Fic: The man who had only dreams 6a/6
Title: The Man Who Had Only Dreams part 6a
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them. I definitely don't own any bits of dialogue in this bit lifted from the film - that's all Nolan's creative genius.
Summary: Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
Word count: 6045
Author's note: This part refers to spoilers for the Cobol Job prequel comic. If you haven't read that yet, why not? Go get it here. I'm also getting into the movie now, apologies for any liberties taken with the dialogue, any errors are entirely my own fault and my failing memories.
Los Angeles, January 2010: Arthur
It's strange how things became a habit after just a few repetitions. Arthur had never celebrated the holiday season as a child, not really. Even before his mother had died, the Christmas period, or Hanukkah depending on which of his parents you asked, had been mostly punctuated by sullen silences, cold sniping and alcohol fuelled arguments often with Arthur and his brother caught in the crossfire.
Afterwards the holidays didn't bear much thinking about, his father inevitably sinking into a deep drunken depression that led to Arthur fleeing the house in a vain attempt to survive the season with all his bones intact. Even his brother generally chose to spend the holidays with whichever current girlfriend he had on the go, Jason no more immune than Arthur from their father's wrath at that time of year.
So to say he was used to being alone at Christmas would be an understatement. Only he wasn't anymore, because for the past few years he'd spent his holidays surrounded by others. First Mal and Cobb, the Frenchwoman having been positively scandalised upon hearing that his plans for the season involved Chinese take-out and an early night and had insisted he spend it with them. Then these last two years with Eames, engaging in that strange dance they'd had, the one that had come brutally crashing to a halt barely two months ago.
Which had left him this year bereft of plans, or company, for the season a cruel reminder of what he'd had and lost.
Cobb had chosen to hide out in Moscow with clear intentions to celebrate the season at the bottom of a bottle since he couldn't spend it with his family. Arthur had considered staying with him, possibly to stop him doing something stupid but more likely to keep him company in his drunken stupor of grief and loss. But he'd never been good at dealing with emotions, his own or other people's, and he suspected his company would probably only exacerbate the cycle of depression. More, he'd seen the way Cobb's eyes had lit up at his off-hand suggestion of maybe heading back to LA and the children's gifts in the extractors hotel room which he hadn't quite managed to bring himself to ask Arthur to deliver.
So instead of spending the holiday drowning his sorrows, Arthur finds himself travelling to LA on the 25th. Travelling at any point around Christmas was generally torturous, but Christmas day, Arthur soon decided, was especially so. It wasn't that it was particularly crowded, certainly not compared to other points in the season. If anything there was this eerie quiet, fellow passengers in business class consisting almost exclusively of middle-aged family men, trying desperately to get home or younger go-getters to whom the idea of a life outside of work was a foreign country. But worse even that the depressive mood from those around him was the god-awful false cheer the airline staff seemed determined to subject all the passengers too, as if bad Christmas music and the addition of a sprig of tinsel here and there could make up for the fact that they were travelling on the day that most people were spending at home with loved ones.
Despite his exhaustion upon landing he made sure to visit the Cobb house, before even heading home, to ensure the presents, carried without needing to be asked, were delivered promptly on time, because to a four year old the precise day still carried with it all the weight of importance that the sappy Hollywood fare would have people believe.
Phillipa greeted him with a muted exuberance, albeit brightening up when she saw the gifts he was laden with. Pretty soon she was peppering him with questions about where Daddy was, when he was coming home, whilst James looked on in wide-eyed silence, the toys he was unwrapping forgotten in favour of the all important answer's to his sister's barrage of questions. Arthur tried to answer as best he could, wanting to reassure them but unsure how much he could, or should, tell them and unwilling to make promises neither he nor Cobb would be able to keep.
Miles, who had made it back from Paris to spend time with his wife and grand-children, welcomed him as best he could despite the awkwardness of their relative positions, he as Mal's father and Arthur as the best friend of the man accused of killing her. Not that Miles believed that Cobb had actually committed the murder, aware as much as anyone of how bad Mal was by the end, of what PASIV tech could do if you go to far, too deep. From what Arthur had understood of their relationship, the older man had been a mentor to Cobb for longer than he and Mal had been together, and effectively loosing his son-in-law, to the wrong side of the law, to the world of underground dreaming, must have been almost as deep a blow as the loss of his daughter.
His wife, Etienne, was another matter altogether, glaring at him with something akin to disapproval, constantly hovering in the background whenever he was with the children and never leaving him alone for more than a few minutes. At first he'd thought it was because of his association with Cobb and it was clear that she did not share her husband's affection for her son-in-law, blaming him squarely for his daughter's death, whether he'd pushed her or no, and making no secret of the fact. But it soon became clear that was not the case, or at least not entirely the reason.
“Uncle Arthur,” Phillipa questioned one morning when he was visiting, looking up from the floor where she was carefully applying a bright red pen to one of the exotic colouring books he'd brought back for her from Malaysia. “What's a pédé?”
Arthur choked and glanced around quickly to see if Etienne was around to hear her use such language. She wasn't for once, although he could hear her moving around in the kitchen, making tea no doubt, a habit picked up from her English born husband. Searching around desperately for how to deal with the topic, he tried to buy for time, “Where did you hear that word?” He winced at the sharpness in the question, because she didn't deserve that, but the question had caught him completely off-guard.
Phillipa chewed her pen slightly, looking a bit sheepish, “I over-heard Grandma talking to Grandpa in the kitchen. She was saying that she didn't feel comfortable with you visiting because you were a pédé and that people like that shouldn't around 'the children'” She rushed through the words, clearly nervous about telling him this, but also something that worried her and Arthur had to suppress the urge to march into the kitchen and ask Etienne what, exactly, she thought she was saying around the children. “Which is silly, because you're Uncle Arthur!” The last bit was said as if that simple statement explained everything.
He floundered for a moment, finding it somewhat ironic that he could face down armed projections intent on ripping him limb from limb with barely a flicker but asked a slightly uncomfortable question by a four year old and he was lost. There were times when he was forever thankful that he'd never be in danger of having any children of his own, at least not without considerable effort on his part, and this was distinctly one of them.
Finally, because he never believed in lying to children, he replied, “Pédé is a very hateful word for being gay, which is when a man prefers to have a relationship with another man instead of with a woman.” He desperately hoped she wouldn't ask for more details, because he wasn't certain his embarrassment could quite stand it.
Luckily, Phillipa just nodded, “Like Lucy who sits opposite me in class and her two daddies then?” like that explained everything and maybe it did.
“Yes, something like that,” he eventually replied, somewhat bemused, and gratified, by the easy acceptance of the very young. He just strongly hoped that she wouldn't come to inherit her grandmother's bigotry over time, although if she was anything like her mother, he doubted it, Mal being one of the most open-minded and accepting people he'd ever met.
Phillipa seemed to contemplate the information for a few moments, before asking solemnly, “Does this means I will have two Uncles some day?”
“Maybe,” but he couldn't quite bring the smile to his lips at that one.
