Fic: The man who had only dreams 6b/6b
Title: The Man Who Had Only Dreams part 6b
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13 (possibly R for some of the language)
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.
Warnings: Not beta'd
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: 7369
Author's notes: Final part at last, all done. Thank you for all those sticking me through it and if you've been waiting to read it all in one go - well what are you waiting for.
Mombassa, June, 2010: Eames
Eames momentarily gave serious consideration to turning Cobb down when he'd arrived on his doorstep, well local casino, which was almost the same thing these days, with a job offer. Or for that matter possibly even turning him in, if nothing else than for that quip about his spelling. Honestly, it had been one time, and its not even as if the immigration officer would have noticed it, his English being what it was, if it wasn't for the snot nosed kid behind him, who was distinctly not staying behind the red line as it was supposed to, pointing out the mistake.
Considered it, but ultimately rejected the idea. He wasn't quite so desperate for cash, yet, as to completely burn his bridges with the best extractor in the business.
He certainly rejected the notion when he heard what Cobb was trying to do. Inception, the holy grail of their profession, the impossible dream, so to speak. It wasn't particularly surprising to hear Cobb say that Arthur thought it was impossible, the man thought like an engineer, or a soldier, firmly rooted in the defined. Personally, Eames always considered the term impossible to be a challenge by people lacking the ability to think effectively outside of the box more than anything else.
“Ah, Arthur,” he drawled, as if the name, the man really meant nothing to him, “still working with that stick in the mud?” The question was more to buy time than anything else and it was a stupid really because of course Cobb was still working with Arthur.
Cobb clearly thought so too because he smiled indulgently at him, clearing believing that the question was just yet another in a long line of snipes and digs in the antagonistic relationship they shared. “Hey, he's good at what he does right?” Cobb really had no clue and clearly Arthur hadn't been of a mind to enlighten him.
“Oh he's the best,” Eames had to agree, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice, despite everything else, because Arthur truly was the best. Eames hadn't found another point man who came even close and still had a couple of the bruises to proove it. So of course Cobb was still working with him, when you found a point man that skilled, that loyal his mind supplied bitterly, you didn't let them go easily. And no, Eames wasn't at all jealous about that. Not at all. Honest.
Wasn't that just the problem though. He'd worked hard these past few months to get the point man out of his mind, spending Christmas with his family for the first time in year, his mother's insistence finally winning out over his sister's concerns, and he had to admit it was possible that she may have been at least partially right when he had a particularly close call whilst passing through Heathrow.
After that, he'd lost himself in the world's backwaters and tinpot dictatorships, making no real secret of his location but heading to places Arthur wouldn't visit voluntarily, places he was unlikely to visit in the course of his work. Cobb, after all, preferring to stick to high-end corporate espionage than the more dirty, though no less lucrative, jobs found in the less civilised parts of the world.
Yes, he knew full well his tactic of both avoiding the man and hoping he'd come find him was perverse, but damned if he was going to make the first move and apologise. It was, after all, Arthur who'd finally pulled the plug and ended the thing.
However, it appeared that Arthur only believed in tracking him down around half the world when it was Eames stupidity that was causing problems, not his own. So, whilst he was resolutely not waiting for Arthur to admit he was an idiot, shame that Hell was still being resolutely flame-filled at the moment, he took advantage of the loose gambling laws that came with the generally lawless nature of his haunts and engaged in far too many one-night stands, both probably far more than what would be considered healthy by any normal person. It was not at all to assure himself that despite the fact that at just over a year, and yes he was counting from that kiss in the hospital, ut had been the longest relationship he'd ever had and that however superb, fabulous, nay, mind-blowing the sex with Arthur had been, that was all it had been.
Well, he always had been a good liar, even, especially to himself.
Eventually thought he did agree to do the job, because frankly how the hell couldn't he? The challenge of the impossible was just far too powerful for him to resist.
Of course, if they were going to do this, they were going to do it properly, and that meant a chemist, a good one, because Eames had suffered far too many bad trips at the hands of far too many bad ones to leave that choice up to anyone else.. Lucky for Cobb that Eames knew just the person.
Yusuf was good at what he did, could make sedatives like no one's business. Could make other things too, and Eames had spent many a happy hour, evening, day even, watching the pink elephants go by thanks to the Indian-born chemist's particular brand of skill. Of course it also helped that he was a mate, and frankly up against Arthur and the no doubt cool indifference, if not downright overt condescension, he would present him with, well, he could do with all the moral support he could get.
++++
Paris, June, 2010
Turning up at the warehouse, after a short information gathering detour via Sydney of course, the first thought to strike Eames was that Arthur looked good, fuck he looked fabulous. He was dressed in perfectly tailored three-piece suit, dark grey on top of a red shirt which did everything to show of his lithe figure. Albeit by the time of his arrival in the middle of the day, the jacket had gravitated to the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up and tie slightly askew in that way which indicated that Arthur had probably been spending most of the day attempting to collate vast amounts of mostly useless data into something resembling intelligence which could actually be used.
The sight was far more appealing than it had any right to be and Eames traitorous body reacted almost instantly to the sight, despite all instructions to the contrary. This wasn't helped by the strange look in Arthur's eyes as he caught the forgers' gaze upon entering, something which, if he didn't know very much better, Eames would almost place as longing.
“Arthur, looking as radiant as ever I see,” he greeting him, smirking as he did so in that way he knew was guaranteed to get under the point man's skin, taking an almost juvenile pleasure at the downright glacial glare he received in return.
Any sort of longing had long disappeared now from Arthur's face, replaced with a familiar look of tight annoyance. “Mr Eames, nice of you to finally make it, only five hours after your plane landed,” his tone which indicating that not only was it anything but, but also that if Eames had managed to get into some sort of horrific accident on the way from the airport and ended up in hospital instead then that would be infinitely preferable to his current presence.
In sum, this was going entirely as well as Eames had envisioned.
“I had to find a hotel, or is that not allowed now?” And yes, maybe consciously baiting the point man wasn't exactly helping, but then no one had ever accused Eames of being mature when it came to his relationships.
The narrowed eyes of Arthur's glare indicated quite clearly that no, it wasn't allowed, but even he couldn't actually bring himself to say that. Instead, he made a small sound of what could have been disgust or maybe even simply dismissal, before pointedly turning back to his work, every economical, precise movement indicating quite clearly exactly how much he was ignoring Eames's presence. Ah, so that was how he was planning on playing this.
It was a tactical error. Eames hated being ignored, had since childhood and the realisation that as the middle child, he would never have the privilege of being either the son and heir, or the spoiled position of being the baby of the family. Although, of course, that might have been because his sister was, well, a girl, and thus subject to less of the demands of manhood that modernity still hadn't managed to beat out of the British aristocracy.
In his pointed ignoring of the forger's presence, Arthur might as well have been waving a red flag in front of a bull, causing Eames to forgo his original plan of careful avoidance and instead push, tease and bait the point man back in a clear attempt to provoke a reaction.
It was a task Eames was particularly skilled at, if he may say so himself. .
