Fic: Unravel - Chapters 3 - 5
Unravel
Chapter 3: The Lounge
Master post of all chapters here.
Chapter 3: The Lounge
Developing the backgrounds, personalities, looks and wardrobe for seven individual characters ends up taking longer than Eames had anticipated. They'd budgeted four months, but they're already entering their sixth. Rarely has Eames had to work up so many characters from scratch, much less try to wrangle them into workable projections.
Not that the extended timeline is a problem-they both have enough money to live comfortably off for at least a decade after the inception job (barring any poorly made large investments on Arthur's part and Eames' continuing forbearance of gambling). Their office operating expenses are relatively modest, and Rosalina gives them a volume discount on their Somnacin supply.
It's very much like the other nine-to-five jobs Eames has had over the years, except this time he hasn't got a role to play or information to steal. He's not entirely sure whether he likes that or not.
* * * * *
Eames drops the fedora he's holding on his head at an angle and executes a perfect pirouette. The effect is probably not quite the same as when he's clad in a voluptuous blonde, but Arthur doesn't seem off put by it. When he straddles the chair Arthur's seated in, Arthur smiles up at him, amused. "You're in a good mood."
"I am." Eames takes off the hat and places it Arthur's head. "It's because I have something to show you."
"Is it your dick?" Arthur asks, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Because I'm a fan, but I have seen it before."
"Close, but not quite," Eames says, and leaves room for a dramatic beat. "I've finished Ms. Scarlett."
Arthur's eyebrows shoot up. "I thought you had a ways to go on that. Something about daddy issues and complex psychology-"
"I had a creative breakthrough at the deli," Eames says, unable to suppress his raw excitement. It's all rather unbecoming, really, but he can't stop himself. "I want to show you."
"What about dinner?" Arthur asks. "I went through some pretty backbreaking labor placing that sushi order online…"
"The sushi won't be arriving for another half hour at least," Eames says. "All I need is fifteen minutes with the PASIV. Ten, even."
"Okay." Arthur puts down the set of blueprints he was reading. "Ms. Scarlett it is."
* * * * *
Eames is seated in front of a vanity.
Arthur stands behind him, exquisite in his lovely dark suit, and smiles. "Hi."
"Hello," Eames says, and begins to change. He allows the changes to flow over the body gradually rather than all at once to heighten the effect, enjoying the way Arthur's eyes widen. He starts with the feet, shifting from his usual pleated trousers to slender legs clad only in thigh-high stockings that don't quite reach the bottom of his dark mini dress. The changes continue upwards, from one arm to the next, through his chest and then finally, finally, the crowning glory of Ms. Scarlett's face.
"Amazing," Arthur says softly, hands slightly hesitant as he touches Eames' shoulder, tucks a curl of silky blonde hair behind Eames' ear.
Eames watches Arthur's gaze roam across his face: the porcelain skin, the pert nose, the lips a trace too thin to be sultry but rouged to great effect. "I try," Eames says, and the words emerge as a throaty female purr, calibrated for maximum sexual appeal.
Arthur's lips part slightly. "Do you mind if I…"
"Take liberties?" Eames takes Arthur's hands and places them on Ms. Scarlett's impossibly narrow waist. Eames looks up at Arthur from under his eyelashes, wonders whether Arthur will grab at his tits or arse first.
Arthur goes for neither, hands staying firmly in the region of Eames' waist until Eames grows impatient and turns to kiss him. "You even smell different," Arthur says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.
"Did you doubt my thoroughness?" Eames stands, sweeping his fingers-thinner, finer, tipped in deep red nails-across the expanse of Arthur's chest. He feels himself sinking deeper into character and decides to allow it, content to play along as long as Arthur cares to.
"How thorough?" Arthur's voice is a breath against Scarlett's ear, so deep it causes her to shiver minutely.
Scarlett kicks the chair aside and presses forward until one leg is threaded between Arthur's, rolls her hips so that his groin slides against the hard muscle of Arthur's thigh. "Perhaps you can investigate."
"God." Arthur kisses her again, harder, as he slips a hand under her skirt and encounters no panties. "You're not-you don't-"
"I don't," Scarlett agrees as she kisses Arthur back. She drags a leg up to hook around Arthur's waist and thrusts into his fingers.
"You are so-" Arthur devours her mouth for a long, frenzied minute before pulling back, panting. "I want to eat you out. Do you think you could-can you come if I-"
Scarlett swallows and tries to catch her breath, focus. "But of course."
"Okay." Arthur kisses her once more before lifting her up by the thighs and tipping her backwards onto a bed that hadn't been there a second ago. She lands with a surprised oh! and barely has a moment to adjust before Arthur is kneeling between her legs, kissing up the inside of her thighs.
The first sweep of Arthur's tongue over her clit is electric, stunning in how good it feels. He begins gently, careful sweeps and curls of his tongue around the clit while she does her best not to squirm, to hold still. Arthur puts his hands on her hips and lifts her legs onto his shoulders, says, "Squeeze if you want. I can take it."
It's not the words that make her shudder so much as the look in Arthur's eyes, dark and intense. Even when he ducks down again to lick past the clit, suck lightly on the outer folds of her labia, his eyes remaining focused on Scarlett's face.
She tries to keep her legs spread wide as Arthur runs his tongue along the edges of her cunt, tries to keep her back from arching and arse from curling into the mattress. But it's no use when Arthur begins to flicks his tongue backwards and forwards, gaze trained on her face for reaction. Scarlett's thighs clamp inwards, desperate to keep hold of the beautiful, intoxicating sensations. Her hips jerk forward of their own accord when Arthur begins to batter his tongue softly, expertly coaxing waves of pleasure so intense she can hardly breathe with it, much less make a sound.
The first orgasm comes like a tidal wave, building and building until Scarlett can hardly bear it, finally crashing as she twists this way and that. Arthur holds on gamely, tongue and lips and mouth unrelenting as he pushes past her oversensitivity into another climax, and then another, and another.
Scarlett doesn't know how many orgasms Arthur wrings from her, can hardly move or speak when Arthur finally lets up, nuzzling her lower abdomen with fluid-slick cheeks. While she tries to catch her breath, she's vaguely aware of the tingling oversensitivity of her cunt, the soreness of her vocal cords from shouting.
"Arthur," she rasps, hooking two fingers under his chin and pulling insistently until he comes up, leaning down over her with hungry eyes. "That was-"
"Can I eat out your ass?" Arthur asks, and it takes Scarlett a long minute to parse the meaning of those words. "You're so gorgeous and you smell, you taste-"
"Are you-" sure, she means to ask, but the restless drag of Arthur's rock hard cock against her thigh is answer enough.
"I won't if you don't want me to," Arthur says, voice hoarse. "I can-we can-"
"Yes," she says, dragging him down for a kiss before letting him go.
It's not the overwhelming intensity of before, which is somewhat disappointing but mostly a relief. It still feels marvelous though, Arthur's tongue agile, adept, and it's made even better by his obvious enthusiasm, the way he moans and sends vibrations throughout her lower body.
Eventually, she drags Arthur up by the collar, marveling at his glassy expression, the way his hair has gone loose around his face. "Fuck me," she commands, and Arthur complies.
It's fantastic. Arthur is rock hard and perfect, doesn't hold back, doesn't come until Scarlett has, twice. When he comes, she cradles him through it, kisses his exhausted face as he sags on top of her. He's bigger than her, the weight and size of him comforting on top of her, anchoring her in place.
* * * * *
When they wake up, Arthur smiles at Eames with heavy-lidded eyes. "I… wasn't expecting that."
"No, indeed," Eames says, and goes to touch his hair before realizing he hardly has any. "You were quite enthusiastic."
Arthur chuckles a little self-consciously. "It's been a while since I've slept with a woman. Even before we started dating."
Eames stares at Arthur blankly as the implications of that statement sink in. "Are we-are you exclusively-"
"Oh, uh." Arthur reddens and it'd be adorable if it weren't for the sudden and frantic pounding of Eames' heart, the rushing sound in his ears. "No, I know we haven't. We haven't really talked about that so I wouldn't-I mean, I'm not expecting you to be-"
"This isn't what I signed up for," Eames says, sitting up so quickly the line to the PASIV goes taut with his arm. "A job is one thing, and sex is enjoyable, but the two together aren't a guarantee that I-"
"I know, Eames, I wasn't-" Arthur puts his hands up, placating, as his shoulders droop slightly. "I'm not trying to trap you with this job or anything else, okay? We're just-enjoying each other's company. That's all."
"I should go," Eames says, wrangling himself loose from the PASIV, nearly pulling it off the table in his haste to stand. "I need a personal day, I think. A sick day, perhaps."
