FIC, FIC, FIC!!! (Inception) (Part 2)
Title: Cut-out Cookies (Part 2/3)
Author: Lauand
Beta: Avierra
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 14.800
Summary: Einstein was right. Arthur was wrong.
A/N: My deepest thanks to avierra for the help (once again). Concrit welcome.
Arthur toyed with the idea of trying it with Ariadne. She was an amazing girl, with a deep insight and a sharp mind and a level head and the sweetest innocence. And she was pretty.
That was what occupied his thoughts when he entered the warehouse at night to retrieve the Moleskine he had left in the drawer of his desk. He always hated the moment in between notebooks, that time when you had to replace the one you had already completed. It was easy to need precisely the info noted on the former notebook, the one you hadn't brought with you that day.
He paused when he saw that Eames and Ariadne were talking, alone under the fluorescent light. That was pretty rare, of all of them Eames and Ariadne were the ones who interacted the least. Ariadne had looked worried lately, but Arthur had expected that if she needed to confide in someone, that would be him.
“Things only get to you if you let them, Ariadne,” Eames' voice said.
He had sounded as light and humorous as ever, but for some reason Arthur thought that this sentence had been some kind of elemental truth that would have deserved the utmost solemnity. Which actually supported the idea that it was precisely lightly and with humor that Eames would speak it aloud. Because, Arthur realized, it sort of revealed the very essence of Eames, the key to understanding everything about him. And, to be honest, Arthur wasn't interested in understanding, not now and probably not ever.
So, disregarding the fact that the others had probably heard him already, he turned back and went home. The Moleskine would be there tomorrow.
Ariadne was sort of saturated. Cobb was a menace, but precisely for that reason she had to stay. The others had no idea what they were getting into. She probably had no idea what she was getting into, either, but putting together everybody's pieces of the knowledge maybe they'll have a chance.
Ariadne was sort of saturated. She had a life, a good life. She knew for a fact (because Cobb had said so, at least he had been honest with her about it) that this wasn't legal. There were gradations in everything, of course. This was still less illegal than, say, assassination or terrorism but more illegal than smoking pot. She was probably making some poor decisions here, but couldn't help herself.
Ariadne was sort of saturated. Everybody in the team was amazing and treated her like one of them. With respect, but easy familiarity. Without condescension. Well, Arthur sometimes couldn't help it, but that was just how he was. He was condescending with Eames, for God's sake. It was actually funny to see them together, they were like two worlds about to collide but which actually avoided the impact at the last moment and settled for dancing around each other for a while, until they got separated again just to be able to gather some momentum for the next time. It was fascinating, really.
Ariadne was sort of saturated. This was too new, too big, too scary, too impossible. And she was damn good at it. She was still trying to elucidate if that was a good or a bad thing.
Ariadne was sort of saturated, but she had never felt so alive.
The first gunshot was unexpected, but Arthur was quick to react.
“Cover him!” he shouted.
“Down! Down now!” Eames barked as he pushed Fischer's head down and took out his weapon.
“What the hell is going on?”
The projections had blocked their way out. In a fraction of a second, Arthur discarded leaving the car. They were surrounded and they would be shot down easily without the cover and the speed. That left only one option.
Arthur pressed the gas pedal and charged against the car in front of him. The impact shook them all, but he could still hear the gunshots, fucking feel them as they hit the car. The window exploded at his left. He ducked for a moment, then put reverse and accelerated, ignoring everything that wasn't getting out of there alive.
Submachine guns, what the fucking fuck...! a part of his brain absently thought under the clangs, bangs and crashes.
He charged forwards again, took out his gun, shot twice, grabbed the wheel again and charged backwards. The noise was deafening, confusing his senses, only the adrenaline keeping him focused.
He was dimly aware of a red Honda trying to clear the way, but the guy at their rear was a fucking priority, so he tried to run him over. The damned bastard, son of a bitch, refused to die; Arthur pressed the pedal all the way down, the guy raised his weapon...
“Get him!” he shouted at Eames.
He saw the blur that was Eames sit up, kill the bastard and go down again.
When Arthur stepped on the brakes, he saw that they had opened a way in the back. He made a sudden U-turn, tires screeching angrily, and flew out of there.
“You all right?” he asked, voice too loud now that the shooting was over and the road was clear. Fuck, now he had to come down, he could already feel how his hands started to shake from the backlash of the adrenaline hit.
