with it.

Eames laughs.

Arthur grabs a tissue from the beige-lacquered box that was by the notepad. He balls up the piece of Kleenex and tosses it between Eames' eyes.

Eames blinks at him as it bounces off his forehead and lands on the bed between them. "Will you start stealing my lunch money next?"

"That depends, how much do you have?"

"As much as you want."

"I highly doubt that."

Eames' head tilts to the side. "You don't just tolerate me, do you?" he says. He seems almost bewildered.

Arthur licks his lips. "Everyone tolerates you," he lies, pushing himself upright and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He's held back by Eames' hand on his wrist. "Liar."

Arthur shakes Eames off and gets to his feet. "Maybe," he says, straightening his waistcoat and tie.

Eames is staring at him. "If you want my undivided attention all you have to do is say so."

"Of course. And I'd only have to share it with the seven billion other people on the planet," Arthur says flippantly.

Something that might be disappointment flitters across Eames' features, but Arthur is probably wrong. "I am a very selective man," Eames says with a wry smile. "I can assure you I only deal with one person at a time."

"Little Big Man."

"You're taking the piss." Eames laughed.

Fulton shook his head, slurping on a super-sized coffee cup that advertised 1-800-Call-Somebody-Who-Gives-a-Fuck. "That's what they call him."

Arthur didn't tend to eavesdrop on other people's conversations unless he was paid to, but Eames was having this conversation right in front of the training house with Cpl. Fulton and Spc. Paulson. And if Arthur walked up right behind Eames and Eames didn't notice that was his own lack of situational awareness.

Especially since Paulson's entire face went slack when he saw Arthur.

"Arthur can't weigh more than ten stone," Eames said. Fulton and Paulson looked at him confusion. "One-hundred thirty pounds. One-forty. Something like that. Maths isn't my strong suit," Eames explained dismissively.

"Underestimate the Sarge at your own risk," Paulson warned.

"I see I was utterly mistaken," Eames said. "You lot have an excellent sense of humor. Are we talking about the same Arthur? About so tall and so big," Eames gestured with his hands. "Looks as though a strong breeze could tip him over."

Fulton rubbed his hand over his freshly shaved brown scalp. "He may look small, but he'll kick your ass."

"Of course he will," Eames said.

Arthur took this moment to put Eames in a sleeper hold; Eames' laugh was more of a wheeze. "I was wondering how long that would take," he said. Arthur stopped counting at six. He wasn't trying to incapacitate Eames, just make his point.

When he released Eames, Eames sprawled into the dirt on his ass, rubbing at his neck. "Point made," Eames said. "You going to help me up now?"

Arthur knocked his hand away. "Fuck you, Eames."

Eames graced him with an enormous smile. "Just name the time and place."

There are innumerable bars in the Wynn Hotel although almost all of them are in a radius of the casino floor. The likelihood of Mal just happening upon the same bar where Arthur is going over his meticulous notes on The Curious Case of Jose Rubio and the Two Million Dollars in First Editions of Superman and Batman He's Hiding is rather small. Especially considering that Arthur's chosen the only bar that's outside and thusly free from cigarette smoke, shrieking grandmothers and families pretending Vegas has some sort of educational value.

The latter only counts if you're studying the illustrious history of The Mob in Nevada.

This time the lovely Mrs. Cobb has a blue drink in her hand. "That looks toxic," Arthur says, closing his Moleskine as Mal slides into the chair opposite him.

"I hope so," Mal says blithely. "This is my first holiday since James was born."

Arthur's mouth quirks. "Mal, this isn't a vacation."

Mal takes a large sip of her drink."It's close enough."

"How is my godson?" Arthur asks, rolling back his shoulders to relieve some of the stress.

"Still smaller than the three-piece suit you bought him for his christening."

"Style begins early."

Mal laughs, reaching across the table and deliberately snapping the band on Arthur's Moleskine. "So," she begins.

Arthur's left eye spasms. "So," he parrots.

"He's charming, your Eames," Mal says with a lift of her right eyebrow.

There is horror on every inch of Arthur's face. "He's not my Eames."

"Of course not," Mal says placatingly.

"And he's not charming. He's irritating. And annoying. And probably insane."

Mal gives him an amused smile. "But sanity is so relative, Arthur."

"His role model is Kanye West."

Mal takes another sip of her drink."I do not think I have met this Mr. West."

Arthur waves over the waiter. He needs a drink.