“Those are my files, Eames.” Arthur was glaribg daggers at him as he leaned over the point man to snag one of them from the middle of the pile, holding his pen in such a way as to indicate that it wasn't just his eyes that could be sharp and pointed.
“What about them, d... Arthur,” Eames almost slipped back into old habits, despite the vow he'd made to himself for the sake of his sanity, the avoid calling Arthur anything besides his name, well with the exception of maybe a few choice expletives when the situation called for it.
Nonetheless, a brief expression of what could be hurt, or maybe loss, crossed the point man's face at the slip, before the same pinched, glare returned, “My files, Eames.” As if that illustrated his point, although with said files now spilled all over the table, any sort of ordering long gone, maybe it did.
Still, Eames knew there was nothing guaranteed to annoy Arthur more than wilful obtuseness. “Really? So they are.” he exclaimed, as if he'd only just noticed the fact. And he grinned as he fancied he could hear the pen crack slightly under the pressure of Arthur's grip, a sure sign of his annoyance.
After a few minutes thought the point man managed to compose himself, the hard glare replaced with a smirk reeking of condescension, an expression as calculated to bait Eames, as much as Eames' own was designed to do to Arthur. “Ah, we're into acting like a child then today. You'll excuse me if I don't indulge, some of us actually have work to do.”
Arrogant, stuck-up, wanker.
In fact, condescension seemed to be Arthur's default reaction now, even, no especially when it came to the job, his view of Eames' professionalism made very clear. Which frankly was downright unfair, because despite outward appearances, Eames did take considerable pride in his work. Of course, on occasion even Arthur had to admit he had a good idea or two.
“So he gives himself the idea?” and Eames couldn't help but feek a stab of satisfaction at the faint, very faint, spark of admiration in Arthur's voice as he mentally worked his way through the plan the forger had just outlined, no doubt stress-testing it in his mind, trying to find any holes, any flaws that may come back and bite them later. Well, it was his job, so Eames couldn't exactly resent that too much.
“Precisely. That's the only way it will stick, he has to see himself generate it.” The idea had in fact come from Arthur originally, Arthur and his ridiculous allegories to large grey mastodons as a way of pointing out how people always know the genus of their ideas.
The moment of professionalism didn't last, however, Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking back in full force, “Well Eames, I'm impressed.” Git.
Eames gave him a mocking smile back, because his pride wouldn't let him scream in frustration, “Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated Arthur. Thank you.” The smirk of course, didn't budge, but Eames thought for a moment he might have a imagined a brief flash of hurt during his response.
++++
“So what exactly does a point man do?” The question emerged out of the lips of the new architect that Cobb had managed to pick up somewhere, possibly kindergarten, a sardonic part of his mind supplied, because really, when had 20 started seeming quite so young. And she was young, young and oh-so-painfully new to the world of shared dreaming and illegal extraction, despite whatever natural brilliance she might have with manipulating the dreamscape to her ends.
The question, he'd admit, caught him off guard, and ended up replying with a highly inventive, “What?” Because the answer was so obvious to him after years in the business, a point man was, well, on point. Which, he reflected, probably explained absolutely nothing to anyone not approaching the business from either criminal or military world.
“A Point Man? I mean I get where Architect's come in, we're there to design the dreamscape right? Since you can't build from memories. The Chemist makes the drugs, obviously, the sedatives and such, which keep people under, and the Extractor actually steals the information, sorta like a con artist. I even get the whole forgery thing, now” she looked slightly uncomfortable on that last one, embarrassed. Eames had to smirk at that, his demonstration of his skills having obviously been very convincing. Arthur, on the other hand, had not been amused. “But what exactly does a point man do?”
“Shouldn't you be asking Arthur this?” he asked somewhat surprised she'd come to him at all, especially given how well she and the point man seemed to get on. Not ,of course, that he was jealous, not like that at least. After all if Arthur knew what the hell to do with a vagina in bed, Eames would eat his shirt. But, if he was being honest with himself their easy friendship was somewhat painful to watch, the way that she elicited honest smiles of amusement from the man, instead of the cold glares or arrogant smirks Eames seemed destined to produce.
Ariadne rolled her eyes as his question, “I did. He said, 'whatever Cobb tells him to.' I think I may have caught him at a bad time.”
“Ah, was Arthur having one of his snits then.,” Eames asked knowingly, and in a way it was gratifying to know he wasn't the only one to end up on the receiving end, although he'd heard a rumour about some pretty spectacular blow ups at Cobb too.
That comment got him a wry look, which he took as affirmation. “So?” she demanded impatiently, and Eames had bite down the urge to inform her that all good things come to those who wait because torturing the poor girl any longer would just be cruel.
“Since you asked so nicely. A point man takes point,” he offered, partly to see the look on her face, but mostly to give himself time to pin down exactly what a point man did do.
He laughed as he avoided the kick she tried to give him under the table before continuing, “He, or she there are a couple of superb female points out there, theoretically does intelligence and security for the team. Before the job they do reconnaissance of the job location, collection and compilation of intel on the mark, because what the clients give is rarely enough, and whilst they do security, keeping the projections distracted and away from the extractor.” And a thousand and one other little things that most people, Eames included, never noticed or appreciated until they weren't there. Unfortunately, his experience with points over the last few months had left him with a distinct appreciation of how much exactly a good one did.
“Wow. Seriously?” She seemed slightly stunned at the list, “Wait, what do you mean theoretically?”
“Ah, this is where the unfortunate nature of working in a profession without any sort of regulatory standards comes in,” he responded ironically, although the idea of an Ofdream did make him smile somewhat, “Most points tend to be good at one side of the job and barely decent at the other, I've known teams to hire two of them because of it, one for intel, one for security. Even the best will tend to be brilliant at one and just about competent at the other.”
“And Arthur?” There was distinctly an edge to her curiosity in that question, and Eames could tell she was still wary about the people she was working with, the people she's be letting into her mind. Good, it was a caution that would no doubt serve her well if she decided to stay in the profession.
“Oh, Arthur is in a league of his own,” Eames couldn't have kept the fondness out of his voice if he tried, because despite everything else, Arthur was a bloody good point man, “brilliant at both and dramatically good at ensuring above-world security too. To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure the man's actually human”
“You almost sound like you admire him.”Ariadne speculated, the annoying perceptive girl she was.
“He's bloody good at his job, I'll give him that. Of course don't tell him I told you that, he's insufferably superior as it is, he ego really doesn't need another boost.” Which wasn't precisely true, since the man was really his own worst critic and, at times, cripplingly insecure about his inability to reach perfection in absolutely everything he did. It was a trait that he'd found both endearing and downright frustrating whilst they were together.
“What is it between you two? I mean were you always like this?” It was, he suspected, something she'd been wanting to ask him for a while.
Nonetheless, the question caught him off-guard because he found himself replying, almost bitterly, “Oh no, once we were... friends” he finished somewhat flatly, because despite his not inconsiderable vocabulary and skill at twisting the English language, a more appropriate word completely escaped him.
“So what happened?”