“Yeah, I... I'm okay, I'm okay,” Eames replied with his usual composure barely rattled. The man could be dying and still sound like he found his death an amusing turn of events, “Fischer is okay, unless he gets carsick.”
Very funny, Arthur thought as he navigated Ariadne's maze in search of the warehouse. And still, still, he couldn't help the exhilaration, the triumph at having escaped alive once more, the way he had pulled it off, they had pulled it off, because fuck yeah, he and Eames were goddamned good working together, they were golden, and no matter how shitty the hole they fell down was, they would get out alive and kicking ass because that was what they did and they did it fucking, fucking well.
Okay, maybe that had been less than generous towards their tourist. He had done admirably well, too, for being a newbie. It was only then that Arthur looked at the passenger's seat.
“Saito?”
The first gunshot startled Eames and shut him up, but didn't disorient him. He didn't have the time to ponder what it said about his life that he was too familiar with the sound by now.
“Cover him!” Arthur shouted.
“Down! Down now!” Eames barked as he pushed Fischer's head down and took out his weapon.
“What the hell is going on?”
The projections had blocked their way out. In a fraction of a second, Eames discarded leaving the car. They were surrounded and they would be shot down easily without the cover and the speed. That left only one option.
As expected, Arthur came to the same conclusion. He pressed the gas pedal and charged against the car in front of him. The impact shook them all, but Eames had predicted what Arthur would try to do and expected the blow. He could still hear the gunshots, fucking feel them as they hit the car. The rear window exploded behind him. He turned and stretched his legs, searching blindly for leverage to prop himself up, then he started to shoot, adapting to Arthur's crazy maneuvers, anticipating the swings and the blows not to waste bullets, drop his gun or hit his head.
Submachine guns, what the fucking fuck...! a part of his brain absently thought under the clangs, bangs and crashes.
He ducked, made sure Fischer stayed down and replaced his magazine. The noise was deafening, confusing his senses, only the adrenaline keeping him focused.
He was dimly aware of Arthur's charging in reverse again, this time more viciously, and had the time to glance at his face, fiercely scowling out the rear window.
“Get him!” Arthur shouted at him.
Eames didn't think about it, he directly knew. In a fraction of a second, he sat up, shot twice and went down again.
He felt Arthur step on the brakes. Eames' legs were still locking him in place when the car made a sudden U-turn, tires screeching angrily, then flew out of there.
“You all right?” he heard Arthur asking, voice too loud now that the shooting was over and the road was clear. Fuck, now Eames had to come down, he could already feel how his hands started to shake from the backlash of the adrenaline hit. He didn't drop his gun just yet, though.
“Yeah, I... I'm okay, I'm okay,” Eames replied, trying to sound as light as he could. “Fischer is okay, unless he gets carsick.”
As expected, Arthur didn't react to the joke. It was okay; he was used to Arthur's little idiosyncrasies while on the job. And Arthur was used to his. That's what made them such a great team. Because they were, he thought as Arthur navigated Ariadne's maze in search of the warehouse. He and Arthur were goddamned good working together, they were golden, and no matter how shitty the hole they fell down was, they would get out alive and kicking ass because that was what they did and they did it fucking, fucking well.
He was interrupted from his thoughts by Arthur's voice. This time he wasn't being loud, he actually sounded worried, and that, in turn, worried Eames.
“Saito?”
Cobb inhaled deep and uncoiled the IV line from the PASIV. This was being a crazy recollection of close call after close call. He wondered if he still had a conscience or that was one of the parts of him that had died with Mal. Before he sat down to get the line in place, he couldn't help a glance at Ariadne. She was gazing elsewhere, so without thinking, Cobb followed her eyes and ended up looking at Arthur and Eames.
Eames was lying down on the floor as Arthur swiftly stuck the needle in Eames' vein. They were bantering, their interaction easy and relaxed in a way Cobb hadn't seen them display in years. It was over in seconds, Arthur too focused on his job to linger. For a second, Cobb met Ariadne's eyes and there was some sort of understanding in there, some shared thought. The moment was broken and Cobb took his place on the floor, leaning against the bed.
The window was open and the curtains billowed. For a second, Cobb thought of another hotel room, another window, another set of curtains...
“Hey, you ready?”
Cobb shook out of his reverie.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm ready.”
Arthur pressed the button.
Arthur was free. Not that he wasn't free before, it had been his decision to accompany Dom, but now... now he had options, he had time. So he went back to his plan.
