Inception: I woo'd thee with my sword

[blahnicity]

fandom: Inception
title: I woo'd thee with my sword
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: pg13
summary: There's a job in Antarctica, during which Ariadne slowly ropes Arthur into being her point man and Eames and Arthur make a lot of Shakespeare references.



“I have a proposition for you,” Ariadne says. Arthur takes a measured sip of his coffee and sets it down on the saucer carefully.

“You’re looking well,” he says. She’s flushed, pink-cheeked from the wind and little wisps of hair tangled in her face. She heaves a sigh and slides into his booth, across the overstuffed bench in the darkened corner of a coffeehouse. She tucks herself into him and leans her head on his shoulder.

“You made me fly to Poland,” she complains. Arthur slides his plate over to her and she eats half his panini in three bites.

“You said I could pick the meeting place,” he says mildly. Ariadne sighs heavily and lights a cigarette, little puffs in the blue part of the flame.

“Do you have any idea what the architecture in Poland is like?” she complains.

“Yes,” Arthur says pointedly, and takes the cigarette from her dangling fingers, drops it in his discarded coffee cup.

“Yeah okay the Renaissance stuff isn’t so bad. Can we talk about my proposition.” Arthur tenses, which for him manifests itself as a very slight twitch in his eyebrow.

“If this is about, uh, the kiss...”

“Yes,” Ariadne says seriously, “I need you to make sweet sweet love to me.”

Arthur smiles despite himself. “Okay fine, I deserved that.”

Ariadne clutches at his sleeve. “Arthur, please. Let me have your babies.” Arthur laughs, and kisses her cheek, chastely.

“What’s your proposition?”

“A job,” she says, grinning back at him, “would you like to serve the government of Great Britain?”

Arthur’s smile drops. “No. Is that all?” Ariadne blinks.

“What? But I didn’t even tell you about it.”

“No need,” Arthur says crisply, and starts to pack up his laptop. “I never do jobs for recognized governments.”

“Wha--recognized? Wait--” Ariadne clutches at his arm harder. “Miles set it up, and-”

“It’s fine for you,” Arthur says crisply, mentally organizing his to do list. “I’m wanted for federal crimes in fifty six countries, some of which have extensive extradition policies.”

“Only fifty-six?”

“For my current alias.”

Ariadne fumbles at her shoulderbag with one hand, the other still clenched in Arthur’s jacket sleeve. “This is a grant of immunity valid for every country with a recognized territorial claim for Antarctica.”

“Antarctica?” Ariadne ignores him, withdrawing another folder.

“And this is a grant of immunity for every country alleging they have a claim for Antarctica. Do you know how many countries that is?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, and Ariadne stops short.

“Of course you do. Arthur-- I’m not ready to do it on my own. You know that.”

“You’re a natural,” Arthur says, only half paying attention. He clicks through a mental count of the countries with a sizable population in Antarctica.

“I want you to finish training me.” Arthur finishes his mental calculations.

“Let go of my sleeve,” he says, “it’s bespoke.”

Ariadne beams. “Let me get the files, hold on--Miles set it up, he’s going to monitor the drugs for us, mix the batches. I’m architect, you’re on point. Oh! Cobb says we may need a forger but Miles is arguing against it.”

Arthur frowns heavily. “Cobb? You took another job with Cobb?”

“Yeah I think Miles is trying to ease him back into legal work. Plus he says he hasn’t seen Mal since he told her she’s a shadow of his real wife and she stabbed him to death and cast him into Limbo.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. You’re in, huh? Yay!” Arthur narrows his eyes at her.

“Hm.” he says shortly.

“It’s going to be fine,” Ariadne assures him, “I swear, I hear one little train sound and I’ll kick him out of the dream myself.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Arthur says, “and get your stuff. I need more information and I don’t like the security of this location.”

//

Ariadne perches on the edge of the motel bedspread and clicks through the pay-per-view menu. “Wanna watch porn?”

“No.” Arthur is leaning against the headboard, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He flicks through a packet of dense text, frowning.

“Can I watch porn?”

“No.” Arthur presses his knuckles between his eyes and rearranges the files and papers in neat lines on the bed. He taps his fingers against his knee.

“Can I have a the Polish equivalent of a quarter for the Magic Fingers?”

“Zloty--and no. Okay, explain the job to me, everything you heard, were told, know, and think about everyone and everything.”

“You just spent two hours reading the files!”

“Yes,” Arthur says patiently, “and now I want to hear it from you.”

Ariadne sighs. “Okay. The United Kingdom has a research outpost located in a small Northwestern slice of Antarctica. A Doctor Jillis from an adjacent Russian outpost shows up at the British base seeking asylum and claiming Dr. Jergenson, an English scientist, was passing confidential information to the Russians.”

“What confidential information could possibly pose a national security threat?”

Ariadne frowns. “I was told that ‘confidential means need to know, miss’,” she finishes in a mocking British accent.

“I didn’t ask what you were told.”

Ariadne reaches out to touch the glossy photos on the bed, dossiers on every person working at the base. “I think it’s more of an egg-on-their-face kind of situation. That’s the sense I got, anyway.”

“Makes sense,” Arthur says. “There are teams that work solely with governments but they would charge more than we’re getting paid. Keep going.”

“Okay. So they get this report from Jillis and kind of dismiss it, because like, what is being passed on to the Russians anyway, their observations on the mating habits of polar bears?”

“Polar bears inhabit the Northern hemisphere,” Arthur corrects. Ariadne swats at him.

“But then Jillis disappears--probably eaten by a very lost very confused polar bear--and Jergenson gets on the next flight home where he promptly disappears. The Russians are attempting to avoid an international incident by claiming it was the work of a rogue scientist hoping to sell the information to the highest bidder, not for the Russian army. Cue everyone wanting to know what the fuck is going in Antarctica.”

“Paraphrasing?”

“No, actually the Russian representative Miles met with said exactly that, ‘what the fuck is going on in Antarctica’.” Ariadne affects a Russian accent with the last phrase, and Arthur suppresses another smile.

“Okay look,” Ariadne says, “real talk. You helped me build the second level of the inception job. I may be ready to build on my own, but I don’t know enough about the... profession. Cobb wants you as a pointman, but--”

“You need me as your pointman, yes.” Arthur says, and rolls his sleeves back down with quick precise movements.

“Oh thank you,” Ariadne says, relieved. “Okay so... I have the tickets--” Ariadne pats her pockets frantically.

“Here.” Arthur holds them up between two fingers.

“You’re so teaching me that,” Ariadne says gleefully.

Arthur rises from the bed in a fluid movement, smoothing the creases in his pants. He flexes his ankles until they crack, and then his wrists. “I think Eames would be a better instructor in that regard.”

Ariadne looks distinctly guilty. “Ah. How did you know?”

Arthur beckons at her. “I know everything. Do my cuffs.”

“Arthur,” Ariadne whines, and fusses with his cufflinks.

“You mentioned a need for a forger, then tried to backtrack by saying there might not be one. Miles and Cobb are never unsure of what team they’re trying to put together. Plus you mentioned immunity for a great many countries--including Great Britain.”

“You knew Eames has been wanting to get back into England?”

