Fic: There's got to be a morning after Chapter 9a: Hound Dog
There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 9: Hound Dog
Master post
Wordcount: 30,000
Eames considers trying to duck out of the boulangerie while pretending he hasn't noticed her, but it's too late.
Eames considers trying to duck out of the boulangerie while pretending he hasn't noticed her, but it's too late. Ariadne's already heading his way.
"Hey, Eames," she says, tone cordial, not over warm. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. What brings you to Paris?"
"Pan au chocolat." Eames holds up his half-eaten pastry. "And you?"
"I'm here for a croissant. Best in the area. Looks like you picked some up yourself," she says, eying the paper bag in his right hand.
"I have a weakness for carbohydrates," he says, searching for a way to exit the conversation gracefully. "I was just stepping-"
"I'm graduating in a year and have been thinking about my work prospects," Ariadne says, moving between Eames and the exit. "I've been wanting to try some new things. Short term employment. Have you heard of any interesting prospects? People who might need an architect?"
"People are always in need of a skilled architect," Eames says, and then pauses, wondering whether Arthur would approve or disapprove of Ariadne's resurgent interest in dreamshare. Noncommittal is probably best. "I'll keep an ear out."
"Thanks. And, Eames-" She takes another step to block him from leaving. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this conversation to Arthur."
Eames schools his expression into something neutral, curious. "Arthur?"
"Yeah. I know he's in town, too."
"Is he? What a coincidence."
"We were supposed to meet up for lunch today but he's sick," Ariadne says. "I offered to drop by his apartment with some antibiotics and soup. He said he already had it covered."
"I suppose he's already found himself a proper Parisian nursemaid," Eames says. "The libertine."
"Or he brought one with him." Ariadne's gaze is shrewd, knowing. "If you run into him, tell him I hope he feels better soon."
"Paris is a big city," Eames says. "I doubt there's much chance of that happening."
* * * * *
"I ran into your young protégé at the boulangerie," Eames says as he enters Arthur's flat. "She's attempting to conduct a secret search for more dreamshare jobs."
Arthur's seated on the couch in his pajamas, nose bright red in runny misery. He's clutching an orange blanket in one hand and a mug of what appears to be cold tea in the other. The floor is a wasteland of used tissues for several feet around him. "I know," he says. "She's been putting out feelers for the past few weeks, trying to avoid it getting back to me."
"Unsuccessfully, it appears." Eames deposits the paper bag of croissants into Arthur's lap.
"Mm, these are the good ones." Arthur takes a bite, eyes closing in pleasure. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Eames grabs a trash bin from the kitchen and brings it over, tossing all the crumpled tissues in before setting it at Arthur's feet. "I'm going to fix myself a cup of tea-would you care for one?" At Arthur's nod, Eames heads into the kitchen.
"I bought a new bed online. It's bigger," Arthur calls out while Eames sets the kettle on to boil. "Should be delivered tomorrow."
"Excellent," Eames says, returning with two cups of tea. "What are you watching?"
"Star Trek." Arthur lifts the edge of his blanket. "I'll trade you a cup for a Cheeto."
"I didn't know they even sold these in France." Eames takes one. It tastes wholly artificial and delicious.
"Yeah, it was a huge pain in the ass tracking this bag down." Arthur shoves an inelegant fistful into his mouth. "Worth it, though."
Eames eats another Cheeto. There's a man in a cheap alien costume awkwardly wrestling another man on what appear to be papier-mâché rocks. Arthur is entranced, and Eames has a sudden vision of what Arthur might have been like as a boy, crisscrossing the US with nothing constant in his life beyond, perhaps, a television.
"That's Captain Kirk," Arthur says, pointing at the man not wearing an alien costume.
"Why is he fighting what I'm assuming is meant to be an alien?"
"To hook up with the sexy alien babe that needs his help." Arthur shuffles around on the couch and drops his head on Eames' lap, still facing the television. "And for justice, or something."
Eames touches Arthur's hair; it's a bit matted because Arthur didn't bother to brush it. "Is this show merely a series of intergalactic duels and sexual exploits?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Arthur says, sounding relaxed. "They engage in exploratory missions."
"And sleep with attractive natives."
"Exactly. And it's all a metaphor for… stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Deeper themes. Issues. Sex with an alien isn't just about sex." Arthur sniffles. "Can you pass me a tissue?"
"I'll take your word for it, darling." Eames passes him the box. "I'd like to go up to Amsterdam for a few days, if you're feeling up to it. An old mate lives there. Ex-pat I know from way back."
"Want me to do some digging on your friend?"
Eames' first impulse is to say that it won't be necessary. Then he remembers how things went with Billy. "I suppose that might be best. I'll send you his details."
Arthur blows his nose. "You know him from the SAS?"
"Even further back," Eames says. "We went to the same boarding school. Before I was expelled."
"Is this the school where you burned a building down?"
"Those records overdramatize everything," Eames says dismissively. "It was only a stable and there wasn't anyone in it. They made me out to be some young arsonist in the making."
"You were expelled from some other schools, too, weren't you?"
"I was only technically expelled from one other school," Eames says. "At the others, I transferred or was suspended and then no longer welcome to return."
Arthur chuckles. "Why'd you get expelled from the other school?"
"Caught attempting to steal something from the headmaster's office."
"Answers to a test? I always made a killing selling those."
"Far less entrepreneurial than that, I'm afraid," Eames replies. "It was an object-rather mundane, really."
"What was it?" On screen, Captain Kirk finishes fighting and sweeps into the arms of an attractive redhead wearing a great deal of makeup and an 'alien' costume.
"A small globe. It sat on the front of the headmaster's desk and I used to study it whilst waiting for him to arrive. I was sent to his office quite often," Eames says, thinking back. "The countries were printed in tiny lettering, and I imagined what it'd be like to visit every single one. Escape the incredible tedium of the schools and the teachers and my life."
"I didn't mind school. Then again, I never stayed in any one for more than a few months. A year, tops, though that was rare." Arthur blows his nose. "Never hung around long enough to get bored."
"A lifelong nomad." Eames brushes some hair from Arthur's forehead.
"Yeah. I get to go to better places, now, though. Cities, sights. Middle America doesn't have much to take in besides cornfields," Arthur says. "What about you? Now you've been all over the world. Is it what you imagined it would be?"
"Not at all," Eames says. "It's worse and it's better. I've experienced things my meager teenage mind could never have conjured up."
"Good or bad things?"
"Both. I've been tortured, I've been dropped from staggering heights, I've been certain I would die twenty times over." Eames lifts one shoulder. "I've also walked along black sand beaches, sat in a hot spring, and had the opportunity to become other people in dreams. If I had stayed in England and done what was expected of me, I would have never had any idea."
Arthur smiles up at Eames, faintly. "And we never would have met."
Eames stares down at Arthur's bloodshot eyes and red nose and tangled hair. "Indeed."
* * * * *
The drive to Amsterdam is uneventful. Arthur sleeps throughout the car ride, waking up periodically to wipe his nose. He perks up when they check in at the hotel.
"I tried to book a room with two beds but they had limited inventory on such short notice," Eames explains. "My room is down the hall."
Arthur shrugs. "I need to get some work done anyway. Since I've been sick."
"Are you saying I am a distraction?"
Arthur smiles as he touches Eames' jaw. "The worst."
Eames smiles in return, losing himself for a minute in Arthur's warm attention. Then Eames remembers they're standing in the middle of a hotel hallway and shakes himself. "Go to bed and make a full recovery. I expect you well tomorrow."
Arthur gives Eames a wry salute and disappears into his room.
* * * * *
"If it isn't the ugliest son of a bitch I've ever seen," a familiar voice says from behind Eames.
"And if it isn't the biggest arsehole north of the equator," Eames replies as he turns. "Tillery, I was absolutely certain someone would have offed you by now."
"No such luck, Eames. That's what you're going by now, isn't it?" Tillery clasps Eames' arm with a hearty squeeze. "I can never keep up with your stream of ridiculous pseudonyms."
Tillery looks older, hair beginning to grey at the temples, skin more leathery around bright blue eyes. He's favoring his left leg and sporting some bandages on his right wrist.
"Sprain from wanking too often?" Eames jerks his chin at the gauze.
"Least I can still get it going," Tillery says. "Women can't keep up with me."
"I don't think you should take it as a point of pride that most women want you to stop shortly after you've started," Eames says as they take seats at the bar. "How have you been, you reprobate? Neck deep in anything?"
"No, I prefer to keep my ears, nose, and all other orifices clean these days," Tillery replies. "I've had enough of prison life. The drug cartels can keep it."
"Oh, that's right-they caught you down in South America, didn't they?"
"Santiago police, officially, though I suspect CIA intervention. Especially since they shipped me round all over the continent," Tillery says. "You'd think mother England might have some interest in securing release for a citizen that served, but it seems the old dame had better things to do."
"How'd you escape?"
"By throwing obscene gobs of money at anyone who would take it. Damn near tapped myself out. Been hiding in Amsterdam ever since."
"You mean you've been living off a Dutch Ambassador ever since," Eames corrects, unable to resist revealing some of what Arthur's research turned up.
"I'm not-" Tillery narrows his eyes. "How did you know about her?"
"It's my business to know," Eames says, archly.
"Nosy git." Tillery snorts. "And what about you? Last I heard you were stationed down in Mombasa. What brings you this far north?"
"Came up for a job and wasn't in the mood to head back yet," Eames says. "Had a recent birthday and realized there were a few things I could do around these parts. Might as well start now."
"Anything good?" Tillery asks as he orders them both Laphroiag.
"Oh, an orgy involving twins, edging, iceplay-nothing you'd be interested in, I'm sure."
"Twins, eh?" Tillery says, sounding suitably impressed. "How much did you have to pay all involved?"
"They practically paid me afterwards, they were so grateful."
Tillery snorts again. "And it was good?"
"Excellent," Eames says. "Engaging in deviant sexual activities is highly energizing."
Tillery shakes his head. "You haven't changed a bit."
"Have you?"
"My Spanish has improved." Tillery holds up his tumbler. "To psychotic, sadistic narcotistas."
Eames chuckles as he holds up his own glass. "To psychotic, sadistic Russian oil barons. May they all rot in hell together."
They clink glasses and take a sip, then catch up on gossip about former classmates (two suicides in the past decade, three very public scandals involving schoolmates who became MPs, and one fellow who changed from John to Jane).
Eames is on his fourth (or is it fifth?) whisky when his cell phone buzzes with a text message from Arthur. I ran a background check on the Dutch Ambassador just in case-all clear. This is followed by a second message: you should both probably stay away from the top shelf this evening.
Too late, Eames texts back.
"What are you grinning about?" Tillery asks when Eames puts his mobile away. "Who was that?"
"Insurance," Eames says. "House burned down and now I'll be receiving a hefty payment."
"You lying sod." Tillery finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with the side of his cast. "There's a bloody twinkle in your eye and you've been smiling since you received that message."
Eames shifts. "What are you on about?"
"Have you come into money? No, you'd spend it all immediately. A tremendous shag? No, because in the past you--wait. Is there a bird?"
Eames scoffs. "A bird? After I told you about twins and an orgy?"
"Unless she's an extremely open-minded twin." Tillery sways forward while Eames does his best not to react. "It is a bird, isn't it? After all these years, you've gone and found someone willing to engage in all sorts of depraved acts with you."
"Don't be absurd. I-"
Tillery ignores him. "Does this new woman of yours know what sort of unreliable bastard you are or have you been living under yet another false identity?"
Eames scowls as he drinks his whisky. "You are a paranoid and delusional drunk."
"I don't think I am." Tillery matches Eames sip for sip. "You've gone sentimental. Let me guess: she has dark hair, dark eyes, is on the slender side-"
"That's practically 90% of the population, I don't see your point-"
"Stubborn, with criminal tendencies and a complicated past-"
"I really think we should talk about that Ambassador of yours. Married, is she? Wonder what her husband thinks about you living in one of their flats-"
"You can attempt to deflect all you'd like, but we both know that old Eames is finally settling down again-"
"Old?" Eames repeats. "Are you saying that I am old?"
Tillery makes a great show of surveying the entire pub. "I don't see anyone else who would fit the descriptor here."
Eames stands, taking only a moment to recover his balance as he does. "I'll show you old."
It is possible that he pushes Tillery first. It is equally possible-nay, probable-that Tillery throws the first punch. Regardless, it descends into a chaotic wrestling match on the floor with the odd jujitsu kick. Tillery has the height and weight advantage, but one arm is laid up with the injury and Eames isn't afraid to take advantage of it.