After he orders he looks at Mal who's playing with her drink idly. Arthur is not fooled. Mal doesn't do things idly. "Kanye West," he explains. "He's a rapper."

Mal's forehead furrows. "Is that all?"

"He does other things -- like inciting riots."

"Well there must be something very engaging about this Mr. West for him to incite riots."

Arthur makes a derisory noise. "He's a sanctimonious, vainglorious, incredibly gifted rapper with an ego the size of the Bordeaux region and a predilection for nice clothes. And he makes children cry."

Mal beams. "So a bit like you and a bit like Eames, yes?"

"I am nothing like Kanye West!"

Mal smiles down at the mosaic table top. "Of course not, Arthur."

PASIV, the Portable Automatic Somnacin IntraVenous Device, was created by the United States Military to enable its soldiers to become more accustomed to the pain and disorientation of war and its ensuing injures and calamities without the casualties. The very first time Arthur went under it was on a Tuesday in February. He was on a team with Eames, Paulson, Big Tom and their commanding officer, Captain Ramirez. In this dreamscape Arthur assaulted and killed people he'd come to think of as family.

It was traumatic.

After the first session he went and threw up in the latrines. He slept approximate twenty-eight minutes that night. At four-eleven in the morning, when Arthur was on his thirteenth set of push-ups, the doorbell rang.

It was Eames.

Arthur was too exhausted to protest.

When Eames offered him a hot tea and a package of Oreos, Arthur just stared.

"My people believe tea fixes everything," Eames said, pushing the paper cup into Arthur's hand.

"My people believe that nothing is ever wrong," Arthur replied.

"That's part of the problem with your people," Eames said, brushing past Arthur and dropping down on his sofa.

"I brought a film," Eames said producing a DVD from somewhere on his person and tossing it on the coffee table with the cookies.

Arthur took a sip of his tea. It had milk and sugar. It was going to give him cavities. He loved it. "If there are explosions or Mel Gibson I'm kicking you out."

Eames frowned. "I do have some taste," he said. "It's The Italian Job with Michael Caine. It has men in suits committing elegant crimes with superior British humor. If it's not you, I give up."

Two days later, Arthur's team had another go with the PASIV device.

The first person Arthur looked for in Ramirez's subconscious was Eames.

The Wynn has a gym that would make the owners of 24 Hours Fitness weep in envy. Shiny treadmills and elliptical machines. Ergometers and spinning bikes in neat rows. Mirrors that have never seen a smudge. There are free weights and more machines than in Terminator 2.

Despite all the flash and polish, Arthur finds Eames working the heavy bag in the corner.

Some sort of impossibly lascivious music is being piped through the speakers wherein a young woman insists that a black guitar is going to make her a rock star.

Arthur watches Eames move around the bag, his muscles flexing and tensing, his motions by turns explosive and cautious. Eames is wearing a hideous pair of orange gym shorts, black socks, white sneakers and not much else.

There's sweat covering every inch of exposed skin, rivulets running down Eames spine and droplets plastering his hair to his face. Arthur can feel the blood in his body taking a sharp detour south.

For all of his faults, when Eames concentrates it's truly a thing of beauty. Arthur learned that at Fort Bragg. He has yet to meet anybody else who can translate an entire recon mission into a joke about hookers and the Archbishop of Canterbury that still makes sense to command and the twenty-year-old Corporal in the corner.

Arthur licks his lips. "What did the bag ever do to you?"

Eames glances at Arthur briefly, a drop of sweat running down his temple, and then he goes back to his combination.

Arthur stares.

For the first time possibly ever, Eames is ignoring him. Arthur moves around Eames and grabs the heavy bag. "I've heard it works better if someone holds it for you."

Eames smiles faintly. His right hook makes a thud against the sand-filled bag. "I see you've added rather extensively to your ink," Arthur tries for the third time. His bones are rattling with the way Eames is attacking the bag in his arms. "The dragon looks complicated."

"It's three-toed," Eames says curtly, licking a bead of sweat away from his mouth.

Arthur's entire body riots, including his subconscious.

"A Japanese dragon," Arthur pauses. "Have you ever been to Japan? It seems like the kind of place you'd like. Flashy, loud, constantly moving."

"I was in Kyoto last year. Lovely city."

Arthur narrows his eyes. "I was in Japan last year. Kyoto."

"I'm not stalking you." Eames stops and wipes his face with the back of his wrist.

Arthur's fingernails dig into the leather of the bag. "I never said you were."