Arthur’s smile widens. “Not until just now. But I’d suspected. Not many Brits living in Mombasa by choice.”

“Sneaky,” Ariadne says cheerfully. “I like it.”

“Mm,” Arthur says, shrugging his jacket on. Ariadne adjusts his lapels, and Arthur tilts his neck back so she can slip a tie under his collar and knot it quickly, her tongue between her teeth in concentration.

“Are we traveling separately?”

Arthur inspects her work in the dingy motel mirror. “No. Perks of a legal job. This is subpar.” He undoes the knot and redoes it himself, settling the tie firmly against his throat. “We can even sit next to each other on the plane.”

“Oh goody,” Ariadne says drily. “I bet flight attendants love you.”

“As a matter of fact they do,” Arthur says smugly.

“Yeah okay.” Ariadne deepens her voice and tilts her chin back haughtily, “this packet of pretzels does not meet my exacting standards. Please commit seppuku before I do it for you.”

“Ritual harakiri can be very difficult to execute properly,” Arthur says.

“Oh fuck off,” Ariadne says.

//

“Excuse me,” Arthur says to the flight attendant in fluent Polish, and smiles in a way that makes him seem almost ten years younger, showcases his dimples. “Can I have an extra packet of pretzels?”

The flight attendant, a fiftyish woman with greying hair, smiles hesitantly at him. “Oh we’re not supposed to--”

Arthur ducks his head so a few curls of his hair tumble into his face. “I understand ma’am.”

“Oh hell,” she says, and brushes his hair back in a motherly fashion. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Oh fuck off,” Ariadne says, and Arthur hides his grin in a copy of the in flight magazine.

“Are you doing your assigned reading?”

“Yes,” Ariadne groans, and hits herself in the forehead with a thick academic journal. “Who wrote this?”

“Mal did,” Arthur says, and peruses an article about a diver recovering from the bends. Ariadne goes still beside him. “Dream theory is important,” he continues, “especially for the people who will be utilizing it at its most complicated.”

“The architects,” Ariadne says thoughtfully.

“You’re literally building and holding every aspect of the dream for the entirety of the job, on multiple levels. You can do it without the theory--and you have--but with the theory you can do more.”

“More?”

Arthur tosses the magazine aside and turns to face her more directly. “Have you ever dreamed of flying?”

“Yeah,” Ariadne says, “hasn’t everyone?”

She doesn’t quite get it. Arthur presses harder. “Have you ever had an impossible dream?”

“Once I made out with Brad Pitt.” Arthur makes an impatient noise.

“Impossible as in defies the laws of physics.”

“Oh,” Ariadne breathes, “impossible dreams. That’s possible? Miles said it wasn’t.”

“It is,” Arthur says, “I’ve seen it.” He taps the cover of the journal. “She could do it. I think Cobb did too.” He doesn’t say that Cobb probably can’t do it anymore. He thinks Ariadne knows more about Dom and Mal than he does, these days.

Ariadne looks at him consideringly. “How good of an architect are you?”

Arthur relaxes back in his chair. “Not near as good as you.”

“You can build. You half built the second level of that other job.” Arthur taps his fingers on the armrest.

“I’m a problem solver,” he says finally. “Researcher, planner. Muscle.”

“Eames thinks you don’t have the imagination for it.”

“Eames is liar and a thief,” Arthur snaps, and then takes a breath. “The way I think--it’s ill suited for an architect.” They sit quietly for a minute.

“Took a lot out of you to admit that, huh?” Arthur blinks at her. Ariadne rolls a shoulder casually. “No I understand. Admitting fallacy is difficult for everyone.”

“Excuse me,” Arthur says, “I am quite--fallic--do your reading.” Ariadne links her arm through Arthur’s and digs her chin into his bicep until he winces.

//

“Australia kind of freaks me out,” Ariadne says, and huddles into her light cardigan, even though the breeze is hot enough to make Arthur’s spine prickle with sweat after only a few minutes.

Arthur undoes the button on his suit jacket with a mental sigh. “We’re not even leaving the airport.”

“Yeah well. I watch the Discovery Channel. Animal Planet is pretty much the same in French as it is in English--I know what horrors dwell on this continent.”

Arthur beckons her over to an alcove, tugs her back against his front and links his arms around her waist. He ducks his head and presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. She shivers a little, and then tenses, annoyed.

“I’m beginning to think you do have a thing for me,” Ariadne says. Arthur smiles into her skin, and leans back just a little to whisper in her ear. In front of them, big glass windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, and planes move slow on the asphalt, men in reflective vests shuttering to and fro.

“Do you know the myth of Thesus?” he asks into the curve of her ear. Ariadne snorts.

“It’s only the first thing I ever googled,” she says. “And my English professors go into raptures over it when they see my name on the rollcall.”

“Tell it to me,” Arthur says, and out of the corner of his eye he can catch a reflection of what’s behind them, in a darkened patch of glass. Ariadne tracks him, follows his eyes and he feels the little catch of her breath when she realizes what he’s doing.

“Do I need these skills for legal jobs?”

“It’s an important skillset. For any job.” Ariadne opens her mouth to make a smartass comment and then pauses.

“Blending into militarized minds,” she says slowly. Arthur lets out a pleased noise, and she beams. She taps her fingers on his wrist, staring sightlessly out onto the runways.

“The myth,” Arthur prompts.

“Thesus was cast into the labyrinth in Crete, as a sacrifice to the Minotaur due to surrender terms between Athens and King Minos. Ariadne was the daughter of Minos, and she was in charge of the labyrinth, the sacrifices. She gave Thesus a sword so he could kill the Minotaur, and afterwards they were married. Until he left her and she committed suicide.”

Arthur clucks his tongue. Behind them, three security personnel walk by, batons swinging against their legs and murmuring to each other. They watch them in the reflection, Arthur nudging Ariadne sharply to keep her from holding her breath. “You left out the most important part,” he says once the guards have turned a corner.

“I’m named for a woman who routinely sacrificed young men and women and then couldn’t take it when her loser husband ran off while she slept.”

“And unto Thesus she gifted a ball of fine thread,” Arthur says, “and said she: ‘take one end of this silken string and I will hold the other; it will lead you again to me.’ And no cunningly contrived a mizmaze was never seen in this world, before nor since. There can be nothing so intricate as the Labyrinth of Crete, and thus when Thesus slew the monster he took with him the Princess Ariadne, who learned him his way through the dark.”

“If you tell me you speak Etruscan I will knee you in the junk,” Ariadne announces, and turns to face him. Arthur tugs her closer by her belt loops, knocks her off balance so she falls against him, hands on his waistcoat.

“Think better,” he says, and she slings an arm around his neck with a faux coy flutter of her eyelashes.

“Thread,” she says, and then more consideringly, “thread.”

“Too literal,” Arthur hints.

“Map,” Ariadne guesses, and then, “no, a way back, a trail.”

“Breadcrumbs,” Arthur confirms.

“Like the air ducts, from the Fischer job.”

“No, that’s a shortcut--those are crucial in case of extenuating circumstances, like we had, but I’m talking about a trail.” Arthur waits, lets her think for a few moments. He watches their plane roll up to the gate.