They're expelled from the pub and left on the sidewalk in disheveled, bruised, exhaustion. Everything spins as Eames stares up at the night sky.
"Well," Eames says, out of breath with an aching side. "That got us out of the tab."
"Cheap bastard." Tillery sounds out of breath. "I should have known."
"Oh, were you planning to take the check? Has your Dutch Ambassador given you a bit of spending money?"
"Says the man who is currently married to the most abhorrent woman in the world for a monthly stipend."
"Hardly the same situation at all," Eames says, standing up with a wince. Tillery managed a kick to his bad knee earlier-a low blow, the wily bastard. "I'm going back to my hotel. You're intoxicated."
"Going to see your lady friend?" Tillery asks. "Is she waiting up for you?"
"For the last-"
"No, I'm truly happy you found someone to put up with you for longer than an evening with the lights off. Unless she's blind? And deaf? Because that would explain why-"
Eames hurls himself at Tillery again, though both of them are too tired to do much more than shove and slap at each other in a decidedly undignified manner.
"I am going to my hotel," Eames starts again, after he's successfully thrown Tillery off him. "Go make googly eyes at your Ambassador and leave me be."
Tillery coughs. "I'm afraid not. The Ambassador's husband is in town for the weekend and it's best if I stay away for the duration."
"Then go back inside." Eames brushes his trousers off, wincing. "The redhead in the corner seemed intrigued by your cast."
"What, the one with the eye-patch? I can't."
"Well, I wouldn't play a game of darts with her, but it's not as if-"
"I can't," Tillery says and hesitates. "The Ambassador wouldn't like it."
"How would she ever know?"
"Still," Tillery mumbles. "She wouldn't like it."
"You're-" Eames stops to stare incredulously at him. "You're in love with her, aren't you? And after you went on about-"
"I'm not..."
"You arsehole," Eames says as he begins stumbling back towards the hotel. "A married woman, you fucking arsehole."
* * * * *
Tillery follows Eames back to his hotel room, claiming the bed while Eames is in the loo taking a piss. Tillery is snoring and spread-eagled when Eames steps back out.
Whatever. Eames has a warmer bed waiting for him anyway.
Eames fumbles with the lock on Arthur's door, then attempts to pick it unsuccessfully for five minutes before remembering Arthur gave him the keycard.
Inside, Arthur is already awake and sitting up. He's clad in a pair of briefs that flatter his bulge and a threadbare tank top that lovingly hugs every muscle in his torso.
"Is this going to be a pattern?" Arthur asks.
Eames takes off his shoes. It takes longer than he anticipates. "Yes."
"Are you bleeding?"
"A scratch," Eames dismisses. "I had an altercation with Tillery. Pay it no mind."
"What-"
"I am going to seduce you," Eames says, sashaying towards the bed. He almost trips over one of Arthur's balled-up socks, but doesn't let that slow him down.
"You sure you don't want to get that cut cleaned first?"
"No. I'm going to drive you mad with desire," Eames declares, crawling on top of Arthur's legs. "You won't be able to resist me."
"Is that right?"
"Yes," Eames says, wobbling slightly. "Undo my top shirt button."
"I thought you were performing for me?"
"This is the audience participation portion," Eames says. "Now. My button."
Arthur finally complies, deepening the open vee of Eames' shirt, exposing some chest hair.
"Would you care for another?" Eames undoes the rest as he stands, mostly steady. "Perhaps you'd like to unbutton my trousers?"
Arthur's definitely more interested in proceedings now, palming Eames' arse for a moment before moving to undo his flies.
Eames turns around and bends at the waist in order to pull his trousers and underwear down, giving Arthur quite a view.
"I might still be contagious," Arthur says warningly, while his fingertips sketch patterns up the back of Eames' calves.
"I've probably contracted what you had already." Eames faces Arthur, cock bobbing in front of Arthur's mouth. "You may go ahead."
"Oh may I?" Arthur replies, sounding amused. "Show's over, huh?"
Eames runs a finger along the shell of Arthur's ear. "You're not wearing your usual pajama set. You were expecting me. You dressed up for me."
Arthur flushes. "I gave the rest of my things to the laundry service and they haven't gotten back to me yet. This is all I had left."
"Of course. How fortunate that it fits you so well," Eames coos as he guides Arthur's lying mouth to his cock.
Arthur licks and sucks with no protest, eyes sliding half shut as he palms his own cock through his underwear. Eames hums happily as Arthur cups his bollocks, teases behind them.
Arthur kisses the head of Eames' cock and tips his head back. "I want to fuck you."
"Very well." Eames bends his legs, which have turned jelly-like thanks to Arthur's attentive mouth, and settles on Arthur's lap. "I'll allow this."
"Your generosity is boundless," Arthur says as he reaches for a condom and lube.
Arthur helps Eames peel the remainder of his clothing off before flipping them over, undressing while Eames preps himself. Eames hooks his legs round Arthur's waist and moans when he slides in. It's been a few days since they've done anything thanks to Arthur's illness, and it feels amazing.
Eames expects a bit of desperation from Arthur, or at least some hurried eagerness. Instead, Arthur cups Eames' jaw, looks into his eyes, and kisses him while gliding slowly in and out. Eames is certain he should dislike it more than he does.
"You're not going to go hard?" Eames asks while Arthur peppers his neck with kisses.
"If you wanted hard, you should have visited five hours ago when I was more awake." Arthur continues moving at a leisurely pace. "I'm half-asleep here."
It does feel good like this, Eames has to admit. Arthur's cock stretching Eames, with the ideal amount of pressure in and out. Eames is too tired (and perhaps drunk) to get more than half-erect, but everything feels warm and enjoyable all the same. He drifts a bit.
"Oops," Arthur says, and Eames opens his eyes.
"Oops?"
"I came." Arthur looks a little sheepish. "Do you want me to finish you off with a blowjob?"
Eames is in a magnanimous, sleepy mood. Also, he's not certain he could make it all the way to orgasm now even if he wanted to. "That won't be necessary."
Arthur pulls off the condom and ties it, leaving it somewhere on the floor. He lies back on the bed and draws Eames to him, until Eames' head is resting on his chest. "You were too good at seducing me," Arthur says. "I couldn't contain myself."
Eames falls asleep grinning, Arthur's steady heartbeat under his ear.
* * * * *
The next morning is heinous. Eames wakes up to half-drawn curtains, the clatter of keys as Arthur types, and a mouth dry enough to hurt. The cut on his cheek has been cleaned and bandaged.
"Water and aspirin are on the nightstand to your left," Arthur says without ceasing to type. "If you're going to puke, go to the bathroom. If you don't think you can make it, there's a trashcan also to your left."
Eames takes the aspirin, retches in the toilet, takes another aspirin after that, and showers. He's feeling marginally less atrocious when his mobile buzzes.
Tillery sounds not at all hungover as he suggests meeting downstairs for the lunch buffet. Bastard.
"The lunch buffet does sound good," Arthur says when Eames hangs up. "I didn't get breakfast earlier."
"You cannot, under any circumstances, reveal to Tillery that we're sleeping together," Eames says as he flops back on the mattress.
Arthur chuckles as he stands. "What makes you think I'd want to tell? Maybe you're my shameful secret. You ever think of that?"
"Don't be cruel to me while I'm hungover," Eames says. "It's unsporting."
"Sorry." Arthur drops a kiss onto Eames' forehead as he walks to the bathroom. "I can eat separately from you guys if you want. Go down after you're already done."
"No, it's fine. We can go in separately and pretend to run into each other." Eames tosses an arm over his eyes. Everything is sore.
"I want to ask Tillery about his experiences in prison," Arthur says. "I've been thinking about doing more jobs in the Western hemisphere and it'd be good to know what I might be in for."
"He loves his war stories," Eames says. "He'll tell you anything you want to know. Anything he doesn't know, he'll make up."
"Yeah?"
"Don't be lured in by his charm. He'll smile while he lifts your wallet and steals your watch."
"Sounds like someone else I know."
"Yes, I suppose the criminal world is filled with dubious characters," Eames says. "It's dreadful."
* * * * *
At lunch, Eames introduces Arthur as a professional acquaintance. After they each load up their plates, they settle down to eat together.
Tillery is unbearably cheery, thrilled at the opportunity to regale Arthur with tales of Chilean prison life. Mystifyingly, this somehow morphs into tales about his and Eames' brief tenure together at school. It's an unwelcome walk down memory lane, featuring Eames as an awkward young lad who accidentally burned down a stable because he didn't know how to hold a cigarette.
Arthur is of no help, providing an enthusiastic audience and encouraging Tillery to go on despite Eames' protestations.
By the end of the meal, Eames is feeling much put upon. Arthur ducks out to take a work call, leaving Tillery to needle at Eames by himself. "It's been a while since Malaya, hasn't it?"
"I suppose it has," Eames says, sipping at his water and rubbing his temples.
"He's not bad, that Arthur," Tillery says. "I'm not one for blokes myself, but I can see the appeal."
Eames keeps his expression blank. "Pardon?"
"You've been smiling like a lunatic these past twenty-four hours. I almost didn't recognize you because of it. You've always been such a dour sod," Tillery continues. "It's a pleasant change."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Arthur returns to the table, informing them both that the bill's been settled.
Tillery claps Arthur on the shoulder. "You're not bad, Arthur. If you ever end up in a South American prison, let me know and I'll put in a good word for you."
"I may take you up on that offer, Tillery," Arthur replies as they shake hands. "It's been good meeting you. And thanks for the stories. I had no idea anyone could lock himself out of his own room naked every day for three weeks in a row."
"Yes, yes, utterly hilarious," Eames mutters. "Don't you have another call to make?"
Arthur and Tillery share an amused look before Arthur sets off. Finally.
"One last drink for the road?" Tillery asks.
"I don't think my liver can survive another alcoholic encounter," Eames says. "I'm going to go lie down in a very dark room. I suggest you do the same."
"Yes, go take your afternoon nap, old man," Tillery says, punching Eames on the shoulder. "Perhaps Arthur will nurse you tenderly if you ask nicely."
"I don't know what Arthur has to do with anything," Eames replies. "Is he staying in this hotel?"
"Your denials would be a great deal more convincing if you didn't stare at him like a moonstruck teenager."
"Oh, go back to pining for your Dutch Ambassador," Eames says grumpily. "Lying sod."
"Nosy git." Tillery's words are tinged with affection as he gives Eames a slap on the back and goes.
* * * * *
"...put a collar on it," Arthur says as Eames slips into his room.
"Please tell me that phrase was uttered in reference to a delightfully kinky act of debauchery you're planning for later," Eames says, careful to make his presence known so Arthur doesn't startle, pull a gun, and ask questions later.
"No, that's it." Arthur, to Eames' relief, doesn't shoot or throw that hidden ankle knife of his, but merely glances over his shoulder. "Yes, text me when it's done."
Eames wanders into the bathroom to rummage through Arthur's extensive toiletries bag. He discovers five different types of lotion, samples two, and eventually pockets the tube of toothpaste resting on the sink. When he walks back into the bedroom again, Arthur's off the phone.
"You know you're welcome to work in my room, yes?" Eames says, glancing round at the unmade bed, the steaming cup of coffee, and the open laptop.
"Yes, I can imagine all the 'work' I'll get done in there," Arthur replies dryly. "And may I ask why you were rifling through my things?"
"Toothpaste." Eames waves the tube. "I've run out and while I suppose I could ring the concierge, this seemed ever so much more convenient."
"Picking the lock of my hotel room seemed more convenient?"
"Mustn't let the real world skills rust in between jobs," Eames says blithely. "And you have an excellent assortment of personal grooming supplies, by the way. Everything smells astoundingly good."
"Should I be expecting all my aftershave to go missing now too?" Arthur takes a sip of his coffee.
"Possibly," Eames says. "Though I'm more interested in your hand cream. God, no one I've ever slept with smelled this heavenly-not even the women."
"It's the smell of man," Arthur says, and Eames laughs. "Now go away. I need to get back to work."
"Yes, and precisely what is this work?" Eames says, squinting at Arthur's laptop screen; it's filled with seemingly endless streams of numbers. "Don't keep me in suspense now."
"Making ungodly sums of money so I can keep you in the standard of living to which you've become accustomed."
"Keep me in--" Eames freezes, hand halfway to the ten dollar bag of trail mix in Arthur's mini-bar.
Arthur gives him a look.