Eames sighs. "Darling, I spent a year paying attention to you almost every hour of the day. Can I have at least a two-hour reprieve from you crushing my ego under your Crockett & Jones Oxfords?"

Something that is probably severe alarm races through Arthur's veins.

"How are Kate and Emily?" he blurts out.

Eames gazes at Arthur as though he's speaking another language. The look dissipates almost as quickly as it appeared. "Still dying to meet the American bastard that stole my heart and sent me home a broken man," he says eventually.

Arthur lets the bag take most of his own weight. "You have a heart?" he teases softly.

"Well, I did before you stole it."

Arthur reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny red die with white markings. "Is that what this is?"

Eames laughs dryly. "I think you've wounded me mortally."

"If only we were back in the dreamstate," Arthur says.

"If only."

Arthur licks his lips. "Did you want to get dinner?"

"Mal mentioned that she and Dom might be--"

"No," Arthur interrupts. "I meant just us. You and me. If you want."

Eames narrows his eyes. "Are you taking the piss?"

Arthur takes a moment to translate that. "No, I don't think so."

Eames frowns. "I've been waiting years for you to ask me that, but sadly you must untie me first," he says, extending his wrapped hands.

"I think we can do that."

Arthur drops down to one knee and takes Eames left hand in his and begins unwrapping the cotton bandage.

Eames' fingers are sweaty, flushed and damp from being wrapped together and swollen from being punished by the heavy bag. Arthur massages each finger before moving onto the next.

Eames makes a strangled noise and Arthur glances up.

"You, ah, are obviously free to tie me up again afterward though," Eames says with a crooked smile.

Arthur just goes back to the task at hand. He's initiating skin-to-skin contact with Eames. He's much worse off than he thought.

Next he'll be showing up with chocolate and flowers.

Including Eames, there were six people who came from the British Special Air Service to train with Arthur's team: Williams, Smith, Davies, O'Halloran and Big Tom.

And among themselves the Brits had an oft used saying, "Two countries divided by a common language." Or in civilian terms, "Why can you not speak proper English, fucking hell."

Sometimes there were translation issues. Sometimes people took liberties that weren't necessarily afforded them. Sometimes people refused to stand by when the rest of the world just watched.

At least this is what Arthur was informed of the afternoon the Military Police arrested Eames and Big Tom for a disturbance involving a young lady and her male friend in the parking lot of the local Arby's.

Apparently, the friend in question was far too hands-on for Eames and Tom's liking.

And apparently Eames did not approve of standing by and watching a woman get her shoulder dislocated.

So if in defending one person's rights a twenty-two year-old white civilian male ended up with crushed ribs, a fractured jaw and internal bleeding in the groin area, that was simply how some things turned out.

Eames was a man of action.

It was something Arthur had admired from day one -- despite most of those actions being directed at him -- and this made Eames a good and honorable man, regardless of any other faults he might've had.

At least this is what Arthur said when he called his uncle Jack in the JAG office and told him the charges needed to go away.

And so they did.

Unfortunately enough, so did Eames when he and Big Tom were recalled to the SAS Base in Hereford.

The problem with making plans is that inevitably reality tends to interfere. So when there's a sharp knock at Arthur's door, he's expecting Eames -- not Dom and Mal. Their harried expressions say everything. Arthur can feel his spinal muscles constricting. "What?"

Dom frowns. "Someone spooked Rubio; he's in the middle of checking out."

"The mark is checking out," Arthur repeats slowly. "Right now?"

"Thankfully he's going to need a ride to the airport," Mal says brightly.

Arthur shakes his head and turns back into the suite. The PASIV case is in his closet. It comes down with a clatter, banging his right knee hard enough to earn a grimace.

"You're taking me to the Alex," Eames voice announces gleefully before he's even walked through the open door. "They have a wine selection of nine-hundred and fifty bottles, which I suspect is enough to even -- ah, Mal, Dom."

Arthur licks his lips. Eames is wearing an utterly exquisite pale gray suit with waistcoat. His tie is an appalling paisley print, but he looks so amazing, Arthur can overlook that. "Four for dinner?" Eames says hopefully.

Arthur shakes his head. "Rubio got spooked; we're taking him to the airport."

"We are?"

"We're going to get a taxi," Mal says helpfully.

Arthur scratches his jaw. "Where exactly are we getting the taxi from?"

"I think the better question is, why is everyone up here and no one downstairs watching the mark?" Eames interjects.

Arthur grumbles under his breath.

