[inception] till death do us part [9/9]

[chocolashe]

‘Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)
Part IX: till death do us part
[masterpost]

<< [to love and to hold] previous

It’s a warehouse. A dilapidated warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

“Typical,” Arthur says as he and Eames are ushered out of the van. Two of the kidnappers are pointing their guns at them, while another one is in front of them. There’s another group of men in black shades and suits in another car behind them. But they are mostly the injured ones.

Eames sends Arthur a questioning glance.

“Using a dark abandoned building to keep the hostages,” Arthur explains. “Doesn’t that sound so typical for a kidnapping situation? Makes you think if these amateurs’ boss is as amateur as his henchmen.”

The guy behind him pokes Arthur’s back with his gun to shut him up. Arthur sends the guy a cold glare and he backs off a little bit.

“You know, I’ve taken my hostages to a more comfortable place than this,” Eames chimes in, “Once I even took them to some seaside on the Mediterranean.”

“Jesus Christ…” one of the kidnappers mutters, massaging his temple.

“Before you killed them, you mean?” Arthur smirks.

“Yeah. It’s like, ‘make them happy before they die’ kind of thing, you know,” Eames says, stopping his tracks when they enter the warehouse. It’s dark and Arthur isn’t sure if there’s anyone else there. “Oh, and I got to find that lovely beach house… you know, the one I took you to for our second summer getaway,” Eames adds before turning to Arthur.

Arthur has been trained to understand what certain body languages mean in their line of work. When you can’t speak at all with your mouth, speak with your eyes. One intense gaze and small flick of the head from Eames is all Arthur needs to understand that this is the one chance they have to turn the table, so to speak.

“Shut up!” shouts the guys behind Arthur. “Or I’ll-”

Arthur spins around, sends a sharp kick into the guy’s stomach. The guy drops his gun, doubles up in pain, and Arthur uses that chance to hit his upper back with his elbows and knees the guy in the balls. In the meanwhile, Eames uses his tied hands to punch the armed guy behind him in the jaw-Arthur can hear a small crack. Eames grabs his collar and flips him onto the floor. Arthur almost pities the guy when he coughs blood as Eames kicks his stomach, hauls him up, and slams him to the nearest concrete pillar.

But Arthur doesn’t have time to mull over whether or not he has to pity one of their kidnappers because the last guy, the one in front of them, notices the fight and he quickly slips his hand into his jacket, taking out his own gun, and aiming it to Eames. Arthur takes the gun on the floor and fires directly to the guy’s knees.

The gunshot and pained scream echo through the empty warehouse, no doubt alarming the men outside. Eames lets go of the guy and his eyes are searching around the warehouse. There are quick footsteps coming from the darkened side of the warehouse and from outside as well. They are trapped and they have no time to find a place to hide.

“Arthur!”

Arthur throws his gun to Eames’ awaiting hands (later Arthur would ask himself how he knew Eames was asking for his gun and why he’d given him the gun he has and not telling him to search for another one instead) and bends over the injured guy, takes his gun from the shoulder holster before taking a position behind Eames’ back, facing the warehouse entrance, while Eames covers the other side.

Even with both his hands tied, Arthur still keeps his hold on the gun tight. He’s breathing hard and he can feel Eames’ back pressed against his. They don’t speak, there’s no sound other than their quick breaths, the pained grunt of the three guys they’ve beaten and the footsteps echoing in the warehouse. They wait.

Suddenly a voice echoes from the back of the warehouse. “Mr. Eames, it is lovely to see that you’re still good at beating up people.”

Arthur doesn’t recognise the voice and he can’t turn around to check who it is because that’s when three men enter the warehouse, guns aimed at him. They’re clearly outnumbered and it’s impossible to get away now.

He feels Eames’ back stiffened. “Oh, fuck.”

“Who is that?” Arthur asks.

“You…” Eames pauses, “you’re that fish-face guy!”