"I'll have you know that I can afford to bankroll my own indulgences," Eames says, closing the mini-bar with only the slightest pang of longing. "I certainly don't need your filthy lucre of mysterious origins."
"Okay, fine." Arthur sits back in his chair. "From now on, you pay for at least half of our drinks and meals."
"Naturally," Eames replies smoothly.
"And the snacks and movies and whatever other entertainment you suggest."
"Not a problem at all," Eames says, and mentally pushes back the cruise he'd been considering.
"Okay, then," Arthur says. "That's settled."
"Yes."
Arthur cocks his head to one side. "Can I get back to work, or do you need something else?"
"Actually, I have a surprise for you."
"Is it a surprise in your pants?"
"That is astonishingly crude and no, we're going out. Later. Tomorrow afternoon."
Arthur seems genuinely surprised by this. "Should I wear something in particular?"
"You can dress as you usually do," Eames says. "Be as debonair as you normally are."
"Okay." Arthur's smiling. "By the way, Tillery's pretty cute."
"Cute?" Eames repeats, not sure he heard correctly. "Cute?"
"Yeah. He has nice eyes."
Eames huffs. "He's practically old enough to be your father."
"He's a year younger than you are."
"That's-" Eames sputters. "He's completely straight. Not to mention embroiled in a doomed love affair with a married woman."
"Didn't you once say that straight men are a challenge?"
"That is crass and condescending. One should respect a person's right to decide their own sexual identity-"
"I bet he'd go for it," Arthur says thoughtfully. "I've been told I look like jailbait and everyone likes a younger man."
Eames is about to argue further when he catches the smallest twitch of Arthur's mouth. "You're winding me up."
"Nope. I am deeply attracted to your broke, alcoholic schoolmate-"
"I'm going to sleep," Eames declares as he walks back towards his room. "I refuse to listen to this nonsense any longer."
"Okay, have a good nap," Arthur calls out after Eames. "I'll be busy converting Tillery."
* * * * *
"Federico," Eames says. "What are you doing here?"
"Your subconscious brought me here," Federico replies, far too vivid for the Scottish dream landscape. "Which means you must be secretly in love with me!"
"No."
"Fair enough." Federico shrugs. "Then perhaps your subconscious knows you would be lonely with no one to talk to here. And that you are too afraid to say what you feel to the person who needs to hear it."
"How can I be lonely when my dreamscape has become a bloody zoo?" Eames asks. He gestures at Tansy, skipping stones in the stream, and his mother (a new and not precisely welcome projection) smoking by the house in the distance.
"That is your mother?" Federico clicks his tongue. "Now there is an attractive older-"
"Don't start," Eames interrupts. "I'd rather shoot myself out than discover an Oedipal complex down here. I'm not bluffing."
"Suit yourself." Federico plops down on the grass. "What would you like to talk about?"
"We could sit in silence-"
"Flowers!" Federico exclaims, holding up a sprig of heather. "Alas. Even British flowers are drab."
Eames scans the horizon. It's patchy, but small bunches of purple heather are beginning to spring up across the estate. "Those are new."
"If you were in my dream, this entire place would be on fire with flowers," Federico says, sweeping his arm. "Red and orange and yellow. The colors of passion."
"If I were in your dream, I'd be a talking donkey in a Technicolor musical nightmare."
"The handsomest talking donkey in the world, without a doubt," Federico says. "Now, are you going to ask Arthur for the thing you really want to do?"
"You're going to have to be more specific than that," Eames says, though he suspects-knows-what his subconscious is alluding to.
"The thing where he pets you on the head and you say woof woof." Federico gets onto his hands and knees, beginning to crawl around. "Maybe he will play catch the ball with you."
"Fetch, you mean. And stand up." Eames averts his eyes. "You look ridiculous."
"It is ridiculous," Federico says, seeming wholly unembarrassed. "And you want it anyway."
"We never discussed it. I don't know if Arthur would even-"
"He let you piss on him and is willing to wear an animal costume. I do not think Arthur is the one you are worried about."
"If not Arthur, who? The only two people involved are-"
"You are worried you'll look like a fool and like it," Federico says. "You are afraid he will laugh at you. You are more afraid he won't, and you will like how acting as a puppy will make you feel."
"It's only a lark," Eames mumbles. "How could I enjoy acting like a dog? How could I-it'll be a failed experiment, nothing more."
"Good. Then you will talk on it soon."
"I don't have to listen to you." Eames looks around. "Where's Malaya? If I'm to be bludgeoned by my subconscious, I'd prefer her to do it."
"I don't think she's coming back."
"How the hell are you the next logical choice?"
Federico shrugs expansively. "This is your dream. Come be a donkey in mine and maybe I'll be able to give you more answers."
* * * * *
Eames doesn't bother with a blindfold or any sort of theatrics when he escorts Arthur to his surprise. The expression on Arthur's face when he realizes they've arrived at the Escher Museum is-well, it's breathtaking, really.
They make it three steps into the gallery before Arthur dashes back into the gift shop, emerging with a notepad and pen. He proceeds to take copious notes and detailed sketches as they walk throughout the exhibits.
Afterwards, during dinner, Arthur chatters on excitedly about various ideas for applications of paradoxical architecture in dreams, mazes he could construct. He even bought one of those hideously overpriced coffee table books filled with glossy photos of Escher's work to further his study.
Eames finds himself listening intently, gazing at Arthur with what he suspects is a rather dimwitted expression, and enjoys every second of it.
Eames pays for dinner ("the whole meal's on me," Eames said, and Arthur whistled, "Hey, big spender.") They walk along the canal back to the hotel, enjoying the evening air.
"Want to pick up a prostitute?" Eames asks, pointing in the general direction of the red light district. "Also on me."
"What a romantic gesture," Arthur deadpans. "Really, this is too much."
"Do you think they're cash only? I don’t know if I have enough to pay for a whole night. Maybe twenty minutes."
Arthur laughs. "Okay, Mr. Moneybags, you can put your wallet away. I'm more in the mood for some free sex tonight."
"Is that what I am to you? Free sex?"
"Who said it was sex with you?" Arthur asks. "Maybe I'm going out tonight."
"I'll leave you to it, then." Eames runs a hand down the center of Arthur's chest to his abdomen and back again. "If you do chat up someone pretty, feel free to bring him back to mine. I could be persuaded to watch."
"You'd be okay with watching me fuck someone else in front of you?" Arthur replies, low. "You wouldn't be wishing it was you I was pounding into the mattress?"
"I can entertain myself."
"Yeah? Put a vibrator up your ass and imagine it was me?" Arthur brushes his crotch against Eames' hip, cock beginning to harden through his slim-fit trousers. "Jerk off knowing how much better I feel inside you-"
"You have a very high opinion of yourself," Eames says as he starts walking--quickly-back to the hotel. His trousers are already uncomfortably tight.
"Seems like I have a right to." Arthur catches up easily, slapping Eames on the bottom as he does.
"I thought you were going out to pick up someone new?"
"Maybe I don't want someone new." Arthur catches Eames round the waist and pulls him in for a kiss that deepens and lengthens until a passerby catcalls them.
They make it back to Arthur's room before they're on each other, shirts and trousers and boxers flying. Eames ends up on his back with legs in the air, Arthur sucking roughly at his nipples and pulling at his cock. It feels incredible.
Arthur's in the middle of giving Eames a truly fantastic fucking when the tinny sound of a mobile ringing emanates from the depths of Arthur's suitcase.
Arthur slows as the phone continues to ring-it's not a factory default, and it's not a ringtone Eames recognizes. It may not even be a phone Eames has seen Arthur use before.
"Arthur," Eames says, lifting his head from a pillow. "I'm close."
"Yeah?" Arthur asks distractedly, still thrusting, albeit at too slow a pace.
"Let it go to voicemail," Eames says, pushing his arse back encouragingly and moaning when that bumps Arthur's cock right against his prostate.
"But-"
"I swear to God, Arthur, if you stop when I'm about to come to answer a call about a stock purchase-"
That seems to snap Arthur out of whatever daze he's in. "Right. Yeah." He returns to thrusting, one hand closing around Eames' cock. Eames covers Arthur's hand with his, falls forward on the bed, and comes.
Arthur also orgasms sometime afterwards. It's possible Eames dozes off while it happens. Eames stirs when Arthur goes to the bathroom and returns with a washcloth in hand and a phone pressed to his ear.
Arthur wipes at Eames' abdomen, expression distant as he listens to his voicemail. The voice is female, indistinct-Eames can't make out the words.
"Something the matter?" Eames asks when Arthur hangs up.
"There's a situation. Not an emergency, but-" Arthur hesitates. "I can't do anything about it."
"A non-emergency situation you can't do anything about," Eames repeats slowly. "Is it to do with work?"
"No," Arthur says. "Hey, uh, I've been meaning to ask. What's next on your list? Fursuits?"
Eames studies Arthur's expression-his poker face has descended-and decides to go along with Arthur's subject change. "I was considering trying something before that. If you're open."
"Sure. What is it?"
"Puppy play. Have you heard of it?"
"It's like pony play with fewer props, right?"
"Yeah," Eames says, slightly relieved. "If you're not interested, we don't have to. It's merely-"
"Sounds fine to me." Arthur shrugs. "Is this going to be in a dream or reality?"
"Reality," Eames says, relieved but also apprehensive. A part of him had hoped Arthur would say no.
"And are you the puppy or am I?"
"I-" Eames clears his throat. "I'd be the puppy."
"And I'm the owner, right?" Arthur mulls it over. "This might be a more complicated roleplay. We should probably talk more about the specifics of what we're gonna do before we do it."
"I suppose," Eames says, though the absolute last thing he wants to do is discuss it in greater detail. A part of him is already squirming in embarrassment. "Let me think on the logistics a while, and then we shall reconvene to discuss."
"Okay." Arthur climbs into bed. "Great."
"Everything alright?" Eames asks quietly as Arthur reaches for the lamp.
"Yeah." The room plunges into darkness. "Don't worry about it."
* * * * *
"Mother."
There's a long pause on the line. "Oh, it's you."
"Yes." Eames' mother has never cared for pleasantries and would likely scorn any attempt at one. "There's someone who'd like to meet you. I told them I'd speak to you first."
"I see." Her voice is rougher than he remembered it, cracks in the drawl from years of drinking and smoking readily apparent. "Have you gone and married again? I hope you told whoever she is that you're a grown man and can make your own poor nuptial decisions without my involvement."
"What? No, this hasn't anything to do with marriage," Eames says. "There's a girl, her name is Tansy. She's about twenty years old and she's my daughter."
There's another silence. "Is it from-"
"No, not by Malaya. It's from before her. The mother never told me, and I only found out recently."
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, with the way you carried on at that age," his mother says, and then, as if a new thought just occurred to her, "I have a granddaughter?"
"Yes, that is the typical of order of things," he says, a bit testy now. "She'd like to speak over the phone, perhaps pop up to meet. I haven't told her much about you, obviously."
"No, I imagine you wouldn't." There's a silence. "I suppose it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to speak with her. She does understand English, doesn't she?"
He can already feel a headache coming on. "Yes."
"Does she resemble you?"
"Yes, I-I'd say she does, a bit."
"Strange, isn't it? To see yourself in someone else. Like and unlike simultaneously."
"Yes, it is," Eames says, startled. At long last, something they have in common as reluctant, baffled parents. "Unsettling."
* * * * *
"Better get inside," Arthur says, staring skyward at the heavy clouds. His hair gleams silver in the darkening dreamscape. "Unless you want to get wet."
"It rains here now?" Eames asks, surprised.
"I experimented with crop dusting and other ways of watering the valley. It turns out weather was the most efficient." Arthur says, gesturing to the sprawling kilometers of plants being rained on. "I set up seasons, too."
"Including winter?" Eames steps inside the temple just as the first fat drops begin to fall. "Won't the plants die?"
"The perennials will come back," Arthur replies. "Besides, it makes room for new plantings."
"And in here?" Eames studies a small rose plant, crawling up one of the columns.
"The temple is irrigated and temperature controlled," Arthur says. "Like a greenhouse."
"It's really come along." Eames touches a deep red rose. The petals are delicate, a soft fragrance wafting from its center.
"Thanks." Arthur takes Eames by the hand. "Follow me."
They head up the stairs, Eames startled by the feel of Arthur's fingers--elegantly manicured and callused on the undersides.
They emerge on the top level of the temple, tree roots dangling above them in a spectacular feat of impossibility. Arthur's added more plants, small flowering shrubs and ornamental grasses arranged in mosaic-like medallions on the ground.