The only thing worse than Eames being provoking and attractive is Eames being competent and attractive.

There's something rather amusing about a grown man keeping two million dollars in comic books at his mother's house. At least this is what Eames announces when they're en route from LAS back to the hotel in the taxi they've borrowed.

Okay, that Mal borrowed.

No one ever suspects the Frenchwoman.

Mal drops them off at the Encore next door and takes the taxi to be cleaned while they check out. Just to be on the safe side.

Arthur's packing up his suits when the phone rings. No one has this number.

He picks up the handset but doesn't say anything.

"You knew this was going to happen," Eames announces in his most aggrieved tone. "Admit it. You only invited me to dinner to tempt me with forbidden fruit."

Arthur smiles into the receiver. "You have found out my darkest secret, Sergeant -- excuse me -- Mr. Eames."

"Why does it always sound so pornographic when you say my name?"

"I think you need your ears checked."

"Say it again."

"Would you care to have dinner with me... Mr. Eames?"

There's a long pause.

"Eames?"

"Sorry, just filing that away in my wanking material."

"Eames."

"I really must get a digital recording of all the ways you say my name."

"Dinner, Eames."

"Yes, but perhaps not in this hotel. Or this city."

"If you felt like coming to L.A., I could cook for you."

"Could you?"

"I could."

There's another long pause.

"If you were gambling man," Eames says eventually, "what would you say the odds are of this ending with nudity?"

"I'm not a gambling man."

"Yes, but I am."

"Don't make any bets, just show up."

Arthur is supposed to check out of the Wynn and get on the first Southwest flight back to L.A. Instead he finds himself checking into The Bellagio. He always likes their water shows at night.

Except he happens to miss this evening's show because he's a little otherwise occupied collecting poker chips from every conceivable casino: Bally's, The Bellagio, Cesar's Palace, Circus Circus, Flamingo, Gold Coast, Golden Nugget, Hard Rock Hotel, Harrah's, Luxor, Mandalay Bay, MGM Grand, Mirage, The Palazo, Palms, Paris, Sahara, The Venetian.

He only has one from the Wynn and he doesn't even know where it came from: Arthur is not a gambling man.

By six in the morning he's an utter mess. His collar is wrinkled, and he loosened his tie around three in the morning when a bachelorette party got a little too frisky in the lobby of the Mirage.

He can't believe Eames has reduced him to this. A few interactions with the youngest son of a solicitor and physical therapist from Ealing, who just happened to go to the same public school as Radiohead, and suddenly he's running around Vegas like he's an extra from Swingers just to create a present he's not even sure he's going to give.

There are thirty-nine poker chips of various denominations and from various hotels in a velvet-lined rosewood box with a brass clasp. The box is sitting on the coffee table in the middle of Arthur's living room while Arthur's across the room, bustling around the kitchen attempting to cook chicken Parmesan and steamed broccoli.

Cooking cannot possibly be as hard as it seems to be.

So far Arthur's managed to waterlog the broccoli, burn the sauce and under-cook the chicken. The chicken is dry on the outside, but when he cuts it open it's the raw pink of salmonella poisoning and trips to the ER.

A drop of sweat winds its way down Arthur's jaw and drips onto the carnage he's left on the counter.

What the fuck was he thinking?

When the buzzer goes on the front door, Arthur wants to ignore it. This is clearly a sign. Not that Arthur's ever believed in signs. He believes in his gut, not a higher power.

But if ever he did believe in a sign, this would be it.

The buzzer goes again and Arthur dashes into the living room to let Eames in. Arthur opens the door to Eames, who's clad in a simple black waffle shirt and jeans. He's freshly shaved, his hair is perfectly styled and he's holding flowers and a bottle of wine. All he's missing is the chocolate.

Arthur opens his mouth and the smoke alarm goes off.

Arthur closes his eyes and reaches for the die in his pocket.

When his motion is stopped, presumably by Eames, Arthur's eyes flutter open.

"It is the thought that counts," Eames promises, kissing the corner of Arthur's mouth swiftly before moving inside, swapping the flowers and wine for today's copy of the Los Angeles Times and attacking the smoke alarm with vigor.

Arthur's mouth tingles where Eames kissed him. He touches his face and then shuts the door. When he turns back toward the disaster he's made he can see the muscles shifting in Eames' shoulders as he waves the smoke from the alarm frantically.

Arthur snags the bottle of wine from the end table and ducks back into the kitchen where the sauce is smoking. He forgot to turn off the burner.