++++
Despite the fact he'd only been in LA for a few days at most, by the time New Years was nearly upon him, Arthur was distinctly considering leaving again. In part this was to do with the cold stand-off which had developed between himself and Etienne whenever he visited the Cobb's, despite Miles' best efforts to smooth things over, an apologetic “She's a bit old-fashioned about things sometimes, but her heart's in the right place,” indicating that he was more than aware of what the issue was. In part, his new-found itchy feet was also because he'd spent the last few days trying to avoid Mrs Grayson from the floor below and her insistence he attend their annual New Years Eve party again, since he'd clearly 'enjoyed himself immensely two years ago, and wasn't it a shame he hadn't been around last year'. He really would have to 'thank' Eames properly for that one. Painfully. If, of course, he ever saw the forger again which if he had any choice in the matter he most certainly wouldn't.
Mostly however, he was starting to get restless, inactivity never having sat well with him, his holidays often few and far between. He'd already lined up the next job, with a meeting with the client on the 12th, and considerable legwork which could be done before then, not to mention finding a new architect, because there was no way in hell was he allowing Cobb to design the levels again. He was not, despite what some people might say that much of a masochist.
His decision was hastened when he arrived back at his apartment complex on the morning of the 2nd, Grayson New Year's Eve party thankfully avoided by this point, to see a, becoming far too familiar, figure leaning against the door. He considered his options briefly, before choosing to just continue walking up to his appartment. This identity was clean as he could make it and there was no need to raise unnecessary suspicion by suddenly changing walking patterns or acting as if he had something to hide. After all, if the man actually had something on him, he doubted very much he'd just be casually leaning against the door instead of bringing a whole SWAT team with him.
“Inspector Javert,” he greeted the man, smirking as he saw the waiting FBI agent twitch and glare him, an ugly expression on his craggy face.
“Agent Javert,” the man in question snapped, the pronunciation harsher, more anglicised, and with a distinct emphasis on the title.
Arthur shrugged, the smirk still on his face. “My mistake,” he replied casually as he unlocked the door and pushed quickly past Javert into the apartment complex, leaving the man scrambling to catch the door before it slammed in his face.
“How's your god-daughter?” Javert asked once he caught up to his at the lifts, only slightly out of breath.
Arthur didn't twitch at the question, keeping his face impassive as he stabbed at the elevator button in a vain attempt to get it to turn up quicker. It wasn't, after all, overly surprising that the Cobb house might be under surveillance, the authorities no doubt keeping an eye out in case he managed to somehow sneak back into the country and try to contact his children. Which pretty much scuppered Arthur's plans to develop a watertight new identity to get Cobb through customs. Of course, it could have just been a lucky guess, an obvious deduction given how infrequently he made it back to the city and how close away his god-daughter was, but he wasn't willing to take that chance with Cobb's freedom, not until the search had truly died down.
Undeterred, the FBI agent continued, mock sympathy in his tone “Must be so hard on her, mother dead, father a murderer. Fled the country last I heard, clear admission of guilt if you ask me.”
Arthur knew the other man was baiting him, trying to ruffle his feathers. Unfortunately for him, Arthur had had his feather's ruffled by far more talented, not to mention infuriating, annoying and far too attractive for their own good, individuals, well individual, that this was amateur hour in comparison. So instead of the desired reaction he just smirked, condescension clear in his tone as he responded “Isn't a simple domestic murder was a bit beneath you?”
The elevator choose that moment to arrive, the dinging causing pause in the conversation long enough for Arthur to board quickly, not bothering to check if Javert was following. He was of course, pushing the button for Arthur's floor before he got a chance to, prick. The FBI agent smirked at his obvious annoyance, answering the question as he did so. “It was, until I found out who was his best man at his wedding.”
“I suppose I should be flattered,” he responded drily. It was almost amusing how obvious, how desperate the man was to catch him out.
Nonetheless, the FBI agent continued his fishing trip, “Of course Cobb's making quite a name for himself in the world of illegal dreamsharing.”
It was a struggle to keep his face impassive at that, the urge to smirk almost overwhelming, because really, did he truly think that he was going to catch him out with that. “Is he? I didn't know.”
“Really, you didn't? That's strange, because Cobb is known to work with a point man called Arthur.” He paused in a way he no doubt meant to be loaded, but failed miserable, “Arthur.”
Arthur shrugged, responding mildly, “It's a common name.” They'd arrived at Arthur apartment, and he decided to take mercy on the clearly out of his league agent by inviting him in for coffee, or tea when he belatedly remembered that Eames had left a box of PG Tips after the last time he'd stayed. An offer he quickly accepted, making small-talk about the weather as Arthur rummaged around the kitchen for mugs and sugar.
Once Javert had a mug of steaming coffee and was leaning against the counter-top, he finally asked. “What is it you claim to do again?”
Another blatant fishing attempt, “I don't claim to do anything. What I actually do is work as a security consultant. I'm pretty certain we went over this the last time you pulled me in for a round of ridiculous questioning.”
It was, unfortunately, beginning to become a regular experience, the 'star' agent of the FBI's new mind-crime division clearly wanting to make his name by nailing one of the most infamous point men in the extraction business. He'd even come close to making something stick a couple of time, so much so that Arthur had taken to making sure he was always several steps ahead, covering his tracks even more carefully than usually, and ensuring that Cobb stayed even more steps ahead, because the extractor had no real clue about doing it himself even at the best of times.
“Strange, was chatting with a few of your neighbours, they said you worked in IT.” Javert sounded satisfied, like he'd finally got something over him.
Thank you Eames., he thought with a level of exasperation. He didn't however blink at being caught in the lie, pushing ahead with it instead, because sometimes the best bet was just to keep on lying, “Yes, IT Security.” Interjecting into his voice just the right level of scorn to convey that clearly the man was being ever so slow for not keeping up. It was a tone he'd perfected over the years of working with Eames, condescension to counter the forger's cutting mockery.
“Really, because for a simple security consultant, sorry IT security consultant, you certainly have some interesting friends, Dom Cobb, James Eames. Actually those are the only two aren't they?” The jibe was clearly meant to provoke a reaction, and it did, but probably not for the reasons the man was expecting.
“My friends are hardly any of your business,” he snapped hotly, off-balance at the mention of the forger, even as he knew the name must have come from his neighbours, Eames introducing himself far too freely over the time he'd stayed there.
“Oh but I think they are. After all, how did a simple IT guy get to meet such a colourful character as James Eames, who I might point out, has more than a few warrants out for him in various States.” That was hardly surprising, as worrying as the information may be, not of course that he cared, well maybe a little. Not that he'd ever admit it, but despite the fact that Arthur knew full well the forger was more than capable of taking care of himself, he couldn't help but feel a wash of dread seeped through him at the thought of the Brit ending up in jail.
Finally he answered the question. “In a bar,” because it was, ultimately, the truth.
“A bar? Really Mr Delacy you can do better than that.” Now the man had gone past fishing and into provocation, clearly attempting to exploit whatever vulnerability he thought he saw and draw a rise out of him.