There's a long silence where he pointedly does not look up from rolling down his cuffs. At long last, Arthur says, "Yeah. Of course. I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"It's the weekend," Eames says, still not looking up.
"Right, yeah." Arthur pauses. "I'll see you next week, then."
"Cheers," Eames says, and bolts.
* * * * *
Eames goes to the closest bar he can find and orders a whiskey on the rocks. The bar's a dive so the drink he gets back isn't a good one, but it hardly matters at this point.
Several of the patrons-along with the bartender-eye him none-too-subtly, and Eames contemplates going home with one of them. He could do it with hardly any trouble, have some mediocre sex and be back at his flat in less than three hours. He could.
He supposes he shouldn't be surprised by Arthur's feelings. Dozens of people have fallen in love with him, countless more in lust. In fact, if Arthur were a mark, Eames would be very concerned if Arthur hadn't started some sort of falling by this point.
But every con has a shelf-life, an ultimate expiration date. Eames can tolerate most anything or anyone so long as he knows it won't last forever, but this thing with Arthur, it could potentially, he could-
Eames finishes his drink and orders another.
* * * * *
When Eames steps into the office on Monday the following week, Arthur looks up from organizing the anemically stocked bookshelf they have in the waiting area, relief visible. "Eames," he says, book held in mid-air.
"Good morning, Arthur," Eames says, keeping his own facial expressions bland, under strict control.
"I wasn't sure you'd come." The way the book wavers in Arthur's hand is his only tell.
"Of course," Eames says, setting off towards the bathroom without glancing back. "We have work to do."
* * * * *
In times of emotional upheaval, Eames retreats into his work. It's a relief to turn attention away from his own (clearly unresolved) issues and onto those of his characters. As a result, the designs are coming together in rapid succession: haughty Ms. Peacock, doddering Colonel Mustard, frazzled Ms. White.
He's in the midst of sketching out the profiles for Ms. White's two children when he hears a knock on his door. Eames contemplates, for a split second, pretending he's not there. But just as quickly he dismisses that ridiculous notion and tells himself to man up: Arthur's not going to simply go away because Eames wishes it.
"Come in," Eames says, doing his best to sound distracted and busy.
"Hey," Arthur says, opening the door a cautious few inches. "Is this a bad time?"
"It's not exactly ideal," Eames says, and feels something constrict round his lungs when Arthur flinches. "Though I suppose I could use a few minutes' break. Come in."
"You-you left your fedora." Arthur holds up the hat. "Last week."
"Keep it," Eames says. "It looks better on you, anyway."
"Eames." Arthur takes a deep breath. "Are we going to talk about this? About what happened?"
"Not yet," Eames says, surprising himself and Arthur both with his words. "We can shag, or not, if you don't care to. But I can't-I don't want to talk right now."
Arthur's face goes shuttered and quiet. "Yeah," he says as he backs out of Eames' office. "I guess I'll leave you to your work, then."
* * * * *
Arthur spends the rest of the day locked in his own office, conspicuously avoiding any common areas when Eames might be wandering about. Eames eats his lunch alone and is struck by how bizarre it is that he'd grown used to spending his meals with Arthur so quickly, when he'd spent a lifetime before that eating alone.
After work, he drives home and sits in front of the telly. He watches a lot during the weekend: inane sitcoms, dull nature documentaries, overblown soap operas.
On Sunday night, Eames turns on the television in time to catch a climactic moment in a telenovela with a beautiful woman rendered raccoon-like through fake tears. His Spanish is spotty, but as near as he can tell, the issue she's crying about seems to stem from a case of mistaken identity and possibly an evil baby twin.
A man comes on the screen, slim, with slicked-back hair. He looks nothing like Arthur, but when Eames allows his eyelids to slip to half-mast and palms his cock through his trousers, it's not so difficult to pretend.
* * * * *
The next week passes uneventfully. Eames puts the finishing touches on the rest of his characters: bookish Professor Plum, duplicitous Mr. Green, and hapless Mr. Boddy. Arthur seems hard at work as well, careful to give Eames as much space as possible when sharing a workspace together.
At the end of the week, Eames gathers his character profiles and shows them to Arthur.
"I've made the baseline model of these characters American because I'm assuming our prospective clients will mostly be from the US. They'll likely find the familiarity comforting," Eames explains as Arthur examines the papers. "But accents are a relatively easy thing to modify, and I've created enough room within their backgrounds to allow a broad range of nationalities."
"Good idea. Built-in adaptability, in case we get different types of customers." Arthur says. "Can you do other languages?"
"French passably, and possibly Mandarin though it's heavily accented. I wouldn't rely on my Spanish."
"Fair enough." Arthur nods, polite but distant. "Well done, Eames. I should be finished with all the secret tunnels and entrances by the middle of next week, which means we should be able to start doing full run-throughs relatively soon."
"Good." Eames hesitates, then says, "Would you like to see the characters in person?"
Arthur raises his eyebrows, clearly remembering what happened the last time they went into a dream together. He doesn't say no, though.
* * * * *
The dream setting is pastoral, a field of wildflowers filled with sunshine and butterflies and a large, oval mirror in the middle of it all. Arthur must be more tired of envisioning dark tunnels and musty passages than he let on.
Eames runs through all seven of his characters, taking care not to linger overlong on Scarlett. Arthur watches attentively, face schooled into a mildly interested mask that doesn't waver. Eames has been a conman virtually his entire life, but he supposes Arthur isn't exactly new to the game either. Arthur, who'd always been so open and expressive with Eames-even when they were at each others' throats, years ago.
The last character he shows Arthur is Professor Plum: lean and rangy, nearly awkward but not quite. He's handsome but approachably so, with curious green eyes and deep auburn hair that's kept messy and a touch too long.
Plum is awestruck by Arthur, who is gorgeous, movie star gorgeous. He says as much accidentally-he gets chatty when he's nervous-and Arthur smiles at him.
"You're cute," Arthur says, and Plum blushes. He can't imagine it's a pretty sight in combination with his freckles, but Arthur doesn't seem to mind. Plum feels Arthur's gaze upon his face, seeming fascinated with every detail, even as his smile fades. "Maybe we should-"
Plum closes the distance between them and kisses him before he can finish the statement. Arthur freezes. "I don't know if-"
"We can do whatever you want," Plum says, an edge of desperation in his desire to make Arthur stay. "I'm very-I've been told I'm very flexible."
Arthur doesn't move or say anything for a long minute, and Plum stays perfectly still, terrified that he's blown it. At last, Arthur says, "Yeah."
Plum kisses Arthur, grateful for the chance to continue, and vows to make it wonderful-as good for Arthur as he can make it. Arthur kisses him back and doesn't stop him.
* * * * *
Plum-no, Eames-wakes up stiff. The chaise lounges are comfortable, but something about Somnacin-induced sleep always aggravates the bad spot in Eames' back, the place where a bullet ripped through his innards and nearly led to him bleeding out in a yurt. It was a miracle he survived, the doctor had said, though it doesn't feel like a miracle now.
On the other side of the PASIV, Arthur stirs. When he opens his eyes, his gaze settles on Eames, lips pinching thin. Eames should be able to read his expression but he's distracted by the curve of his jaw, his dark lashes.
"Eames-"
Eames pulls the line from his wrist and stands. "While we're here, we should really focus on work."
Arthur falls silent, and watches Eames leave.
* * * * *
Things change little around the office. Arthur keeps mostly to himself aside from their dream run-throughs, which happen rather frequently now that the characters, settings, and storylines have been developed. Arthur always arrives earlier and stays later than Eames, which means that days go by with only minimal interaction. Eames is-he's grateful for this, he supposes.
In the dream rehearsals, they make good progress. The characters he's created have successfully transitioned into projections that more or less adhere to the personality traits he sketched out. Arthur has learned to control his projection versions somewhat, but it hardly matters when Eames is going to be forging the murderer, whoever they happen to be for that game.
At the end of each rehearsal, Arthur will wordlessly pull Eames to him for a kiss. He's always wearing someone else-Ms. Scarlett, Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard. Whoever it is kisses back; Scarlett finds Arthur to be an excellent fuck, Mustard loves the way Arthur's mouth looks wrapped around his cock, and Professor Plum is absolutely smitten.
Arthur doesn't say much when they're together, a fact that makes Plum nervous even as he drags Arthur into one of the many bedrooms in Mr. Boddy's mansion. They kiss and they kiss until Arthur guides Plum back onto the bed, helps him strip and bends down to mouth at his cock.
"Wait," Plum says, stopping him. "I want to-I was hoping I could come with you inside me."