Arthur dumps the pan in the sink, turns on the water and then finds his corkscrew.

At least he can do this properly.

He grabs two wine goblets, pops the cork and pours himself a generous helping of a lovely red wine. He takes a large mouthful, pauses with the liquid still in his mouth, grabs the bottle and chokes a little at the name.

The alarm stops blaring.

Arthur swallows.

Eames opens several windows before turning back toward the kitchen, cheeks flushed. "I see you've started without me."

Arthur waves the bottle in Eames' direction. "Romanée Conti?"

"Are you not a fan of red wine?"

"How much did this cost you?"

Eames' nose wrinkles. "Discussing money is rather gauche, especially for you."

Arthur can feel his jaw tightening. Eames covers Arthur's hand with his own and guides the bottle in his grasp towards the other wine goblet. When Eames is satisfied, he pries the bottle from Arthur's grip and sets it aside.

"What were you attempting to make?" he asks, leaning past Arthur's arm to turn off the water running into the charred pot.

"Chicken Parmesan and steamed broccoli," Arthur mumbles into his glass.

The inside of Arthur's arm is pressed against Eames' ribs. Arthur can feel Eames breathing, can feel Eames studying his profile. "You did this for me?"

"Yes, I almost set my apartment on fire just for you."

Eames leans against Arthur's arm, and Arthur's fingers curl around his waist instinctively. "What else have you done for me?"

Arthur drinks more wine.

"You wouldn't perhaps have made a phone call to a certain JAG advocate by the name of Jack Kipling several years ago, would you? About a certain incident in the Arby's car park?"

Arthur goes stiff; he needs more wine.

He's saved, instead, by the bell.

He forgot about the cookies.

Arthur releases his hold on Eames and grabs a stained tea towel before opening the oven door. He's greeted by the smell of peanut butter. He pulls out the cookie sheet and looks askance at what he sees there.

"Those don't look half bad," Eames says, leaning over his shoulder.

"You don't have to sound so shocked," Arthur says, standing up and using his body to keep the hot sheet from doing further damage to Eames or himself.

Under the kitchen's 100-watt bulbs the cookies look edible. In fact they look downright appetizing.

"You made me biscuits," Eames says, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder.

"I did not," Arthur says.

"Liar," Eames voice is soft.

When Arthur turns his head, his mouth brushes Eames' temple.

Eames' hair smells fresh, citrusy. Arthur inhales deeply, his entire body quivering in anticipation. "I got you something," he says into Eames' hairline.

When Eames looks at him, they're so close that his features blur.

"You got something," Eames repeats. "For me."

Arthur clears his throat. "It's on the table. In the living room."

Eames pulls away, sets down his wine glass and gives Arthur a long searching look. He seems even more puzzled once he stops looking and goes in search of his prize.

Arthur grabs both wine glasses and the bottle of Romanée Conti, pausing to fill his goblet before following Eames into the living room.

Eames is holding the rosewood box in his hands and staring at its contents as though it contains gold bricks or possibly a severed head.

Arthur suddenly feels horribly embarrassed. "It's just poker chips," he explains. "I thought it'd give you something to focus on when you practice. You know, replicating tiny parts of the chips as a way to work on the details of imitating other..."

Arthur stops babbling and drinks the rest of his refill. He is not normally this bad at communication. He was a Sergeant in U.S. Special Ops; he spends his life dealing with details. All the details. Of course those have nothing to do with personal interaction.

Eames sets down the box, squeezes between the sofa and the end table, carefully removes the bottle and goblets from Arthur's hands and then re-invades Arthur's personal space. "How long have you felt like this?" he asks earnestly.

"Like an utter idiot? Since I drowned the broccoli."

Eames bites his lower lip. "All these years, Arthur? Really?"

This conversation has gone somewhere and Arthur hasn't followed it.

"You could've said something," Eames prompts.

"Like what?"

"Like what? Your courtship technique needs work."

"I'll remember that the next time I'm courting someone," Arthur says automatically. And then it hits him. "I'm not courting you," he explains.

"No, you're not," Eames agrees. "At least not anymore, since you have me. And I should point out that now that you have me you won't be courting anyone else ever again."

Arthur opens his mouth, only to be silenced by Eames' mouth against his. Eames' lips are soft and they press firmly against Arthur's lower lip. Arthur curls a hand around Eames' neck to change the angle slightly. His tongue flickers against the seam of Eames' lips and Eames makes an encouraging noise.