Please, Arthur had kept his cool under considerably stronger provocation than this. Pointedly finishing his own drink and setting it down on the table, he asked “Was there something specific you wanted to ask me about or did you just come round for a chat? Because if it's the latter, I have work to do.” He straightened up in a clear indication that the conversation was now over.
“Just checking up on my favourite Point Man. Thanks for the coffee by the way.” Javert gulped back the final dregs of coffee before setting the mug down on the table, and turning to leave. Just as he got to the door, he turned around as if something had just occurred to him, “Oh one last thing.” Arthur had to suppress a snort of derision at that, because really who did he think he was, Columbo? “Don't suppose you've been to Newcastle in the past year or so?”
Another fishing attempt, because Arthur knew there were no records linking him to that particular incident, he'd made sure of it. “New Castle, Pennsylvania?” he asked, picking on of the many places bearing the name out of thin air, and there were quite a few. Hell, he'd have at least half a dozen to choose from in the UK alone.
Javert scowled at not getting the reaction he was hoping for. “Newcastle-upon-Tyne. You know, in merry ol' England.”
Arthur smirked at the man's disappointment, “I try to avoid England if I can help it, can't stand the weather.”
“Figures.” He turned back to leave parting with, “Well goodbye Mr Delacy, I'm sure I'll be in touch.” Offering up a little wave as he left.
Well fuck thought Arthur when the door had finally closed, definitely time to leave LA.
He booked his flight for the end of the week, because the next day would raise all kinds of alarm bells, to Paris first, then to Frankfurt, followed by Dubai before finally meeting up with Cobb in Moscow, each leg of the journey under a different, clean passport, through shell company accounts and forged visas, confusing the trail under layers and layers of misdirection and deception.
++++
Cape Town, April, 2010
“So why do you just grab the man and extract the information, eh? You're wasting our valuable time here.” Arthur winced at the volume of the large South African man's question as he leaned over his shoulder, peering at his notes, far too close to his personal space. It was only the knowledge that killing the client, or any of the client's representatives, was not good business practice that stopped him from committing unspeakable acts of violence at that point. As if it wasn't bad enough that they were working for Cobol fucking Engineering, a company which, based on it's reputation, was unlikely to win employer of the year award any time soon, they had insisted on sending along fucking tourists in with them, a bunch of small minded thugs leaning over their shoulders, second-guessing all their work and generally getting in the way.
Worse, their chief thug, Henderson, a middle-aged blond over-weight man with a distinct hair-growth problem, was far to handsy for Arthur's taste and didn't particularly seem to pay all that much attention to the multitude of subtle and not-so-subtle rebuffs of his attentions.
Restraining the overwhelming urged to add homicide to his list of things to do today, he snapped out, “You hired us to do this job, do you wish for us to do it properly or not?” Polite professionalism had definitely gone out the window by now. Goddamn tourists. He resisted the urge, however, to move away from the man's far too close presence, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of making him twitch.
“Just protecting our interests mate,” he leaned closer and he said so and the sharp retort died on Arthur's lips as, swear to God, he felt a hand appear on his knee.
Arthur snapped, because there was only ever one man who could get away with that sort of thing and Henderson was distinctly not it. He was moving instantly, grabbing the offending limb and twisting it to almost breaking point and using the pressure to force the man back, up against the wall.
“Arthur!” Cobb's voice was sharp and held a distinct warning, more concerned than rebuking him, and Arthur could see the rest of the Cobol thugs that seemed to constantly hanging around and getting under their feet on this job moving towards him with a distinct sense of purpose, reaching for their guns as they did so. Arthur ignored them, they couldn't shoot him, not without risking hitting their employer too, so they were distinctly beneath his concern at this point. Of course that was assuming they weren't too stupid to actually realise this fact, which was entirely possible based on the scintillating examples of intellect Arthur had seen during the fortnight of making their acquaintance.
Looking back into the primary source of his current headache, he hissed through gritted teeth, “Don't touch me”. He putt just that little more pressure on the hand within his grasp and was gratified to see a distinct wince on his victim's face.
“You can't tell me a pretty boy like you isn't interested in that sort of thing.” Henderson, damn him, was smirking despite the pain, a cruel lecherous expression and Arthur could feel the man's arousal at their closeness. The bastard was getting off on this.
He shoved overweight thug back against the wall in disgust, letting go as he did so. “Not from you,” he ground out before stalking out past him, past the goons with guns, and towards the exit of the abandoned storage facility they were using as a base.
“Give me one good reason why we're doing this job?” He hissed as he passed Cobb, ignoring his concerned look and placating gesture.
Judging his mood, Cobb stepped out the way the question on his lips turning instead into a wry, “I can give you half a million.” And wasn't that the problem. Despite whatever else Cobol might be, they were certainly paying handsomely for this particular job, and Cobb needed every penny of it if he was ever the make it back home.
“What's the matter Arthur, can't stand the attention?” Nash called mockingly from his work desk, before he had the chance to respond to Cobb, and not for the first time Arthur cursed their decision to bring him in as an architect. Unfortunately, he was the only architect available, especially after their previous architect Paul, suddenly remembered he had a another appointment lined up when they'd finished their previous job. Cobb seemed to have that effect on team-mates these days, making it difficult for them to keep any sort of architect for more than a couple of jobs.
Even so, that didn't mean he had to make any effort to disguise how much he despised the one architect they could get, even if they would be screwed without him. “Fuck off Nash,” he responded, too angry right now to come up with anything more inventive or cutting, slamming the door behind him as he stalked out, not bothering to wait for the other man's response.
++++
Tokyo, May, 2010
The extraction goes almost entirely as Arthur could have predicted given the run up, which is to say it was a complete and utter fucking disaster. The tourists were exactly as much use as the faceless extras you get in shitty action film, running around like headless chickens, getting in Arthur's way and not even having the decency to die quietly. Goddamn tourists.
It was, in the end however, all for nothing, Mr Kaneda not even having the appropriate information they needed, thanks in no small part to the poor intel given to them by their employers in the first place and Arthur resolutely refuses to take responsibility for not picking that up in his research. Delving deeply into the exact business relationship between Proclos Global's Chief Engineer and the pipeline he had supposedly designed was well beyond the remit of their contract and the time-scale given to them.
Not, of course, that their employers were seeing this in that particular light. No, it appears that Mr Woodruff, their main contact, was of the opinion that since Cobol Engineering had paid for a specific piece of information, the job was no complete until they'd acquired said piece of information, irrespective of the fact that that involved an additional extraction because they'd given them the wrong target to begin with.
At least Cobb had managed to convince them to get rid of the goddamn tourists for the next job, and no, Arthur was not going think of them in any terms that didn't also involve an expletive attached. Of course that didn't change the fact that they were now required to extract information from, based on preliminary research, a trained, experienced, lucid dreamer. Sophisticated, Cobb had said the plan needed to be and there was an understatement. Of course sophisticated didn't need to include this.