“I realised that at some point in his life the stick up his arse had somehow made it into his brain and removed any sort of personality or sense of fun. It was a tragedy really.” He gave Ariadne a look of mock compassion for the loss, causing her to roll her eyes. This time he let her light kick connect, hiding the bitter roll of emotions when he did think about how it had quite so spectacularly fallen apart.
He could see her opening her mouth to ask for more, because in the short time he'd known her, Eames had pegged her down as someone who never did quite understand the idea of boundaries, or tact, or leaving well enough alone. He jumped up before she could do so, reaching meaningfully for his lighter, “now, if you'll excuse me from this lovely little round of 20-questions, I could do with a smoke.”
Eames headed up to the small roof balcony that lay nestled between the vents and skylights of the warehouse. There was, of course, a perfectly good street outside to smoke on, but since Eames wasn't particularly feeling up playing dodge with Parisian drivers with no sense of appropriate speed or road safety. The roof area had, presumably, been installed by some previous owner for this very purpose, a stark, utilitarian area bordered by a harsh, half broken railing, some vague token made towards health and safety. It was also the one place in the warehouse almost guaranteed to offer him the opportunity to destroy his lungs in peace.
Except, because the world clearly hated him, someone had beaten him to it. The sight threw him off balance, and he'd stood frozen for a moment, eyes running over the smooth lines of the point man's body, a spike of lust, and possibly something else he really didn't want to examine too closely, emerging despite himself, because dammit the man did look damned good. After what felt like an age, but really could only have been a few seconds he dragged his eyes off him and turned to move away, deciding that playing with the Parisian traffic was probably the safer bet to sharing the rooftop with Arthur.
“You don't have to go, I won't bite,” Arthur called out before he even got a step. He sounded slightly bitter and oh so tired, even defeated. The tone was so distinctly out of place on the normally so thoroughly composed point man that for a moment Eames thought he must have imagined it. But then he looked closer, noting the slumped shoulders, the tired bowed head and the still lit cigarette between his fingers, the latter possibly the clearest sign of stress of all.
Acting on an impulse he couldn't quite comprehend, he changed direction, heading over to where Arthur was leaning up against the creaking railing, clearly tempting fate. “That's not quite how I remember it,” he teased, because with an opening like that how could he resist. Nonetheless his words lacked the sharp mockery that had punctuated their conversations over the past weeks, earning him a ghost of a smile in return.
Resolving to keep this moment, at least, civil Eames returned the smile and reached for a fag. Wherein he realised that the universe did well and truly hate him today, as his hand came back with nothing more than an empty wrapper, “Fuckity fuck.”
Arthur actually smiled properly this time, a small amused expression twitching at the edge of his lips as he proffered his own pack, “Fuckity fuck?”
Eames grin back on the other hand was wide and not at all bashful, “Well it seemed appropriate.” He lit the cigarette and took a moment to savour the nicotine hit, noticing Arthur doing the same at the corner of his eye.
They stood like that for several minutes, a comfortable silence between them so reminiscent of how they'd been less than a year ago, when each other's presence was something to be glad of rather than a trial to endure. It was, nice, for lack of a better word, and Eames felt a pang of sorrow at the fact they'd lost this so utterly.
Finally, Arthur broke the silence, almost pointedly not looking at him, “I wasn't being condescending earlier. I mean it, it's an impressive plan.”
He'd said it off-hand, casually, as if it didn't mean anything and because Eames was still smarting for the incident, he couldn't help himself from replying, “Really, Arthur, an apology? Are they having snowball fights in hell now?” And yes, he knew he was being immature, really he did.
Still, he regretted it almost immediately as Arthur tensed, his previous relaxed posture long gone. “Fuck you Eames,” he ground out, anger and, yes, ever hurt, clear in his voice as he viciously stabbed down on his now abandoned cigarette end before turning to stomp off the roof.
Eames was feeling like a complete and utter git and suddenly he really didn't want him to leave, didn't want to be the one to throw back the olive branch which had been so tentatively offered towards him “Wait, Arthur.”
The point man turned around at his voice, hovering by the door, eyebrows raised in question, cold indifference still clear on his face and it took Eames a few moments to gather his wits. “I'm... fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” and Eames knew as he said it, he wasn't just apologising for the last few minutes.
Arthur seemed to pick this up too, and he stood indecisively there, half in, half out, a battle playing over his face clear for anyone to read as if it was a book, well anyone who was a brilliant observer of human nature that was. Finally, it seemed he made up his mind, making his way slowly back to where Eames was standing, offering him another smoke as a peace offering, even as he pulled one out for himself. “I thought I was the one who was meant to be bad at apologies,” he eventually said with a gentle smile and Eames let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
“Well I can't be perfect at everything, can I?” Eames replied with a small smirk, because they never were ones to actually talk about things.
Arthur arched an eyebrow at him, an amusement playing on his lips, and Eames half expected him to come back with a similarly teasing retort. But instead sighed, running his free hand through his hair. “For what it's worth I'm sorry too,” and Eames knew he was definitely not talking about his earlier comments.
++++
Strange the effect of two simple words, well three really, could have. Hearing I'm sorry had somehow taken all the fight out of him, out of both of them, leading to an unspoken cease-fire, a truce really, a laying down of arms in the great war of Arthur and Eames.
Not, of course, that it stopped Arthur picking holes in his plans, because that was, after all his job, to spot the flaws, the ways things could go wrong.
“Might? We're going to need to do a little better than might.” Arthur was dismissive, sceptical, but the protest was professional, not personal, missing the bite it would have had a few days ago.
Which of course didn't stop Eames from twisting round in his chair, a mocking smirk on his lips, “Thank you for your contribution Arthur.” But his words also lacked the heat of days ago, the shared apologies having drained out much of the bitterness from how things ended.
“Forgive me for wanting a little specificity Eames.” Of course, that didn't mean that he couldn't still rile the point man up slightly, at times he really couldn't help himself, the look of annoyance on his face so endearing. The same way he couldn't help himself from mouthing back the word back, just to hear the point man enunciate it back to him, his lips curling delightfully around the syllables, an amused smirk on his face indicating he was more than aware of what Eames was doing.
Nor of course did their cease-fire stop the forger from taking great delight from demonstrating a kick using the point man's chair, because yes, at times he was twelve, and the glare he received in return was more than worth it for the expression on the usually composed point man's face as he lost his balance.
If anything, it was as if they'd gone back to how they were before. As if Oslo had never happened, hell, as if Newcastle had never happened and they were still playing that ridiculous dance around each other of flirting and sniping and never quite giving in to the sexual tension that lay between them like a live thing.
Really, he thought petulantly, it wasn't fair that they couldn't have both, that couldn't fuck and keep this easy, comfortable, interaction without annoying things like emotions or misunderstandings getting in the way.
He asked Arthur the question a few days later, earning him an annoyed, “Eames, this is hardly the time.” It was possible, he conceded, that he could have chosen a better moment than when they were busy trying to evade Ariadne's surprisingly vicious projections as they were attempting a final run-through of the first level. And no, this time it definitely wasn't his fault for setting them off, that would have been Yusuf and his inability to resist renovating the road system mid-dream to avoid getting stuck in traffic. The man was a delightful chemist, but it was clear his experience of the more practical elements of shared dreaming were still somewhat beyond him.