"Those are new," Arthur says, releasing Eames' hand to kneel and examine one particular plant. "Here, touch this."
Eames regards the plant, which has tufts of yellow flowers springing from a tall central stalk. After a moment, he reaches out to stroke a leaf gingerly. "It's--it's fuzzy." Even the flowers, upon closer inspection, are covered in a layer of soft grey fuzz.
"Isn't it incredible?" Arthur beams up at Eames, catching him off-guard.
"Yeah," Eames agrees, transfixed by Arthur's deep dimples.
"I don't even know where it came from." Arthur stands, brushing his knees off. "I didn't plant it."
"New things appear here often?" Eames asks, recovering his wits enough to converse.
"Yeah. Mostly moss, lichens, and pests." Arthur rubs a flower between his thumb and forefinger. "Some good stuff, though."
"Flower fondler."
Arthur chuckles. "That's me. Floral fancier." He looks up at the ceiling and frowns at one particular tree's roots. Eames doesn't know much about gardening, but even he can tell that shriveled up, yellowed roots aren't a sign of good health. "That tree's been doing poorly for a while and I haven't been able to figure out why."
"Seems like it finally gave up the ghost," Eames comments, touching a root and watching it disintegrate to nothing.
"Yeah." Arthur glances outside. "It's stopped raining. Want to help me rip up this tree?"
Not really, Eames thinks. "Alright," he says.
They go up one more flight of stairs to the last level, which has grown into something truly spectacular. The trees are a mix of heights and widths, some reaching upwards over two storeys, others spreading outwards in enormous leafy canopies.
The ground beneath their feet is damp but solid, leaves and twigs snapping as they make their way over to the dead tree, which is easily twice as wide as Eames.
Arthur starts by chopping with an axe, progress slow as the brittle wood cracks. He switches to a chainsaw while Eames hovers uneasily, trying to judge the angle the tree will fall.
The tree trunk lands with a thud that shakes the ground, a flock of birds taking flight at the disturbance. Arthur walks over to examine it and says, "The inside was all rotted away--no wonder it was dying. And hey, there are mushrooms growing in here."
Arthur applies the chainsaw to the stump, cutting out the roots from the ground, sending dirt flying everywhere. Eventually, he cuts enough for the two of them to grab the edge of the stump and pull it free, leaving a large, irregular hole into the temple below.
"That was--strenuous," Eames says as he leans against a nearby tree. He's sweaty and covered in filth. An insect falls out of his sleeve. "Can you lower the temperature here? I'm sweating profusely."
"Take off your clothes, then."
"You brought me into this dream merely to use me for manual labor and carnal delight, didn't you?"
To his dismay, Arthur's not even paying attention. Instead, he's peering over the edge of the hole, as disheveled as Eames at this point. There are twigs in his hair. "What do you think I should plant here?"
"I haven't the foggiest," Eames replies. "My entire knowledge of plants could fit in a shotglass."
Arthur chuckles as he stands. "That's okay. I'll think of something." And then, "You're still wearing clothes."
"You were serious?"
"Do I ever kid around when it comes to you getting naked?"
"And here I thought this was a sacred space for you. A place of tranquility and-"
"What did Adam and Eve do in the Garden of Eden?" Arthur asks, and answers his own question, "Fucked like rabbits, that's what."
"Is that what the moral of the story was? It all becomes clear now." Eames glances round. "Is that giant serpent of yours still living in these parts? If I'm to be led into temptation, I feel it only proper that a talking snake be the one to do it."
"I don't know, but I got a giant snake for you right here." Arthur pops open his trousers.
Eames chuckles as he kneels. "I suppose it'll do."
A couple of blowjobs later, Arthur and Eames end up lying on a mossy knoll under the shade of a weeping willow tree. Nearby is a smallish green plant with yellow, button-like flowers. It's pretty enough, but Eames isn't sure he likes the look of it; there's something familiar he doesn't care for.
"This garden seems like a great deal of trouble to maintain," Eames comments. "Why don't you simply freeze the plants that bloom and cease the growth? They'll stay healthy forever."
Arthur stretches out along the ground and hooks one ankle over Eames'. "If it were frozen, it wouldn't be alive anymore."
Eames stares up at the branches above them, swaying in the breeze. A few leaves flutter to the ground. "Isn't it better to experience something at the height of its beauty rather than witness its decay?"
"Maybe, but that would make this place a museum, not a garden."
"Do you have something against museums?"
"Nothing wrong with them, but they're archives. A record of history." Arthur tickles the back of Eames' knee with his toes. "An exhibit doesn't grow or change once it's been entered."
"And isn't a chronicle preferable to pests and rotted out insides and giant holes in the ground?" Eames asks, maneuvering his knees away from Arthur's questing feet. "Nothing but the best, all lined up in an orderly fashion."
"A perfect flower is a moment in time," Arthur says quietly. "It can't last forever and it reminds us that nothing does."
"Easy for the man who looks perpetually twenty to say."
Arthur rolls onto his side to regard Eames, dark eyes striking against his light eyebrows. "I won't always look like this."
"I suppose that in a garden, there's always something left to discover." Eames runs his thumb along Arthur's hairline, marveling at the soft silver against his fingertip. "Always one surprise or another."
"They're not all bad," Arthur says, tipping his cheek into Eames' palm. "I kind of like them."
* * * * *
Eames wakes up in his hotel room. There's someone else on the bed. That someone else isn't Arthur.
"Hello, morning glory," Sudheer says, perched on the far corner of the mattress.
Eames yawns nonchalantly, discreetly checking his totem while trying not to reveal how deeply unsettled he is. He doesn't need to check, really; Sudheer is even smugger and more infuriatingly beautiful than he remembers. Only reality could disappoint Eames in this way. "Hello."
Sudheer is silent, head cocked to one side.
"Yes?" Eames prompts, keeping his expression neutral and unruffled.
"Merely trying to see what Arthur sees in you."
"I expect it's my rakish charm and scintillating wit."
"Perhaps," Sudheer says. "I suppose your accent isn't unpleasant to listen to, either."
"Why, Sudheer," Eames says, adding a hint of suggestiveness to his name. "If you wanted to get me in bed, all you had to do was ask."
"I don’t think Arthur would like that very much."
"And what does Arthur have to do with this?"
Sudheer leans forward. "Everything."
Eames sits up, tamping down the vulnerability he feels at being dressed in nothing but underwear and a sheet in front of Sudheer. Sudheer, who no doubt possesses a twelve-pack rather than the standard six. "If you're not here to fling yourself desperately upon me, why are you here?"
"Has Arthur told you?" Sudheer peers at Eames. "No, he hasn't, has he? Always so secretive."
"Arthur's entitled to a certain amount of privacy. As are we all." Eames gives Sudheer a pointed look.
"Not when he's ruining his own life," Sudheer says. "I hope by now you've realized that things between Arthur and his twin are-strained. The perfect opportunity to change that has arisen."
"An opportunity to mend the relationship?"
"Aiden owns his own business. It's been doing poorly for some years now and he's been struggling to keep it afloat. Recently he's been in a car accident."
The non-emergency situation Arthur had received a call about. "He's stable but his business is foundering without him to maintain it."
"Bingo." Sudheer forms a gun with his thumb and forefinger, pointing it at Eames' forehead. "I knew there was something behind those pretty eyes."
Seething hatred, Eames thinks. "This is all very fascinating, but doesn't explain why you're here."
"You know why."
Eames yawns and puts his hands behind his head. "Do I?"
"Fine. You win." Sudheer looks as though he's swallowing something sour. "Arthur needs this. He's been estranged from his twin for too long. It's killing him and he needs to act."
"What a fascinating thesis. Have you tried explaining this to Arthur?"
Sudheer's voice drops to barely audible. "Yes, but he won't listen."
"What's that?" Eames cups his ear. "I don't believe I quite caught it."
"Arthur won't listen to me about this," Sudheer says, through gritted teeth. "I've spoken with him and he refuses to do anything."
"I see." Eames nods solemnly. "How disappointing. Now why, precisely, are you telling me?"
"Because you do care about him. I didn't believe it at first, but now-" Sudheer's completely serious, no hint of a smirk any longer. "You know how much it would mean for Arthur to have Aiden in his life again. You have to make him go to Chicago. Lie to him if you have to."
"What's your stake in all this?"
"I love Arthur," Sudheer says, as if it should be obvious. "I have to do what's best for him."
"A bit patronizing, don't you think?" Eames says mildly. "Thinking you know best."
Sudheer lifts his chin defiantly. "You don't know what our love is like."
"I do know that Arthur dumped you."
Sudheer rolls his eyes. "A temporary state of affairs. It always is."
"What if it isn't?"
"Now now, morning glory," Sudheer stands and walks to the door. "I was with Arthur long before you got here and I'll be with him long after you're gone. No need to worry your little heart sick on my behalf."
* * * * *
The first thing Eames does after Sudheer is gone is to check his room for listening devices, bombs, and anything else untoward. Once he's satisfied that Sudheer left nothing behind besides severe irritability, Eames dresses and lets himself into Arthur's room.
Arthur is, predictably, on a call while simultaneously typing on his laptop. Eames helps himself to the contents of Arthur's mini-bar while he waits for Arthur to finish his call.
"Your fiancé is a creep," Eames says once Arthur's hung up.
"Ex-fiancé. And what brought this on?"
Eames answers with a mouth full of peanuts he fully plans on paying for later. Maybe. "I woke up to a rather unpleasant surprise today. Sudheer paid me a visit in my hotel room."
Arthur's jaw tightens, though he doesn't seem surprised. "What did he want?"
"You knew he was in town?"
"I suspected he might make a trip up, yes," Arthur says. "I didn't think he'd try to make contact with you, though. I'm sorry he dropped in like that. I'll ask him not to in the future."
A part of Eames desperately wants to ask: did you 'make contact' with Sudheer, too? A larger part of Eames doesn't want to know the likely answer to that. "He told me your twin had been hospitalized."
Arthur goes very still. "That's correct."
"The phone call the other day."
"Aiden's wife, Keisha," Arthur says. "She thought I should know."
"Well, Sudheer is of the opinion that I should drag you to the suburbs of Chicago under false pretenses in order to force a reunion."
"And what do you think?"
"I think your family is your affair, as is when or if you see them. I certainly have no interest in seeing mine."
Arthur blinks. "Oh. You're not going to-you don't think I should go see Aiden?"
"I think it's not my place to decide what you should do," Eames says. "He's your twin. And this is your life."
Arthur seems thrown by this. "I-haven't decided what I want to do yet."
"Fair enough." Eames finishes off the packet of peanuts and walks towards the door. "If you did want to stop by Chicago to take in the deep dish pizza or whatever the hell else is there, I wouldn't be opposed. To taking a trip out there, I mean. I can't very well do puppy play on my own."
"Yeah." Arthur's staring down at his phone, unlocking it, then locking it again. "Chicago."
* * * * *
The drive back to Paris is uneventful. It's a pleasure to be behind the wheel again, though halfway through the trip a bird shits on the windshield. Eames pulls over to clean it off immediately-he doesn't want it smearing all over the wipers-and frowns when he discovers a scuff in the paint near one of the headlights.
"Everything okay?" Arthur asks, standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets.
"Doesn't appear to be a deep scratch," Eames says, kneeling down to examine it. "Should be able to buff this out. I hope."
"Did you mean what you said earlier? About being willing to go to Chicago?"
Eames looks up, startled. "Do you want to go see him?"
"I-" Arthur's jaw tightens. "I don’t know."
"Is this something you want to talk about?"
"I don't know," Arthur says again. He's playing with his mobile again. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock.
"Darling," Eames says, and doesn't mean it in a condescending, casual manner. The word sounds different to his ears as he stands.
It happens so quickly Eames isn't sure he even sees Arthur move. All he knows is the way Arthur clutches at his sides, presses his cheek to Eames' sternum. "Thank you," Arthur mutters into Eames' chest. "For talking to me instead of jumping straight into interfering or trying to manipulate me."
Eames strokes the back of Arthur's neck. "I only meddle when I'm being paid to. Otherwise, it seems hardly worth the bother."
Arthur huffs a small laugh and doesn't let go.
* * * * *
Dear Eames,
I have made contact with Grandmother. She was not at all what I was expecting.
She's invited me up to see her in Scotland. I shall be going shortly.
Perhaps you could come round as well? If you are available, I'd be happy to arrange a time for all of us to see each other.