“We don't need a forger.” he insisted, the conversation strangely familiar, a memory from a different time, a different place. A lot had happened since Boston, even if it felt like he was often coming round in full circle.
Cobb glared at him, “We don't need a forger or we don't need Eames?” The words were sharp, the argument inevitable given the tensions brewing between them since they started on this job. Cobb's new addition to his otherwise, Arthur would grudgingly admit, sophisticated and well-thought out plan being the breaking point.
“We don't need a forger.” Arthur insisted firmly, and as far as the point man was concerned they really didn't, “We don't have the timescale to bring an additional person up to speed, we especially don't have the required time for a forger to familiarise themselves with the mannerisms of the mistress to the point were the subject is liable to be fooled.” These were all entirely rational arguments and had nothing to do with the fact that the most likely forger would be Eames, Eames who might have half the chance of pulling it off even in the timing available.
Cobb, unfortunately knew this too, “There is no fixed window of opportunity here, the subject takes the bullet train from Tokyo every week-end, we can push this back a week to bring him up to speed. Admit it Arthur, this has everything to do with the fact you don't like working with Eames.”
Still, Arthur was not going to give up without a fight, the stakes this time considerably higher than the previous times they'd had this conversation, “This has nothing to do with that.”
“Bullshit,” Cobb was almost shouting at him now, jabbing his finger at him to make his point, “I wouldn't have thought you to be one to let your personal feelings get in the way of the job.”
Hypocritical fucking bastard, “I'm not the one with the shade of my dead wife wandering around in my head.”
Cobb looked for a moment like he would hit him, which would be a bad idea because at this point, Arthur would probably hit back and that was a fight there was no way the blond man could win. Retraining himself, he hissed, “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Like hell,” Arthur spat, incensed, “she's turning up even when you're not the dreamer now. How long before she starts putting the whole job in jeopardy. So don't you dare talk to me about letting my personal feelings get in the way.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them, the look of pain and loss on the extractors face almost too much to bear. Dammit, he was no good at dealing with this kind of thing.
Cobb stared at him for several moments, angry and hurt until eventually he spat out, “I've got work to do.”
Arthur didn't know how to even begin broaching the topic of unresolved grief haunting the other man, certainly not when Mal's loss was still so raw in his own mind, so instead he fell back on the tried and tested method of ignoring the problem until it went away.
Thankfully, Cobb didn't raise the issue of brining in a forger for the Saito job again.
++++
Paris, June, 2010
Maybe if he'd put aside his petty, no not petty, completely mature and well thought out, objections to bringing in a forger on the job then they wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Realistically however if they had pulled off the job they'd probably be dead in a ditch somewhere, since even if they survived their employers, Saito had shown himself more than ruthless enough to hunt them down in revenge for stealing his secrets.
Instead Cobb had now signed them on to do an impossible task, for a man who no doubt would react to failure in much the same way as Cobol had threatened to do. Fuck, Inception. It simply couldn't be done, it was a myth, a fairytale, the mind simply did not work that way, no matter how sophisticated Cobb's planning.
The sheer enormity of the task was probably why when Cobb announced that he was going to get Eames, Arthur didn't even protest the necessity of getting someone with his skills.
“Eames? He's in Mombassa, that's Cobol's backyard.” He realised as he said it that he was answering Cobb's unspoken question as to the forger's whereabouts. He didn't particularly want to explore the fact that he knew the answer to that question so easily, knowing the whereabouts of other's in their profession was just good business practice, being able to say where they were without even having to think about was something else.
“It's a necessary risk,” Cobb's reply indicated quite clearly he wasn't going to be dissuaded on this point.
Which didn't stop Arthur trying again, “There are other thieves.” As much as he hoped to avoid working with Eames again, because what a fucking disaster that had been last time, even he had to admit that parts of his particularly unique skill-set would be necessary to pull this off.
Cobb was clearly of the same mind, his next words confirming it, “We don't just need a thief, we need a forger.”
Worst thing was he was right. Dammit.
The imminent reunion with the man who had, not so much broken his heart as caused a wall of ice to freeze it to the core, was clearly throwing him off his game. So much so that even their new architect, a young girl called Ariadne, brand new to the world of dreaming, almost as new to the world of architecture and far far too talented at both for her young age, picked it up.
“You don't think its possible do you?” She was staring at him with an intensity he found uncomfortable and something in her eyes he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to explore.
Arthur had always been confident in his sexuality, despite a brief period of denial during his teenage years. Even when in the military, constrained by the Uniform code, he merely suppressed his sexual desires, putting forward an image of stiff, cold, asexuality, rather than try to pretend he was like the rest of the soldiers around him. Not that the asexuality idea worked all the well in the end, hence his current freelance status rather than still being a loyal servant of the US government.
However, he also knew that if he was straight, Ariadne would probably be the type of girl he'd go for. Sweet, caring, immensely intelligent, with a self-confidence to make her own decisions and a forthright willingness to say exactly what was on her mind. As it was, he just took pleasure in her company, her conversation, simple, straightforward interactions with no string attached, at least from his point of view. It was possible that he hadn't entirely considered how his friendly overtures might be interpreted on her side however.
He wasn't certain exactly how to deal with her advances, so, as always, he ignored it and hoped the normally oh so perceptive girl might take a hint from his lack of interest. Instead, he concentrated on the question at hand, considering briefly how to answer it. Eventually he settled for the truth, because lying about these things never helped. “No, no I don't. But Cobb does.”
She processed this for a few moment, before asking, “Where is Cobb anyway?”
That was the second time today he'd heard the question, the first being from Saito, demanding an update on their progress, and so he told her the same thing he'd told the businessman, “Mombassa, acquiring the final member of our team.”
“Eames right? I overheard you guys talking.” She sounded slightly apologetic and partly embarrassed at the admission that after storming out that first time she'd obviously hung around for at least a few minutes to listen to their discussion.
“Yes, Eames.” And something of his feelings about the man must have come through in his response, because after a few moments of silence, Ariadne piped up again with a question.
“You don't like him do you?” The tone was curious more than anything else, clearly trying to find out more about this unknown entity she was going to be asked to work with.
“No I don't. He's obnoxious, loud and unprofessional.” He reeled off the reasons as if reciting from a list, in truth he was, the Why getting involved with Eames was a bad idea list, he had it mentally colour-coded by now and everything.
Of course when Eames actually turned up at the warehouse a week later, he wished he'd written it down, because his traitorous mind was having difficulty remembering a single one. Well, until the forger opened his mouth that is.
++++
Part 6b
Additional notes: Pédé is the french equivalent to fag - so yeah, not a very nice word at all.
On another note - almost done, just one more part to go. I swear I didn't mean for this fic to be so self-indulgently long. Seriously, it'll probably be just under 60,000 words when done, that's almost as long as my Thesis. So thank you all of those who've hung in with me during this and given me lovely feedback, it's really helped keep me going.
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them. I definitely don't own any bits of dialogue in this bit lifted from the film - that's all Nolan's creative genius.