Arthur frowns and hisses back, “What the hell are you talking about?”

The three armed men are closing in on both of them. Arthur presses further back, but Eames seems to be rooted on the spot.

“It’s that Robert Fischer guy,” Eames tells him.

“What?” Arthur pushes Eames so they switch places and now he’s looking at the one man that he-and Eames-supposed to kill a couple days ago. Fischer is giving Arthur a pointed smile. Arthur clicks his gun and aims it to Robert’s head.

“What is he doing here?” he asks Eames sharply. “Isn’t he supposed to be under FBI custody?”

“How do I know?” Eames replies and curses under his breath.

“Drop your weapons and let’s have a talk, gentlemen,” Fischer says, holding up both his hands to show that he doesn’t have any weapon with him.

“Tell your men to drop theirs first,” Eames says, “and untie us.”

Fischer’s gaze shifts from Arthur, and he nods. Arthur hears the clatters of Fischer’s henchmen dropping their guns and he reluctantly lowers his too, but still gripping it tight. Eames has moved to Arthur’s side, and once one of the henchmen cuts the zipties, he takes Arthur’s hands and rubs the red marks around his wrists.

“Are you all right?” Eames asks in low voice.

“I’m okay,” Arthur murmurs. He’s looking at Fischer over Eames’ shoulder suspiciously. “We have to get away, William. We can’t trust these people to not kill us. He knows who we are. ”

“Let’s just hear what he has to say first, okay?” Eames gives Arthur’s wrist a pat and then he turns back to face Fischer who’s looking at them as if he’s watching a daytime soap opera. “How did you know my name?”

“Please,” Fischer says, “have a seat.”

Fischer’s henchmen have moved their injured friends aside and brought three rackety chairs, putting them in the space between Fischer and Arthur and Eames. Arthur is still glaring daggers at Fischer as he buttons up his shirt and then sits on one of the chairs.

“The gun please, Mr. Eames,” Fischer says to Eames, and then he looks at Arthur and raises an eyebrow, “You too, Mr. Eames.”

“Fuck.” Arthur leans in to Eames and whispers, “He knows.”

“Apparently,” Eames grits out. He drops his gun on the floor, beside his foot, and Arthur does the same.

After a few moments of glaring at each other-Arthur hoping his glare could kill Fischer in an instant, and Eames gives the calm man a calculating look-Fischer sighs.

But it’s Arthur who speaks first. “Who are you exactly?”

“Robert Fischer,” Fischer answers shortly. “My father, Maurice Fischer, is your boss, Mr. Eames.”

“Stop calling me that,” Arthur grits out.

“His father is your boss, Arthur?” Eames asks, “Your boss ordered you to kill his own son?”

“I don’t know who Maurice Fischer is,” Arthur says, “As far as I know my boss name is Peter Browning.”

“Uncle Peter is only the second-in-command as my father is currently ill,” Fischer explains. “He’s the one who usually gives you orders.”

Arthur doesn’t like where this talk is going. Seven years, and he never knew who his boss really is. Arthur thinks that being The Organization’s best assassin would’ve earned him at least the boss’ trust. Then again, he should’ve known that being in this line of business, no one can guarantee what one says is the truth or just a lie. Take himself and Eames for example. This train of thoughts doesn’t make him feel better.

“So your ‘Uncle Peter’ wants to kill you then?” Eames crosses his hands. “Why did my boss want you dead, too?”

Fischer sighs and puts his hands on his lap, his expression still stoic. “The Company’s boss, Mr. Saito is…”

“Wait,” Arthur interjects and turns to Eames, “Your boss is Saito? That eccentric conglomerate who bought an airline a couple of months ago?”

“He is eccentric, as you said,” Eames answers shortly before he puts his attention back to Fischer. “Why did my boss and your father’s second-in-command want to kill you? Why did they target you?”

“The truth is,” Fischer says, taking out a slip of paper from his pocket and shows it to Arthur and Eames, “this is the real target.”