Sincerely,
Tansy
Next: Chapter 9, Part b
Chapter 9: Hound Dog
Master post
Wordcount: 30,000
Eames considers trying to duck out of the boulangerie while pretending he hasn't noticed her, but it's too late.
Eames considers trying to duck out of the boulangerie while pretending he hasn't noticed her, but it's too late. Ariadne's already heading his way.
"Hey, Eames," she says, tone cordial, not over warm. "Wasn't expecting to see you here. What brings you to Paris?"
"Pan au chocolat." Eames holds up his half-eaten pastry. "And you?"
"I'm here for a croissant. Best in the area. Looks like you picked some up yourself," she says, eying the paper bag in his right hand.
"I have a weakness for carbohydrates," he says, searching for a way to exit the conversation gracefully. "I was just stepping-"
"I'm graduating in a year and have been thinking about my work prospects," Ariadne says, moving between Eames and the exit. "I've been wanting to try some new things. Short term employment. Have you heard of any interesting prospects? People who might need an architect?"
"People are always in need of a skilled architect," Eames says, and then pauses, wondering whether Arthur would approve or disapprove of Ariadne's resurgent interest in dreamshare. Noncommittal is probably best. "I'll keep an ear out."
"Thanks. And, Eames-" She takes another step to block him from leaving. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this conversation to Arthur."
Eames schools his expression into something neutral, curious. "Arthur?"
"Yeah. I know he's in town, too."
"Is he? What a coincidence."
"We were supposed to meet up for lunch today but he's sick," Ariadne says. "I offered to drop by his apartment with some antibiotics and soup. He said he already had it covered."
"I suppose he's already found himself a proper Parisian nursemaid," Eames says. "The libertine."
"Or he brought one with him." Ariadne's gaze is shrewd, knowing. "If you run into him, tell him I hope he feels better soon."
"Paris is a big city," Eames says. "I doubt there's much chance of that happening."
* * * * *
"I ran into your young protégé at the boulangerie," Eames says as he enters Arthur's flat. "She's attempting to conduct a secret search for more dreamshare jobs."
Arthur's seated on the couch in his pajamas, nose bright red in runny misery. He's clutching an orange blanket in one hand and a mug of what appears to be cold tea in the other. The floor is a wasteland of used tissues for several feet around him. "I know," he says. "She's been putting out feelers for the past few weeks, trying to avoid it getting back to me."
"Unsuccessfully, it appears." Eames deposits the paper bag of croissants into Arthur's lap.
"Mm, these are the good ones." Arthur takes a bite, eyes closing in pleasure. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Eames grabs a trash bin from the kitchen and brings it over, tossing all the crumpled tissues in before setting it at Arthur's feet. "I'm going to fix myself a cup of tea-would you care for one?" At Arthur's nod, Eames heads into the kitchen.
"I bought a new bed online. It's bigger," Arthur calls out while Eames sets the kettle on to boil. "Should be delivered tomorrow."
"Excellent," Eames says, returning with two cups of tea. "What are you watching?"
"Star Trek." Arthur lifts the edge of his blanket. "I'll trade you a cup for a Cheeto."
"I didn't know they even sold these in France." Eames takes one. It tastes wholly artificial and delicious.
"Yeah, it was a huge pain in the ass tracking this bag down." Arthur shoves an inelegant fistful into his mouth. "Worth it, though."
Eames eats another Cheeto. There's a man in a cheap alien costume awkwardly wrestling another man on what appear to be papier-mâché rocks. Arthur is entranced, and Eames has a sudden vision of what Arthur might have been like as a boy, crisscrossing the US with nothing constant in his life beyond, perhaps, a television.
"That's Captain Kirk," Arthur says, pointing at the man not wearing an alien costume.
"Why is he fighting what I'm assuming is meant to be an alien?"
"To hook up with the sexy alien babe that needs his help." Arthur shuffles around on the couch and drops his head on Eames' lap, still facing the television. "And for justice, or something."
Eames touches Arthur's hair; it's a bit matted because Arthur didn't bother to brush it. "Is this show merely a series of intergalactic duels and sexual exploits?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Arthur says, sounding relaxed. "They engage in exploratory missions."
"And sleep with attractive natives."
"Exactly. And it's all a metaphor for… stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Deeper themes. Issues. Sex with an alien isn't just about sex." Arthur sniffles. "Can you pass me a tissue?"
"I'll take your word for it, darling." Eames passes him the box. "I'd like to go up to Amsterdam for a few days, if you're feeling up to it. An old mate lives there. Ex-pat I know from way back."
"Want me to do some digging on your friend?"
Eames' first impulse is to say that it won't be necessary. Then he remembers how things went with Billy. "I suppose that might be best. I'll send you his details."
Arthur blows his nose. "You know him from the SAS?"
"Even further back," Eames says. "We went to the same boarding school. Before I was expelled."
"Is this the school where you burned a building down?"
"Those records overdramatize everything," Eames says dismissively. "It was only a stable and there wasn't anyone in it. They made me out to be some young arsonist in the making."
"You were expelled from some other schools, too, weren't you?"
"I was only technically expelled from one other school," Eames says. "At the others, I transferred or was suspended and then no longer welcome to return."
Arthur chuckles. "Why'd you get expelled from the other school?"
"Caught attempting to steal something from the headmaster's office."
"Answers to a test? I always made a killing selling those."
"Far less entrepreneurial than that, I'm afraid," Eames replies. "It was an object-rather mundane, really."
"What was it?" On screen, Captain Kirk finishes fighting and sweeps into the arms of an attractive redhead wearing a great deal of makeup and an 'alien' costume.
"A small globe. It sat on the front of the headmaster's desk and I used to study it whilst waiting for him to arrive. I was sent to his office quite often," Eames says, thinking back. "The countries were printed in tiny lettering, and I imagined what it'd be like to visit every single one. Escape the incredible tedium of the schools and the teachers and my life."
"I didn't mind school. Then again, I never stayed in any one for more than a few months. A year, tops, though that was rare." Arthur blows his nose. "Never hung around long enough to get bored."
"A lifelong nomad." Eames brushes some hair from Arthur's forehead.
"Yeah. I get to go to better places, now, though. Cities, sights. Middle America doesn't have much to take in besides cornfields," Arthur says. "What about you? Now you've been all over the world. Is it what you imagined it would be?"
"Not at all," Eames says. "It's worse and it's better. I've experienced things my meager teenage mind could never have conjured up."
"Good or bad things?"
"Both. I've been tortured, I've been dropped from staggering heights, I've been certain I would die twenty times over." Eames lifts one shoulder. "I've also walked along black sand beaches, sat in a hot spring, and had the opportunity to become other people in dreams. If I had stayed in England and done what was expected of me, I would have never had any idea."
Arthur smiles up at Eames, faintly. "And we never would have met."
Eames stares down at Arthur's bloodshot eyes and red nose and tangled hair. "Indeed."
* * * * *
The drive to Amsterdam is uneventful. Arthur sleeps throughout the car ride, waking up periodically to wipe his nose. He perks up when they check in at the hotel.
"I tried to book a room with two beds but they had limited inventory on such short notice," Eames explains. "My room is down the hall."
Arthur shrugs. "I need to get some work done anyway. Since I've been sick."
"Are you saying I am a distraction?"
Arthur smiles as he touches Eames' jaw. "The worst."
Eames smiles in return, losing himself for a minute in Arthur's warm attention. Then Eames remembers they're standing in the middle of a hotel hallway and shakes himself. "Go to bed and make a full recovery. I expect you well tomorrow."
Arthur gives Eames a wry salute and disappears into his room.
* * * * *
"If it isn't the ugliest son of a bitch I've ever seen," a familiar voice says from behind Eames.
"And if it isn't the biggest arsehole north of the equator," Eames replies as he turns. "Tillery, I was absolutely certain someone would have offed you by now."
"No such luck, Eames. That's what you're going by now, isn't it?" Tillery clasps Eames' arm with a hearty squeeze. "I can never keep up with your stream of ridiculous pseudonyms."
Tillery looks older, hair beginning to grey at the temples, skin more leathery around bright blue eyes. He's favoring his left leg and sporting some bandages on his right wrist.
"Sprain from wanking too often?" Eames jerks his chin at the gauze.
"Least I can still get it going," Tillery says. "Women can't keep up with me."
"I don't think you should take it as a point of pride that most women want you to stop shortly after you've started," Eames says as they take seats at the bar. "How have you been, you reprobate? Neck deep in anything?"
"No, I prefer to keep my ears, nose, and all other orifices clean these days," Tillery replies. "I've had enough of prison life. The drug cartels can keep it."
"Oh, that's right-they caught you down in South America, didn't they?"
"Santiago police, officially, though I suspect CIA intervention. Especially since they shipped me round all over the continent," Tillery says. "You'd think mother England might have some interest in securing release for a citizen that served, but it seems the old dame had better things to do."
"How'd you escape?"
"By throwing obscene gobs of money at anyone who would take it. Damn near tapped myself out. Been hiding in Amsterdam ever since."
"You mean you've been living off a Dutch Ambassador ever since," Eames corrects, unable to resist revealing some of what Arthur's research turned up.
"I'm not-" Tillery narrows his eyes. "How did you know about her?"
"It's my business to know," Eames says, archly.
"Nosy git." Tillery snorts. "And what about you? Last I heard you were stationed down in Mombasa. What brings you this far north?"
"Came up for a job and wasn't in the mood to head back yet," Eames says. "Had a recent birthday and realized there were a few things I could do around these parts. Might as well start now."
"Anything good?" Tillery asks as he orders them both Laphroiag.
"Oh, an orgy involving twins, edging, iceplay-nothing you'd be interested in, I'm sure."
"Twins, eh?" Tillery says, sounding suitably impressed. "How much did you have to pay all involved?"
"They practically paid me afterwards, they were so grateful."
Tillery snorts again. "And it was good?"
"Excellent," Eames says. "Engaging in deviant sexual activities is highly energizing."
Tillery shakes his head. "You haven't changed a bit."
"Have you?"
"My Spanish has improved." Tillery holds up his tumbler. "To psychotic, sadistic narcotistas."
Eames chuckles as he holds up his own glass. "To psychotic, sadistic Russian oil barons. May they all rot in hell together."
They clink glasses and take a sip, then catch up on gossip about former classmates (two suicides in the past decade, three very public scandals involving schoolmates who became MPs, and one fellow who changed from John to Jane).
Eames is on his fourth (or is it fifth?) whisky when his cell phone buzzes with a text message from Arthur. I ran a background check on the Dutch Ambassador just in case-all clear. This is followed by a second message: you should both probably stay away from the top shelf this evening.
Too late, Eames texts back.
"What are you grinning about?" Tillery asks when Eames puts his mobile away. "Who was that?"
"Insurance," Eames says. "House burned down and now I'll be receiving a hefty payment."
"You lying sod." Tillery finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with the side of his cast. "There's a bloody twinkle in your eye and you've been smiling since you received that message."
Eames shifts. "What are you on about?"
"Have you come into money? No, you'd spend it all immediately. A tremendous shag? No, because in the past you--wait. Is there a bird?"
Eames scoffs. "A bird? After I told you about twins and an orgy?"
"Unless she's an extremely open-minded twin." Tillery sways forward while Eames does his best not to react. "It is a bird, isn't it? After all these years, you've gone and found someone willing to engage in all sorts of depraved acts with you."
"Don't be absurd. I-"
Tillery ignores him. "Does this new woman of yours know what sort of unreliable bastard you are or have you been living under yet another false identity?"
Eames scowls as he drinks his whisky. "You are a paranoid and delusional drunk."
"I don't think I am." Tillery matches Eames sip for sip. "You've gone sentimental. Let me guess: she has dark hair, dark eyes, is on the slender side-"
"That's practically 90% of the population, I don't see your point-"
"Stubborn, with criminal tendencies and a complicated past-"
"I really think we should talk about that Ambassador of yours. Married, is she? Wonder what her husband thinks about you living in one of their flats-"
"You can attempt to deflect all you'd like, but we both know that old Eames is finally settling down again-"
"Old?" Eames repeats. "Are you saying that I am old?"
Tillery makes a great show of surveying the entire pub. "I don't see anyone else who would fit the descriptor here."
Eames stands, taking only a moment to recover his balance as he does. "I'll show you old."
It is possible that he pushes Tillery first. It is equally possible-nay, probable-that Tillery throws the first punch. Regardless, it descends into a chaotic wrestling match on the floor with the odd jujitsu kick. Tillery has the height and weight advantage, but one arm is laid up with the injury and Eames isn't afraid to take advantage of it.