Arthur looks up at Plum, heartbreakingly gorgeous, and says, "Whatever you want."
Plum hooks his ankles around Arthur's back as Arthur eases inside, gentle and so sweet. Arthur puts a hand on Plum's cock as he begins to move, slow rolls of his hips that make Plum sigh and moan softly. He doesn't take long to come, not with Arthur's solicitous hand and unerring thrusts, and sinks back into the mattress, content.
"You okay?" Arthur asks, stroking the hair from Plum's face.
"Wonderful," Plum replies, kissing Arthur's sweaty brow, his cheeks, his parted lips. "You can go as hard as you'd like."
Arthur stares down at Plum and the look in his eyes is strange, as if he's not seeing Plum at all. "You're amazing."
Those words stir a memory, familiar and confusing for Plum. It takes him-them-a moment to sift through lies and truth before Eames comes back to himself, surfaces with a start. Arthur's on top of him, over him, inside him-hips rocking achingly slowly.
Eames gasps and turns his face away, submerges himself. Plum reappears, and Arthur cups his face with some concern.
"Hey," Arthur says. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I was thinking about how good it'll feel when you come." Plum squeezes his legs, feels Arthur's hips stutter in their rhythm. He's here with Arthur now-that's all that matters.
"God," Arthur mutters, voice hoarse as he drops his head down to rest against the center of Plum's chest.
Arthur doesn't last much longer after that, thrusts growing shorter and more staccato as he gets closer to the edge. Plum kisses him through it, strokes his overheated back and rolls his hips in encouragement, urges Arthur forward.
It feels so wonderful when Arthur comes, so overwhelmingly satisfying that Plum can't help himself and whispers, "I love you."
As soon as the words leave his lips, Plum knows he's made a terrible mistake. Arthur jerks back, eyes wide and horrified. Before Plum can say anything else, Arthur lifts a gun to his head and pulls the trigger.
* * * * *
When Eames wakes up, Arthur is already gone.
Chapter 4: The Library
Eames doesn't have a permanent residence. His family-such as it is-all believe him to be deceased. He's rented flats, villas, cabanas, and so forth-filled them with possessions appropriate to the part he's playing in whatever con he's running, and left them behind once the job was done. He's never stayed in one place for longer than a year, and he's certainly never rented a flat as Eames, dreamshare operative, for longer than six months.
He receives job offers in both the dreamshare world and the normal criminal one on a weekly basis. Jobs with high payouts, excellent locales, easy work. He's always believed that staying in one place for too long would lead to boredom, stagnation, atrophy.
But it's been close to seven months he's been living in San Francisco, nearly nine if he counts the time before that he's spent dancing with Arthur, studiously avoiding the question of what it might all mean. The work is interesting enough, but this isn't like him. Eames should have transformed into someone else outside of dreams by now, should have left months ago.
He goes to three bars and picks up five different people. They offer no clarity.
* * * * *
San Francisco, much like London, is perpetually enveloped in a shroud of fog, even when the sun hovers somewhere overhead. A little mist has never bothered Eames, but this time when he leaves work the gentle rain of the morning has morphed into an evening downpour.
"Bloody hell," Eames mutters as he moves to open his umbrella and realizes he left it back inside the office. He trudges back inside and notes Arthur's door is ajar. Nothing seems amiss, but years of experience have taught Eames that the failure to be careful costs far more than a few minutes of feeling foolish or paranoid.
The room is empty, but Arthur's coat is still there. Eames stops into his own office to pick up his umbrella and readies himself for attack. He checks the bathroom, the break room, and then, finally, the back where the chaise lounges reside.
That's where he discovers Arthur, asleep and hooked up to the PASIV. After a brief internal debate, Eames takes a line and settles on the other lounge.
He opens his eyes to a large room filled with projections. There are circular dining tables, a buffet line, and a jazz band playing onstage. Eames glances round for windows to orient himself, but all he can see through them is a nondescript night sky-no clue as to where he is or what's going on. Arthur is nowhere in sight.
As Eames heads towards an exit, a projection-broad, handsome, resplendent in a grey suit and lavender shirt-bumps into him. "In a hurry?" the projection asks, teasing. His accent is American.
"I'm looking for Arthur," Eames says; no point beating around the bush. "Have you seen him?"
"Out on the deck," the projection replies.
Eames takes a second look at the projection, notices the patches on his elbows. He's certain that they've never met-in the waking world, at least-but there's something familiar all the same. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. My name is Eames."
"Dyson Booker," the projection says, holding out a hand to shake.
Now Eames remembers: he's seen Dr. Booker's photograph on the inside cover of several bestselling books. "You're the one doing research on therapeutic applications for dreamshare."
Dr. Booker inclines his head to one side. "You've read my work."
"Arthur keeps On Dreamwork and Identity and Reviewing Subconscious Representations in the office."
"He was an early supporter." Dr. Booker smiles, enigmatic and somehow sad. "Anyway, you probably shouldn’t keep him waiting for much longer."
"He's not expecting me."
"We both know that's not what I'm talking about," the projection says as he disappears into the crowd.
When Eames exits the dining room, it's dark and relatively empty outside, only a few projections wandering about on what appears to be a large cruise ship deck, looking out onto the ocean below. There's a lone male couple at the very front of the ship. One of them is clad in tailored menswear Eames would recognize anywhere.
Arthur's leaning on the railing, looking out at the ocean and conversing quietly with a blond man beside him. The man is a bit stockier than he, in a looser cut suit, and the rhythm of their voices is familiar. Eames can't hear the specifics of what they're saying, but it all seems pleasantly mundane: a discussion of the weather, their days, plans for the weekend.
They're standing close enough together that the acquaintance is clearly more than friendly, but aside from Arthur's hand on the small of the projection's back, there's no other touching, nothing overtly sexual.
They laugh, and Eames catches the tail end of what is unmistakably his own voice saying, low and fond, "…all my secrets." It's Eames-or at least, Arthur's projection of him.
"All of them?" Arthur says. "I feel like I could be digging for decades and never reach an end."
"You love the challenge." Eames knows what he sounds like, but the tone in the projection's voice is a warm murmur he nearly doesn't recognize.
"Yeah, I guess I do." Arthur pauses. "I miss this."
"Moonlit cruises round the world?"
There's no laughter in Arthur's words. "I miss you. Talking to you and-everything we had before it all went sideways."
"Darling." The projection leans in to rest his head against Arthur's shoulder. "It's going to be alright."
"Don't lie to me," Arthur says. "This is hard enough already."
"You think I'd lie to you?" The projection's voice is all studied innocence.
"Constantly," Arthur says. He doesn't sound angry, only resigned. "I thought I could live with it, but I don't know how much longer I can."
They both go quiet after that, staring out at the water together. Eames backs away from the scene, finds an empty part of the deck, and kicks himself out of the dream.
* * * * *
Beta testing of the game with a sample client begins. Rosalina is their guinea pig, one that grouses in a raspy voice and smells of tobacco even in dreams. She reminds Eames of the reasons why he hasn't played a character who smokes in years.
It's slow going, Arthur having to stop the dream after every clue Rosalina discovers in order to notate whether it's easy to understand and interpret or hopelessly cryptic. Scarlett is the murderer in this particular scenario-having killed Mr. Boddy to prevent the knowledge he had about her past from becoming public-and it takes Eames a while to work out the proper amount of suspicious behavior Scarlett should be exhibiting in order to arouse Rosalina's curiosity.
At the end of a long work day, however, Rosalina has successfully determined that Scarlett is the killer, Eames has a good idea of what sorts of things he should be doing to pique a client's suspicions, and Arthur has a moleskin full of notes on things to change.
Rosalina excuses herself for a cigarette break and kicks out of the dream, leaving Arthur and Eames, still dressed as Scarlett.
"Earth to Arthur," Scarlett says, voice sing-song as she waves a hand in front of Arthur's face. "Do you read me?"
Arthur comes back from staring distractedly out of the window with a start. "What? Yeah, I'm here."
"Something on your mind?" she asks, sashaying up to him with a bat of her eyes.
"It's all coming together," he replies. Scarlett's not sure what she was expecting, but that wasn't it. "I almost can't believe it."
She cocks her head to one side. "Why not?"
Arthur gives her a searching look. "Do you really want to know?"
"Of course I do." She puts a hand on his arm. "Why else would I ask?"
"I've always been the point man, the architect, the support. Not the extractor actually getting in there to steal the secret. Not even the client, calling shots." He inhales deeply. "But if we can get some customers, get this up and running-I'll have finally done something I can call mine."