Fischer flicks the photo to them and Arthur catches it. The slip of paper turns out to be a photo of him and Eames. Arthur recognises the photo as a candid picture of them during their wedding reception in Eames family manor’s garden. In the picture, he and Eames are clinging to each other, smiling widely, as Mary and Amelia trying to get Arthur to dance with them.

“We’re the target? What do you mean, we’re the real target?” Arthur asks. He gives the photo to Eames and he really, really wants to grab the gun on the floor and shoot Fischer.

“Your bosses knew that you’re married,” Fischer says, “that’s the reason why you both were given the same order to kill me.”

“You were just a bait,” Eames murmurs, he’s still looking at the photo.

“You were just a bait to get us kill each other,” Arthur adds, finally realising what Fischer’s role, “just because we’re married?”

“Not exactly. There’s more to it than just the fact you were not supposed to marry your enemy,” Fischer explains, as he leans back to his chair. “Mr. Saito proposed a plan to Uncle Peter, something that my father would never agree to if he were still healthy and didn’t often lose his mind to medication. They are planning to merge the agencies as one. They want to create an integrated wide scale professional intelligence service.”

“…A what?” Eames asks.

“An integrated wide scale professional intelligence service,” Fischer repeats.

“Forgive me, Mr. Fischer, but I think we need specificity about that,” Arthur says.

Eames frowns, “Specif…?”

“Specificity, dear.” Arthur adds the term of endearment with a hiss. “You were saying?”

“In short, your bosses want to merge The Organisation and The Company as a single agency,” Fischer continues.

“And what does that have to do with them making us the target? Why did you set us up?”

“Technically, your bosses were the ones who set you up.”

“Let’s not think of technicality now and give me one reason why we must keep listening to you instead of killing you,” Arthur warns, “you are, after all, still our mark.”

Fischer sighs, and Arthur is sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Take that deep mistrust off of your brain, Mr. Eames. We talk business now.”

Arthur curls his fists tightly, and then he says to Eames, “I don’t like him.”

Eames raises an eyebrow and Arthur thinks the gesture sort of means he’s saying ‘well, duh’. “Why?” Eames asks instead.

“He used ‘off of’ in his sentence,” Arthur says. “That’s grammatically incorrect.”

“You dislike him not because he’s a manipulative bastard who kidnapped us but because he uses extraneous prepositions?”

Arthur blinks, surprised. “I never guessed you would know about extraneous prepositions.”

“Your condescension is much appreciated, thank you, Arthur,” Eames huffs.

“And he called me Mr. Eames,” Arthur adds, crossing his hands and scowls at Fischer.

“But you are Mr. Eames,” Eames exclaims.

Before Arthur can retort, Fischer claps a couple of times, taking Arthur and Eames’ attention back to him. “Ladies, ladies, please. Can I have your attention?”

Arthur thinks his blood pressure will be in danger of exploding if he stays any longer than this with Fischer. “Don’t you fucking dare call me ‘lady’, asshole.”

“Your potty mouth will not help you much in your current predicament.” Fischer uncrosses his legs and stands up. With his hands on his back, he starts pacing around, “All right, here’s the thing. As I was saying, Uncle Peter and Mr. Saito set you up because they knew you’re married. They planned to integrate and they thought the fact that you both being the best in each of your agency, but also married to each other, will not bode well with their plan. They think it will become a liability within the agency. You would become each other’s weak point if anyone knows who you really are.”

Arthur knows this so well. For years, he’s been drilled to not let anyone identify him during missions. Not only will it risk the agency, it will also risk the people around him. It’s the reason why he never told Eames about his real job. And it’s the same reason why he still followed his boss’ order to ‘clean the scene’ even after he knew it was Eames who ID’d him.

“They set up a plan to see if you were as competent as your records made you to be,” Fischer continues, “I became the bait because neither of you knew who I really was.”