Summary: Eames had never had a relationship that he could measure in years, family excluded of course, until he met Arthur. He suspected Arthur has never had a relationship at all, at least not one involving messy things like emotions.
Word count: 6045
Author's note: This part refers to spoilers for the Cobol Job prequel comic. If you haven't read that yet, why not? Go get it here. I'm also getting into the movie now, apologies for any liberties taken with the dialogue, any errors are entirely my own fault and my failing memories.
Los Angeles, January 2010: Arthur
It's strange how things became a habit after just a few repetitions. Arthur had never celebrated the holiday season as a child, not really. Even before his mother had died, the Christmas period, or Hanukkah depending on which of his parents you asked, had been mostly punctuated by sullen silences, cold sniping and alcohol fuelled arguments often with Arthur and his brother caught in the crossfire.
Afterwards the holidays didn't bear much thinking about, his father inevitably sinking into a deep drunken depression that led to Arthur fleeing the house in a vain attempt to survive the season with all his bones intact. Even his brother generally chose to spend the holidays with whichever current girlfriend he had on the go, Jason no more immune than Arthur from their father's wrath at that time of year.
So to say he was used to being alone at Christmas would be an understatement. Only he wasn't anymore, because for the past few years he'd spent his holidays surrounded by others. First Mal and Cobb, the Frenchwoman having been positively scandalised upon hearing that his plans for the season involved Chinese take-out and an early night and had insisted he spend it with them. Then these last two years with Eames, engaging in that strange dance they'd had, the one that had come brutally crashing to a halt barely two months ago.
Which had left him this year bereft of plans, or company, for the season a cruel reminder of what he'd had and lost.
Cobb had chosen to hide out in Moscow with clear intentions to celebrate the season at the bottom of a bottle since he couldn't spend it with his family. Arthur had considered staying with him, possibly to stop him doing something stupid but more likely to keep him company in his drunken stupor of grief and loss. But he'd never been good at dealing with emotions, his own or other people's, and he suspected his company would probably only exacerbate the cycle of depression. More, he'd seen the way Cobb's eyes had lit up at his off-hand suggestion of maybe heading back to LA and the children's gifts in the extractors hotel room which he hadn't quite managed to bring himself to ask Arthur to deliver.
So instead of spending the holiday drowning his sorrows, Arthur finds himself travelling to LA on the 25th. Travelling at any point around Christmas was generally torturous, but Christmas day, Arthur soon decided, was especially so. It wasn't that it was particularly crowded, certainly not compared to other points in the season. If anything there was this eerie quiet, fellow passengers in business class consisting almost exclusively of middle-aged family men, trying desperately to get home or younger go-getters to whom the idea of a life outside of work was a foreign country. But worse even that the depressive mood from those around him was the god-awful false cheer the airline staff seemed determined to subject all the passengers too, as if bad Christmas music and the addition of a sprig of tinsel here and there could make up for the fact that they were travelling on the day that most people were spending at home with loved ones.
Despite his exhaustion upon landing he made sure to visit the Cobb house, before even heading home, to ensure the presents, carried without needing to be asked, were delivered promptly on time, because to a four year old the precise day still carried with it all the weight of importance that the sappy Hollywood fare would have people believe.
Phillipa greeted him with a muted exuberance, albeit brightening up when she saw the gifts he was laden with. Pretty soon she was peppering him with questions about where Daddy was, when he was coming home, whilst James looked on in wide-eyed silence, the toys he was unwrapping forgotten in favour of the all important answer's to his sister's barrage of questions. Arthur tried to answer as best he could, wanting to reassure them but unsure how much he could, or should, tell them and unwilling to make promises neither he nor Cobb would be able to keep.
Miles, who had made it back from Paris to spend time with his wife and grand-children, welcomed him as best he could despite the awkwardness of their relative positions, he as Mal's father and Arthur as the best friend of the man accused of killing her. Not that Miles believed that Cobb had actually committed the murder, aware as much as anyone of how bad Mal was by the end, of what PASIV tech could do if you go to far, too deep. From what Arthur had understood of their relationship, the older man had been a mentor to Cobb for longer than he and Mal had been together, and effectively loosing his son-in-law, to the wrong side of the law, to the world of underground dreaming, must have been almost as deep a blow as the loss of his daughter.
His wife, Etienne, was another matter altogether, glaring at him with something akin to disapproval, constantly hovering in the background whenever he was with the children and never leaving him alone for more than a few minutes. At first he'd thought it was because of his association with Cobb and it was clear that she did not share her husband's affection for her son-in-law, blaming him squarely for his daughter's death, whether he'd pushed her or no, and making no secret of the fact. But it soon became clear that was not the case, or at least not entirely the reason.
“Uncle Arthur,” Phillipa questioned one morning when he was visiting, looking up from the floor where she was carefully applying a bright red pen to one of the exotic colouring books he'd brought back for her from Malaysia. “What's a pédé?”
Arthur choked and glanced around quickly to see if Etienne was around to hear her use such language. She wasn't for once, although he could hear her moving around in the kitchen, making tea no doubt, a habit picked up from her English born husband. Searching around desperately for how to deal with the topic, he tried to buy for time, “Where did you hear that word?” He winced at the sharpness in the question, because she didn't deserve that, but the question had caught him completely off-guard.
Phillipa chewed her pen slightly, looking a bit sheepish, “I over-heard Grandma talking to Grandpa in the kitchen. She was saying that she didn't feel comfortable with you visiting because you were a pédé and that people like that shouldn't around 'the children'” She rushed through the words, clearly nervous about telling him this, but also something that worried her and Arthur had to suppress the urge to march into the kitchen and ask Etienne what, exactly, she thought she was saying around the children. “Which is silly, because you're Uncle Arthur!” The last bit was said as if that simple statement explained everything.
He floundered for a moment, finding it somewhat ironic that he could face down armed projections intent on ripping him limb from limb with barely a flicker but asked a slightly uncomfortable question by a four year old and he was lost. There were times when he was forever thankful that he'd never be in danger of having any children of his own, at least not without considerable effort on his part, and this was distinctly one of them.
Finally, because he never believed in lying to children, he replied, “Pédé is a very hateful word for being gay, which is when a man prefers to have a relationship with another man instead of with a woman.” He desperately hoped she wouldn't ask for more details, because he wasn't certain his embarrassment could quite stand it.
Luckily, Phillipa just nodded, “Like Lucy who sits opposite me in class and her two daddies then?” like that explained everything and maybe it did.
“Yes, something like that,” he eventually replied, somewhat bemused, and gratified, by the easy acceptance of the very young. He just strongly hoped that she wouldn't come to inherit her grandmother's bigotry over time, although if she was anything like her mother, he doubted it, Mal being one of the most open-minded and accepting people he'd ever met.
Phillipa seemed to contemplate the information for a few moments, before asking solemnly, “Does this means I will have two Uncles some day?”
“Maybe,” but he couldn't quite bring the smile to his lips at that one.