Scarlett studies Arthur, the seeming youthfulness of his face disguising the years he's worked, the fact that he's nothing like a boy at all. "Even if this doesn't catch on, there are always other projects. Other jobs."
"When I first started out in dreamshare, I didn't think I'd ever want to settle down in one place," he says. "I thought I'd hate working out of an office, seeing the same stuff over and over. But after so many years of running from this botched extraction or that pissed off client, all I can think about is how nice it is to wake up somewhere familiar, next to someone you can trust."
Scarlett sees the tips of her fingers flicker into something undeniably male. "And this company, this project is your way into that life?"
"I don't want to trap you, Eames," Arthur says, sounding unbearably weary as he abandons all pretenses. "The project's almost done and if you want to leave after that, I'll understand. I can hire a new forger to take over the roles, and I'll pay you the agreed upon percentage for every client that signs up as long as the company is in business."
"Arthur," Eames says, but his voice constricts. He doesn't know what he wants to say.
"It's alright," Arthur says, finally turning to look at Eames. "We don't need to pretend anymore."
Eames grabs Arthur by the wrist before he can bring the pistol to his head. "What made you follow Cobb?" He doesn't know why he asks, nor why his arm begins to shimmer from Ms. Scarlett's to Colonel Mustard's to Professor Plum's. "What was it about him?"
Arthur seems surprised by the question, and for a moment it seems as though he's going to brush it off, or perhaps lie. Ultimately, though, he settles on the truth. "We were friends, and we'd worked together before," Arthur says. "After Dyson-my ex-called off our engagement, Cobb was the only one out of all our mutual friends to still talk to me."
"Dr. Booker is…" Eames trails off, mind whirling. He'd imagined Arthur's fiancé as sweet and adoring, bookish and slightly in awe of Arthur. Not someone broad and handsome, coolly self-assured and more than a little smug.
"That was a long time ago, Eames," Arthur says. "He's married to someone else now."
Music begins to play before Eames can come up with a response to that.
Chapter 5: The Study
Eames hesitates only briefly before knocking on Arthur's office door. After a pause that seems much longer than it is, Arthur invites him in.
"Is there something you need?" Arthur asks. He looks tired; the past few weeks of beta testing have been long, filled with unexpected issues and a frustrating series of trial and error. Things are not progressing as quickly as they had hoped, and Rosalina's jetting off to the Bahamas for a vacation at the end of the week-meaning they either wrap up this phase of beta testing with her or have to find a new test subject.
"I was wondering if you might be interested in dinner," Eames says. He doesn't move to take a seat. His fedora is still sitting on the top right corner of Arthur's desk, by the lamp.
"Oh." Arthur sits back and rubs his eyes. "Yeah, if you're going to order something, email me the menu and I'll-"
"No, I meant." Eames clears his throat. "I'm making dinner tonight at mine. Duck à l'orange is much better with company."
"I-" Arthur gestures reluctantly to the multitude of notes and papers piled across his desk. "I'm probably going to need to stay a little late tonight to catch up."
"Come whenever you're ready," Eames says. "I won't be starting dinner till eight, at least. Do you remember how to get to my flat?"
Arthur glances up at Eames, expression uncertain, but nods. "Yeah."
"Eight, then," Eames says as he turns to go. He can feel Arthur's gaze following him the whole way out.
* * * * *
Arthur arrives at five past eight with a bottle of Merlot. His hair is freshly slicked back and the tie he's wearing is a different color than what he had on at the office.
"Sorry I'm late," he says as Eames lets him in. "I got a call, and then I was nearly run down by this biker-"
"It's alright. I was finishing up the duck."
"I didn't want you to think-" Arthur stops. "I brought wine."
"Thank you." Eames has to gently pry open Arthur's fingers, which are still gripping the neck of the wine bottle like a vise.
After he takes Arthur's coat and the Merlot, Eames realizes it's the first time they've touched, topside, in over a month.
Arthur takes a seat in the dining room. The table's already set, so Eames passes Arthur the wine opener to pour while Eames brings out the salad, rolls, and soup.
As Eames takes a seat, Arthur drains the wine in the bottom of his glass and begins pouring another.
"We're starting with a salad of Spinach, arugula, and heirloom cherry tomatoes. The dressing is an extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar finished with cracked pepper and sea salt. The soup is fresh tomato basil accompanied by oatmeal sourdough rolls," Eames says. "Bon appétit."
"Wow," Arthur says as he surveys the table. "This is-everything sounds delicious."
"The soup will cool relatively quickly if you'd like to start there."
Arthur tastes the soup and his eyes widen. "This is phenomenal." Eames can see the question, where did you learn to cook like this, resting on the tip of Arthur's tongue before he bites it back. Arthur swallows another large spoonful of soup instead.
"I," Eames swallows down the unease rising in his throat, the instinct to hold back anything that could be used against him. "I impersonated a Sous-chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant during one of my earliest jobs. It was utterly wretched-even worse than sleeping with the mark, who was an enormous, sweaty oaf-but I learned an incredible amount about food."
When Eames looks up, he finds Arthur staring at him. "In all the years we've known each other, I think that's the most you've ever voluntarily told me about yourself."
Eames runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. Anxious, he identifies the emotion as. He's anxious. "Most of my life can be summarized in a series of stories like the one I just told you: working a con, pretending to be someone else, seducing a mark. I've been hundreds of people by now."
"What if I asked you who you were before the cons?"
Eames drinks his soup and notes distantly that the consistency isn't quite what he'd hoped it would be. "I've been 'Eames' ever since I left the military."
"I know," Arthur says, gently. "Who were you before you became 'Eames'?"
Eames reaches back to memories he tucked away long ago, ones he hasn't examined in decades. "I was the bastard son of a member of the peerage," Eames starts. "And a Hungarian maid whose service was no longer required once she began to show."
Arthur puts down his soup spoon. "You said your mother died."
"She did. My father took me in, rather reluctantly," Eames says. "He brought me back to his home and instructed his wife to raise me in addition to their two legitimate children."
"I'm guessing it wasn't exactly happy families after that."
"No, though I could hardly blame Margaret on that score. I was the ever present reminder of Haytham's-that is, my father's-infidelity." Eames expects the memories to sting, but the emotions surrounding them have faded as well, discolored and blurred. "My mother certainly wasn't his only affair, nor was it the last time a mistress bore him a child. To date, I have at least five other half-siblings that I know of."
"Jesus," Arthur says. "Don't tell me your family took your father's bullshit out on you."
"Who else was there to target?" Eames lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "The rest of Haytham's indiscretions had the decency not to die before he could pay them to disappear. Margaret wasn't naïve enough to think there weren't others, but at least she didn't have to see them every day."
"She should have left."
"Perhaps she would have, if she'd been younger," Eames says. "When I came onto the horizon, Margaret's looks were already on the decline. I suspect she didn't fancy her chances of landing another man as wealthy as my father, particularly with two children in tow."
Arthur reaches across the table to tug Eames' fingers away from his wineglass. "I'm sorry you had to go through that." Arthur squeezes his hand. "It sounds horrific."
Eames studies Arthur's hand in his. This marks the second time they've touched in over a month. He stands. "I should fetch the duck."
As they eat the main course, Eames tells Arthur other bits and pieces of his past, haltingly: his favorite color as a boy (pink), the first time someone told him what a pretty mouth he had (age thirteen), the way he'd felt on the day he left the military (free). Arthur simply listens, attentive and quiet. Curious, but restrained.
"Would you like dessert?" Eames asks, and then realizes the possible implications of that query. "I have tiramisu prepared, as well as several flavors of gelato."
"I think I’m okay for now," Arthur says with a small smile.
He insists on helping to clear the table, places all the dishes in the sink and offers to wash up. Eames declines and pins him against the counter with a kiss.
For ten beautiful seconds, Arthur kisses back. Then he stops. "Eames."
Eames takes a step away, almost lightheaded. He's shocked by how much he missed this. "I see."
"No, you don't." Arthur touches Eames' cheek. "What are we doing here?"
"We can do whatever you want." It comes out glib, but Eames means it honestly.
"I'm not some random mark," Arthur says. "We don't always have to do what I want."
"I don't think of you as a mark. But I just don't know how else to…" Eames trails off.
"There's always so much you never say." Arthur rests his palm on Eames' chest, over his heart. "You don't have to tell me everything, but maybe you could start by telling me what you want."
"I would like it if-" the words taste strange on Eames' tongue. "If you could stay over tonight. And perhaps tomorrow, or sometime during the weekend, we could-talk more. About what we both want."
Arthur smiles, tentative but happy. Eames thinks, from the answering warmth that grows inside him, that he might be happy, too.
fin
Poll Fic: Unravel
Chapter 3: The Lounge
Master post of all chapters here.