Arthur can’t help but feel utterly betrayed. He and Eames almost killed each other because their bosses wanted to test them.

“It’s only a test then?” Eames asks, annoyed.

“In a way, yes,” Fischer says. “It’s more to see if you would still follow orders if your mission was to kill the person closest to you. Looking at both of you now,” he pauses and looks at them with a small smirk, “I think I can safely say that you don’t exactly plan to continue on following the order.”

“And that’s why you kidnapped us?” Arthur asks, “To kill us because we didn’t follow orders?”

Fischer chuckles, “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur still follows Fischer’s movement with his eyes. He can’t help it. He feels there’s something… dangerous lurking within the guy. There’s something in his eyes which makes him itch, aside from the fact that he’s practically the one who nearly made them kill each other. And there are still many questions swarming his mind, most of them start with ‘why’.

“I want to make a proposal,” Fischer continues. He stops walking and smiles, staring at them intently with something manic on his face. “I want you to work for me.”

Whatever Arthur expects to hear from him, it’s surely not that.

“What?” Eames exclaims in incredulity beside him.

Fischer shrugs. “You’re good. You’re both good. And I want only the best to work for me, so how about it?”

“Wait,” Eames says, putting both of his hands in front of him as if he’s trying to block Fischer’s words. “Let me get this straight. You want to recruit us?”

“Yes,” Fischer says calmly.

“And so you give us a test to see if we’re good enough,” Arthur continues.

“That’s true.”

“And your test involves making us try to kill each other,” Eames concludes with a disbelieving frown. “Let me ask you one question, Mr. Fish-face. Are you fucking mental?”

“Ah, no,” Fischer says, still with his smile intact. “I prefer being called ‘creative’. And, again, you cannot fully put the blame on me for this little deception. You can blame Mr. Saito, considering he’s the one who first came up with this idea.”

“About that,” Arthur says, snatching the opportunity to voice out the thing that has been plaguing his mind. “Why did you stage this whole thing? Why did you plan this so thoroughly? To test us, sure you’ve said that. To recruit us, you said. But why do you want to recruit us? Why do you want to merge the two agencies together? Because that sounds so inconceivable, at least if we take into notice the standard operating procedure that my organisation possesses, the one which was penned by your father, the head of the Organisation, himself. Why would you want to merge the two agencies which, as far as I know, have been rivals in business? Unless, of course, there’s something… let’s say, fishy, going on.”

He has a brief feeling of satisfaction when he notices how Fischer seems to flinch at his question. Then he seems to take a breath and when their gazes meet, Arthur could see the look of resignation there.

“You’re right,” Fischer says. “The rule of the Organisation does say that we work alone, never get involved with other parties, and keep the secret. But that’s what my father believes. Now he’s too sick to maintain the Organisation anymore. You have seen it for yourself, Mr. Eames, how it’s now my uncle who deals with business, but he’s not the one who will inherit the position once dear Father leaves us. I will.”

Fischer resumes walking slowly, seemingly deep in thought.

“You see, I have a different vision with my father. I want to make… a better Organisation. And I know to achieve that, we have to gather forces beyond our little niche, regardless what my father and his pride might say on that matter,” he says. “When I lead the Organisation, I expect it to follow my vision. Coincidentally, my uncle shares the same vision with me. So when Mr. Saito proposed the idea, well,” he spreads his arms wide for emphasis. “How could I reject it?”

“So you planned to merge the two agencies, behind your father’s back, against his wish, when he’s dying somewhere and knowing nothing bout this whole thing,” Eames says. “That’s sneaky. So very sneaky until I almost admire you.”

“Yes, I do have a feeling that you would appreciate it, Mr. Eames, considering how you have gone behind your husband back killing people for a living while keeping up appearance as some normal art curator,” Fischer says. “Both of you, actually. One sneaky person to another, you have my respect.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says tightly. “And what makes you think that I would readily pledge my alliance to you?”