++++
Despite the fact he'd only been in LA for a few days at most, by the time New Years was nearly upon him, Arthur was distinctly considering leaving again. In part this was to do with the cold stand-off which had developed between himself and Etienne whenever he visited the Cobb's, despite Miles' best efforts to smooth things over, an apologetic “She's a bit old-fashioned about things sometimes, but her heart's in the right place,” indicating that he was more than aware of what the issue was. In part, his new-found itchy feet was also because he'd spent the last few days trying to avoid Mrs Grayson from the floor below and her insistence he attend their annual New Years Eve party again, since he'd clearly 'enjoyed himself immensely two years ago, and wasn't it a shame he hadn't been around last year'. He really would have to 'thank' Eames properly for that one. Painfully. If, of course, he ever saw the forger again which if he had any choice in the matter he most certainly wouldn't.
Mostly however, he was starting to get restless, inactivity never having sat well with him, his holidays often few and far between. He'd already lined up the next job, with a meeting with the client on the 12th, and considerable legwork which could be done before then, not to mention finding a new architect, because there was no way in hell was he allowing Cobb to design the levels again. He was not, despite what some people might say that much of a masochist.
His decision was hastened when he arrived back at his apartment complex on the morning of the 2nd, Grayson New Year's Eve party thankfully avoided by this point, to see a, becoming far too familiar, figure leaning against the door. He considered his options briefly, before choosing to just continue walking up to his appartment. This identity was clean as he could make it and there was no need to raise unnecessary suspicion by suddenly changing walking patterns or acting as if he had something to hide. After all, if the man actually had something on him, he doubted very much he'd just be casually leaning against the door instead of bringing a whole SWAT team with him.
“Inspector Javert,” he greeted the man, smirking as he saw the waiting FBI agent twitch and glare him, an ugly expression on his craggy face.
“Agent Javert,” the man in question snapped, the pronunciation harsher, more anglicised, and with a distinct emphasis on the title.
Arthur shrugged, the smirk still on his face. “My mistake,” he replied casually as he unlocked the door and pushed quickly past Javert into the apartment complex, leaving the man scrambling to catch the door before it slammed in his face.
“How's your god-daughter?” Javert asked once he caught up to his at the lifts, only slightly out of breath.
Arthur didn't twitch at the question, keeping his face impassive as he stabbed at the elevator button in a vain attempt to get it to turn up quicker. It wasn't, after all, overly surprising that the Cobb house might be under surveillance, the authorities no doubt keeping an eye out in case he managed to somehow sneak back into the country and try to contact his children. Which pretty much scuppered Arthur's plans to develop a watertight new identity to get Cobb through customs. Of course, it could have just been a lucky guess, an obvious deduction given how infrequently he made it back to the city and how close away his god-daughter was, but he wasn't willing to take that chance with Cobb's freedom, not until the search had truly died down.
Undeterred, the FBI agent continued, mock sympathy in his tone “Must be so hard on her, mother dead, father a murderer. Fled the country last I heard, clear admission of guilt if you ask me.”
Arthur knew the other man was baiting him, trying to ruffle his feathers. Unfortunately for him, Arthur had had his feather's ruffled by far more talented, not to mention infuriating, annoying and far too attractive for their own good, individuals, well individual, that this was amateur hour in comparison. So instead of the desired reaction he just smirked, condescension clear in his tone as he responded “Isn't a simple domestic murder was a bit beneath you?”
The elevator choose that moment to arrive, the dinging causing pause in the conversation long enough for Arthur to board quickly, not bothering to check if Javert was following. He was of course, pushing the button for Arthur's floor before he got a chance to, prick. The FBI agent smirked at his obvious annoyance, answering the question as he did so. “It was, until I found out who was his best man at his wedding.”
“I suppose I should be flattered,” he responded drily. It was almost amusing how obvious, how desperate the man was to catch him out.
Nonetheless, the FBI agent continued his fishing trip, “Of course Cobb's making quite a name for himself in the world of illegal dreamsharing.”
It was a struggle to keep his face impassive at that, the urge to smirk almost overwhelming, because really, did he truly think that he was going to catch him out with that. “Is he? I didn't know.”
“Really, you didn't? That's strange, because Cobb is known to work with a point man called Arthur.” He paused in a way he no doubt meant to be loaded, but failed miserable, “Arthur.”
Arthur shrugged, responding mildly, “It's a common name.” They'd arrived at Arthur apartment, and he decided to take mercy on the clearly out of his league agent by inviting him in for coffee, or tea when he belatedly remembered that Eames had left a box of PG Tips after the last time he'd stayed. An offer he quickly accepted, making small-talk about the weather as Arthur rummaged around the kitchen for mugs and sugar.
Once Javert had a mug of steaming coffee and was leaning against the counter-top, he finally asked. “What is it you claim to do again?”
Another blatant fishing attempt, “I don't claim to do anything. What I actually do is work as a security consultant. I'm pretty certain we went over this the last time you pulled me in for a round of ridiculous questioning.”
It was, unfortunately, beginning to become a regular experience, the 'star' agent of the FBI's new mind-crime division clearly wanting to make his name by nailing one of the most infamous point men in the extraction business. He'd even come close to making something stick a couple of time, so much so that Arthur had taken to making sure he was always several steps ahead, covering his tracks even more carefully than usually, and ensuring that Cobb stayed even more steps ahead, because the extractor had no real clue about doing it himself even at the best of times.
“Strange, was chatting with a few of your neighbours, they said you worked in IT.” Javert sounded satisfied, like he'd finally got something over him.
Thank you Eames., he thought with a level of exasperation. He didn't however blink at being caught in the lie, pushing ahead with it instead, because sometimes the best bet was just to keep on lying, “Yes, IT Security.” Interjecting into his voice just the right level of scorn to convey that clearly the man was being ever so slow for not keeping up. It was a tone he'd perfected over the years of working with Eames, condescension to counter the forger's cutting mockery.
“Really, because for a simple security consultant, sorry IT security consultant, you certainly have some interesting friends, Dom Cobb, James Eames. Actually those are the only two aren't they?” The jibe was clearly meant to provoke a reaction, and it did, but probably not for the reasons the man was expecting.
“My friends are hardly any of your business,” he snapped hotly, off-balance at the mention of the forger, even as he knew the name must have come from his neighbours, Eames introducing himself far too freely over the time he'd stayed there.
“Oh but I think they are. After all, how did a simple IT guy get to meet such a colourful character as James Eames, who I might point out, has more than a few warrants out for him in various States.” That was hardly surprising, as worrying as the information may be, not of course that he cared, well maybe a little. Not that he'd ever admit it, but despite the fact that Arthur knew full well the forger was more than capable of taking care of himself, he couldn't help but feel a wash of dread seeped through him at the thought of the Brit ending up in jail.
Finally he answered the question. “In a bar,” because it was, ultimately, the truth.
“A bar? Really Mr Delacy you can do better than that.” Now the man had gone past fishing and into provocation, clearly attempting to exploit whatever vulnerability he thought he saw and draw a rise out of him.