They're expelled from the pub and left on the sidewalk in disheveled, bruised, exhaustion. Everything spins as Eames stares up at the night sky.
"Well," Eames says, out of breath with an aching side. "That got us out of the tab."
"Cheap bastard." Tillery sounds out of breath. "I should have known."
"Oh, were you planning to take the check? Has your Dutch Ambassador given you a bit of spending money?"
"Says the man who is currently married to the most abhorrent woman in the world for a monthly stipend."
"Hardly the same situation at all," Eames says, standing up with a wince. Tillery managed a kick to his bad knee earlier-a low blow, the wily bastard. "I'm going back to my hotel. You're intoxicated."
"Going to see your lady friend?" Tillery asks. "Is she waiting up for you?"
"For the last-"
"No, I'm truly happy you found someone to put up with you for longer than an evening with the lights off. Unless she's blind? And deaf? Because that would explain why-"
Eames hurls himself at Tillery again, though both of them are too tired to do much more than shove and slap at each other in a decidedly undignified manner.
"I am going to my hotel," Eames starts again, after he's successfully thrown Tillery off him. "Go make googly eyes at your Ambassador and leave me be."
Tillery coughs. "I'm afraid not. The Ambassador's husband is in town for the weekend and it's best if I stay away for the duration."
"Then go back inside." Eames brushes his trousers off, wincing. "The redhead in the corner seemed intrigued by your cast."
"What, the one with the eye-patch? I can't."
"Well, I wouldn't play a game of darts with her, but it's not as if-"
"I can't," Tillery says and hesitates. "The Ambassador wouldn't like it."
"How would she ever know?"
"Still," Tillery mumbles. "She wouldn't like it."
"You're-" Eames stops to stare incredulously at him. "You're in love with her, aren't you? And after you went on about-"
"I'm not..."
"You arsehole," Eames says as he begins stumbling back towards the hotel. "A married woman, you fucking arsehole."
* * * * *
Tillery follows Eames back to his hotel room, claiming the bed while Eames is in the loo taking a piss. Tillery is snoring and spread-eagled when Eames steps back out.
Whatever. Eames has a warmer bed waiting for him anyway.
Eames fumbles with the lock on Arthur's door, then attempts to pick it unsuccessfully for five minutes before remembering Arthur gave him the keycard.
Inside, Arthur is already awake and sitting up. He's clad in a pair of briefs that flatter his bulge and a threadbare tank top that lovingly hugs every muscle in his torso.
"Is this going to be a pattern?" Arthur asks.
Eames takes off his shoes. It takes longer than he anticipates. "Yes."
"Are you bleeding?"
"A scratch," Eames dismisses. "I had an altercation with Tillery. Pay it no mind."
"What-"
"I am going to seduce you," Eames says, sashaying towards the bed. He almost trips over one of Arthur's balled-up socks, but doesn't let that slow him down.
"You sure you don't want to get that cut cleaned first?"
"No. I'm going to drive you mad with desire," Eames declares, crawling on top of Arthur's legs. "You won't be able to resist me."
"Is that right?"
"Yes," Eames says, wobbling slightly. "Undo my top shirt button."
"I thought you were performing for me?"
"This is the audience participation portion," Eames says. "Now. My button."
Arthur finally complies, deepening the open vee of Eames' shirt, exposing some chest hair.
"Would you care for another?" Eames undoes the rest as he stands, mostly steady. "Perhaps you'd like to unbutton my trousers?"
Arthur's definitely more interested in proceedings now, palming Eames' arse for a moment before moving to undo his flies.
Eames turns around and bends at the waist in order to pull his trousers and underwear down, giving Arthur quite a view.
"I might still be contagious," Arthur says warningly, while his fingertips sketch patterns up the back of Eames' calves.
"I've probably contracted what you had already." Eames faces Arthur, cock bobbing in front of Arthur's mouth. "You may go ahead."
"Oh may I?" Arthur replies, sounding amused. "Show's over, huh?"
Eames runs a finger along the shell of Arthur's ear. "You're not wearing your usual pajama set. You were expecting me. You dressed up for me."
Arthur flushes. "I gave the rest of my things to the laundry service and they haven't gotten back to me yet. This is all I had left."
"Of course. How fortunate that it fits you so well," Eames coos as he guides Arthur's lying mouth to his cock.
Arthur licks and sucks with no protest, eyes sliding half shut as he palms his own cock through his underwear. Eames hums happily as Arthur cups his bollocks, teases behind them.
Arthur kisses the head of Eames' cock and tips his head back. "I want to fuck you."
"Very well." Eames bends his legs, which have turned jelly-like thanks to Arthur's attentive mouth, and settles on Arthur's lap. "I'll allow this."
"Your generosity is boundless," Arthur says as he reaches for a condom and lube.
Arthur helps Eames peel the remainder of his clothing off before flipping them over, undressing while Eames preps himself. Eames hooks his legs round Arthur's waist and moans when he slides in. It's been a few days since they've done anything thanks to Arthur's illness, and it feels amazing.
Eames expects a bit of desperation from Arthur, or at least some hurried eagerness. Instead, Arthur cups Eames' jaw, looks into his eyes, and kisses him while gliding slowly in and out. Eames is certain he should dislike it more than he does.
"You're not going to go hard?" Eames asks while Arthur peppers his neck with kisses.
"If you wanted hard, you should have visited five hours ago when I was more awake." Arthur continues moving at a leisurely pace. "I'm half-asleep here."
It does feel good like this, Eames has to admit. Arthur's cock stretching Eames, with the ideal amount of pressure in and out. Eames is too tired (and perhaps drunk) to get more than half-erect, but everything feels warm and enjoyable all the same. He drifts a bit.
"Oops," Arthur says, and Eames opens his eyes.
"Oops?"
"I came." Arthur looks a little sheepish. "Do you want me to finish you off with a blowjob?"
Eames is in a magnanimous, sleepy mood. Also, he's not certain he could make it all the way to orgasm now even if he wanted to. "That won't be necessary."
Arthur pulls off the condom and ties it, leaving it somewhere on the floor. He lies back on the bed and draws Eames to him, until Eames' head is resting on his chest. "You were too good at seducing me," Arthur says. "I couldn't contain myself."
Eames falls asleep grinning, Arthur's steady heartbeat under his ear.
* * * * *
The next morning is heinous. Eames wakes up to half-drawn curtains, the clatter of keys as Arthur types, and a mouth dry enough to hurt. The cut on his cheek has been cleaned and bandaged.
"Water and aspirin are on the nightstand to your left," Arthur says without ceasing to type. "If you're going to puke, go to the bathroom. If you don't think you can make it, there's a trashcan also to your left."
Eames takes the aspirin, retches in the toilet, takes another aspirin after that, and showers. He's feeling marginally less atrocious when his mobile buzzes.
Tillery sounds not at all hungover as he suggests meeting downstairs for the lunch buffet. Bastard.
"The lunch buffet does sound good," Arthur says when Eames hangs up. "I didn't get breakfast earlier."
"You cannot, under any circumstances, reveal to Tillery that we're sleeping together," Eames says as he flops back on the mattress.
Arthur chuckles as he stands. "What makes you think I'd want to tell? Maybe you're my shameful secret. You ever think of that?"
"Don't be cruel to me while I'm hungover," Eames says. "It's unsporting."
"Sorry." Arthur drops a kiss onto Eames' forehead as he walks to the bathroom. "I can eat separately from you guys if you want. Go down after you're already done."
"No, it's fine. We can go in separately and pretend to run into each other." Eames tosses an arm over his eyes. Everything is sore.
"I want to ask Tillery about his experiences in prison," Arthur says. "I've been thinking about doing more jobs in the Western hemisphere and it'd be good to know what I might be in for."
"He loves his war stories," Eames says. "He'll tell you anything you want to know. Anything he doesn't know, he'll make up."
"Yeah?"
"Don't be lured in by his charm. He'll smile while he lifts your wallet and steals your watch."
"Sounds like someone else I know."
"Yes, I suppose the criminal world is filled with dubious characters," Eames says. "It's dreadful."
* * * * *
At lunch, Eames introduces Arthur as a professional acquaintance. After they each load up their plates, they settle down to eat together.
Tillery is unbearably cheery, thrilled at the opportunity to regale Arthur with tales of Chilean prison life. Mystifyingly, this somehow morphs into tales about his and Eames' brief tenure together at school. It's an unwelcome walk down memory lane, featuring Eames as an awkward young lad who accidentally burned down a stable because he didn't know how to hold a cigarette.
Arthur is of no help, providing an enthusiastic audience and encouraging Tillery to go on despite Eames' protestations.
By the end of the meal, Eames is feeling much put upon. Arthur ducks out to take a work call, leaving Tillery to needle at Eames by himself. "It's been a while since Malaya, hasn't it?"
"I suppose it has," Eames says, sipping at his water and rubbing his temples.
"He's not bad, that Arthur," Tillery says. "I'm not one for blokes myself, but I can see the appeal."
Eames keeps his expression blank. "Pardon?"
"You've been smiling like a lunatic these past twenty-four hours. I almost didn't recognize you because of it. You've always been such a dour sod," Tillery continues. "It's a pleasant change."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Arthur returns to the table, informing them both that the bill's been settled.
Tillery claps Arthur on the shoulder. "You're not bad, Arthur. If you ever end up in a South American prison, let me know and I'll put in a good word for you."
"I may take you up on that offer, Tillery," Arthur replies as they shake hands. "It's been good meeting you. And thanks for the stories. I had no idea anyone could lock himself out of his own room naked every day for three weeks in a row."
"Yes, yes, utterly hilarious," Eames mutters. "Don't you have another call to make?"
Arthur and Tillery share an amused look before Arthur sets off. Finally.
"One last drink for the road?" Tillery asks.
"I don't think my liver can survive another alcoholic encounter," Eames says. "I'm going to go lie down in a very dark room. I suggest you do the same."
"Yes, go take your afternoon nap, old man," Tillery says, punching Eames on the shoulder. "Perhaps Arthur will nurse you tenderly if you ask nicely."
"I don't know what Arthur has to do with anything," Eames replies. "Is he staying in this hotel?"
"Your denials would be a great deal more convincing if you didn't stare at him like a moonstruck teenager."
"Oh, go back to pining for your Dutch Ambassador," Eames says grumpily. "Lying sod."
"Nosy git." Tillery's words are tinged with affection as he gives Eames a slap on the back and goes.
* * * * *
"...put a collar on it," Arthur says as Eames slips into his room.
"Please tell me that phrase was uttered in reference to a delightfully kinky act of debauchery you're planning for later," Eames says, careful to make his presence known so Arthur doesn't startle, pull a gun, and ask questions later.
"No, that's it." Arthur, to Eames' relief, doesn't shoot or throw that hidden ankle knife of his, but merely glances over his shoulder. "Yes, text me when it's done."
Eames wanders into the bathroom to rummage through Arthur's extensive toiletries bag. He discovers five different types of lotion, samples two, and eventually pockets the tube of toothpaste resting on the sink. When he walks back into the bedroom again, Arthur's off the phone.
"You know you're welcome to work in my room, yes?" Eames says, glancing round at the unmade bed, the steaming cup of coffee, and the open laptop.
"Yes, I can imagine all the 'work' I'll get done in there," Arthur replies dryly. "And may I ask why you were rifling through my things?"
"Toothpaste." Eames waves the tube. "I've run out and while I suppose I could ring the concierge, this seemed ever so much more convenient."
"Picking the lock of my hotel room seemed more convenient?"
"Mustn't let the real world skills rust in between jobs," Eames says blithely. "And you have an excellent assortment of personal grooming supplies, by the way. Everything smells astoundingly good."
"Should I be expecting all my aftershave to go missing now too?" Arthur takes a sip of his coffee.
"Possibly," Eames says. "Though I'm more interested in your hand cream. God, no one I've ever slept with smelled this heavenly-not even the women."
"It's the smell of man," Arthur says, and Eames laughs. "Now go away. I need to get back to work."
"Yes, and precisely what is this work?" Eames says, squinting at Arthur's laptop screen; it's filled with seemingly endless streams of numbers. "Don't keep me in suspense now."
"Making ungodly sums of money so I can keep you in the standard of living to which you've become accustomed."
"Keep me in--" Eames freezes, hand halfway to the ten dollar bag of trail mix in Arthur's mini-bar.
Arthur gives him a look.