Fischer laughs. “Mr. Eames, seriously, are you trying to test me? If you pledge your loyalty to my father, he’ll ask you to kill your husband. If you pledge your loyalty to me, I’ll make you work with your husband. Surely you can decide which one benefits you more.”

“I can decide to walk away from here without pledging my alliance to anyone,” Arthur says.

“We both can,” Eames pips in. “Sorry, one sneaky man to another, you know how foolish it is to give your trust so easily like that.”

“But what if…” Fischer says. “You don’t have that choice?”

Arthur frowns. He can sense the air in the warehouse shifts. There’s some sense of apprehension coming to him and instinctively, he moves closer to Eames.

“So I ask you once again, Mr. Eames...” he says, pauses, then looks at Arthur, “And you, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitches. He has a suspicion-a damn reasonable one at that-that Fischer keeps calling him ‘Mr. Eames’ just to spite him.

“Let me go so I can kill you right now,” he says hotly.

“Baby, please,” Eames says in his soothing voice that only manages to rile Arthur further. “You're going to suffer hypertension. Let the gentleman here finish.”

“Don't fucking call me 'baby'!” he hisses at Eames.

“Gentlemen, if you would forget about your domestic scuffle,” Fischer says, breaking the heated glare that Arthur throws to Eames. His voice makes them both turn their faces to regard him. “I’d like to present you with two options. You can accept my offer and join me, or you can reject it, but thing is…”

An ominous clicking sound is heard and Arthur finds himself staring at the barrel of a gun which Fischer points at them. He whispered a breathy ‘fuck’ as Fischer continues. “No one can say 'no' to me and walk away alive. Please think of my reputation.”

“You’re really one damn annoying arsehole,” Eames says. “But, you see… if you ask Arthur, he’d say I’m the biggest arsehole he’s ever met. And so…”

Arthur watches in bemusement as Eames proceeds to undo his watch. He shows the watch to Fischer and says, “You have gun in your hand; I have this mini bomb in my hand. Should we ask the mirror on the wall, now, about who’s the biggest arsehole of all?”

Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise. He wonders if Eames is merely joking but, at times like this, he risks too much to be joking. A mini bomb, he thinks. Eames has a mini bomb in him. Eames has something that can very well pass as a weapon in his hand and he didn’t tell him, instead he lets them be dragged into this situation.

“You keep a mini bomb inside your wrist watch?” he nearly shouts.

Eames blinks back at him in surprise. “You didn’t know? I thought you knew, and that’s why you made me wear that. You’re the one dressing me up, after all, what’s with me being unconscious and all.”

“I didn’t…” Arthur tries to say. “William! That’s the watch I gave you last Christmas!”

“So?”

“You think it’s okay to tamper with it and install a mini bomb in it?”

Eames shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea that time. And this might be our ticket to freedom so save your queen out for later, okay?”

“Oh my God,” Arthur says with a sigh. He runs his fingers through his hair and stares at Eames disbelievingly. “This is so clichéd.”

“Seconding the sentiment,” Fischer says, though his eyes-and gun-are still trained to Eames’ direction.

“Oh, please,” Eames says with a sigh. “You’re one to talk, Mister, seeing that you’re the one starting this with this old warehouse and evil son charade ending with you-come-with-me-or-you-die bullshit. You have a talent to create some B-grade overly clichéd spy movie.”

Fischer smiles tightly at Eames. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“Wasn’t meant to be one,” Eames says back with a smirk.

“So what now?” Fischer says, echoing the very question that Arthur has in his mind. “We’re in stalemate here, you with your bomb, and me with my gun. Should we keep this until one of us break?”

“No,” Eames says. Then, without fear, he turns his gaze from Fischer to look at Arthur. His gaze is so tender and serious at the same time. “You decide.”

“What?!” Arthur’s mouth exclaims.