Please, Arthur had kept his cool under considerably stronger provocation than this. Pointedly finishing his own drink and setting it down on the table, he asked “Was there something specific you wanted to ask me about or did you just come round for a chat? Because if it's the latter, I have work to do.” He straightened up in a clear indication that the conversation was now over.
“Just checking up on my favourite Point Man. Thanks for the coffee by the way.” Javert gulped back the final dregs of coffee before setting the mug down on the table, and turning to leave. Just as he got to the door, he turned around as if something had just occurred to him, “Oh one last thing.” Arthur had to suppress a snort of derision at that, because really who did he think he was, Columbo? “Don't suppose you've been to Newcastle in the past year or so?”
Another fishing attempt, because Arthur knew there were no records linking him to that particular incident, he'd made sure of it. “New Castle, Pennsylvania?” he asked, picking on of the many places bearing the name out of thin air, and there were quite a few. Hell, he'd have at least half a dozen to choose from in the UK alone.
Javert scowled at not getting the reaction he was hoping for. “Newcastle-upon-Tyne. You know, in merry ol' England.”
Arthur smirked at the man's disappointment, “I try to avoid England if I can help it, can't stand the weather.”
“Figures.” He turned back to leave parting with, “Well goodbye Mr Delacy, I'm sure I'll be in touch.” Offering up a little wave as he left.
Well fuck thought Arthur when the door had finally closed, definitely time to leave LA.
He booked his flight for the end of the week, because the next day would raise all kinds of alarm bells, to Paris first, then to Frankfurt, followed by Dubai before finally meeting up with Cobb in Moscow, each leg of the journey under a different, clean passport, through shell company accounts and forged visas, confusing the trail under layers and layers of misdirection and deception.
++++
Cape Town, April, 2010
“So why do you just grab the man and extract the information, eh? You're wasting our valuable time here.” Arthur winced at the volume of the large South African man's question as he leaned over his shoulder, peering at his notes, far too close to his personal space. It was only the knowledge that killing the client, or any of the client's representatives, was not good business practice that stopped him from committing unspeakable acts of violence at that point. As if it wasn't bad enough that they were working for Cobol fucking Engineering, a company which, based on it's reputation, was unlikely to win employer of the year award any time soon, they had insisted on sending along fucking tourists in with them, a bunch of small minded thugs leaning over their shoulders, second-guessing all their work and generally getting in the way.
Worse, their chief thug, Henderson, a middle-aged blond over-weight man with a distinct hair-growth problem, was far to handsy for Arthur's taste and didn't particularly seem to pay all that much attention to the multitude of subtle and not-so-subtle rebuffs of his attentions.
Restraining the overwhelming urged to add homicide to his list of things to do today, he snapped out, “You hired us to do this job, do you wish for us to do it properly or not?” Polite professionalism had definitely gone out the window by now. Goddamn tourists. He resisted the urge, however, to move away from the man's far too close presence, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of making him twitch.
“Just protecting our interests mate,” he leaned closer and he said so and the sharp retort died on Arthur's lips as, swear to God, he felt a hand appear on his knee.
Arthur snapped, because there was only ever one man who could get away with that sort of thing and Henderson was distinctly not it. He was moving instantly, grabbing the offending limb and twisting it to almost breaking point and using the pressure to force the man back, up against the wall.
“Arthur!” Cobb's voice was sharp and held a distinct warning, more concerned than rebuking him, and Arthur could see the rest of the Cobol thugs that seemed to constantly hanging around and getting under their feet on this job moving towards him with a distinct sense of purpose, reaching for their guns as they did so. Arthur ignored them, they couldn't shoot him, not without risking hitting their employer too, so they were distinctly beneath his concern at this point. Of course that was assuming they weren't too stupid to actually realise this fact, which was entirely possible based on the scintillating examples of intellect Arthur had seen during the fortnight of making their acquaintance.
Looking back into the primary source of his current headache, he hissed through gritted teeth, “Don't touch me”. He putt just that little more pressure on the hand within his grasp and was gratified to see a distinct wince on his victim's face.
“You can't tell me a pretty boy like you isn't interested in that sort of thing.” Henderson, damn him, was smirking despite the pain, a cruel lecherous expression and Arthur could feel the man's arousal at their closeness. The bastard was getting off on this.
He shoved overweight thug back against the wall in disgust, letting go as he did so. “Not from you,” he ground out before stalking out past him, past the goons with guns, and towards the exit of the abandoned storage facility they were using as a base.
“Give me one good reason why we're doing this job?” He hissed as he passed Cobb, ignoring his concerned look and placating gesture.
Judging his mood, Cobb stepped out the way the question on his lips turning instead into a wry, “I can give you half a million.” And wasn't that the problem. Despite whatever else Cobol might be, they were certainly paying handsomely for this particular job, and Cobb needed every penny of it if he was ever the make it back home.
“What's the matter Arthur, can't stand the attention?” Nash called mockingly from his work desk, before he had the chance to respond to Cobb, and not for the first time Arthur cursed their decision to bring him in as an architect. Unfortunately, he was the only architect available, especially after their previous architect Paul, suddenly remembered he had a another appointment lined up when they'd finished their previous job. Cobb seemed to have that effect on team-mates these days, making it difficult for them to keep any sort of architect for more than a couple of jobs.
Even so, that didn't mean he had to make any effort to disguise how much he despised the one architect they could get, even if they would be screwed without him. “Fuck off Nash,” he responded, too angry right now to come up with anything more inventive or cutting, slamming the door behind him as he stalked out, not bothering to wait for the other man's response.
++++
Tokyo, May, 2010
The extraction goes almost entirely as Arthur could have predicted given the run up, which is to say it was a complete and utter fucking disaster. The tourists were exactly as much use as the faceless extras you get in shitty action film, running around like headless chickens, getting in Arthur's way and not even having the decency to die quietly. Goddamn tourists.
It was, in the end however, all for nothing, Mr Kaneda not even having the appropriate information they needed, thanks in no small part to the poor intel given to them by their employers in the first place and Arthur resolutely refuses to take responsibility for not picking that up in his research. Delving deeply into the exact business relationship between Proclos Global's Chief Engineer and the pipeline he had supposedly designed was well beyond the remit of their contract and the time-scale given to them.
Not, of course, that their employers were seeing this in that particular light. No, it appears that Mr Woodruff, their main contact, was of the opinion that since Cobol Engineering had paid for a specific piece of information, the job was no complete until they'd acquired said piece of information, irrespective of the fact that that involved an additional extraction because they'd given them the wrong target to begin with.
At least Cobb had managed to convince them to get rid of the goddamn tourists for the next job, and no, Arthur was not going think of them in any terms that didn't also involve an expletive attached. Of course that didn't change the fact that they were now required to extract information from, based on preliminary research, a trained, experienced, lucid dreamer. Sophisticated, Cobb had said the plan needed to be and there was an understatement. Of course sophisticated didn't need to include this.