The run-through with projections, a dress rehearsal if you will, of the second-level, almost went as badly, albeit for different reasons.
“Hey,” Eames called out as he sauntered up to Arthur catching him in the tastefully designed lobby of the hotel. He was wearing Ariadne's face, partly to see if that would affect how the projections reacted to him, but mostly just to see if he could pull it off.
Arthur glanced at him once, mouth pulled into a frown, “Stop that Eames. It's perverse.”
Oh well, there went that idea. He slipped back into his own skin, leaning casually against the wall, reaching out to push the button for the lift before Arthur had the chance to. “I thought I had that one down pretty well,” he gave the point man a mock pout, “How did you know it was me?”
Rather than smirk as Eames had expected, with a particularly pointed remark as to Arthur's skillfuly superiority, instead a strangely affectionate, even wistful smile ghosted across his face. “I always know when it's you.”
“You say the sweetest things Arthur,” he teased, placing a hand over his heart in an overly dramatic gesture. But deep down he could feel a curl of warmth at the idea, and wondered what it said that ever since that first time Arthur had always been able to pick him out no matter the face he was wearing.
“You're making a scene,” Arthur pointed out drily, and yes, looking around, they were starting to draw the attention of the projections, although that could have been the fault of whatever changes the rest of the team were making.
Acting on impulse, and really, it was just an impulse, not matter how much Arthur might accuse him of otherwise later. “Well, lucky for you I know how to distract them,” he leaned forward as he said it, to capture the point man's lips in a kiss, a gesture originally aimed to be but a brief peck before he beat a hasty retreat, but somehow evolving into something deeper as Arthur drew him in.
Fuck, he'd missed this.
After a few, glorious, moments however, the point man seemed to realise exactly what was happening because he tensed, pushing him away and glancing quickly around as the surprisingly disinterested projections. “What the fuck was that Eames?” he hissed, clearly unwilling to risk regaining their attention.
“I believe that Arthur, was what is colloquially known as a kiss.” And because the first one had felt to right, Eames leaned in for another one. Suprisingly, despite his protests, Arthur let him and suddenly they were all over each other, Eames walking the smaller man backwards into the conveniently waiting lift, and hitting the emergency stop button after a few seconds to ensure they weren't interrupted.
Then, just when things were getting interesting, Arthur pushed him away, eyes wide and panting, hair messed, and fuck, Eames never wanted to give this up again.
Arthur, it seems, had different ideas. “Don't, just... don't,” the words sounded as if they were being dragged out despite himself. There seemed to be another internal battle playing across his face, in the subtle curve of his mouth and the tightening lines around his eyes, and Eames had a suspicion he was going to get caught in the cross-fire.
Still, he wasn't going to let Arthur have the final say here, “You can't tell me weren't enjoying it. Or is that just a gun in your pocket?” He gestured somewhat obscenely towards the obvious evidence of the point man's arousal and was rewarded with the beginnings of a blush spreading oh-so-endearingly across the man's usually composed cheeks.
As was so often the case, he covered up his embarrassment with anger, “need I remind you, Eames, that we're in the middle of a job.”
Hiding himself in work, another typical Arthur reaction, one which was starting to get old, “We're in the middle of a run through, you can't tell me you don't already know this level by heart.” Eames pointed out to him, and then because he couldn't quite help himself, continuing, “You've probably already put in lots of those little Penrose steps and paradox traps you're so fond of.”
Arthur didn't bother denying it, instead turning his back on him to push the button for the next floor, the stiffness in his shoulders clearly saying that the conversation was over. Once again, Eames intercepted him before he got there. “Oh no, Arthur, you don't get to just run away from this. Isn't that what you told me, that I didn't just get to run away?”
Arthur glared at where their hands were touching, before quickly wrenching his hand out of Eames' grasp. “I think I also that you should say it to my face when it was over.” He pointed out sharply, before continuing with not a bit of bitterness and maybe even some measure of regret, “ I think we both made pretty clear in Oslo, don't you?”
Oh yes, very clear love, Eames thought, his chest twisting bitterly inside, but he was nothing if not persistent, stubborn even his mother would say, and suddenly this, this, wasn't something he wanted to just let go any more. “And right now I can't think of a single reason why that was, can you?”
Arthur paused for a few moments, and at first Eames thought he wasn't actually going to respond, eventually though he sighed, “Because we were impossible together.”
He sounded resigned, regretful over the fact, which just caused Eames to push all that much harder, “Ah, and here I was under the impression we were in the business of the impossible these days.”
Arthur looked for a moment like he was about to give in, and the forger couldn't help but feel a twist of victory at the fact. But then laughed, a short sharp ironic, not to mention bitter, laugh, “Fuck, I can't believe you want to do this now.”
Eames raised an eyebrow at him, a slightly mocking mirror of Arthur's oh so frequent expression, whilst leaning casually against the lift control panel, effectively boxing the point man into the corner. “Can you think of a better time?” he challenged him, because he was so close, he could feel it.
He was rewarded with a twitch of his lips, and almost resigned smile, and Eames knew he'd won at least some part of the argument, although possibly not the part he'd been expecting, “How about when we're not about to go into the most difficult job of our lives?”
Despite his otherwise persistent and stubborn nature, years of being around the point man had nonetheless given him a refined sense of when he should actually give in and take what he could get, even if he rarely actually bothered to listen to it. “Fine then Arthur, afterwards, we'll set up a date, my people will call your people.” The last part was said with a hint of a smirk, an attempt to lighten to mood and it drew out a smile of affectionate amusement from the man in question.
“Idiot,” he said fondly, before continuing more seriously, “I mean it. Afterwards, we'll talk. Fuck, if we pull this off, I suppose anything's possible.”
++++
Los Angeles, August, 2010
They pull it off.
Even Eames, despite his insistence on Inception being well in the realm of the possible, although still firmly hovering around downright improbable, was actually quite surprised by this fact. Of course by the end of it he was even more surprised that they all made it out of there with their mind's actually intact, despite the close call with Cobb and Saito. Not of course, that Eames could bring himself to care about Cobb, since he was the once who failed utterly to tell them about the fact that if they died in the dream, they wouldn't just fucking wake up.
Worse, the git had the temerity to blame Arthur for this being an issue because he failed to dig out that Fischer was militarised. After all, it wasn't as if anyone had ever had an issue getting torn apart by feral projections in an untrained mind before. Or for that matter, like they had to worry about getting attacked by the shade of their team-mates dead wife, which he'd also conveniently forgotten to tell anyone about.
Not that Eames was actually feeling particularly bitter about all that at this point in time, although he was mentally adding it to his list of reservations when it came to working with the extractor again, should he ever return to the business of course. He probably would be later, when the true enormity of who close it had all come to going to shit had properly sunk in, but right now he was too high on the fact they were still alive, the fact they'd pulled it off and, just possibly, the small, inviting, if not downright seductive, smile Arthur had given him when telling him to “Go to sleep, Mr Eames.”