“You decide, Arthur,” Eames says. “Because, as the guy put it, we’re in stalemate here. Now we’re in equal position. Whatever choice you pick, it will be because you really want it, and not because this son of a bitch forces you to choose it. So pick your choice.”

“And what about you?” Arthur asks.

“Arthur, darling, if there’s one thing that I learn from this whole thing,” Eames says, “it’s that there's nowhere I'd rather be than here with you. Whatever thing you choose, I’ll follow you.”

Arthur blinks. For a moment he has a suspicion that Eames was merely joking, but he knows that it cannot be. Eames was every bit serious when he said that. Those words get into his heart and he feels like kissing Eames for being such a sweetheart while at the same time he also feels like giving him a very good punch for being such an idiot. How could he trust such an important decision to him? How could he calmly smile and believe that he would be able to decide? How could he love him so much until he can say that he would follow him wherever he goes?

But Arthur knows that if the situation is reversed, he, too, would trust Eames to make a choice for both of them. And now with Eames trusting him so, he has to make the right decision for both of them. He has the power now. It’s in his hand. He can decide where their life should head to. He can decide their future. He can-he thinks as he stares at the two men still brandishing their weapon-decide their fate.

He closes his eyes, thinking about all the things in every perspective he can think of. He thinks of his job. He thinks of the Organisation he’s working for and all the guys he met there. He thinks of his life and what he has done throughout the years. He thinks of Eames, of their marriage, of the smiles and fights and laughter and everything that they share between them. He thinks of ‘them’.

He opens his eyes with a smile.

And he makes their choice.

Time, as it turns out, really could change everything.

Eames sits on his plush chair, the usual chair he usually occupies whenever he has his session with Miles, and thinks about how time has really changed many things-things between him and Arthur, to be more precise. He can still remember the first time they went to their session, all strung nerves and anxious disposition. But now, look at them, so relaxed as they sit side by side in front of their counsellor, who seems to stare at them intently. They’re practically glowing.

Now Eames doesn’t find the white painted walls oppressing. Now he doesn’t find the air suffocate him. Now he doesn’t really feel disturbed that some stranger is asking about his private life with Arthur-after all, at this point, Miles is hardly a stranger to them.

He still hates the idea of having to go to some marriage counsellor, though.

“Mr. Eames,” Miles says, smiling at them. “Nice to see you again. I see that now you decide to attend this session as a couple.”

He can see Arthur shrugs beside him, and though his line of vision doesn’t really enable him to see it, he knows that Arthur has a small smile on his lips. “It saves the gas.”

Miles gives a polite chuckle. “Indeed. So, gentlemen... how have the past couple of weeks been treating you?”

That question makes him turn his face a bit to seek Arthur’s gaze. Their eyes meet and, there, he’s right. Arthur does have a small smile on his lips, the smile that can always make Eames’ heart beat a tad faster.

“Nicely,” he says, still staring into Arthur’s eyes. “We’re good, right?”

“Splendid,” Arthur says before he turns his gaze to Miles. “Really splendid.”

“That’s good to hear,” Miles says. He’s smiling, and Eames really can’t see anything in his smile else than sincerity. “You both do seem in a better mood. Want to share what prompts this change?”

Eames laughs out loud. “We had a fight.”

“A very big fight,” Arthur says. “The biggest we’ve ever had. But after that... we started to...”

Eames notices Arthur staring at him, frowning as he searches for the right word.

“Reconnect?” he suggests. “Both physically and mentally?”

Arthur chuckles briefly. “Yes, I think you can say that. We started to reconnect. We... talked about things that we’ve kept hidden from each other.”

“We share,” Eames contributes to the conversation, “our secrets, our feelings, our desire and plans. We decided, then, that we don’t want to let our differences get in the way of our relationship. We are still going strong, aren’t we, darling?”

Smiling to Arthur, he can see the amusement on his face. They can still remember their big fight, so big it was that their house is now on its way to be demolished. And they can still remember how they ‘reconnect’ afterward, the magnificent sex they had. The secrets spilled freely as they snuggled in their bed. Also the love they can feel between them as they laughed, talked, and kissed.