Chapter 3: The Lounge
Developing the backgrounds, personalities, looks and wardrobe for seven individual characters ends up taking longer than Eames had anticipated. They'd budgeted four months, but they're already entering their sixth. Rarely has Eames had to work up so many characters from scratch, much less try to wrangle them into workable projections.
Not that the extended timeline is a problem-they both have enough money to live comfortably off for at least a decade after the inception job (barring any poorly made large investments on Arthur's part and Eames' continuing forbearance of gambling). Their office operating expenses are relatively modest, and Rosalina gives them a volume discount on their Somnacin supply.
It's very much like the other nine-to-five jobs Eames has had over the years, except this time he hasn't got a role to play or information to steal. He's not entirely sure whether he likes that or not.
* * * * *
Eames drops the fedora he's holding on his head at an angle and executes a perfect pirouette. The effect is probably not quite the same as when he's clad in a voluptuous blonde, but Arthur doesn't seem off put by it. When he straddles the chair Arthur's seated in, Arthur smiles up at him, amused. "You're in a good mood."
"I am." Eames takes off the hat and places it Arthur's head. "It's because I have something to show you."
"Is it your dick?" Arthur asks, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Because I'm a fan, but I have seen it before."
"Close, but not quite," Eames says, and leaves room for a dramatic beat. "I've finished Ms. Scarlett."
Arthur's eyebrows shoot up. "I thought you had a ways to go on that. Something about daddy issues and complex psychology-"
"I had a creative breakthrough at the deli," Eames says, unable to suppress his raw excitement. It's all rather unbecoming, really, but he can't stop himself. "I want to show you."
"What about dinner?" Arthur asks. "I went through some pretty backbreaking labor placing that sushi order online…"
"The sushi won't be arriving for another half hour at least," Eames says. "All I need is fifteen minutes with the PASIV. Ten, even."
"Okay." Arthur puts down the set of blueprints he was reading. "Ms. Scarlett it is."
* * * * *
Eames is seated in front of a vanity.
Arthur stands behind him, exquisite in his lovely dark suit, and smiles. "Hi."
"Hello," Eames says, and begins to change. He allows the changes to flow over the body gradually rather than all at once to heighten the effect, enjoying the way Arthur's eyes widen. He starts with the feet, shifting from his usual pleated trousers to slender legs clad only in thigh-high stockings that don't quite reach the bottom of his dark mini dress. The changes continue upwards, from one arm to the next, through his chest and then finally, finally, the crowning glory of Ms. Scarlett's face.
"Amazing," Arthur says softly, hands slightly hesitant as he touches Eames' shoulder, tucks a curl of silky blonde hair behind Eames' ear.
Eames watches Arthur's gaze roam across his face: the porcelain skin, the pert nose, the lips a trace too thin to be sultry but rouged to great effect. "I try," Eames says, and the words emerge as a throaty female purr, calibrated for maximum sexual appeal.
Arthur's lips part slightly. "Do you mind if I…"
"Take liberties?" Eames takes Arthur's hands and places them on Ms. Scarlett's impossibly narrow waist. Eames looks up at Arthur from under his eyelashes, wonders whether Arthur will grab at his tits or arse first.
Arthur goes for neither, hands staying firmly in the region of Eames' waist until Eames grows impatient and turns to kiss him. "You even smell different," Arthur says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.
"Did you doubt my thoroughness?" Eames stands, sweeping his fingers-thinner, finer, tipped in deep red nails-across the expanse of Arthur's chest. He feels himself sinking deeper into character and decides to allow it, content to play along as long as Arthur cares to.
"How thorough?" Arthur's voice is a breath against Scarlett's ear, so deep it causes her to shiver minutely.
Scarlett kicks the chair aside and presses forward until one leg is threaded between Arthur's, rolls her hips so that his groin slides against the hard muscle of Arthur's thigh. "Perhaps you can investigate."
"God." Arthur kisses her again, harder, as he slips a hand under her skirt and encounters no panties. "You're not-you don't-"
"I don't," Scarlett agrees as she kisses Arthur back. She drags a leg up to hook around Arthur's waist and thrusts into his fingers.
"You are so-" Arthur devours her mouth for a long, frenzied minute before pulling back, panting. "I want to eat you out. Do you think you could-can you come if I-"
Scarlett swallows and tries to catch her breath, focus. "But of course."
"Okay." Arthur kisses her once more before lifting her up by the thighs and tipping her backwards onto a bed that hadn't been there a second ago. She lands with a surprised oh! and barely has a moment to adjust before Arthur is kneeling between her legs, kissing up the inside of her thighs.
The first sweep of Arthur's tongue over her clit is electric, stunning in how good it feels. He begins gently, careful sweeps and curls of his tongue around the clit while she does her best not to squirm, to hold still. Arthur puts his hands on her hips and lifts her legs onto his shoulders, says, "Squeeze if you want. I can take it."
It's not the words that make her shudder so much as the look in Arthur's eyes, dark and intense. Even when he ducks down again to lick past the clit, suck lightly on the outer folds of her labia, his eyes remaining focused on Scarlett's face.
She tries to keep her legs spread wide as Arthur runs his tongue along the edges of her cunt, tries to keep her back from arching and arse from curling into the mattress. But it's no use when Arthur begins to flicks his tongue backwards and forwards, gaze trained on her face for reaction. Scarlett's thighs clamp inwards, desperate to keep hold of the beautiful, intoxicating sensations. Her hips jerk forward of their own accord when Arthur begins to batter his tongue softly, expertly coaxing waves of pleasure so intense she can hardly breathe with it, much less make a sound.
The first orgasm comes like a tidal wave, building and building until Scarlett can hardly bear it, finally crashing as she twists this way and that. Arthur holds on gamely, tongue and lips and mouth unrelenting as he pushes past her oversensitivity into another climax, and then another, and another.
Scarlett doesn't know how many orgasms Arthur wrings from her, can hardly move or speak when Arthur finally lets up, nuzzling her lower abdomen with fluid-slick cheeks. While she tries to catch her breath, she's vaguely aware of the tingling oversensitivity of her cunt, the soreness of her vocal cords from shouting.
"Arthur," she rasps, hooking two fingers under his chin and pulling insistently until he comes up, leaning down over her with hungry eyes. "That was-"
"Can I eat out your ass?" Arthur asks, and it takes Scarlett a long minute to parse the meaning of those words. "You're so gorgeous and you smell, you taste-"
"Are you-" sure, she means to ask, but the restless drag of Arthur's rock hard cock against her thigh is answer enough.
"I won't if you don't want me to," Arthur says, voice hoarse. "I can-we can-"
"Yes," she says, dragging him down for a kiss before letting him go.
It's not the overwhelming intensity of before, which is somewhat disappointing but mostly a relief. It still feels marvelous though, Arthur's tongue agile, adept, and it's made even better by his obvious enthusiasm, the way he moans and sends vibrations throughout her lower body.
Eventually, she drags Arthur up by the collar, marveling at his glassy expression, the way his hair has gone loose around his face. "Fuck me," she commands, and Arthur complies.
It's fantastic. Arthur is rock hard and perfect, doesn't hold back, doesn't come until Scarlett has, twice. When he comes, she cradles him through it, kisses his exhausted face as he sags on top of her. He's bigger than her, the weight and size of him comforting on top of her, anchoring her in place.
* * * * *
When they wake up, Arthur smiles at Eames with heavy-lidded eyes. "I… wasn't expecting that."
"No, indeed," Eames says, and goes to touch his hair before realizing he hardly has any. "You were quite enthusiastic."
Arthur chuckles a little self-consciously. "It's been a while since I've slept with a woman. Even before we started dating."
Eames stares at Arthur blankly as the implications of that statement sink in. "Are we-are you exclusively-"
"Oh, uh." Arthur reddens and it'd be adorable if it weren't for the sudden and frantic pounding of Eames' heart, the rushing sound in his ears. "No, I know we haven't. We haven't really talked about that so I wouldn't-I mean, I'm not expecting you to be-"
"This isn't what I signed up for," Eames says, sitting up so quickly the line to the PASIV goes taut with his arm. "A job is one thing, and sex is enjoyable, but the two together aren't a guarantee that I-"
"I know, Eames, I wasn't-" Arthur puts his hands up, placating, as his shoulders droop slightly. "I'm not trying to trap you with this job or anything else, okay? We're just-enjoying each other's company. That's all."
"I should go," Eames says, wrangling himself loose from the PASIV, nearly pulling it off the table in his haste to stand. "I need a personal day, I think. A sick day, perhaps."