Despite this, other than the surreptitiously shared glances and muted smiles in the airplane, they didn't look at each other once they'd landed. None of them did, except for Ariadne, who seemed to keep forgetting that they weren't meant to know each other, weren't meant to be seen together. She'd learn, and in the meantime her half-aborted sideways glances would no doubt be interpreted as the natural reactions of a healthy, red-blooded, young woman towards a well-dressed, and more than slightly attractive, if Eames' might say so himself, older man, well older men really since she was sharing them equally between himself, Cobb and Arthur.
He caught one of her final glances, just as she was struggling to get her bags of the carousel, and gave her a wink, at once flirtatious and innocent. He felt something, someone, bump his shoulder as he did so, he turned around, instinctive apology on his lips, to come face to face with an oh so familiar sharp suited figure.
The smile Arthur gave him was at once polite and disinterested, apologising as he would to any stranger, deftly moving away through the crowds without a backward glance. Not, however, before letting a small slip of white fall casually, as if by accident, from between the pages of the newspaper he'd managed to acquire somewhere along the line.
Eames smirked, very smooth Arthur. He waited a few moments, until the point man was well and truly gone before casually letting slip a couple of the various travel documents he was carrying, bending down to grab the paper even as he picked the various offending objects back up. It was, he noticed, a card of the Christmas variety, an incongruous site in the middle of the August, with a forlorn sprig of mistletoe on the front which made him smirk slightly at the obvious allusion. Inside, printed in Arthur's precise, tidy script, the one, Eames had discovered, he only used for other people's benefit, was Tomorrow, 8pm, bring wine and an address. The smirk turned into a full-blown grin at that, and he was sure he was probably attracting not a few curious glances at his expression, but really, he couldn't bring himself to care.
++++
He got there at 8.30, because the taxi he'd ordered failed to turn up on time. LA traffic was, it appeared, a nightmare at any time of day and the driver had somehow, impossibly, managed to get lost, despite the clear Satnav voice Eames could hear filtering back from besides the drivers seat. He wondered briefly if the ever, almost obsessively, punctual point man would slam the door in his face for the crime, before dismissing the idea as being far too petty for Arthur's style, he'd probably just make him pay the offence in other ways.
In any case, Arthur must have been in a forgiving mood, because he simply quirked his lips when he opened the door and commented, “Trust you to be fashionably late.”
“What can I say love, it's breeding,” he responded with a grin, pushing the door shut behind him and placing the bottle of wine on a convenient side table in the hallway. He'd barely finished the manoeuvre before he found himself being pinned against the door and thoroughly ravished, and really there wasn't a better word for it, by a particularly frantic point man.
“Not that I'm complaining, Arthur, what happened to talking?” Eames eventually asked when he was able to come back up for air. Not, of course, that he wanted him to stop but there was a part of him trying desperately to remind him that this was where they went wrong the first time, jumping into things without sorting out where they stood first.
Arthur growled, a low deep rumble of need that went straight to Eames' groin. “Later, we can talk later. Dammit Eames, we could have lost out minds down there, just let me have this.” There was almost a plea in his voice at the end, a sound so out of place in the repertoire of Arthur's intonation, that all the forger could really do was nod in shaky acceptance as the point man sank to his knees in front of him.
Afterwards, they ended up spent and exhausted on Arthur's new sofa, in his new living room, and Eames suspected that had something to do with FBI agent he'd heard second-hand rumours off, the hot shot in the Mind Crimes division with a highly ironic name who'd set his targets on making his mark by catching some of the most high profile names in the business.
Or of course it could just be that Arthur had wanted a change, he'd half to ask him about it later, once he could actually get his brain's higher functions back into some form of working order, when he didn't have Arthur burying his head in Eames' shoulder and murmuring something that sounded a lot like “God, I've missed this.” Somehow Eames' didn't think he was referring to the sex, frantic and messy as it was after so long apart.
“I don't want this to be like before,” Arthur announced suddenly after, as he was dragging back on the articles of clothing which had ended up strewn all over the living room.
Eames got that sinking feeling in his stomach that this was going to be The Talk, the type of conversation where only one of the parties actually did any of the talking. This feeling was only intensified by the way that Arthur refused to look at him as he talked, focusing instead on the oh so interesting sight of his shirt buttons.
Before he could come up with a suitable reply, Arthur continued, obviously trying to get the words out before he lost his courage, “I don't want this to just be something we do in between jobs when he have the time.”
Oh. Whatever bitter retort Eames had been preparing died on his lips at the words, and he had to take a moment to process them before he could reply. He tried and discarded a number of ways he could say yes, oh yes without sounding like a complete lunatic, before eventually settling on, “You know love, I hear the best point man in the world might be in need of a partner. Do you think a forger would do?” He put the suggestion forward casually as if he wasn't talking about what could be the most important thing in the world to him right now, and was rewarded with a smile, one of those rare genuine ones which seemed to light up his whole face.
“That could work,” he agreed, the point man's attempt at casual doing little to disguise the clear happiness in his voice. “Of course not every job is going to need a forger,” the words were both tentative and firm, as if uncertain how Eames would reaction to this insistence on still maintaining a level of separation in their work lives yet also clearly unwilling to compromise
Eames could understand the sentiment, especially coming out, as Arthur was, of what was no doubt a suffocating professional partnership. There was something scary about being tied down entirely to one person. “True, and not every team is going to need a point man. Still, I imagine with our reputations we'll be in more than a position to pick and choose our jobs,” he replied, trying to convey as best he could how very much he was in agreement on this.
Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood he added, “Of course, I don't know about you love, but after that last job I wouldn't mind taking some time to enjoy the fruits of our labours.”
“Really? And what fruits would those be, Mr Eames,” Arthur was clearly of a similar mind, because he replied in a tone that was guaranteed to get the forger worked up for round two.
“Oh, I'm sure you can use your imagination for that one, as limited as it may be.” He dragged the point man down for another kiss.
Because they may not be ready to put what they had into words yet, maybe they never would be, and he had no doubt that it wouldn't always be easy, but this was something he was going to fight for every inch of the way. After all, when all you really had left were dreams, you had to do everything you could to keep them.
The End
Longer author's notes: Thank you everyone who's keept with me through writing this. I can't believe that from my initial six line outline detailing no more than three things happening each year this has moved into a massive 60,000 word epic.
I hope that everyone enjoyed reading it. I set out with an aim to avoid portraying a relationship where one side does all the chasing and the other constantly acting like a dick, and instead aim for a relationship where they both push and pull in relatively equal measures. Although in the end, I think Eames did more chasing, because his personality strikes me more as someone to take a chance, at least at a physical level and then run when things got too messy whilst Arthur struck me more as someone to avoid taking that chance in the first place.
I'd like to think I mostly succeeded in my aim, but I'd be interested to hear other people's opinions on this (as well all other feedback, good and bad).
I was also quite happy with how when I put in the film dialogue it didn't seem out of place against the Arthur and Eames I'd just spent 6 chapters developing, although again I'd be interested in other people's views on this.
Oh, and as a final note, if anyone is confused by the Ofdream reference, service regulators in the UK tend to be Ofsomething, the most commonly heard of being Ofcom, which is where people compain when they see (hear about) something that offends them on TV.