"This is much better than the loo at Waffle House," Eames murmurs against Arthur's mouth.

"Shut up," Arthur says mildly, tilting Eames head to the left so he can kiss him again.

Eames' fingers tangle in Arthur's collar, his fingernails scraping Arthur's scalp. There's something infinitely sweet about Eames' kisses. Arthur expected all filth and groping, but this is something exploratory, almost hesitant.

Arthur kisses him deeper, harder. There's something strangely freeing about this. Arthur can taste tea and toothpaste; he can feel Eames pressing against him, hungry for contact. Eames slots into his body perfectly, his hips, his mouth: Arthur is angles and Eames fluidity, fitting into the spaces where other things can't. Or won't.

Arthur can't believe Eames is the one who's reduced him to this sort of tawdry Hallmark sentiment. He should feel ashamed; he doesn't fucking care.

He only pulls away when Eames' stomach grumbles threateningly.

"Sorry about dinner," Arthur says, kissing Eames' jaw, the soft skin behind his ear.

Eames' fingernails dig into his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "Fuck dinner."

Arthur chuckles. "This is not 9 ½ Weeks," he says before nipping at a patch of exposed skin just at the slope of Eames' shoulder. "We're not doing anything with food."

"Fuck you," Eames gasps.

"Maybe," Arthur says. "But you'll have to cook breakfast."

Eames grips Arthur's chin and forces him into direct eye contact. Eames eyes are dark, his mouth swollen and wet. Arthur steals one kiss and then another. Eames pushes him away with some difficulty. "Breakfast," he presses. "Am I staying the night?'

"Yes."

Eames nods slowly. "Okay, just checking."

"Anything else you want to know?" Arthur asks.

"What took you so long?"

"I don't know," Arthur says, "I think my timing is pretty good."

"I'm famished, I've got smoke inhalation, you've drunk most of the wine and I'm in grave danger of coming in my trousers. You think this is good timing?"

"Are you thinking about anything besides me? Are you worrying about the mission, or the Waffle House, or Her Majesty or even Jose Rubio?"

Eames' face goes blank and then he laughs. "Excellent point."

"I make excellent points: that's why you like me."

"Yes, that is one of the two reasons," Eames admits.

"There are only two?"

"Well, the other is because you're gorgeous and brilliant and horribly competent and you look utterly devastating in a suit. Even Kanye would approve."

Arthur glowers. "If you go near him again, I'll kill you both: you in your dreams and him in reality."

Eames beams. "I like the jealousy thing."

Arthur pushes Eames away, grabs the wine from the table and goes into the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Eames demands.

"To eat these fucking cookies," Arthur replies.

"Those are my fucking cookies!"

Arthur looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, but I don't cook for people who are interested in fucking Kanye West."

Eames sputters for a moment and then he just shakes his head in amusement. "I assure you, the only person I'm interested in fucking is you."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Would you like it in writing?"

Arthur is still thinking this over when Eames strides over to him, grabs his tie and yanks him down into a mouth-bruising kiss. "Arthur, stop being a pretty princess," he breathes against Arthur's lips. "I'm not interested in shagging anyone but you."

"Really?" Arthur says.

Eames looses his hold on Arthur's tie long enough to produce a very familiar red, green and black poker chip out of his pocket. It says "Wynn Casinos" in bright gold lettering. "I promise," he says, holding up the chip.

"You're promising on a poker chip?"

Eames shrugs. "It's the sentiment that counts."

Arthur looks at the poker chip. "All right," he says. "Let's see how sentimental you can be."

Eames winks at him. "You'd be surprised."

"I don't like surprises."

Eames kisses Arthur boldly. "But you like me."

"Yeah," Arthur admits, "shockingly enough, I do."

-end-

This originally manifested as a military origins story featuring Eames and Arthur, but that story made me tired. This story was infinitely more fun (and wrote itself in about 10 hours, but then it had to be edited) and it never would have been possible without the insanity that is Kanye West's Twitter. Love him or hate him, he is clearly on some other planet and you have to appreciate that. Who else worries about wearing a Chanel dinner jacket on the plane, because it's still morning in Singapore? Eames would totally appreciate that.

Beta and picking and noodling by lazlet, who knows my weakness for all things Abingdon-related, and maurheti who just knows my weakness.

I would also love to thank maurheti and sparky77 for their tolerance to my insanity and their willingness to applaud when I start barking like a seal and saying "OMG! OMG! Check it out! Check it out!"

Title from Pygmalion/My Fair Lady.