“We don't need a forger.” he insisted, the conversation strangely familiar, a memory from a different time, a different place. A lot had happened since Boston, even if it felt like he was often coming round in full circle.
Cobb glared at him, “We don't need a forger or we don't need Eames?” The words were sharp, the argument inevitable given the tensions brewing between them since they started on this job. Cobb's new addition to his otherwise, Arthur would grudgingly admit, sophisticated and well-thought out plan being the breaking point.
“We don't need a forger.” Arthur insisted firmly, and as far as the point man was concerned they really didn't, “We don't have the timescale to bring an additional person up to speed, we especially don't have the required time for a forger to familiarise themselves with the mannerisms of the mistress to the point were the subject is liable to be fooled.” These were all entirely rational arguments and had nothing to do with the fact that the most likely forger would be Eames, Eames who might have half the chance of pulling it off even in the timing available.
Cobb, unfortunately knew this too, “There is no fixed window of opportunity here, the subject takes the bullet train from Tokyo every week-end, we can push this back a week to bring him up to speed. Admit it Arthur, this has everything to do with the fact you don't like working with Eames.”
Still, Arthur was not going to give up without a fight, the stakes this time considerably higher than the previous times they'd had this conversation, “This has nothing to do with that.”
“Bullshit,” Cobb was almost shouting at him now, jabbing his finger at him to make his point, “I wouldn't have thought you to be one to let your personal feelings get in the way of the job.”
Hypocritical fucking bastard, “I'm not the one with the shade of my dead wife wandering around in my head.”
Cobb looked for a moment like he would hit him, which would be a bad idea because at this point, Arthur would probably hit back and that was a fight there was no way the blond man could win. Retraining himself, he hissed, “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Like hell,” Arthur spat, incensed, “she's turning up even when you're not the dreamer now. How long before she starts putting the whole job in jeopardy. So don't you dare talk to me about letting my personal feelings get in the way.” He regretted the words as soon as he said them, the look of pain and loss on the extractors face almost too much to bear. Dammit, he was no good at dealing with this kind of thing.
Cobb stared at him for several moments, angry and hurt until eventually he spat out, “I've got work to do.”
Arthur didn't know how to even begin broaching the topic of unresolved grief haunting the other man, certainly not when Mal's loss was still so raw in his own mind, so instead he fell back on the tried and tested method of ignoring the problem until it went away.
Thankfully, Cobb didn't raise the issue of brining in a forger for the Saito job again.
++++
Paris, June, 2010
Maybe if he'd put aside his petty, no not petty, completely mature and well thought out, objections to bringing in a forger on the job then they wouldn't be in this mess to begin with. Realistically however if they had pulled off the job they'd probably be dead in a ditch somewhere, since even if they survived their employers, Saito had shown himself more than ruthless enough to hunt them down in revenge for stealing his secrets.
Instead Cobb had now signed them on to do an impossible task, for a man who no doubt would react to failure in much the same way as Cobol had threatened to do. Fuck, Inception. It simply couldn't be done, it was a myth, a fairytale, the mind simply did not work that way, no matter how sophisticated Cobb's planning.
The sheer enormity of the task was probably why when Cobb announced that he was going to get Eames, Arthur didn't even protest the necessity of getting someone with his skills.
“Eames? He's in Mombassa, that's Cobol's backyard.” He realised as he said it that he was answering Cobb's unspoken question as to the forger's whereabouts. He didn't particularly want to explore the fact that he knew the answer to that question so easily, knowing the whereabouts of other's in their profession was just good business practice, being able to say where they were without even having to think about was something else.
“It's a necessary risk,” Cobb's reply indicated quite clearly he wasn't going to be dissuaded on this point.
Which didn't stop Arthur trying again, “There are other thieves.” As much as he hoped to avoid working with Eames again, because what a fucking disaster that had been last time, even he had to admit that parts of his particularly unique skill-set would be necessary to pull this off.
Cobb was clearly of the same mind, his next words confirming it, “We don't just need a thief, we need a forger.”
Worst thing was he was right. Dammit.
The imminent reunion with the man who had, not so much broken his heart as caused a wall of ice to freeze it to the core, was clearly throwing him off his game. So much so that even their new architect, a young girl called Ariadne, brand new to the world of dreaming, almost as new to the world of architecture and far far too talented at both for her young age, picked it up.
“You don't think its possible do you?” She was staring at him with an intensity he found uncomfortable and something in her eyes he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to explore.
Arthur had always been confident in his sexuality, despite a brief period of denial during his teenage years. Even when in the military, constrained by the Uniform code, he merely suppressed his sexual desires, putting forward an image of stiff, cold, asexuality, rather than try to pretend he was like the rest of the soldiers around him. Not that the asexuality idea worked all the well in the end, hence his current freelance status rather than still being a loyal servant of the US government.
However, he also knew that if he was straight, Ariadne would probably be the type of girl he'd go for. Sweet, caring, immensely intelligent, with a self-confidence to make her own decisions and a forthright willingness to say exactly what was on her mind. As it was, he just took pleasure in her company, her conversation, simple, straightforward interactions with no string attached, at least from his point of view. It was possible that he hadn't entirely considered how his friendly overtures might be interpreted on her side however.
He wasn't certain exactly how to deal with her advances, so, as always, he ignored it and hoped the normally oh so perceptive girl might take a hint from his lack of interest. Instead, he concentrated on the question at hand, considering briefly how to answer it. Eventually he settled for the truth, because lying about these things never helped. “No, no I don't. But Cobb does.”
She processed this for a few moment, before asking, “Where is Cobb anyway?”
That was the second time today he'd heard the question, the first being from Saito, demanding an update on their progress, and so he told her the same thing he'd told the businessman, “Mombassa, acquiring the final member of our team.”
“Eames right? I overheard you guys talking.” She sounded slightly apologetic and partly embarrassed at the admission that after storming out that first time she'd obviously hung around for at least a few minutes to listen to their discussion.
“Yes, Eames.” And something of his feelings about the man must have come through in his response, because after a few moments of silence, Ariadne piped up again with a question.
“You don't like him do you?” The tone was curious more than anything else, clearly trying to find out more about this unknown entity she was going to be asked to work with.
“No I don't. He's obnoxious, loud and unprofessional.” He reeled off the reasons as if reciting from a list, in truth he was, the Why getting involved with Eames was a bad idea list, he had it mentally colour-coded by now and everything.
Of course when Eames actually turned up at the warehouse a week later, he wished he'd written it down, because his traitorous mind was having difficulty remembering a single one. Well, until the forger opened his mouth that is.
++++
Part 6b
Additional notes: Pédé is the french equivalent to fag - so yeah, not a very nice word at all.
On another note - almost done, just one more part to go. I swear I didn't mean for this fic to be so self-indulgently long. Seriously, it'll probably be just under 60,000 words when done, that's almost as long as my Thesis. So thank you all of those who've hung in with me during this and given me lovely feedback, it's really helped keep me going.