It had been a misperception what had led him to believe he might be more compatible with just men. It hadn't been a true factor, now that he watched it all in hindsight. And, with the kind of goal he had in mind, maybe sticking to women would prove to be beneficial. A lot of things were easier that way.
So, after the inception job, he had tried asking Ariadne out. Ariadne had looked at him with those pensive eyes of her and, tilting the head a little she had opened her lovely mouth to then close it again without saying anything. He had known then that she would say no. So that was not the unexpected part. It was hardly the first time he was rejected, no problem. But it puzzled him a little the sympathetic look in her eyes when she refused. She had to know she wasn't breaking his heart and he was pretty sure he wasn't breaking hers. It was odd enough to make him think about it for a couple of days. Four days later, though, he had already forgotten.
Cobb watched Philippa and James play in the backyard. He couldn't get enough of them, never got tired of watching them now that he was allowed to see their faces every day, to kiss their brows every night. He promised himself he would learn to cook, because now that their grandmother was back to Europe he just couldn't feed them take out every day. He was going to be the best father in the world. He owed it to Mal. To them.
Sometimes he took part in their games. Sometimes he talked to them about their mother. Most of the time he acted as Justice of the Peace between them, because they argued a lot.
Only when he was completely alone would Cobb take out Mal's top and spin it on the table. Because he didn't want their children to ask what it was, where it had come from, what it was for. He didn't want them to touch it. The PASIV device, he had given to Arthur.
Never again, Cobb vowed as he watched Philippa dare James to find an orange daisy in the grass. Never again.
Reality was far better.
Ariadne could still sleep without problems and dream without a machine, but she spent a lot of her waking time thinking about lucid dreaming.
It was tempting, very tempting. And very hard to go back to a dull reality when you had been able to touch the sky, to change a man's mind, to give him a new dream. However, fortunately or not, she knew that wasn't the kind of life she wanted for herself.
Things tend to follow always the same pattern, though. Dreamsharing, like microwave ovens, Teflon coating or the Internet, would leak and become legal. It was just a matter of time. And when that happened, she would be there to found a company to teach people how to fly.
Arthur liked her the moment he shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
Sam was her professional name, nobody knew for certain if it came from Samantha, Samuels or Seattle Art Museum. Arthur's guess was that it was from none.
“You chose that name,” Arthur affirmed, sure of himself. “You don't like people making assumptions.”
Sam eyed him speculatively.
“That's an assumption. Are you trying to provoke me, then?”
Arthur smiled. He knew people liked his smile. He had dimples.
“What if I am?”
“I would say it's not wise to anger the one who designs the loops, shortcuts and paradoxes for you,” she said, calmly, assessing. “But if you don't think it highly unprofessional, I could wear pigtails tomorrow, if you're so set on pulling them.”
“I happen to think it's highly unprofessional,” Arthur assured her because, well, it was, “but please, wear them anyway.”
Eames was definitely over Arthur now, so the next time he called with a job, Eames accepted.
“Oh, I just like amoebas,” Eames said with an open, friendly expression.
Sherman was arrogant. That was probably what had rubbed Eames the wrong way. Some people thought that having a college degree made them smarter than people who didn't. It could have been the snide comment about the shirt, though.
“Those aren't amoebas,” Sherman explained, “it's called 'paisley' and it's actually an originally Persian pattern based on natural mot--”
“He knows,” Arthur murmured without taking the eyes from the computer.
Sherman paused for a moment, confused.
“No, he doesn't. He called them...”
His words trailed out when he saw that Arthur had stopped typing and was now looking at him with a smirk so condescending that bordered on straight-out compassionate. Without saying anything, Arthur went back to his work a second later.
When Sherman turned to Eames again, the forger was wearing the kind of dull, empty expression that most cows would kill to have.
Sherman huffed and went out for a smoke break.
It was the first time in ages that Eames arrived to the airport without the slightest idea where to go next. He looked at the panels expectantly, waiting for a sudden epiphany or something.
He was free. And rich, filthy rich. He could go anywhere. No hits on his head, no ties, no jobs lined up, no favors to return, no kidnapped relatives in need of a rescue, no nothing... just a whole world of potentiality.
He could do whatever he wanted.
To be honest, he had expected to feel happier about it.
Sam loved reading, too, so when he invited her to a homemade dinner at his place-- the one in New York-- she made a beeline towards the shelves nearly before taking off her coat.
“I hadn't pegged you as the kind to enjoy Victoria Holt, really.”