“Like the Penrose stairs. Little tricks in case you need to lose someone in a hurry?”

“Mm, sort of. The Penrose stairs were mine so they’re a little... inelegant. It’s unique to the situation, and then to the architect. One time we were doing a job in a cruise setting, and Mal made only one way through the maze of the rooms. She used different patterns of the emergency exit lights to mark the right way.”

Ariadne grins at him, pleased, but her look is a little distracted--she’s already started to build in her mind. Arthur waits for another rotation of security to go by, and then another two minutes until the teenaged boy two rows away from them is pulled aside for a randomly selected patdown.

“We’re up,” he says, and Ariadne jerks, pulled back into the moment. They shuffle onto the plane, and Arthur hefts their duffel bags into the overhead compartments.

“You want the middle seat?” Ariadne offers, and Arthur shakes his head.

“Aisle,” he says, “better mobility.” A teenage girl is already slouched into the window seat, a hood pulled over brightly dyed hair and oversized headphones hanging from her neck.

“Excuse me,” a woman says from the aisle, “would you mind switching seats with me so I can sit with my daughter?”

“No,” Arthur says, “I’m not going to do that.” He opens the inflight magazine and pages back to the sudoku. The woman sputters a little, outraged, but Arthur ignores her, slips his fingers into a pocket and starts filling out the little boxes with quick, certain strokes of a cheap black pen. “Maze,” he says to Ariadne without looking up, “fifteen minutes to solve, one page maximum.”

“Front and back?”

Arthur snorts. “You wish.” The woman makes one last disgusted noise and moves back to her seat. Arthur finishes the sudoku and turns the page to start the crossword.

“That was awesome,” the teenager says gleefully.

//

Dom is waiting for them at the gate. “Arthur.” Arthur straightens his shoulders even further and steps very slightly away from Ariadne.

“Mr. Cobb,” he says stiffly. Dom stills, and then straightens his tie.

“Come on, there’s a car to take us to the military airbase. One last stretch to the British research center on Antarctica.” He turns and starts walking away, and Arthur takes a few seconds to catalog the differences in his posture, his stride.

Ariadne hangs back at Arthur’s elbow. “You okay?”

“He looks happy,” Arthur says. Ariadne’s face softens. She offers him her hand.

“Come on, sensei,” she says, and Arthur loops his arm through hers with a deep breath.

Dom gets in the front passenger seat and twists around to hand Arthur a clipboard. “Confidentially agreements.”

Arthur skims them quickly and signs in an unreadable scrawl. He exchanges the clipboard for another stack of manila folders.

“Hey!” Ariadne squawks. “You said you gave me all the information you had.”

“No,” Arthur says absently, already flicking through the data, “he gave you enough to keep me interested.”

“Cheater,” Ariadne says, but leans over Arthur’s shoulder. He moves so she can read with him, and Dom raises an eyebrow.

Arthur hands her the stack of files and fixes Dom with a placid look. “I want to know who the chemist is. And I want to vet him.”

“You don’t trust my vetting?”

“I am your vetting,” Arthur says pointedly.

“The chemist is Miles,” Ariadne says, confused.

“Miles always has an assistant,” Arthur tells her, “usually a student of his, usually very loyal.”

“A PhD candidate, he arrived yesterday.” Dom admits, “Graduate students are generally very loyal to the person who edits their thesis. But I think we can trust Miles.”

“I trust Miles just fine,” Arthur says, and Dom winces a little.

“Okay,” he says finally, and turns back to face out the windshield. Ariadne digs out Arthur’s little notebook and passes it to him. He flashes her a quick smile and they drive the rest of the way in silence.

//

On the transport plane Arthur tugs Ariadne to a section away from Cobb and makes a beckoning motion. “Let me see the last maze you did.”

Ariadne digs a crumpled bit of legal pad paper out of her pocket and smoothes it out on her knee. “Fifteen minutes.” Arthur stares at it for seven straight minutes, and then solves it in one motion, a slow but deliberate movement of a stub of a pencil, in the exact center of the lines, two minutes until he reaches the end.

Ariadne sighs. “Nine minutes.” Arthur tucks the pencil away.

“No that was good. You used a trick you used in an earlier one, I didn’t have to work it out again.”

“Still,” Ariadne says, “six minutes short.” She goes to take the paper back and Arthur moves it out of her reach.

“I want to solve it twice more and then average the times,” he says and she stares at him. “It’s the only way to achieve an accurate estimate of your maze.”

“But you already solved it!”

Arthur looks at her very seriously. “I can delete the information and look at it with a clean slate. It’s why I used pencil.” Ariadne gapes at him, and Arthur holds the look for several seconds before allowing a smile to break across his face. Ariadne socks him on the bicep.

“You shit, I totally believed you!” Arthur waits a moment, then leans in close to her.

“Why isn’t Miles teaching you all this stuff? Why come to me?” Ariadne grins at him.

“You’re prettier.”

“Ariadne.” She frowns.

“Setting aside the fact that Dom hasn’t built anything on a paying job since you saw him and the fact that him building anything before that ended in an actual literal trainwreck--and ignoring the fact that Miles is so traumatized by Mal that all he does is lecture me about safety and give me constant psychiatric evaluations--” she shrugs. “I like you, Arthur.” Arthur considers her.

“Okay,” he says. She blinks at him.

“That’s it? Okay?” Arthur pulls a folded index card out of his pocket and rips it neatly in half.

“Three and five minutes, respectively.” Ariadne heaves a sigh and takes the two pieces of paper, already biting at a thumbnail. Arthur watches her as she turns the index card back and forth, thinking. “Miles is a little protective, huh?”

“Oh my god,” Ariadne says, “trust in your totem, Ariadne, do you think you’re dreaming, Ariadne?, what does this blotty painting look like, Ariadne?, step away from the window, Ariadne. It’s driving me nuts.” Arthur lets her work in silence for a minute.

“Make the shape of the maze look like punctuation marks.”

“What?” Ariadne stares at him. Arthur pulls out his notebook and starts reviewing his notes, checking them against the files.

“Ampersand, semi-colon, asterisk. I’ll let you choose.” Arthur makes a small note. “Let your imagination carry you away.”

“You’re psychotic,” Ariadne grumbles.

//

“Arthur,” Miles greets, and shakes his hand enthusiastically. “Can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for my grandchildren.”

“My pleasure,” Arthur says formally, and extends his hand again to the young clean-cut man standing next to Miles, in an ill-fitting suit and a mismatched tie. “Arthur,” he says.

“Theo,” the man introduces, and then looks at Ariadne and melts visibly. “Um hi,” he stutters, and flushes violently, pale freckled skin going scarlet. “Theo,” he squeaks again. “I’m sharing a room with Mr. Cobb.”

“Ariadne,” Ariadne introduces herself, smiling, and brushes her hair back out of her face.

“And he had no joy of her, for ere that, Artemis slew her in seagirt Dia,” Theo quotes. Ariadne stares at him.

“Yeah, cheers,” Eames says from behind them, “And on that note.” He comes fully into the little conference room and accepts a polite hug from Ariadne. “Hello duck.” He nods at Arthur. “Darling.”