There's a long silence where he pointedly does not look up from rolling down his cuffs. At long last, Arthur says, "Yeah. Of course. I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"It's the weekend," Eames says, still not looking up.
"Right, yeah." Arthur pauses. "I'll see you next week, then."
"Cheers," Eames says, and bolts.
* * * * *
Eames goes to the closest bar he can find and orders a whiskey on the rocks. The bar's a dive so the drink he gets back isn't a good one, but it hardly matters at this point.
Several of the patrons-along with the bartender-eye him none-too-subtly, and Eames contemplates going home with one of them. He could do it with hardly any trouble, have some mediocre sex and be back at his flat in less than three hours. He could.
He supposes he shouldn't be surprised by Arthur's feelings. Dozens of people have fallen in love with him, countless more in lust. In fact, if Arthur were a mark, Eames would be very concerned if Arthur hadn't started some sort of falling by this point.
But every con has a shelf-life, an ultimate expiration date. Eames can tolerate most anything or anyone so long as he knows it won't last forever, but this thing with Arthur, it could potentially, he could-
Eames finishes his drink and orders another.
* * * * *
When Eames steps into the office on Monday the following week, Arthur looks up from organizing the anemically stocked bookshelf they have in the waiting area, relief visible. "Eames," he says, book held in mid-air.
"Good morning, Arthur," Eames says, keeping his own facial expressions bland, under strict control.
"I wasn't sure you'd come." The way the book wavers in Arthur's hand is his only tell.
"Of course," Eames says, setting off towards the bathroom without glancing back. "We have work to do."
* * * * *
In times of emotional upheaval, Eames retreats into his work. It's a relief to turn attention away from his own (clearly unresolved) issues and onto those of his characters. As a result, the designs are coming together in rapid succession: haughty Ms. Peacock, doddering Colonel Mustard, frazzled Ms. White.
He's in the midst of sketching out the profiles for Ms. White's two children when he hears a knock on his door. Eames contemplates, for a split second, pretending he's not there. But just as quickly he dismisses that ridiculous notion and tells himself to man up: Arthur's not going to simply go away because Eames wishes it.
"Come in," Eames says, doing his best to sound distracted and busy.
"Hey," Arthur says, opening the door a cautious few inches. "Is this a bad time?"
"It's not exactly ideal," Eames says, and feels something constrict round his lungs when Arthur flinches. "Though I suppose I could use a few minutes' break. Come in."
"You-you left your fedora." Arthur holds up the hat. "Last week."
"Keep it," Eames says. "It looks better on you, anyway."
"Eames." Arthur takes a deep breath. "Are we going to talk about this? About what happened?"
"Not yet," Eames says, surprising himself and Arthur both with his words. "We can shag, or not, if you don't care to. But I can't-I don't want to talk right now."
Arthur's face goes shuttered and quiet. "Yeah," he says as he backs out of Eames' office. "I guess I'll leave you to your work, then."
* * * * *
Arthur spends the rest of the day locked in his own office, conspicuously avoiding any common areas when Eames might be wandering about. Eames eats his lunch alone and is struck by how bizarre it is that he'd grown used to spending his meals with Arthur so quickly, when he'd spent a lifetime before that eating alone.
After work, he drives home and sits in front of the telly. He watches a lot during the weekend: inane sitcoms, dull nature documentaries, overblown soap operas.
On Sunday night, Eames turns on the television in time to catch a climactic moment in a telenovela with a beautiful woman rendered raccoon-like through fake tears. His Spanish is spotty, but as near as he can tell, the issue she's crying about seems to stem from a case of mistaken identity and possibly an evil baby twin.
A man comes on the screen, slim, with slicked-back hair. He looks nothing like Arthur, but when Eames allows his eyelids to slip to half-mast and palms his cock through his trousers, it's not so difficult to pretend.
* * * * *
The next week passes uneventfully. Eames puts the finishing touches on the rest of his characters: bookish Professor Plum, duplicitous Mr. Green, and hapless Mr. Boddy. Arthur seems hard at work as well, careful to give Eames as much space as possible when sharing a workspace together.
At the end of the week, Eames gathers his character profiles and shows them to Arthur.
"I've made the baseline model of these characters American because I'm assuming our prospective clients will mostly be from the US. They'll likely find the familiarity comforting," Eames explains as Arthur examines the papers. "But accents are a relatively easy thing to modify, and I've created enough room within their backgrounds to allow a broad range of nationalities."
"Good idea. Built-in adaptability, in case we get different types of customers." Arthur says. "Can you do other languages?"
"French passably, and possibly Mandarin though it's heavily accented. I wouldn't rely on my Spanish."
"Fair enough." Arthur nods, polite but distant. "Well done, Eames. I should be finished with all the secret tunnels and entrances by the middle of next week, which means we should be able to start doing full run-throughs relatively soon."
"Good." Eames hesitates, then says, "Would you like to see the characters in person?"
Arthur raises his eyebrows, clearly remembering what happened the last time they went into a dream together. He doesn't say no, though.
* * * * *
The dream setting is pastoral, a field of wildflowers filled with sunshine and butterflies and a large, oval mirror in the middle of it all. Arthur must be more tired of envisioning dark tunnels and musty passages than he let on.
Eames runs through all seven of his characters, taking care not to linger overlong on Scarlett. Arthur watches attentively, face schooled into a mildly interested mask that doesn't waver. Eames has been a conman virtually his entire life, but he supposes Arthur isn't exactly new to the game either. Arthur, who'd always been so open and expressive with Eames-even when they were at each others' throats, years ago.
The last character he shows Arthur is Professor Plum: lean and rangy, nearly awkward but not quite. He's handsome but approachably so, with curious green eyes and deep auburn hair that's kept messy and a touch too long.
Plum is awestruck by Arthur, who is gorgeous, movie star gorgeous. He says as much accidentally-he gets chatty when he's nervous-and Arthur smiles at him.
"You're cute," Arthur says, and Plum blushes. He can't imagine it's a pretty sight in combination with his freckles, but Arthur doesn't seem to mind. Plum feels Arthur's gaze upon his face, seeming fascinated with every detail, even as his smile fades. "Maybe we should-"
Plum closes the distance between them and kisses him before he can finish the statement. Arthur freezes. "I don't know if-"
"We can do whatever you want," Plum says, an edge of desperation in his desire to make Arthur stay. "I'm very-I've been told I'm very flexible."
Arthur doesn't move or say anything for a long minute, and Plum stays perfectly still, terrified that he's blown it. At last, Arthur says, "Yeah."
Plum kisses Arthur, grateful for the chance to continue, and vows to make it wonderful-as good for Arthur as he can make it. Arthur kisses him back and doesn't stop him.
* * * * *
Plum-no, Eames-wakes up stiff. The chaise lounges are comfortable, but something about Somnacin-induced sleep always aggravates the bad spot in Eames' back, the place where a bullet ripped through his innards and nearly led to him bleeding out in a yurt. It was a miracle he survived, the doctor had said, though it doesn't feel like a miracle now.
On the other side of the PASIV, Arthur stirs. When he opens his eyes, his gaze settles on Eames, lips pinching thin. Eames should be able to read his expression but he's distracted by the curve of his jaw, his dark lashes.
"Eames-"
Eames pulls the line from his wrist and stands. "While we're here, we should really focus on work."
Arthur falls silent, and watches Eames leave.
* * * * *
Things change little around the office. Arthur keeps mostly to himself aside from their dream run-throughs, which happen rather frequently now that the characters, settings, and storylines have been developed. Arthur always arrives earlier and stays later than Eames, which means that days go by with only minimal interaction. Eames is-he's grateful for this, he supposes.
In the dream rehearsals, they make good progress. The characters he's created have successfully transitioned into projections that more or less adhere to the personality traits he sketched out. Arthur has learned to control his projection versions somewhat, but it hardly matters when Eames is going to be forging the murderer, whoever they happen to be for that game.
At the end of each rehearsal, Arthur will wordlessly pull Eames to him for a kiss. He's always wearing someone else-Ms. Scarlett, Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard. Whoever it is kisses back; Scarlett finds Arthur to be an excellent fuck, Mustard loves the way Arthur's mouth looks wrapped around his cock, and Professor Plum is absolutely smitten.
Arthur doesn't say much when they're together, a fact that makes Plum nervous even as he drags Arthur into one of the many bedrooms in Mr. Boddy's mansion. They kiss and they kiss until Arthur guides Plum back onto the bed, helps him strip and bends down to mouth at his cock.
"Wait," Plum says, stopping him. "I want to-I was hoping I could come with you inside me."