"I'll have you know that I can afford to bankroll my own indulgences," Eames says, closing the mini-bar with only the slightest pang of longing. "I certainly don't need your filthy lucre of mysterious origins."
"Okay, fine." Arthur sits back in his chair. "From now on, you pay for at least half of our drinks and meals."
"Naturally," Eames replies smoothly.
"And the snacks and movies and whatever other entertainment you suggest."
"Not a problem at all," Eames says, and mentally pushes back the cruise he'd been considering.
"Okay, then," Arthur says. "That's settled."
"Yes."
Arthur cocks his head to one side. "Can I get back to work, or do you need something else?"
"Actually, I have a surprise for you."
"Is it a surprise in your pants?"
"That is astonishingly crude and no, we're going out. Later. Tomorrow afternoon."
Arthur seems genuinely surprised by this. "Should I wear something in particular?"
"You can dress as you usually do," Eames says. "Be as debonair as you normally are."
"Okay." Arthur's smiling. "By the way, Tillery's pretty cute."
"Cute?" Eames repeats, not sure he heard correctly. "Cute?"
"Yeah. He has nice eyes."
Eames huffs. "He's practically old enough to be your father."
"He's a year younger than you are."
"That's-" Eames sputters. "He's completely straight. Not to mention embroiled in a doomed love affair with a married woman."
"Didn't you once say that straight men are a challenge?"
"That is crass and condescending. One should respect a person's right to decide their own sexual identity-"
"I bet he'd go for it," Arthur says thoughtfully. "I've been told I look like jailbait and everyone likes a younger man."
Eames is about to argue further when he catches the smallest twitch of Arthur's mouth. "You're winding me up."
"Nope. I am deeply attracted to your broke, alcoholic schoolmate-"
"I'm going to sleep," Eames declares as he walks back towards his room. "I refuse to listen to this nonsense any longer."
"Okay, have a good nap," Arthur calls out after Eames. "I'll be busy converting Tillery."
* * * * *
"Federico," Eames says. "What are you doing here?"
"Your subconscious brought me here," Federico replies, far too vivid for the Scottish dream landscape. "Which means you must be secretly in love with me!"
"No."
"Fair enough." Federico shrugs. "Then perhaps your subconscious knows you would be lonely with no one to talk to here. And that you are too afraid to say what you feel to the person who needs to hear it."
"How can I be lonely when my dreamscape has become a bloody zoo?" Eames asks. He gestures at Tansy, skipping stones in the stream, and his mother (a new and not precisely welcome projection) smoking by the house in the distance.
"That is your mother?" Federico clicks his tongue. "Now there is an attractive older-"
"Don't start," Eames interrupts. "I'd rather shoot myself out than discover an Oedipal complex down here. I'm not bluffing."
"Suit yourself." Federico plops down on the grass. "What would you like to talk about?"
"We could sit in silence-"
"Flowers!" Federico exclaims, holding up a sprig of heather. "Alas. Even British flowers are drab."
Eames scans the horizon. It's patchy, but small bunches of purple heather are beginning to spring up across the estate. "Those are new."
"If you were in my dream, this entire place would be on fire with flowers," Federico says, sweeping his arm. "Red and orange and yellow. The colors of passion."
"If I were in your dream, I'd be a talking donkey in a Technicolor musical nightmare."
"The handsomest talking donkey in the world, without a doubt," Federico says. "Now, are you going to ask Arthur for the thing you really want to do?"
"You're going to have to be more specific than that," Eames says, though he suspects-knows-what his subconscious is alluding to.
"The thing where he pets you on the head and you say woof woof." Federico gets onto his hands and knees, beginning to crawl around. "Maybe he will play catch the ball with you."
"Fetch, you mean. And stand up." Eames averts his eyes. "You look ridiculous."
"It is ridiculous," Federico says, seeming wholly unembarrassed. "And you want it anyway."
"We never discussed it. I don't know if Arthur would even-"
"He let you piss on him and is willing to wear an animal costume. I do not think Arthur is the one you are worried about."
"If not Arthur, who? The only two people involved are-"
"You are worried you'll look like a fool and like it," Federico says. "You are afraid he will laugh at you. You are more afraid he won't, and you will like how acting as a puppy will make you feel."
"It's only a lark," Eames mumbles. "How could I enjoy acting like a dog? How could I-it'll be a failed experiment, nothing more."
"Good. Then you will talk on it soon."
"I don't have to listen to you." Eames looks around. "Where's Malaya? If I'm to be bludgeoned by my subconscious, I'd prefer her to do it."
"I don't think she's coming back."
"How the hell are you the next logical choice?"
Federico shrugs expansively. "This is your dream. Come be a donkey in mine and maybe I'll be able to give you more answers."
* * * * *
Eames doesn't bother with a blindfold or any sort of theatrics when he escorts Arthur to his surprise. The expression on Arthur's face when he realizes they've arrived at the Escher Museum is-well, it's breathtaking, really.
They make it three steps into the gallery before Arthur dashes back into the gift shop, emerging with a notepad and pen. He proceeds to take copious notes and detailed sketches as they walk throughout the exhibits.
Afterwards, during dinner, Arthur chatters on excitedly about various ideas for applications of paradoxical architecture in dreams, mazes he could construct. He even bought one of those hideously overpriced coffee table books filled with glossy photos of Escher's work to further his study.
Eames finds himself listening intently, gazing at Arthur with what he suspects is a rather dimwitted expression, and enjoys every second of it.
Eames pays for dinner ("the whole meal's on me," Eames said, and Arthur whistled, "Hey, big spender.") They walk along the canal back to the hotel, enjoying the evening air.
"Want to pick up a prostitute?" Eames asks, pointing in the general direction of the red light district. "Also on me."
"What a romantic gesture," Arthur deadpans. "Really, this is too much."
"Do you think they're cash only? I don’t know if I have enough to pay for a whole night. Maybe twenty minutes."
Arthur laughs. "Okay, Mr. Moneybags, you can put your wallet away. I'm more in the mood for some free sex tonight."
"Is that what I am to you? Free sex?"
"Who said it was sex with you?" Arthur asks. "Maybe I'm going out tonight."
"I'll leave you to it, then." Eames runs a hand down the center of Arthur's chest to his abdomen and back again. "If you do chat up someone pretty, feel free to bring him back to mine. I could be persuaded to watch."
"You'd be okay with watching me fuck someone else in front of you?" Arthur replies, low. "You wouldn't be wishing it was you I was pounding into the mattress?"
"I can entertain myself."
"Yeah? Put a vibrator up your ass and imagine it was me?" Arthur brushes his crotch against Eames' hip, cock beginning to harden through his slim-fit trousers. "Jerk off knowing how much better I feel inside you-"
"You have a very high opinion of yourself," Eames says as he starts walking--quickly-back to the hotel. His trousers are already uncomfortably tight.
"Seems like I have a right to." Arthur catches up easily, slapping Eames on the bottom as he does.
"I thought you were going out to pick up someone new?"
"Maybe I don't want someone new." Arthur catches Eames round the waist and pulls him in for a kiss that deepens and lengthens until a passerby catcalls them.
They make it back to Arthur's room before they're on each other, shirts and trousers and boxers flying. Eames ends up on his back with legs in the air, Arthur sucking roughly at his nipples and pulling at his cock. It feels incredible.
Arthur's in the middle of giving Eames a truly fantastic fucking when the tinny sound of a mobile ringing emanates from the depths of Arthur's suitcase.
Arthur slows as the phone continues to ring-it's not a factory default, and it's not a ringtone Eames recognizes. It may not even be a phone Eames has seen Arthur use before.
"Arthur," Eames says, lifting his head from a pillow. "I'm close."
"Yeah?" Arthur asks distractedly, still thrusting, albeit at too slow a pace.
"Let it go to voicemail," Eames says, pushing his arse back encouragingly and moaning when that bumps Arthur's cock right against his prostate.
"But-"
"I swear to God, Arthur, if you stop when I'm about to come to answer a call about a stock purchase-"
That seems to snap Arthur out of whatever daze he's in. "Right. Yeah." He returns to thrusting, one hand closing around Eames' cock. Eames covers Arthur's hand with his, falls forward on the bed, and comes.
Arthur also orgasms sometime afterwards. It's possible Eames dozes off while it happens. Eames stirs when Arthur goes to the bathroom and returns with a washcloth in hand and a phone pressed to his ear.
Arthur wipes at Eames' abdomen, expression distant as he listens to his voicemail. The voice is female, indistinct-Eames can't make out the words.
"Something the matter?" Eames asks when Arthur hangs up.
"There's a situation. Not an emergency, but-" Arthur hesitates. "I can't do anything about it."
"A non-emergency situation you can't do anything about," Eames repeats slowly. "Is it to do with work?"
"No," Arthur says. "Hey, uh, I've been meaning to ask. What's next on your list? Fursuits?"
Eames studies Arthur's expression-his poker face has descended-and decides to go along with Arthur's subject change. "I was considering trying something before that. If you're open."
"Sure. What is it?"
"Puppy play. Have you heard of it?"
"It's like pony play with fewer props, right?"
"Yeah," Eames says, slightly relieved. "If you're not interested, we don't have to. It's merely-"
"Sounds fine to me." Arthur shrugs. "Is this going to be in a dream or reality?"
"Reality," Eames says, relieved but also apprehensive. A part of him had hoped Arthur would say no.
"And are you the puppy or am I?"
"I-" Eames clears his throat. "I'd be the puppy."
"And I'm the owner, right?" Arthur mulls it over. "This might be a more complicated roleplay. We should probably talk more about the specifics of what we're gonna do before we do it."
"I suppose," Eames says, though the absolute last thing he wants to do is discuss it in greater detail. A part of him is already squirming in embarrassment. "Let me think on the logistics a while, and then we shall reconvene to discuss."
"Okay." Arthur climbs into bed. "Great."
"Everything alright?" Eames asks quietly as Arthur reaches for the lamp.
"Yeah." The room plunges into darkness. "Don't worry about it."
* * * * *
"Mother."
There's a long pause on the line. "Oh, it's you."
"Yes." Eames' mother has never cared for pleasantries and would likely scorn any attempt at one. "There's someone who'd like to meet you. I told them I'd speak to you first."
"I see." Her voice is rougher than he remembered it, cracks in the drawl from years of drinking and smoking readily apparent. "Have you gone and married again? I hope you told whoever she is that you're a grown man and can make your own poor nuptial decisions without my involvement."
"What? No, this hasn't anything to do with marriage," Eames says. "There's a girl, her name is Tansy. She's about twenty years old and she's my daughter."
There's another silence. "Is it from-"
"No, not by Malaya. It's from before her. The mother never told me, and I only found out recently."
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, with the way you carried on at that age," his mother says, and then, as if a new thought just occurred to her, "I have a granddaughter?"
"Yes, that is the typical of order of things," he says, a bit testy now. "She'd like to speak over the phone, perhaps pop up to meet. I haven't told her much about you, obviously."
"No, I imagine you wouldn't." There's a silence. "I suppose it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to speak with her. She does understand English, doesn't she?"
He can already feel a headache coming on. "Yes."
"Does she resemble you?"
"Yes, I-I'd say she does, a bit."
"Strange, isn't it? To see yourself in someone else. Like and unlike simultaneously."
"Yes, it is," Eames says, startled. At long last, something they have in common as reluctant, baffled parents. "Unsettling."
* * * * *
"Better get inside," Arthur says, staring skyward at the heavy clouds. His hair gleams silver in the darkening dreamscape. "Unless you want to get wet."
"It rains here now?" Eames asks, surprised.
"I experimented with crop dusting and other ways of watering the valley. It turns out weather was the most efficient." Arthur says, gesturing to the sprawling kilometers of plants being rained on. "I set up seasons, too."
"Including winter?" Eames steps inside the temple just as the first fat drops begin to fall. "Won't the plants die?"
"The perennials will come back," Arthur replies. "Besides, it makes room for new plantings."
"And in here?" Eames studies a small rose plant, crawling up one of the columns.
"The temple is irrigated and temperature controlled," Arthur says. "Like a greenhouse."
"It's really come along." Eames touches a deep red rose. The petals are delicate, a soft fragrance wafting from its center.
"Thanks." Arthur takes Eames by the hand. "Follow me."
They head up the stairs, Eames startled by the feel of Arthur's fingers--elegantly manicured and callused on the undersides.
They emerge on the top level of the temple, tree roots dangling above them in a spectacular feat of impossibility. Arthur's added more plants, small flowering shrubs and ornamental grasses arranged in mosaic-like medallions on the ground.