Arthur allows himself a smile, the slightest upward twitch of his lips. “Mr. Eames.”

“I admit to a certain sense of relief at seeing you on this job,” Eames says, “it’s unsettling.”

“I’m always unsettled upon seeing you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, and Eames laughs.

“A rookie, an old timer, a newbie and a bit of a nutter,” Eames says, “you’re like a breath of fresh, unrelentingly competent air.”

“Please,” Miles says, “sit.” Arthur settles himself into one of the chairs around the oval table and arranges his notebook in the perfect position to take comfortable, completely private notes. Ariadne takes the seat to his left and Eames slouches over to his right.

“Lovely suit,” Eames whispers, “new tie? I like it.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says politely, “your shoes make me want to gouge out my own eyes.”

“Crocs are all the rage now, pet.” Arthur pulls a pained face, and Eames kicks his chair below the table, playful.

Miles clears his throat pointedly. “Theo and I will be acting as chemist, Dominic as extractor, Miss Ariadne as the architect. Then we’ve got Arthur on point and Eames as a forger. Dom?”

Dom opens his own notes. “We have one mark, a Dr. Curtland. First we’ll review the preliminary questioning, done without the use of the PASIV, individually and then as a group. Afterwards we’ll decide how to proceed on the dreamscape.”

“The mark is a geologist that was named as one of the agents working with Dr. Jergenson,” Miles says. “We want to know how much he knew about what was going on and what information he passed on.” He pauses, and looks up from his file. “I believe Arthur and Mr. Eames are fluent in Russian?” Arthur nods, and sees Eames do the same out of the corner of his eye.

“Are we supposed to believe this guy is the only one who might have known what was going on?” Eames asks.

“We’re supposed to believe he’s the one we’re being paid to investigate,” Dom says. Arthur frowns.

“We can’t guarantee results under these conditions,” he says crisply, “it’s a setup for failure.”

Eames nods again. “I don’t much fancy the ire of two nations while completely within their custody. Not a lot of escape routes off this piece of ice.”

“They signed those documents,” Miles assures them. “You and Arthur are ‘in the clear,’ as they say.”

“Oh goody,” Eames drawls, “I’m so sure no one in those fine upstanding governments would ever think of a doublecross.”

“Well you’re here now,” Dom says impatiently, “let’s focus on the job.”

“A familiar strain,” Arthur snipes, and Dom narrows his eyes.

“No sedatives in the mix this time,” Ariadne rushes to interrupt before Dom can escalate the brewing argument.

“Sedative?” Theo blurts out, “Why would you do that?”

Eames points at him. “What a fantastic inquiry.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, “Mr. Cobb, won’t you please tell Theo and Miles why you would put a sedative in the mix.”

“Dom,” Miles says sharply, and pulls him aside, talking in harsh whispers. Theo leans close to them, straining to overhear, and Ariadne pinches Arthur in the ribs.

“Stop that,” he says. Ariadne pinches him again, harder.

“Stop what? All I’m getting is fabric, Jesus. Try eating once in a while.”

“I have to say,” Eames comments, leaning into Arthur very close, “this is the cattiest I’ve ever seen you. Very becoming, by the way, you should wear the hat more often.”

“Eat me, Mr. Eames,” Arthur snaps. He’s annoyed at himself, annoyed at Dom and pissed about the job. Stupid, to believe he wouldn’t get screwed over, stupid to let a lingering fondness for Ariadne colour his decisions.

Eames leers at him. “Mayhaps if you had a wash first, pet. I dislike the tang of aeroplane.”

“God,” Ariadne says, “you two are like Beatrice and Benedick.” Arthur and Eames break off their own glaring contest to team up on Ariadne. “Oh fuck off,” she says, “Shakespearean romantic comedy trumps Athenian slut princess.”

“That analogy is puzzling,” Eames says, and then abruptly redirects his attention onto Arthur. “How are you finding the information on our good doctors?”

“Intricate,” Arthur says, and smiles. Eames matches him, body tilted, eyes bright.

“There can be nothing so intricate as the Labyrinth of Crete,” Eames says softly. Arthur feels his smile widen.

“Okay,” Miles says, clapping his hands together. “We’ve got lots of time to prepare content and strategy, and it’s been quite the long day. Why don’t we reconvene for lunch tomorrow.”

Eames snorts, his poker chip playing through his fingers, and Arthur heaves a large mental sigh. Ariadne grabs his arm as he goes to stand.

“I moved your stuff into my room,” she says, and Arthur blinks.

‘What? Why?” Ariadne tugs him down a hallway, impatient.

“Well Dom is with Theo, Miles has his own room, and Eames is also looking for a roommate...” Arthur takes a quick halfstep to catch up with Ariadne.

“I could have carried my own bag,” he says, and she grins.

“I’ve got a PASIV,” she says, “to practice building, and now that you’re here--” Arthur catches her on the wrist and pulls her back.

“Never go under on your own,” he says urgently. “You know that.”

Ariadne makes a dismissive motion with her free hand. “It’s fine, I do it all the time.”

“Not anymore,” Arthur says firmly and then tightens his grip when she moves to argue. “Ah--no exceptions. At least someone monitoring you.”

“Fine,” Ariadne says, and gestures at a door down the hall. “That’s us, come on. You want top or bottom bunk?” She passes him a card key and he slips it into an inner pocket.

“Top,” he says, and assesses the room quickly. A little desk pressed against one wall, bunkbeds against the other, two rickety looking chairs arranged awkwardly around the desk. He shucks his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, drops his cufflinks on the desk. Ariadne watches him for a minute and then beams.

“I’m seriously good at putting in the needle,” she says, tossing her cardigan aside sloppily. Arthur smoothes his jacket and lays it carefully on the top bunk. “You won’t even feel it,” Ariadne promises. She tugs out the silver briefcase from beneath the desk and starts setting up the equipment.

Arthur pulls the chairs to the center of the room and sits, offers his forearm to Ariadne. “What are you going to show me first?”

She tears open an alcohol wipe and starts inspecting his inner elbow. “Miles is adamant I not try any of the scenarios I’ve thought up so far, so I’ve just been messing around.”

Arthur watches the needle go in with casual indifference, then pulls Ariadne’s chair closer by hooking his feet around the front legs. He hooks her up neatly and efficiently. “Let’s do an hour in the dream to start.”

“My mind?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, and closes his eyes.

He opens them on a tundra, the wind throwing up sheets of snow into his face and the fur lining of his parka hood brushing against his skin. He closes his eyes briefly and reopens them with wraparound sunglasses shielding against the sun and a coat that fits him better.

“Is that Armani,” Ariadne says disbelievingly. “Did you just dream yourself into an Armani parka.” Hers is pink and fluffy, a marshmallow jacket with a blindingly fuchsia lining. Her sunglasses are tinted yellow and have tiny hearts on the frame.

“Please,” Arthur says, “let me help you.” Ariadne rolls her eyes at him.

“Come on,” she says, “the good stuff is over here.” Arthur follows her down a roughly dug tunnel, and tugs his sunglasses off. Ariadne shakes her hood off and gestures at the three branching tunnels in front of them. “After you.”