Arthur looks up at Plum, heartbreakingly gorgeous, and says, "Whatever you want."
Plum hooks his ankles around Arthur's back as Arthur eases inside, gentle and so sweet. Arthur puts a hand on Plum's cock as he begins to move, slow rolls of his hips that make Plum sigh and moan softly. He doesn't take long to come, not with Arthur's solicitous hand and unerring thrusts, and sinks back into the mattress, content.
"You okay?" Arthur asks, stroking the hair from Plum's face.
"Wonderful," Plum replies, kissing Arthur's sweaty brow, his cheeks, his parted lips. "You can go as hard as you'd like."
Arthur stares down at Plum and the look in his eyes is strange, as if he's not seeing Plum at all. "You're amazing."
Those words stir a memory, familiar and confusing for Plum. It takes him-them-a moment to sift through lies and truth before Eames comes back to himself, surfaces with a start. Arthur's on top of him, over him, inside him-hips rocking achingly slowly.
Eames gasps and turns his face away, submerges himself. Plum reappears, and Arthur cups his face with some concern.
"Hey," Arthur says. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I was thinking about how good it'll feel when you come." Plum squeezes his legs, feels Arthur's hips stutter in their rhythm. He's here with Arthur now-that's all that matters.
"God," Arthur mutters, voice hoarse as he drops his head down to rest against the center of Plum's chest.
Arthur doesn't last much longer after that, thrusts growing shorter and more staccato as he gets closer to the edge. Plum kisses him through it, strokes his overheated back and rolls his hips in encouragement, urges Arthur forward.
It feels so wonderful when Arthur comes, so overwhelmingly satisfying that Plum can't help himself and whispers, "I love you."
As soon as the words leave his lips, Plum knows he's made a terrible mistake. Arthur jerks back, eyes wide and horrified. Before Plum can say anything else, Arthur lifts a gun to his head and pulls the trigger.
* * * * *
When Eames wakes up, Arthur is already gone.
Chapter 4: The Library
Eames doesn't have a permanent residence. His family-such as it is-all believe him to be deceased. He's rented flats, villas, cabanas, and so forth-filled them with possessions appropriate to the part he's playing in whatever con he's running, and left them behind once the job was done. He's never stayed in one place for longer than a year, and he's certainly never rented a flat as Eames, dreamshare operative, for longer than six months.
He receives job offers in both the dreamshare world and the normal criminal one on a weekly basis. Jobs with high payouts, excellent locales, easy work. He's always believed that staying in one place for too long would lead to boredom, stagnation, atrophy.
But it's been close to seven months he's been living in San Francisco, nearly nine if he counts the time before that he's spent dancing with Arthur, studiously avoiding the question of what it might all mean. The work is interesting enough, but this isn't like him. Eames should have transformed into someone else outside of dreams by now, should have left months ago.
He goes to three bars and picks up five different people. They offer no clarity.
* * * * *
San Francisco, much like London, is perpetually enveloped in a shroud of fog, even when the sun hovers somewhere overhead. A little mist has never bothered Eames, but this time when he leaves work the gentle rain of the morning has morphed into an evening downpour.
"Bloody hell," Eames mutters as he moves to open his umbrella and realizes he left it back inside the office. He trudges back inside and notes Arthur's door is ajar. Nothing seems amiss, but years of experience have taught Eames that the failure to be careful costs far more than a few minutes of feeling foolish or paranoid.
The room is empty, but Arthur's coat is still there. Eames stops into his own office to pick up his umbrella and readies himself for attack. He checks the bathroom, the break room, and then, finally, the back where the chaise lounges reside.
That's where he discovers Arthur, asleep and hooked up to the PASIV. After a brief internal debate, Eames takes a line and settles on the other lounge.
He opens his eyes to a large room filled with projections. There are circular dining tables, a buffet line, and a jazz band playing onstage. Eames glances round for windows to orient himself, but all he can see through them is a nondescript night sky-no clue as to where he is or what's going on. Arthur is nowhere in sight.
As Eames heads towards an exit, a projection-broad, handsome, resplendent in a grey suit and lavender shirt-bumps into him. "In a hurry?" the projection asks, teasing. His accent is American.
"I'm looking for Arthur," Eames says; no point beating around the bush. "Have you seen him?"
"Out on the deck," the projection replies.
Eames takes a second look at the projection, notices the patches on his elbows. He's certain that they've never met-in the waking world, at least-but there's something familiar all the same. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. My name is Eames."
"Dyson Booker," the projection says, holding out a hand to shake.
Now Eames remembers: he's seen Dr. Booker's photograph on the inside cover of several bestselling books. "You're the one doing research on therapeutic applications for dreamshare."
Dr. Booker inclines his head to one side. "You've read my work."
"Arthur keeps On Dreamwork and Identity and Reviewing Subconscious Representations in the office."
"He was an early supporter." Dr. Booker smiles, enigmatic and somehow sad. "Anyway, you probably shouldn’t keep him waiting for much longer."
"He's not expecting me."
"We both know that's not what I'm talking about," the projection says as he disappears into the crowd.
When Eames exits the dining room, it's dark and relatively empty outside, only a few projections wandering about on what appears to be a large cruise ship deck, looking out onto the ocean below. There's a lone male couple at the very front of the ship. One of them is clad in tailored menswear Eames would recognize anywhere.
Arthur's leaning on the railing, looking out at the ocean and conversing quietly with a blond man beside him. The man is a bit stockier than he, in a looser cut suit, and the rhythm of their voices is familiar. Eames can't hear the specifics of what they're saying, but it all seems pleasantly mundane: a discussion of the weather, their days, plans for the weekend.
They're standing close enough together that the acquaintance is clearly more than friendly, but aside from Arthur's hand on the small of the projection's back, there's no other touching, nothing overtly sexual.
They laugh, and Eames catches the tail end of what is unmistakably his own voice saying, low and fond, "…all my secrets." It's Eames-or at least, Arthur's projection of him.
"All of them?" Arthur says. "I feel like I could be digging for decades and never reach an end."
"You love the challenge." Eames knows what he sounds like, but the tone in the projection's voice is a warm murmur he nearly doesn't recognize.
"Yeah, I guess I do." Arthur pauses. "I miss this."
"Moonlit cruises round the world?"
There's no laughter in Arthur's words. "I miss you. Talking to you and-everything we had before it all went sideways."
"Darling." The projection leans in to rest his head against Arthur's shoulder. "It's going to be alright."
"Don't lie to me," Arthur says. "This is hard enough already."
"You think I'd lie to you?" The projection's voice is all studied innocence.
"Constantly," Arthur says. He doesn't sound angry, only resigned. "I thought I could live with it, but I don't know how much longer I can."
They both go quiet after that, staring out at the water together. Eames backs away from the scene, finds an empty part of the deck, and kicks himself out of the dream.
* * * * *
Beta testing of the game with a sample client begins. Rosalina is their guinea pig, one that grouses in a raspy voice and smells of tobacco even in dreams. She reminds Eames of the reasons why he hasn't played a character who smokes in years.
It's slow going, Arthur having to stop the dream after every clue Rosalina discovers in order to notate whether it's easy to understand and interpret or hopelessly cryptic. Scarlett is the murderer in this particular scenario-having killed Mr. Boddy to prevent the knowledge he had about her past from becoming public-and it takes Eames a while to work out the proper amount of suspicious behavior Scarlett should be exhibiting in order to arouse Rosalina's curiosity.
At the end of a long work day, however, Rosalina has successfully determined that Scarlett is the killer, Eames has a good idea of what sorts of things he should be doing to pique a client's suspicions, and Arthur has a moleskin full of notes on things to change.
Rosalina excuses herself for a cigarette break and kicks out of the dream, leaving Arthur and Eames, still dressed as Scarlett.
"Earth to Arthur," Scarlett says, voice sing-song as she waves a hand in front of Arthur's face. "Do you read me?"
Arthur comes back from staring distractedly out of the window with a start. "What? Yeah, I'm here."
"Something on your mind?" she asks, sashaying up to him with a bat of her eyes.
"It's all coming together," he replies. Scarlett's not sure what she was expecting, but that wasn't it. "I almost can't believe it."
She cocks her head to one side. "Why not?"
Arthur gives her a searching look. "Do you really want to know?"
"Of course I do." She puts a hand on his arm. "Why else would I ask?"
"I've always been the point man, the architect, the support. Not the extractor actually getting in there to steal the secret. Not even the client, calling shots." He inhales deeply. "But if we can get some customers, get this up and running-I'll have finally done something I can call mine."
Scarlett studies Arthur, the seeming youthfulness of his face disguising the years he's worked, the fact that he's nothing like a boy at all. "Even if this doesn't catch on, there are always other projects. Other jobs."