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
rating: PG-13 (possibly R for some of the language)
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.
Warnings: Not beta'd
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: 7369
Author's notes: Final part at last, all done. Thank you for all those sticking me through it and if you've been waiting to read it all in one go - well what are you waiting for.
Mombassa, June, 2010: Eames
Eames momentarily gave serious consideration to turning Cobb down when he'd arrived on his doorstep, well local casino, which was almost the same thing these days, with a job offer. Or for that matter possibly even turning him in, if nothing else than for that quip about his spelling. Honestly, it had been one time, and its not even as if the immigration officer would have noticed it, his English being what it was, if it wasn't for the snot nosed kid behind him, who was distinctly not staying behind the red line as it was supposed to, pointing out the mistake.
Considered it, but ultimately rejected the idea. He wasn't quite so desperate for cash, yet, as to completely burn his bridges with the best extractor in the business.
He certainly rejected the notion when he heard what Cobb was trying to do. Inception, the holy grail of their profession, the impossible dream, so to speak. It wasn't particularly surprising to hear Cobb say that Arthur thought it was impossible, the man thought like an engineer, or a soldier, firmly rooted in the defined. Personally, Eames always considered the term impossible to be a challenge by people lacking the ability to think effectively outside of the box more than anything else.
“Ah, Arthur,” he drawled, as if the name, the man really meant nothing to him, “still working with that stick in the mud?” The question was more to buy time than anything else and it was a stupid really because of course Cobb was still working with Arthur.
Cobb clearly thought so too because he smiled indulgently at him, clearing believing that the question was just yet another in a long line of snipes and digs in the antagonistic relationship they shared. “Hey, he's good at what he does right?” Cobb really had no clue and clearly Arthur hadn't been of a mind to enlighten him.
“Oh he's the best,” Eames had to agree, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice, despite everything else, because Arthur truly was the best. Eames hadn't found another point man who came even close and still had a couple of the bruises to proove it. So of course Cobb was still working with him, when you found a point man that skilled, that loyal his mind supplied bitterly, you didn't let them go easily. And no, Eames wasn't at all jealous about that. Not at all. Honest.
Wasn't that just the problem though. He'd worked hard these past few months to get the point man out of his mind, spending Christmas with his family for the first time in year, his mother's insistence finally winning out over his sister's concerns, and he had to admit it was possible that she may have been at least partially right when he had a particularly close call whilst passing through Heathrow.
After that, he'd lost himself in the world's backwaters and tinpot dictatorships, making no real secret of his location but heading to places Arthur wouldn't visit voluntarily, places he was unlikely to visit in the course of his work. Cobb, after all, preferring to stick to high-end corporate espionage than the more dirty, though no less lucrative, jobs found in the less civilised parts of the world.
Yes, he knew full well his tactic of both avoiding the man and hoping he'd come find him was perverse, but damned if he was going to make the first move and apologise. It was, after all, Arthur who'd finally pulled the plug and ended the thing.
However, it appeared that Arthur only believed in tracking him down around half the world when it was Eames stupidity that was causing problems, not his own. So, whilst he was resolutely not waiting for Arthur to admit he was an idiot, shame that Hell was still being resolutely flame-filled at the moment, he took advantage of the loose gambling laws that came with the generally lawless nature of his haunts and engaged in far too many one-night stands, both probably far more than what would be considered healthy by any normal person. It was not at all to assure himself that despite the fact that at just over a year, and yes he was counting from that kiss in the hospital, ut had been the longest relationship he'd ever had and that however superb, fabulous, nay, mind-blowing the sex with Arthur had been, that was all it had been.
Well, he always had been a good liar, even, especially to himself.
Eventually thought he did agree to do the job, because frankly how the hell couldn't he? The challenge of the impossible was just far too powerful for him to resist.
Of course, if they were going to do this, they were going to do it properly, and that meant a chemist, a good one, because Eames had suffered far too many bad trips at the hands of far too many bad ones to leave that choice up to anyone else.. Lucky for Cobb that Eames knew just the person.
Yusuf was good at what he did, could make sedatives like no one's business. Could make other things too, and Eames had spent many a happy hour, evening, day even, watching the pink elephants go by thanks to the Indian-born chemist's particular brand of skill. Of course it also helped that he was a mate, and frankly up against Arthur and the no doubt cool indifference, if not downright overt condescension, he would present him with, well, he could do with all the moral support he could get.
++++
Paris, June, 2010
Turning up at the warehouse, after a short information gathering detour via Sydney of course, the first thought to strike Eames was that Arthur looked good, fuck he looked fabulous. He was dressed in perfectly tailored three-piece suit, dark grey on top of a red shirt which did everything to show of his lithe figure. Albeit by the time of his arrival in the middle of the day, the jacket had gravitated to the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up and tie slightly askew in that way which indicated that Arthur had probably been spending most of the day attempting to collate vast amounts of mostly useless data into something resembling intelligence which could actually be used.
The sight was far more appealing than it had any right to be and Eames traitorous body reacted almost instantly to the sight, despite all instructions to the contrary. This wasn't helped by the strange look in Arthur's eyes as he caught the forgers' gaze upon entering, something which, if he didn't know very much better, Eames would almost place as longing.
“Arthur, looking as radiant as ever I see,” he greeting him, smirking as he did so in that way he knew was guaranteed to get under the point man's skin, taking an almost juvenile pleasure at the downright glacial glare he received in return.
Any sort of longing had long disappeared now from Arthur's face, replaced with a familiar look of tight annoyance. “Mr Eames, nice of you to finally make it, only five hours after your plane landed,” his tone which indicating that not only was it anything but, but also that if Eames had managed to get into some sort of horrific accident on the way from the airport and ended up in hospital instead then that would be infinitely preferable to his current presence.
In sum, this was going entirely as well as Eames had envisioned.
“I had to find a hotel, or is that not allowed now?” And yes, maybe consciously baiting the point man wasn't exactly helping, but then no one had ever accused Eames of being mature when it came to his relationships.
The narrowed eyes of Arthur's glare indicated quite clearly that no, it wasn't allowed, but even he couldn't actually bring himself to say that. Instead, he made a small sound of what could have been disgust or maybe even simply dismissal, before pointedly turning back to his work, every economical, precise movement indicating quite clearly exactly how much he was ignoring Eames's presence. Ah, so that was how he was planning on playing this.
It was a tactical error. Eames hated being ignored, had since childhood and the realisation that as the middle child, he would never have the privilege of being either the son and heir, or the spoiled position of being the baby of the family. Although, of course, that might have been because his sister was, well, a girl, and thus subject to less of the demands of manhood that modernity still hadn't managed to beat out of the British aristocracy.
In his pointed ignoring of the forger's presence, Arthur might as well have been waving a red flag in front of a bull, causing Eames to forgo his original plan of careful avoidance and instead push, tease and bait the point man back in a clear attempt to provoke a reaction.
It was a task Eames was particularly skilled at, if he may say so himself. .
“Those are my files, Eames.” Arthur was glaribg daggers at him as he leaned over the point man to snag one of them from the middle of the pile, holding his pen in such a way as to indicate that it wasn't just his eyes that could be sharp and pointed.