“The winter line has a fine collection of women outerwear,” Arthur says, and picks the tunnel to his right. It twists and winds, and all he can hear is the sharp whistle of the wind and rattling of small rocks shifting. Every so often he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and after fifteen minutes he finds he’s dreamed his Glock into a hip holster.

Half an hour after that, and he’s checking around the corners before moving around them, gun in hand. He’d turned around ten minutes earlier and Ariadne had been gone. Arthur turns another corner, gun raised, and finds a dead end.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and starts to make his way back to the last fork in the tunnel.

“Arthur?” a female voice says from his right, and he spins, gun up before he recognizes Araidne’s voice. He lowers his weapon.

“We almost done?” he asks. “This is fantastic, by the way.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she says in a strange voice, her face hidden by her hood, and then her skull splits in half, into two sides of a sidewise mandible. Arthur manages to get a single shot off before she bites him in half.

He comes awake shouting, his trigger finger still jerking, and falls out of the chair, the IV ripped from his skin. In front of him Ariadne takes a sudden breath and opens her eyes. Arthur can feel his heart hammering in his chest.

“Did you like it?” Ariadne asks, and Arthur shoves himself to his feet, stumbles to his bag and fits his palm around his gun. He takes a deep breath. “Arthur?”

Arthur takes another breath. “That was... amazing.” Ariadne beams. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you, but that was incredible.”

“It’s all about atmosphere,” Ariadne says, “I took a horror movie film studies course two semesters ago.”

“I’m not ready to analyze yet,” Arthur tells her, “I’m still in the ‘hate Ariadne for sticking you in a shitty 80s slasher flick’ phase of this evening.”

“Hello it’s a classic and set in Antarctica,” she says, and digs in her bag for sweats and a soft tanktop. “Bathroom’s in the hall. You gonna be over this when I get back?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, “I’ll be onto the next phase.”

Ariadne brandishes her toothbrush expressively. “Plan revenge on Ariadne?”

“Exactly.” Arthur watches her leave, and then organizes his things, reviews his notes, casually jots down a few ideas.

“Bathroom’s free,” Ariadne says, returning, and sighs. “I wish we had a tv. Eames has a tv, you know.”

“Mm,” Arthur says. “Bathroom?”

“Three doors down on the right.” Ariadne flops on the bed, her legs hanging off sideways. Arthur slaps her lightly on the ankle as he passes.

The bathroom is dimly lit, with a dusty mirror and stall doors that creak. Arthur has seen much worse. He splashes water on his face, runs his fingers through his hair until it’s falling loose in his eyes. He slicks it down with water to keep it out of his face while he brushes his teeth. The door squeaks open behind him.

“Kipping with the fair Ariadne?” Eames sticks his head fully under the faucet, then shakes his hair like a dog, water flying everywhere. Arthur calmly rips a paper towel off the roll, the cheap brown kind that are spectacularly nonabsorbent, and pointedly wipes at the droplets of water on his tie.

“Would you rather share a room with me?”

Eames takes the paper towel from Arthur’s fingers and roughly drags it through his own hair. “I would even let you take the top bunk.” He tosses the wad of damp paper into the trash. “Please tell me you don’t sleep in those suits of yours.”

Arthur gives Eames a calm, pointed look, lingering especially on Eames’ bermuda shorts, patterned with tiny tropical drinks, and his mismatched socks. “I do not,” he says simply. Eames grins at him, playful.

“You’re more than welcome to use my television--there’s no sofa but the beds are quite comfortable.”

Arthur feels his hair start to slip into his face again. Impatient, he reaches to smooth it back again. Eames beats him to it, big palms moving carefully over his scalp. “There you are, then,” he says, “although you really should let your hair down once in a while. It suits you.” The tips of his fingers brush the curve of Arthur’s hair and Arthur licks moisture back into his tongue. He steps away.

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.” Eames smiles at him, but not his usual roguish grin; it’s a little softer, more amused.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

//

Arthur wakes Ariadne at six. Ariadne gets out of bed at seven, by which time Arthur has showered, dressed and managed to fill two chipped mugs with shockingly terrible instant coffee. He passes one to her when she comes back from the bathroom and she folds herself into a cross legged perch on one of the chairs.

“This is awful,” she says, but takes another sip. Arthur adjusts the PASIV.

“Are you going to get dressed?”

Ariadne chugs the rest of her coffee and pulls a face. “Nah, pajamas will be fine until the meeting. You wanna do the creature tunnels again?”

“No,” Arthur says, kneeling in front of her to hook her up to the PASIV, “it’s pretty obvious you should be teaching me about building, so we’re going to do an exercise that will actually be useful to you.”

“Game on,” Ariadne says cheerfully, “I will snatch those pebbles right out of your hand.”

“I look forward to it,” Arthur says, and slips the line into his arm.

Arthur builds in long lines, metal and chrome and glass, streamlined buildings that use sparseness as a decorating technique. Everything is sleekly modern, even the gun range he erects in Ariadne’s mind, the long tables of hardware, the tinted windows to let in the light and keep out the glare, dark paper targets with bright yellow circles on pulleys that move like a whisper. His only concession are three framed paintings in a level row across the back wall.

Ariadne peers at them. “These look vaguely familiar.”

“They’re French,” Arthur says, walking over to the table and examining the arsenal laid out. “Nineteenth century realist.”

“I guess you’re not the type to enjoy Picasso,” Ariadne says, and wanders over to his side. “Woah.”

Arthur reaches to his shoulder holster and draws his own gun. “I like to know what I’m looking at. Come here.” He leads her to an empty card table. “Sit.” He lays the gun down on the table.

Ariadne reaches for it and he slaps her hands away. “Ow,” she says petulantly, “touchy.”

“This is a Glock 17,” he says. “It’s the most widely used law enforcement pistol in the world. Standard magazine carries seventeen cartridges, nine millimeter. Twenty-two ounces unloaded, thirty one ounces when loaded; six and a half inch line of sight. Trigger pull five and a half pounds. Performs exceptionally well under a variety of field conditions and torture tests.”

Ariadne stares at him. “I have no idea what any of that means.” Arthur smiles, and sits across from her.

“That’s fine,” he says, “you’ll pick it up. What’s the first rule of gun safety?”

“Never point a gun at someone unless you intend to shoot them,” Ariadne says promptly.

“Good. The other rules?”

A furrow appears between Ariadne’s eyes. “Never put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot someone in the next five seconds. Always assume the gun is loaded; understand the operation of the weapon before attempting to use it.”

Arthur hums. “Never shoot at hard surfaces unless you know how the ammo is going to react. Never shoot underwater. Always check to see what’s behind your target.”

“Okay,” Ariadne says, looking nervous. Arthur gives her a reassuring smile.

“Gun safety is all about common sense and good habits,” he says. “it’ll take practice, that’s all.” He field strips the Glock in quick easy movements and lays out the pieces. Then he slots everything back together, the whole operation taking less than ten seconds.

“That was hot,” Ariadne says, but she’s watching closely, sharp eyed. Arthur grins.

“Watch,” he says. “One: remove the magazine and check the chamber. Point in a safe direction and use your finger to check for a round. Two, press the trigger and pull the slide back a quarter of an inch...”