“Yep,” Arthur says softly. “Though I won’t say that we’ve managed to overcome all of our differences.”

“Oh, come on!” Eames exclaims indignantly, somewhat knowing what Arthur is going to say.

“We still can’t agree on many things,” Arthur tells Miles somberly. “Like curtains for example.”

“Why are you always bringing the curtains to our every conversation?” Eames asks with a frown.

“Because you always try to make me agree to decorate our new house with those curtains you pick on every occasion,” Arthur says.

“Because they are lovely,” Eames says.

Arthur rolls his eyes and regards Miles with his deadpan expression.

“I think I must love him so much,” he says. “Because he can make me so angry until sometimes I want to strangle him yet I still live with him.”

Miles gives Arthur a conspiratory smile. “From what my daughter told and showed me, I have to say I’m rooting for you. Even this old man feels that paisley is too retro.”

“Hey!” Eames protests loudly. “You’re not supposed to be taking side.”

“Ah, right, my apologies,” Miles says though the smile the man still sports makes Eames believe that he’s not really sorry. “So you mentioned something about new house?”

“Yes, we redid the house,” Arthur says. “You can’t imagine how happy I was after finally being able to throw away those curtains.”

“You did?” Miles seems surprised.

“Yeah, yes, we redid the house,” Eames says, even though ‘redid’ certainly isn’t the right word to describe what they have to do for their house. “Have to demolish the whole thing.”

“Yes, it’s like we’re starting from the very beginning again, you know.”

“We think there’s a plenty of room for us to grow after our big fight so why not start it from rebuilding the house together?”

“And we’ve started working together. There are actually so many things we have in common that we never knew we share before.”

“I see,” Miles nods, “That’s a good thing. What kind of job are you two doing then?”

“If we tell you what it is, we’ll have to kill you,” Arthur answers with a purely innocent smile.

Miles blinks. He blinks exactly four times before Eames breaks the ice and says, “He’s joking.”

After a few moments of awkward silence, Miles asks, “So, on a scale of one to ten, how happy would you say you are now?”

“Fifty,” Eames says confidently.

“He can’t count really well,” Arthur says apologetically.

“Hey!”

Miles nods. “It seems that you’ve re-found the trust in your relationship and overcome the obstacles. Mr. Eames, Arthur, I’m pleased for you. I think-”

“Ask us the sex question,” Eames interjects. He gives Miles a cheeky grin.

When Arthur hisses, “William!”, with a barely concealed smirk of his own, Eames winks.

Miles clears his throat, “All right, well, how often you-”

Without waiting for Miles to finish his sentence, Eames holds up both of his hands, “Ten,” he says.

Arthur snorts and says, “Add another ten.”

“Now you can’t count too!” Eames says, triumphantly.

“You rubbed off on me,” Arthur shrugs.

“Indeed,” Eames agrees solemnly. “Is that considered extraneous preposition, though?”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur says with a smirk full of meaning.

“Because we both know how you hate… extraneous preposition,” Eames says.

“Yes,” Arthur says, “but I really don’t hate you… rubbing off on me.”

“I did that all right… multiple times,” Eames purrs, leaning closer to Arthur, who can’t seem to stop biting his lower lip, perhaps trying to stop the grin that’s threatening to bloom from appearing.

“In multiple ways.”

“Sometimes more than one at once…”

They stop when Miles clears his throat again loudly. He looks at them sharply, his glasses perched low on his nose. He smiles and then he asks, “Should I schedule another session for you?”

Eames turns to Arthur, and he feels his heart swells to see the wide smile there. And it's not him who makes the first move, nor it is Arthur. Their hands just meet in the middle. Arthur traces the ring on Eames’ hand with his thumb, and Eames, eyes still locked with Arthur’s, says to Miles,

“No, no. We're good now.”

~Fin~