“What about them, d... Arthur,” Eames almost slipped back into old habits, despite the vow he'd made to himself for the sake of his sanity, the avoid calling Arthur anything besides his name, well with the exception of maybe a few choice expletives when the situation called for it.
Nonetheless, a brief expression of what could be hurt, or maybe loss, crossed the point man's face at the slip, before the same pinched, glare returned, “My files, Eames.” As if that illustrated his point, although with said files now spilled all over the table, any sort of ordering long gone, maybe it did.
Still, Eames knew there was nothing guaranteed to annoy Arthur more than wilful obtuseness. “Really? So they are.” he exclaimed, as if he'd only just noticed the fact. And he grinned as he fancied he could hear the pen crack slightly under the pressure of Arthur's grip, a sure sign of his annoyance.
After a few minutes thought the point man managed to compose himself, the hard glare replaced with a smirk reeking of condescension, an expression as calculated to bait Eames, as much as Eames' own was designed to do to Arthur. “Ah, we're into acting like a child then today. You'll excuse me if I don't indulge, some of us actually have work to do.”
Arrogant, stuck-up, wanker.
In fact, condescension seemed to be Arthur's default reaction now, even, no especially when it came to the job, his view of Eames' professionalism made very clear. Which frankly was downright unfair, because despite outward appearances, Eames did take considerable pride in his work. Of course, on occasion even Arthur had to admit he had a good idea or two.
“So he gives himself the idea?” and Eames couldn't help but feek a stab of satisfaction at the faint, very faint, spark of admiration in Arthur's voice as he mentally worked his way through the plan the forger had just outlined, no doubt stress-testing it in his mind, trying to find any holes, any flaws that may come back and bite them later. Well, it was his job, so Eames couldn't exactly resent that too much.
“Precisely. That's the only way it will stick, he has to see himself generate it.” The idea had in fact come from Arthur originally, Arthur and his ridiculous allegories to large grey mastodons as a way of pointing out how people always know the genus of their ideas.
The moment of professionalism didn't last, however, Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking back in full force, “Well Eames, I'm impressed.” Git.
Eames gave him a mocking smile back, because his pride wouldn't let him scream in frustration, “Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated Arthur. Thank you.” The smirk of course, didn't budge, but Eames thought for a moment he might have a imagined a brief flash of hurt during his response.
++++
“So what exactly does a point man do?” The question emerged out of the lips of the new architect that Cobb had managed to pick up somewhere, possibly kindergarten, a sardonic part of his mind supplied, because really, when had 20 started seeming quite so young. And she was young, young and oh-so-painfully new to the world of shared dreaming and illegal extraction, despite whatever natural brilliance she might have with manipulating the dreamscape to her ends.
The question, he'd admit, caught him off guard, and ended up replying with a highly inventive, “What?” Because the answer was so obvious to him after years in the business, a point man was, well, on point. Which, he reflected, probably explained absolutely nothing to anyone not approaching the business from either criminal or military world.
“A Point Man? I mean I get where Architect's come in, we're there to design the dreamscape right? Since you can't build from memories. The Chemist makes the drugs, obviously, the sedatives and such, which keep people under, and the Extractor actually steals the information, sorta like a con artist. I even get the whole forgery thing, now” she looked slightly uncomfortable on that last one, embarrassed. Eames had to smirk at that, his demonstration of his skills having obviously been very convincing. Arthur, on the other hand, had not been amused. “But what exactly does a point man do?”
“Shouldn't you be asking Arthur this?” he asked somewhat surprised she'd come to him at all, especially given how well she and the point man seemed to get on. Not ,of course, that he was jealous, not like that at least. After all if Arthur knew what the hell to do with a vagina in bed, Eames would eat his shirt. But, if he was being honest with himself their easy friendship was somewhat painful to watch, the way that she elicited honest smiles of amusement from the man, instead of the cold glares or arrogant smirks Eames seemed destined to produce.
Ariadne rolled her eyes as his question, “I did. He said, 'whatever Cobb tells him to.' I think I may have caught him at a bad time.”
“Ah, was Arthur having one of his snits then.,” Eames asked knowingly, and in a way it was gratifying to know he wasn't the only one to end up on the receiving end, although he'd heard a rumour about some pretty spectacular blow ups at Cobb too.
That comment got him a wry look, which he took as affirmation. “So?” she demanded impatiently, and Eames had bite down the urge to inform her that all good things come to those who wait because torturing the poor girl any longer would just be cruel.
“Since you asked so nicely. A point man takes point,” he offered, partly to see the look on her face, but mostly to give himself time to pin down exactly what a point man did do.
He laughed as he avoided the kick she tried to give him under the table before continuing, “He, or she there are a couple of superb female points out there, theoretically does intelligence and security for the team. Before the job they do reconnaissance of the job location, collection and compilation of intel on the mark, because what the clients give is rarely enough, and whilst they do security, keeping the projections distracted and away from the extractor.” And a thousand and one other little things that most people, Eames included, never noticed or appreciated until they weren't there. Unfortunately, his experience with points over the last few months had left him with a distinct appreciation of how much exactly a good one did.
“Wow. Seriously?” She seemed slightly stunned at the list, “Wait, what do you mean theoretically?”
“Ah, this is where the unfortunate nature of working in a profession without any sort of regulatory standards comes in,” he responded ironically, although the idea of an Ofdream did make him smile somewhat, “Most points tend to be good at one side of the job and barely decent at the other, I've known teams to hire two of them because of it, one for intel, one for security. Even the best will tend to be brilliant at one and just about competent at the other.”
“And Arthur?” There was distinctly an edge to her curiosity in that question, and Eames could tell she was still wary about the people she was working with, the people she's be letting into her mind. Good, it was a caution that would no doubt serve her well if she decided to stay in the profession.
“Oh, Arthur is in a league of his own,” Eames couldn't have kept the fondness out of his voice if he tried, because despite everything else, Arthur was a bloody good point man, “brilliant at both and dramatically good at ensuring above-world security too. To be honest with you, I'm not entirely sure the man's actually human”
“You almost sound like you admire him.”Ariadne speculated, the annoying perceptive girl she was.
“He's bloody good at his job, I'll give him that. Of course don't tell him I told you that, he's insufferably superior as it is, he ego really doesn't need another boost.” Which wasn't precisely true, since the man was really his own worst critic and, at times, cripplingly insecure about his inability to reach perfection in absolutely everything he did. It was a trait that he'd found both endearing and downright frustrating whilst they were together.
“What is it between you two? I mean were you always like this?” It was, he suspected, something she'd been wanting to ask him for a while.
Nonetheless, the question caught him off-guard because he found himself replying, almost bitterly, “Oh no, once we were... friends” he finished somewhat flatly, because despite his not inconsiderable vocabulary and skill at twisting the English language, a more appropriate word completely escaped him.
“So what happened?”
“I realised that at some point in his life the stick up his arse had somehow made it into his brain and removed any sort of personality or sense of fun. It was a tragedy really.” He gave Ariadne a look of mock compassion for the loss, causing her to roll her eyes. This time he let her light kick connect, hiding the bitter roll of emotions when he did think about how it had quite so spectacularly fallen apart.