Two hours later Ariadne can fumble her way through disassembling and assembling the gun to Arthur’s satisfaction. “Good enough for now,” he says.

“Do I get to shoot it now?” Ariadne asks, cracking her wrists.

“No,” Arthur says, and props his foot up on the table. He pulls up his pantleg and reveals a smaller gun in an ankle holster. “You’re going to take this. It’s a Kel-Tec P11, semi automatic, locked-breech double barrel. It’s easy to clean, the recoil is minimal and the safety is built into the trigger. It’s also been modified to make the trigger pull less heavy.”

Ariadne takes it from him with a sigh. “I’m about to take this apart and put it together and clean it until my fingers bleed, aren’t I.”

“Yes,” Arthur says cheerfully, and opens his notebook. A few seconds later he turns the page to find it’s been turned into a copy of a Guns and Ammo magazine. “Stop that,” he says absently. Ariadne glares at him.

“No, you are a gun toting NRA psycho and you should act as such.” Arthur skims a few pages.

“This is factually inaccurate,” he announces, and Ariadne throws the bore brush at him. He waits another fifteen minutes before he closes his eyes briefly and makes ear and eye protection appear on Ariadne. She reassembles the gun in less than a minute, bouncing in her seat.

Ariadne is sweeping the casings when she stops and turns to Arthur. “Hey, why can’t I just dream that I know how to use this stuff?”

Arthur examines her latest target. “Well, for one, you’re going to practice in real life as well, and for another--you can dream ability in theory, but can you hold it?”

“What?”

“Can you hold the build, the lie you’re feeding the mark, the illusion you know whatever it is you’re trying to do, and then figure out an outcome that makes sense on your limited knowledge of the subject while projections are trying their level best to kill you?”

“I guess not,” Ariadne says, but she’s still frowning.

“Generally it’s considered too much hassle to implement,” Arthur says as the first strains of music break through the dream, “but if anyone can do it you can.” Ariadne beams at him, and then offers him the pistol.

“Here.” Arthur takes it, and then presses her lightly against the wall, tugs her shirt up around her hips.

“Hey,” she squeaks, but Arthur bats her hands away. He slips a sturdy belt through the loops of her jeans, buckles it firmly. Ariadne traces a finger across the holes punched in the leather, her nail scratching lightly. From the table behind him he picks up a clip, fits the pistol into it and secures everything to the belt.

“It’s yours,” he says, and Ariadne’s face lights up.

“Really?” she asks hopefully, and draws it from her belt.

“In dreams, anyway,” Arthur says, and tilts his head up to look at the ceiling as the music grows louder and louder. “We’ll work up to the real thing.”

Ariadne presses the little barrel against the underside of his chin. “You’re a good friend, Arthur.”

Friends, Arthur thinks, and barely has time to smile before she blows his brains out across the wall.

//

Theo takes one look at Ariadne in a worn-thin hoodie and jeans with holes ripped in the back of the thighs and manages to choke on his own spit and drop his slide-clicker into the coffeepot simultaneously.

“Ah!” he yelps, and dumps the coffee out into the sink. He looks at the clicker mournfully. Eames snickers from where he’s leaning on the doorframe.

“Good afternoon,” Miles says cheerfully, “are we ready?”

Ariadne tosses Arthur a sandwich. “Turkey and cheese okay?”

Eames makes a sad noise. “None for me?” Ariadne sticks her tongue out at him.

“Get your own.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says to Ariadne.

“Where the fuck is the coffee,” Dom asks, holding up the empty pot. Arthur turns his head to hide his smile and meets Eames’ eye by accident. Eames grins wider and winks at him. Arthur schools the smile from his expression and scowls back.

“Come now,” Miles says from the conference table, “gather round.” Theo dries the clicker on his own shirt and shakes it a little. He sighs.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Miles sighs.

“No matter, Mr. Tilas, we’ll change the slides manually.” He taps a button on his laptop and the projector hums, throwing up a picture of a plain looking man in a white coat, brown eyes and ash-coloured hair, going grey around the temples. Ariadne waves a bag of chips at Arthur enthusiastically, and Arthur sits next to her, takes the bag. Salt and vinegar, he reads, and sets it aside to eat his sandwich.

“I’ll trade you,” Eames whispers from his other side, where he’s sitting far closer than he needs to be. His breath brushes Arthur’s neck. “Honey barbeque?”

“Dr. Nikhail Jillis, biologist and Russian national,” Dom says loudly, and glares at them. Arthur feels his hackles rise. He meets Dom’s eyes defiantly and makes the chip trade with Eames without looking away.

“Pleasure doing business with you, darling,” Eames murmurs, and drags his index finger around Arthur’s wrist before leaning away. A vein in Dom’s forehead throbs in a way that is extremely satisfying. Arthur moves his leg to the side quickly and Ariadne’s foot connects with his chair instead of his shins. She yelps.

“Anyway,” Dom continues, twitching a little, “six weeks ago, he shows up at the door to this outpost claiming someone at the Russian research center was receiving results of confidential research being conducted by the British.” Theo taps a button on the laptop and another man’s picture appears, thinner with pronounced lines around droopy eyes, dishwater blonde hair grown too long around his face . “Two days later Jillis goes missing and this man, Dr. Edmund Jergenson, flees the base and eludes authorities in Australia.”

“Jergenson and Jillis were roommates at Oxford,” Miles picks up smoothly, “but Jergenson had denied Jillis’ claim that the Russians were receiving information.”

Theo clicks to the next slide. Two pictures appear. A blonde-haired blue-eyed woman looking to be in her early forties with thick black framed glasses hiding most of her face, and a fiftyish man with thinning grey hair and a few extra pounds.

“Doctors Lily Dunne and Dennis Curtland, respectively.” Miles pauses to glance over his notes. “The British government would be much obliged if we’d figure out who is passing what to whom and how they managed it.”

Eames, who is lounging on the table with his head propped on a hand, slightly raises two fingers. “What kind of national secrets are we talking about, here?” Couldn’t help but notice Jillis’ actual report was redacted past the point of being useful.”

“Information has been withheld in order to assess how successfully we complete the operation,” Dom says. Arthur swallows the bite of sandwich he’d been chewing and steals a chip out of Ariadne’s hand.

“Biological warfare,” he says, and crunches the chip neatly. He can feel everyone’s eyes zero in on him, and he keeps his expression disinterested, takes another bite of turkey and cheese. Eames’ arm is pressed against his, and he can feel the other man shake a little with laughter. Dom twitches more noticeably.

“You live up to your reputation,” Miles says.

“How do you know that?” Dom asks, frowning even harder. “Not even you could get your hands on those unedited documents.”

“Both Jillis and Jergenson obtained their doctorates in similar biological fields around the same time,” Arthur says after swallowing. “I found their theses online.” He takes another bite.

Dom’s jaw flexes. “And?” he bites out. Arthur chews placidly.

“And,” he says after a few seconds, “both of them conducted intensive studies on how extreme temperatures affect the spread of viruses, in particular the spread of viruses in the human body. After a few short post-doctoral articles published in Russian and English academic journals, they both accept posts in Antarctica and stop publishing altogether.”

“Because they were doing unpublishable work,” Ariadne says, eyes widening in realization.