Arthur shrugged, even if the gesture was lost to Sam's back.
“Or Einstein,” she added. “You look more like the 'absolute' kind, if I'm to be honest.”
“I'm into dreamsharing,” he answered calmly, hands in his pockets. “Nothing is more relative than time.”
“Einstein talked about the physical world, not the dreams.”
“Einstein talked about a lot of things.”
Because he did talk about dreams. And about imagination. And about love. But somehow, people tended to think that only what he said about the space-time continuum was important.
Arthur didn't say that part aloud, though. He felt comfortable around Sam, but he was still wary of some things, even after months of dating, even after having checked out her background twice. Arthur was fast about a lot of things, but opening up to people wasn't one of them. Sam didn't seem to mind, though. She took things in stride. That was one of the things Arthur liked about her.
Trying to cook something between the two of them with their limited skills proved to be really fun, even if they weren't able to eat it afterwards.
Eames loved seedy gambling dens, but there was something endearing about pretentious casinos, too. Because, under that sheen of high-class shine, they were invariably tacky, and artificial, and transparent in their purpose, nearly as much as the people who frequented them.
He had noticed the boy before he had approached Eames. Not so young, Eames corrected himself, now that he was up close. Eames wondered if he worked for the house or was just freelancing.
“Want me to blow... your dice?” he whispered in Eames' ear.
Eames couldn't help laughing at that.
“You really have to work on your pick-up lines, sweetheart,” he advised in good humor.
The boy-- young man-- didn't seem deterred in the least.
“It made you laugh, didn't it?”
Eames liked his cheekiness. He was rarely approached by men in this kind of establishments. The social pressure was too strong and he was pretty sure he hadn't been advertising his interests tonight. This hooker was risking a lot if this was a spontaneous encounter. If it wasn't, it was Eames the one about to take a risk. He was sort of curious, he admitted.
“Whom are you working for?”
The young man directed his gaze at the craps table they were leaning to before answering with enough faith to move a mountain or two:
“You.”
Eames pondered for a short while and came to his conclusion.
“Alright,” he said with a devil-may-care attitude, leading the way. The man followed.
Much later, Eames took his time when he kissed him goodbye. It was nearly regretfully that he went out of the room. Alive, to his utmost joy.
Eames liked dealing with professionals in any field. He always knew where he stood with them.
Eventually, Arthur ended up teaming up with Sam and rarely taking jobs separately.
Eventually, they needed a forger.
Eventually, Arthur called Eames.
Their extractor was an old face in the business, too, an Asian man in his forties that went by the name of Gaby because, as it often happened with Chinese people, the way western mouths butchered his given name made him cringe.
Gaby had never heard so many 'please's, 'if you will's and 'thank you's in his whole professional life, which had been long and profitable thus far. And it weirded him out a little that the general atmosphere was so agreeable and polite, because he was aware that Arthur and Sam were an item but they didn't exchange a single joke while on the job, and he knew for a fact that Eames and Arthur usually bickered like the fate of the world depended on where they would order lunch that day, but for this job they didn't even bounce ideas right and left with him during their planning sessions as much as offered a couple of measured suggestions here and there. Gaby knew their different styles and how adamant they normally were about them. Sam liked playing it safe and working by the book. Eames liked challenges, coming up with creative solutions to even the dullest problems. Arthur liked pointing out flaws. When Gaby tried to raise a debate, neither tried to fight their case. Gaby was starting to think this had been a bad idea, after all.
In the end, the extraction was flawlessly executed.
In the end, Eames parted ways smiling, shaking hands with all of them.
In the end, Arthur gave Sam a peck in the cheek before Gaby said his goodbyes, but only after Eames was gone.
Eames never got around to erasing Arthur's number from his phone. He was a business contact. Eames never deleted business contacts, not even when they sold him out. Especially if they sold him out. Arthur hadn't, but that was beside the point. The point was that Eames, of course, had kept the number.
Which, sometimes, made it especially hard not to text him-- or even worse, to drunk dial him-- after Eames had had too many drinks. This time it had been very close; he had already written the text and everything, but he had stopped to read it before hitting send, because contrary to popular opinion, Eames followed certain protocols with himself and one of them was thinking it twice before using his phone while inebriated.
y her?
Very carefully, extremely concentrated so that he didn't fumble, he selected the option and deleted the message. Eames sighed, relieved.
Yes, it was hard, but Eames thrived on challenges.
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