"Those are new," Arthur says, releasing Eames' hand to kneel and examine one particular plant. "Here, touch this."
Eames regards the plant, which has tufts of yellow flowers springing from a tall central stalk. After a moment, he reaches out to stroke a leaf gingerly. "It's--it's fuzzy." Even the flowers, upon closer inspection, are covered in a layer of soft grey fuzz.
"Isn't it incredible?" Arthur beams up at Eames, catching him off-guard.
"Yeah," Eames agrees, transfixed by Arthur's deep dimples.
"I don't even know where it came from." Arthur stands, brushing his knees off. "I didn't plant it."
"New things appear here often?" Eames asks, recovering his wits enough to converse.
"Yeah. Mostly moss, lichens, and pests." Arthur rubs a flower between his thumb and forefinger. "Some good stuff, though."
"Flower fondler."
Arthur chuckles. "That's me. Floral fancier." He looks up at the ceiling and frowns at one particular tree's roots. Eames doesn't know much about gardening, but even he can tell that shriveled up, yellowed roots aren't a sign of good health. "That tree's been doing poorly for a while and I haven't been able to figure out why."
"Seems like it finally gave up the ghost," Eames comments, touching a root and watching it disintegrate to nothing.
"Yeah." Arthur glances outside. "It's stopped raining. Want to help me rip up this tree?"
Not really, Eames thinks. "Alright," he says.
They go up one more flight of stairs to the last level, which has grown into something truly spectacular. The trees are a mix of heights and widths, some reaching upwards over two storeys, others spreading outwards in enormous leafy canopies.
The ground beneath their feet is damp but solid, leaves and twigs snapping as they make their way over to the dead tree, which is easily twice as wide as Eames.
Arthur starts by chopping with an axe, progress slow as the brittle wood cracks. He switches to a chainsaw while Eames hovers uneasily, trying to judge the angle the tree will fall.
The tree trunk lands with a thud that shakes the ground, a flock of birds taking flight at the disturbance. Arthur walks over to examine it and says, "The inside was all rotted away--no wonder it was dying. And hey, there are mushrooms growing in here."
Arthur applies the chainsaw to the stump, cutting out the roots from the ground, sending dirt flying everywhere. Eventually, he cuts enough for the two of them to grab the edge of the stump and pull it free, leaving a large, irregular hole into the temple below.
"That was--strenuous," Eames says as he leans against a nearby tree. He's sweaty and covered in filth. An insect falls out of his sleeve. "Can you lower the temperature here? I'm sweating profusely."
"Take off your clothes, then."
"You brought me into this dream merely to use me for manual labor and carnal delight, didn't you?"
To his dismay, Arthur's not even paying attention. Instead, he's peering over the edge of the hole, as disheveled as Eames at this point. There are twigs in his hair. "What do you think I should plant here?"
"I haven't the foggiest," Eames replies. "My entire knowledge of plants could fit in a shotglass."
Arthur chuckles as he stands. "That's okay. I'll think of something." And then, "You're still wearing clothes."
"You were serious?"
"Do I ever kid around when it comes to you getting naked?"
"And here I thought this was a sacred space for you. A place of tranquility and-"
"What did Adam and Eve do in the Garden of Eden?" Arthur asks, and answers his own question, "Fucked like rabbits, that's what."
"Is that what the moral of the story was? It all becomes clear now." Eames glances round. "Is that giant serpent of yours still living in these parts? If I'm to be led into temptation, I feel it only proper that a talking snake be the one to do it."
"I don't know, but I got a giant snake for you right here." Arthur pops open his trousers.
Eames chuckles as he kneels. "I suppose it'll do."
A couple of blowjobs later, Arthur and Eames end up lying on a mossy knoll under the shade of a weeping willow tree. Nearby is a smallish green plant with yellow, button-like flowers. It's pretty enough, but Eames isn't sure he likes the look of it; there's something familiar he doesn't care for.
"This garden seems like a great deal of trouble to maintain," Eames comments. "Why don't you simply freeze the plants that bloom and cease the growth? They'll stay healthy forever."
Arthur stretches out along the ground and hooks one ankle over Eames'. "If it were frozen, it wouldn't be alive anymore."
Eames stares up at the branches above them, swaying in the breeze. A few leaves flutter to the ground. "Isn't it better to experience something at the height of its beauty rather than witness its decay?"
"Maybe, but that would make this place a museum, not a garden."
"Do you have something against museums?"
"Nothing wrong with them, but they're archives. A record of history." Arthur tickles the back of Eames' knee with his toes. "An exhibit doesn't grow or change once it's been entered."
"And isn't a chronicle preferable to pests and rotted out insides and giant holes in the ground?" Eames asks, maneuvering his knees away from Arthur's questing feet. "Nothing but the best, all lined up in an orderly fashion."
"A perfect flower is a moment in time," Arthur says quietly. "It can't last forever and it reminds us that nothing does."
"Easy for the man who looks perpetually twenty to say."
Arthur rolls onto his side to regard Eames, dark eyes striking against his light eyebrows. "I won't always look like this."
"I suppose that in a garden, there's always something left to discover." Eames runs his thumb along Arthur's hairline, marveling at the soft silver against his fingertip. "Always one surprise or another."
"They're not all bad," Arthur says, tipping his cheek into Eames' palm. "I kind of like them."
* * * * *
Eames wakes up in his hotel room. There's someone else on the bed. That someone else isn't Arthur.
"Hello, morning glory," Sudheer says, perched on the far corner of the mattress.
Eames yawns nonchalantly, discreetly checking his totem while trying not to reveal how deeply unsettled he is. He doesn't need to check, really; Sudheer is even smugger and more infuriatingly beautiful than he remembers. Only reality could disappoint Eames in this way. "Hello."
Sudheer is silent, head cocked to one side.
"Yes?" Eames prompts, keeping his expression neutral and unruffled.
"Merely trying to see what Arthur sees in you."
"I expect it's my rakish charm and scintillating wit."
"Perhaps," Sudheer says. "I suppose your accent isn't unpleasant to listen to, either."
"Why, Sudheer," Eames says, adding a hint of suggestiveness to his name. "If you wanted to get me in bed, all you had to do was ask."
"I don’t think Arthur would like that very much."
"And what does Arthur have to do with this?"
Sudheer leans forward. "Everything."
Eames sits up, tamping down the vulnerability he feels at being dressed in nothing but underwear and a sheet in front of Sudheer. Sudheer, who no doubt possesses a twelve-pack rather than the standard six. "If you're not here to fling yourself desperately upon me, why are you here?"
"Has Arthur told you?" Sudheer peers at Eames. "No, he hasn't, has he? Always so secretive."
"Arthur's entitled to a certain amount of privacy. As are we all." Eames gives Sudheer a pointed look.
"Not when he's ruining his own life," Sudheer says. "I hope by now you've realized that things between Arthur and his twin are-strained. The perfect opportunity to change that has arisen."
"An opportunity to mend the relationship?"
"Aiden owns his own business. It's been doing poorly for some years now and he's been struggling to keep it afloat. Recently he's been in a car accident."
The non-emergency situation Arthur had received a call about. "He's stable but his business is foundering without him to maintain it."
"Bingo." Sudheer forms a gun with his thumb and forefinger, pointing it at Eames' forehead. "I knew there was something behind those pretty eyes."
Seething hatred, Eames thinks. "This is all very fascinating, but doesn't explain why you're here."
"You know why."
Eames yawns and puts his hands behind his head. "Do I?"
"Fine. You win." Sudheer looks as though he's swallowing something sour. "Arthur needs this. He's been estranged from his twin for too long. It's killing him and he needs to act."
"What a fascinating thesis. Have you tried explaining this to Arthur?"
Sudheer's voice drops to barely audible. "Yes, but he won't listen."
"What's that?" Eames cups his ear. "I don't believe I quite caught it."
"Arthur won't listen to me about this," Sudheer says, through gritted teeth. "I've spoken with him and he refuses to do anything."
"I see." Eames nods solemnly. "How disappointing. Now why, precisely, are you telling me?"
"Because you do care about him. I didn't believe it at first, but now-" Sudheer's completely serious, no hint of a smirk any longer. "You know how much it would mean for Arthur to have Aiden in his life again. You have to make him go to Chicago. Lie to him if you have to."
"What's your stake in all this?"
"I love Arthur," Sudheer says, as if it should be obvious. "I have to do what's best for him."
"A bit patronizing, don't you think?" Eames says mildly. "Thinking you know best."
Sudheer lifts his chin defiantly. "You don't know what our love is like."
"I do know that Arthur dumped you."
Sudheer rolls his eyes. "A temporary state of affairs. It always is."
"What if it isn't?"
"Now now, morning glory," Sudheer stands and walks to the door. "I was with Arthur long before you got here and I'll be with him long after you're gone. No need to worry your little heart sick on my behalf."
* * * * *
The first thing Eames does after Sudheer is gone is to check his room for listening devices, bombs, and anything else untoward. Once he's satisfied that Sudheer left nothing behind besides severe irritability, Eames dresses and lets himself into Arthur's room.
Arthur is, predictably, on a call while simultaneously typing on his laptop. Eames helps himself to the contents of Arthur's mini-bar while he waits for Arthur to finish his call.
"Your fiancé is a creep," Eames says once Arthur's hung up.
"Ex-fiancé. And what brought this on?"
Eames answers with a mouth full of peanuts he fully plans on paying for later. Maybe. "I woke up to a rather unpleasant surprise today. Sudheer paid me a visit in my hotel room."
Arthur's jaw tightens, though he doesn't seem surprised. "What did he want?"
"You knew he was in town?"
"I suspected he might make a trip up, yes," Arthur says. "I didn't think he'd try to make contact with you, though. I'm sorry he dropped in like that. I'll ask him not to in the future."
A part of Eames desperately wants to ask: did you 'make contact' with Sudheer, too? A larger part of Eames doesn't want to know the likely answer to that. "He told me your twin had been hospitalized."
Arthur goes very still. "That's correct."
"The phone call the other day."
"Aiden's wife, Keisha," Arthur says. "She thought I should know."
"Well, Sudheer is of the opinion that I should drag you to the suburbs of Chicago under false pretenses in order to force a reunion."
"And what do you think?"
"I think your family is your affair, as is when or if you see them. I certainly have no interest in seeing mine."
Arthur blinks. "Oh. You're not going to-you don't think I should go see Aiden?"
"I think it's not my place to decide what you should do," Eames says. "He's your twin. And this is your life."
Arthur seems thrown by this. "I-haven't decided what I want to do yet."
"Fair enough." Eames finishes off the packet of peanuts and walks towards the door. "If you did want to stop by Chicago to take in the deep dish pizza or whatever the hell else is there, I wouldn't be opposed. To taking a trip out there, I mean. I can't very well do puppy play on my own."
"Yeah." Arthur's staring down at his phone, unlocking it, then locking it again. "Chicago."
* * * * *
The drive back to Paris is uneventful. It's a pleasure to be behind the wheel again, though halfway through the trip a bird shits on the windshield. Eames pulls over to clean it off immediately-he doesn't want it smearing all over the wipers-and frowns when he discovers a scuff in the paint near one of the headlights.
"Everything okay?" Arthur asks, standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets.
"Doesn't appear to be a deep scratch," Eames says, kneeling down to examine it. "Should be able to buff this out. I hope."
"Did you mean what you said earlier? About being willing to go to Chicago?"
Eames looks up, startled. "Do you want to go see him?"
"I-" Arthur's jaw tightens. "I don’t know."
"Is this something you want to talk about?"
"I don't know," Arthur says again. He's playing with his mobile again. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock.
"Darling," Eames says, and doesn't mean it in a condescending, casual manner. The word sounds different to his ears as he stands.
It happens so quickly Eames isn't sure he even sees Arthur move. All he knows is the way Arthur clutches at his sides, presses his cheek to Eames' sternum. "Thank you," Arthur mutters into Eames' chest. "For talking to me instead of jumping straight into interfering or trying to manipulate me."
Eames strokes the back of Arthur's neck. "I only meddle when I'm being paid to. Otherwise, it seems hardly worth the bother."
Arthur huffs a small laugh and doesn't let go.
* * * * *
Dear Eames,
I have made contact with Grandmother. She was not at all what I was expecting.
She's invited me up to see her in Scotland. I shall be going shortly.
Perhaps you could come round as well? If you are available, I'd be happy to arrange a time for all of us to see each other.
Sincerely,
Tansy
Next: Chapter 9, Part b