“I am ever impressed by you,” Eames says, and the real admiration in his voice makes the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck prickle.

“Then you can imagine how badly the British government wants to know about the Russians’ knowledge of germ warfare.” Miles adjusts his reading glasses. “And why they agreed to convince all those other nations to sign those nice papers for you.”

Ariadne makes a movement like she was going to rise and then stops. “But--if there are entire teams that work for governments, and they want it so bad...”

“Why us,” Arthur says coldly, sandwich lying forgotten in front of him. “Why go through all of that trouble instead of going to a completely legal team.” Eames doesn’t go tense beside him, instead he goes lax, lounging in his chair, and Arthur doesn’t know how he knows but he just knows that means Eames is on a hair-trigger, completely poised for action.

“You’re not thinking of burning us, are you Miles? Because we might not make it off this continent but I’m sure Arthur and I could make you and your little assistant very uncomfortable before they put us down.” Eames slouches a little further in his seat, and Arthur sees his hand move into his pocket under the table, and the edge of a pocketholster slipping out of his jacket.

Arthur presses the tip of his shoe against Eames’ calf. He bares his teeth at Cobb and Miles in a dangerous facsimile of a smile. “He’s not wrong.”

Miles raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, now, you’re getting the wrong idea.” Dom makes an impatient noise.

“Miles pioneered the use of dreamshare for reliable extraction of information without leaving lasting damage on the marks, and the three of us are the only known team to have successfully completed inception.” Dom closes his files with a snap. “Are you finished? Can we focus on the job now?”

Arthur’s vision goes a little shaky with rage. His muscles are coiled so tightly he can feel minute trembles running through his body. “So if I wanted out I could walk.”

Dom blinks at him. “What?”

“I could walk out,” Arthur repeats, “right now.”

“What the fuck is your issue,” Dom snaps, and Arthur’s lip curls in a snarl.

“Seen Mal lately?” Arthur knows Dom is going to lunge for him before he does it, and that’s how he manages to launch himself out of the chair and slide across the table before Dom can get in a suckerpunch. Arthur twists, rocking with the elbow Dom throws at him, and takes it as a glancing blow across the ribs instead of getting the breath knocked out of him. He clocks Dom once in the sternum to slow him down and then hits him twice in the kidneys to drop him.

“Arthur--” Ariadne is shouting, and Arthur stops, watches Dom rolls on his back and gasp for breath. Arthur feels himself being bodily lifted up and away, and then pressed face first into the wall, a warm body pressed against his back.

“Alright darling,” Eames breathes into his ear, “that’s enough, now.” Arthur presses his forehead against the cool plaster and resists the urge to smash the back of his head into Eames’ nose, dig the heel of his shoe into Eames’ instep. Instead he breathes, chest heaving, and blinks away the burning in his eyes. He presses his palms against the wall and flexes his fingers.

“I’m fine,” he says stiffly. Eames drags his hands down Arthur’s flank, down to Arthur’s hip and up again across his ribs, over and over.

“Easy,” he says, and Arthur feels himself sway. He takes another deep breath, and when he exhales he makes all the tension run out of him. He straightens his shoulders and smoothes the creases in his waistcoat.

“I’m fine,” he says again, and moves to step away. Eames blocks him with his body, and Arthur can feel the press of Eames’ gun against his side.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, and adjusts Arthur’s collar. Arthur closes his eyes and presses his knuckles to his temple. He opens his eyes to see Eames looking back at him, inscrutable. He smoothes Arthur’s collar one last time. “There you are.” he says, and steps back.

Miles is talking lowly with Dom, who’s propped up in a chair, and Theo is three shades lighter than he usually is, with his head between his knees and Ariadne patting his back awkwardly. Dom looks up and Arthur stares back at him. His fingers flex against his leg. Dom’s mouth flattens into a tight line.

“Can you give us a minute?” Theo half staggers out of the room, leaning on Miles’ shoulder, and Ariadne socks Arthur on the shoulder as she passes.

“Don’t kill him,” she snaps, and Arthur glares at her. Theo catches his look and half-faints, Ariadne scrambling to support him. “We are so talking about this later,” she hisses.

Eames doesn’t move from where he’s got his back propped against the wall, and taps a pack of cigarettes against the palm of one hand. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him. “No smoking inside.”

“Leave, Eames,” Dom says tightly. Eames ignores him, slips a single cigarette from the package and tucks it behind Arthur’s ear. Arthur stands very still, allowing Eames to touch him, and doesn’t look away until Eames has ducked out the door, his shoes scuffing down the hall.

“Dom,” he says evenly.

“It’s not like you to be unprofessional,” Dom says, and he sounds as conciliatory as he’s capable of sounding.

“No,” Arthur says, matching his tone, “that’s more your style.” Dom’s jaw clenches again.

“Godammit Arthur, you’re going to have to get over me not telling you about the sedative,” Dom snaps. “I’m the one who fell into Limbo.”

“You threw yourself into Limbo,” Arthur says, “again.”

“Because you didn’t do your job and you got Saito killed--”

“As I recall, neither the giant fucking train or your fucking wife killing the mark had anything to do with me,” Arthur snarls. Dom shoves himself to his feet, wincing, and gets right in Arthur’s face, shoving at his shoulders.

“Don’t talk about Mal like that, Arthur, Jesus. What the hell is wrong with--”

Arthur grabs Dom by the lapels and turns. He slams Dom against the wall. “How could you think I wouldn’t follow you,” he says. Dom’s eyes go wide, and Arthur feels his fingers go slack around Dom’s collar. He makes himself take a step back.

“Arthur,” Dom says, and makes a jerking movement forward, like he’d gone to move towards Arthur and then stopped himself. “My kids, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t look at Dom. Mal’s kids, he thinks with a pang. “I would have gone under with you,” he says carefully, “even if I had known.” Dom stares at him

“I should have told you,” Dom says, just as carefully, “and I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, but Arthur bites his lip, uncertain. “I am sorry, Arthur.”

“Okay,” Arthur says. He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear and plays it between his fingers. When he shifts his weight to the side he feels an unfamiliar pull in his trouser pocket. It turns out to be a lighter, one of the cheap plastic ones from gas stations and twenty four hour convenience stores, see-through neon green. He hadn’t felt Eames slip it into his pocket, not even a little.

“Arthur?”

“We should,” he fumbles, “we should have a drink. After the job.” The lines around Dom’s eyes ease.

“Yeah,” he says, “and you should--come see the kids.” He smiles, tentatively, and Arthur matches him.

“I will,” he says, and taps the lighter against his leg. “I’m surprised to see you take a job so far away from them.

Dom’s lips twist in a little smile. “Marie insisted they summer with her. It may have come up that being accused of killing their mother, fleeing the country and then using high placed business and political connections to finagle my way back in might reflect poorly in a joint custody suit.”

“Ah.” Arthur says. He shifts his weight a little. “I could,” Arthur trails off, his voice rising in a half question.

“No,” Dom says, “theyre pretty fond of their grandmother. Thanks though.” He checks his watch. “Meet again in four hours? I think Theo might have to lie down for a while.” Arthur shrugs.