"When I first started out in dreamshare, I didn't think I'd ever want to settle down in one place," he says. "I thought I'd hate working out of an office, seeing the same stuff over and over. But after so many years of running from this botched extraction or that pissed off client, all I can think about is how nice it is to wake up somewhere familiar, next to someone you can trust."
Scarlett sees the tips of her fingers flicker into something undeniably male. "And this company, this project is your way into that life?"
"I don't want to trap you, Eames," Arthur says, sounding unbearably weary as he abandons all pretenses. "The project's almost done and if you want to leave after that, I'll understand. I can hire a new forger to take over the roles, and I'll pay you the agreed upon percentage for every client that signs up as long as the company is in business."
"Arthur," Eames says, but his voice constricts. He doesn't know what he wants to say.
"It's alright," Arthur says, finally turning to look at Eames. "We don't need to pretend anymore."
Eames grabs Arthur by the wrist before he can bring the pistol to his head. "What made you follow Cobb?" He doesn't know why he asks, nor why his arm begins to shimmer from Ms. Scarlett's to Colonel Mustard's to Professor Plum's. "What was it about him?"
Arthur seems surprised by the question, and for a moment it seems as though he's going to brush it off, or perhaps lie. Ultimately, though, he settles on the truth. "We were friends, and we'd worked together before," Arthur says. "After Dyson-my ex-called off our engagement, Cobb was the only one out of all our mutual friends to still talk to me."
"Dr. Booker is…" Eames trails off, mind whirling. He'd imagined Arthur's fiancé as sweet and adoring, bookish and slightly in awe of Arthur. Not someone broad and handsome, coolly self-assured and more than a little smug.
"That was a long time ago, Eames," Arthur says. "He's married to someone else now."
Music begins to play before Eames can come up with a response to that.
Chapter 5: The Study
Eames hesitates only briefly before knocking on Arthur's office door. After a pause that seems much longer than it is, Arthur invites him in.
"Is there something you need?" Arthur asks. He looks tired; the past few weeks of beta testing have been long, filled with unexpected issues and a frustrating series of trial and error. Things are not progressing as quickly as they had hoped, and Rosalina's jetting off to the Bahamas for a vacation at the end of the week-meaning they either wrap up this phase of beta testing with her or have to find a new test subject.
"I was wondering if you might be interested in dinner," Eames says. He doesn't move to take a seat. His fedora is still sitting on the top right corner of Arthur's desk, by the lamp.
"Oh." Arthur sits back and rubs his eyes. "Yeah, if you're going to order something, email me the menu and I'll-"
"No, I meant." Eames clears his throat. "I'm making dinner tonight at mine. Duck à l'orange is much better with company."
"I-" Arthur gestures reluctantly to the multitude of notes and papers piled across his desk. "I'm probably going to need to stay a little late tonight to catch up."
"Come whenever you're ready," Eames says. "I won't be starting dinner till eight, at least. Do you remember how to get to my flat?"
Arthur glances up at Eames, expression uncertain, but nods. "Yeah."
"Eight, then," Eames says as he turns to go. He can feel Arthur's gaze following him the whole way out.
* * * * *
Arthur arrives at five past eight with a bottle of Merlot. His hair is freshly slicked back and the tie he's wearing is a different color than what he had on at the office.
"Sorry I'm late," he says as Eames lets him in. "I got a call, and then I was nearly run down by this biker-"
"It's alright. I was finishing up the duck."
"I didn't want you to think-" Arthur stops. "I brought wine."
"Thank you." Eames has to gently pry open Arthur's fingers, which are still gripping the neck of the wine bottle like a vise.
After he takes Arthur's coat and the Merlot, Eames realizes it's the first time they've touched, topside, in over a month.
Arthur takes a seat in the dining room. The table's already set, so Eames passes Arthur the wine opener to pour while Eames brings out the salad, rolls, and soup.
As Eames takes a seat, Arthur drains the wine in the bottom of his glass and begins pouring another.
"We're starting with a salad of Spinach, arugula, and heirloom cherry tomatoes. The dressing is an extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar finished with cracked pepper and sea salt. The soup is fresh tomato basil accompanied by oatmeal sourdough rolls," Eames says. "Bon appétit."
"Wow," Arthur says as he surveys the table. "This is-everything sounds delicious."
"The soup will cool relatively quickly if you'd like to start there."
Arthur tastes the soup and his eyes widen. "This is phenomenal." Eames can see the question, where did you learn to cook like this, resting on the tip of Arthur's tongue before he bites it back. Arthur swallows another large spoonful of soup instead.
"I," Eames swallows down the unease rising in his throat, the instinct to hold back anything that could be used against him. "I impersonated a Sous-chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant during one of my earliest jobs. It was utterly wretched-even worse than sleeping with the mark, who was an enormous, sweaty oaf-but I learned an incredible amount about food."
When Eames looks up, he finds Arthur staring at him. "In all the years we've known each other, I think that's the most you've ever voluntarily told me about yourself."
Eames runs his tongue over the front of his teeth. Anxious, he identifies the emotion as. He's anxious. "Most of my life can be summarized in a series of stories like the one I just told you: working a con, pretending to be someone else, seducing a mark. I've been hundreds of people by now."
"What if I asked you who you were before the cons?"
Eames drinks his soup and notes distantly that the consistency isn't quite what he'd hoped it would be. "I've been 'Eames' ever since I left the military."
"I know," Arthur says, gently. "Who were you before you became 'Eames'?"
Eames reaches back to memories he tucked away long ago, ones he hasn't examined in decades. "I was the bastard son of a member of the peerage," Eames starts. "And a Hungarian maid whose service was no longer required once she began to show."
Arthur puts down his soup spoon. "You said your mother died."
"She did. My father took me in, rather reluctantly," Eames says. "He brought me back to his home and instructed his wife to raise me in addition to their two legitimate children."
"I'm guessing it wasn't exactly happy families after that."
"No, though I could hardly blame Margaret on that score. I was the ever present reminder of Haytham's-that is, my father's-infidelity." Eames expects the memories to sting, but the emotions surrounding them have faded as well, discolored and blurred. "My mother certainly wasn't his only affair, nor was it the last time a mistress bore him a child. To date, I have at least five other half-siblings that I know of."
"Jesus," Arthur says. "Don't tell me your family took your father's bullshit out on you."
"Who else was there to target?" Eames lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "The rest of Haytham's indiscretions had the decency not to die before he could pay them to disappear. Margaret wasn't naïve enough to think there weren't others, but at least she didn't have to see them every day."
"She should have left."
"Perhaps she would have, if she'd been younger," Eames says. "When I came onto the horizon, Margaret's looks were already on the decline. I suspect she didn't fancy her chances of landing another man as wealthy as my father, particularly with two children in tow."
Arthur reaches across the table to tug Eames' fingers away from his wineglass. "I'm sorry you had to go through that." Arthur squeezes his hand. "It sounds horrific."
Eames studies Arthur's hand in his. This marks the second time they've touched in over a month. He stands. "I should fetch the duck."
As they eat the main course, Eames tells Arthur other bits and pieces of his past, haltingly: his favorite color as a boy (pink), the first time someone told him what a pretty mouth he had (age thirteen), the way he'd felt on the day he left the military (free). Arthur simply listens, attentive and quiet. Curious, but restrained.
"Would you like dessert?" Eames asks, and then realizes the possible implications of that query. "I have tiramisu prepared, as well as several flavors of gelato."
"I think I’m okay for now," Arthur says with a small smile.
He insists on helping to clear the table, places all the dishes in the sink and offers to wash up. Eames declines and pins him against the counter with a kiss.
For ten beautiful seconds, Arthur kisses back. Then he stops. "Eames."
Eames takes a step away, almost lightheaded. He's shocked by how much he missed this. "I see."
"No, you don't." Arthur touches Eames' cheek. "What are we doing here?"
"We can do whatever you want." It comes out glib, but Eames means it honestly.
"I'm not some random mark," Arthur says. "We don't always have to do what I want."
"I don't think of you as a mark. But I just don't know how else to…" Eames trails off.
"There's always so much you never say." Arthur rests his palm on Eames' chest, over his heart. "You don't have to tell me everything, but maybe you could start by telling me what you want."
"I would like it if-" the words taste strange on Eames' tongue. "If you could stay over tonight. And perhaps tomorrow, or sometime during the weekend, we could-talk more. About what we both want."
Arthur smiles, tentative but happy. Eames thinks, from the answering warmth that grows inside him, that he might be happy, too.
fin
Poll Fic: Unravel