“He’ll get over it,” he says, and then changes tracks neatly, “Ariadne and I already have some ideas for extraction.”

“Okay,” Dom says, “good.” He stops, looking awkward, and then sighs. “Okay,” he says again, and leaves, pausing just long enough to clasp Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur nods at him, and walks the opposite way down the hallway outside.

//

Eames is waiting outside Arthur’s room. “Good talk?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. Eames gestures at him.

“Your tie is askew,” he says. “It’s throwing my lifeview out of whack, seeing you less than entirely put together.”

“Are you going to fix it for me?” Arthur asks, and Eames laughs.

“Is it my birthday?” Arthur straightens his tie, adjusts the pin. Eames pouts. “Ruin my fun.”

“Meeting again in four hours,” Arthur says. Eames nods, and when he brushes up close to Arthur on his way by Arthur stands his ground. He darts his hand into Eames’ pocket to leave the cigarette behind and Eames turns to grin at him, still walking away.

“I felt that,” he says, and Arthur shrugs.

“I’ll do better next time,” he says, and Eames grins harder.

“I look forward to it.”

//

Ariadne is sitting cross legged on Arthur’s bed, glaring at him. Arthur loosens his tie, and then unknots it entirely. He leaves the top buttons done up.

“You’re not getting out of this,” Ariadne says.

Arthur pulls two wrapped antiseptic wipes from the package on the desk. “Would you like to shoot my rifle?”

“Is that a euphemism?”

Arthur offers her one of the wipes. “It is not.” Ariadne glares at him, and then hops down and snatches the packet from his fingers.

“It’s like you’re trying to make me vote Republican,” she complains.

Arthur seats himself and swabs his own skin, slips the needle into a vein. He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. “Cyclic rate is six-hundred and twenty five rounds per minute.”

“Go to sleep, Rambo,” Ariadne says, and Arthur does.

When Ariadne finds him she’s already got on her protection, and Arthur hands her the rifle.

“This is a Belgian assault rifle. It has a gas operated, rotating bolt action and a standard magazine capacity of thirty rounds. Completely ambidextrous, foldable stock and 2-setting cheek piece.”

“Your apologies are weird,” Ariadne says.

“The situation has been resolved,” Arthur says, and then hesitates. “I-it was unprofessional of me.” Ariadne shrugs.

“It’s fine. Hey! Can you modify this into a bazooka?” Arthur stares at her.

“You’re very violent.”

Ariadne props the stock on her shoulder in a way that is going to cause unnecessary bruising. Arthur refrains from telling her that’s a good way to shoot everything except what she’s aiming for, because he is actually attempting to apologize. “That is not a no,” Ariadne says.

“It can be fitted with an underbarrel grenade launcher,” he allows, and lets her tug him along to the table where the aforementioned launcher is sitting.

//

Jergenson is a quiet man, slumped in on himself, knuckles knotted from early onset arthritis. When he speaks it’s in a low murmur, rough jagged syllables dragged out his throat. By contrast, Curtland is nervous energy, his leg jumping up and down, fingers tapping, and outbursts of how preposterous the accusations against him are. Arthur lets his gaze drift from the monitor showing the footage down to the transcript of the interview, frowning.

“None of this is useful,” he announces.

“Speak for yourself,” Eames says, chewing on a toothpick.

“None of this is useful to anyone except Eames,” Arthur corrects, “and maybe not even him--not if he doesn’t have to forge Jergenson.”

Miles frowns at him. “We don’t know if he will have to take on the appearance of Dr. Jergenson.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, “exactly.”

“Arthur and I have been working on a few scenarios,” Ariadne interrupts quickly. She draws out a sheaf of paper, neatly typed outlines of the possible dreams they’d discussed, and passes them out.

“I like this one,” Dom says, tapping the page. Ariadne peers over his shoulder.

“Rambo,” she says approvingly.

“Stage a kidnapping by the Russians,” Arthur says over her, “let Curtland break himself out and be ‘rescued’ by the British.”

“Question,” Eames says, and gestures at the monitor where the paused video shows Curtland being questioned by a security guard. "How do we know he’d tell the truth to his rescuers? If he was working for the Russians he wouldn’t want to incriminate himself.”

Arthur shrugs. “As you so often point out, I’m hardly the imaginative one. Feel free to come up with alternatives.”

“It could work,” Dom says quickly, “if we build in a confidante.”

“Jergenson,” Ariadne guesses. “The co-conspirator.” Arthur pages through his notes.

“No,” Arthur says, finding the right information. “Lily Dunne.”

Dom nods. “Curtland’s pysch evals show a heightened sense of entitlement, anger towards his male peers--”

Arthur finishes for him, “and a note that Dr. Lily Dunne lodged an informal complaint against him for inappropriate conduct in the workplace. She reported hostile behaviour towards male colleagues who worked closely with her, repeated attempts to embark on a romantic relationship with her, and gifts from a secret admirer she suspected was Curtland.”

“He’s an unattractive tosser with a crush on a girl who won’t give him the time of day, so he spends his time hating his more popular colleagues,” Eames sums up.

“So we give him that.” Dom flips a page over and starts sketching something out. “Dennis Curtland wants to be Rambo. He’ll want it so bad he’ll believe it.”

Arthur starts writing a to do list. “Eames will need all the footage of Lily Dunne.”

“Gotta get the girl,” Eames says cheerfully, and then his face falls. “I’m going to have to kiss him.”

“Don’t be afraid to dream bigger,” Arthur says, completely straight-faced. Ariadne chokes off a giggle. Eames glares.

“Okay,” Dom says, “any other ideas?”

“Guilt,” Ariadne says immediately. “In his statement he couldn’t stop talking about how it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do anything wrong, it’s all a mistake. He might be trying to convince himself.”

“He’s a spy,” Miles says, “or at the very least has betrayed at least one country. Can we trust anything he’ll tell us?”

Eames plays his poker chip over the backs of his fingers. “Depends on who he’s telling it to.”

Arthur frowns. “I haven’t found anyone in his past he might trust enough to confess everything to. I think Lily Dunne is the best angle we’ve got.”

“Catharsis,” Ariadne says slowly. “If guilt is weighing on him, he might feel like Lily can absolve him.”

Arthur taps his pen on the table. “We don’t know a lot about LIiy Dunne.”

“Forging her is useless if she knew what was going on,” Eames says “I won’t be able to fake those details.” They sit in silence for a few moments, Arthur’s pen still tapping away.

“It’s the best we’ve got,” Dom says finally. “What do we know about Lily Dunne?”

“Lily Dunne is also a biologist,” Arthur says, “Curtland, however, is a geologist. No good intel one way or the other on Dunne knowing or not knowing about whatever it is that may or may not have been going on.”

“Curtland is a geologist?” Eames repeats. “So he’s less likely to know about whatever germs they’re cooking up.”

“Geologist,” Arthur confirms, “he won’t know as much about biological weapons--we could do an outbreak scenario, scare him into confessing anything he might know.”

“I don’t like that,” Dom says, “it would inevitably be complicated to fabricate a scare like that to convince a scientist and have it be realistic enough to scare him. Let’s go with Rambo. Ariadne, sketch out what you’ve got so far.”