He could see her opening her mouth to ask for more, because in the short time he'd known her, Eames had pegged her down as someone who never did quite understand the idea of boundaries, or tact, or leaving well enough alone. He jumped up before she could do so, reaching meaningfully for his lighter, “now, if you'll excuse me from this lovely little round of 20-questions, I could do with a smoke.”
Eames headed up to the small roof balcony that lay nestled between the vents and skylights of the warehouse. There was, of course, a perfectly good street outside to smoke on, but since Eames wasn't particularly feeling up playing dodge with Parisian drivers with no sense of appropriate speed or road safety. The roof area had, presumably, been installed by some previous owner for this very purpose, a stark, utilitarian area bordered by a harsh, half broken railing, some vague token made towards health and safety. It was also the one place in the warehouse almost guaranteed to offer him the opportunity to destroy his lungs in peace.
Except, because the world clearly hated him, someone had beaten him to it. The sight threw him off balance, and he'd stood frozen for a moment, eyes running over the smooth lines of the point man's body, a spike of lust, and possibly something else he really didn't want to examine too closely, emerging despite himself, because dammit the man did look damned good. After what felt like an age, but really could only have been a few seconds he dragged his eyes off him and turned to move away, deciding that playing with the Parisian traffic was probably the safer bet to sharing the rooftop with Arthur.
“You don't have to go, I won't bite,” Arthur called out before he even got a step. He sounded slightly bitter and oh so tired, even defeated. The tone was so distinctly out of place on the normally so thoroughly composed point man that for a moment Eames thought he must have imagined it. But then he looked closer, noting the slumped shoulders, the tired bowed head and the still lit cigarette between his fingers, the latter possibly the clearest sign of stress of all.
Acting on an impulse he couldn't quite comprehend, he changed direction, heading over to where Arthur was leaning up against the creaking railing, clearly tempting fate. “That's not quite how I remember it,” he teased, because with an opening like that how could he resist. Nonetheless his words lacked the sharp mockery that had punctuated their conversations over the past weeks, earning him a ghost of a smile in return.
Resolving to keep this moment, at least, civil Eames returned the smile and reached for a fag. Wherein he realised that the universe did well and truly hate him today, as his hand came back with nothing more than an empty wrapper, “Fuckity fuck.”
Arthur actually smiled properly this time, a small amused expression twitching at the edge of his lips as he proffered his own pack, “Fuckity fuck?”
Eames grin back on the other hand was wide and not at all bashful, “Well it seemed appropriate.” He lit the cigarette and took a moment to savour the nicotine hit, noticing Arthur doing the same at the corner of his eye.
They stood like that for several minutes, a comfortable silence between them so reminiscent of how they'd been less than a year ago, when each other's presence was something to be glad of rather than a trial to endure. It was, nice, for lack of a better word, and Eames felt a pang of sorrow at the fact they'd lost this so utterly.
Finally, Arthur broke the silence, almost pointedly not looking at him, “I wasn't being condescending earlier. I mean it, it's an impressive plan.”
He'd said it off-hand, casually, as if it didn't mean anything and because Eames was still smarting for the incident, he couldn't help himself from replying, “Really, Arthur, an apology? Are they having snowball fights in hell now?” And yes, he knew he was being immature, really he did.
Still, he regretted it almost immediately as Arthur tensed, his previous relaxed posture long gone. “Fuck you Eames,” he ground out, anger and, yes, ever hurt, clear in his voice as he viciously stabbed down on his now abandoned cigarette end before turning to stomp off the roof.
Eames was feeling like a complete and utter git and suddenly he really didn't want him to leave, didn't want to be the one to throw back the olive branch which had been so tentatively offered towards him “Wait, Arthur.”
The point man turned around at his voice, hovering by the door, eyebrows raised in question, cold indifference still clear on his face and it took Eames a few moments to gather his wits. “I'm... fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” and Eames knew as he said it, he wasn't just apologising for the last few minutes.
Arthur seemed to pick this up too, and he stood indecisively there, half in, half out, a battle playing over his face clear for anyone to read as if it was a book, well anyone who was a brilliant observer of human nature that was. Finally, it seemed he made up his mind, making his way slowly back to where Eames was standing, offering him another smoke as a peace offering, even as he pulled one out for himself. “I thought I was the one who was meant to be bad at apologies,” he eventually said with a gentle smile and Eames let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
“Well I can't be perfect at everything, can I?” Eames replied with a small smirk, because they never were ones to actually talk about things.
Arthur arched an eyebrow at him, an amusement playing on his lips, and Eames half expected him to come back with a similarly teasing retort. But instead sighed, running his free hand through his hair. “For what it's worth I'm sorry too,” and Eames knew he was definitely not talking about his earlier comments.
++++
Strange the effect of two simple words, well three really, could have. Hearing I'm sorry had somehow taken all the fight out of him, out of both of them, leading to an unspoken cease-fire, a truce really, a laying down of arms in the great war of Arthur and Eames.
Not, of course, that it stopped Arthur picking holes in his plans, because that was, after all his job, to spot the flaws, the ways things could go wrong.
“Might? We're going to need to do a little better than might.” Arthur was dismissive, sceptical, but the protest was professional, not personal, missing the bite it would have had a few days ago.
Which of course didn't stop Eames from twisting round in his chair, a mocking smirk on his lips, “Thank you for your contribution Arthur.” But his words also lacked the heat of days ago, the shared apologies having drained out much of the bitterness from how things ended.
“Forgive me for wanting a little specificity Eames.” Of course, that didn't mean that he couldn't still rile the point man up slightly, at times he really couldn't help himself, the look of annoyance on his face so endearing. The same way he couldn't help himself from mouthing back the word back, just to hear the point man enunciate it back to him, his lips curling delightfully around the syllables, an amused smirk on his face indicating he was more than aware of what Eames was doing.
Nor of course did their cease-fire stop the forger from taking great delight from demonstrating a kick using the point man's chair, because yes, at times he was twelve, and the glare he received in return was more than worth it for the expression on the usually composed point man's face as he lost his balance.
If anything, it was as if they'd gone back to how they were before. As if Oslo had never happened, hell, as if Newcastle had never happened and they were still playing that ridiculous dance around each other of flirting and sniping and never quite giving in to the sexual tension that lay between them like a live thing.
Really, he thought petulantly, it wasn't fair that they couldn't have both, that couldn't fuck and keep this easy, comfortable, interaction without annoying things like emotions or misunderstandings getting in the way.
He asked Arthur the question a few days later, earning him an annoyed, “Eames, this is hardly the time.” It was possible, he conceded, that he could have chosen a better moment than when they were busy trying to evade Ariadne's surprisingly vicious projections as they were attempting a final run-through of the first level. And no, this time it definitely wasn't his fault for setting them off, that would have been Yusuf and his inability to resist renovating the road system mid-dream to avoid getting stuck in traffic. The man was a delightful chemist, but it was clear his experience of the more practical elements of shared dreaming were still somewhat beyond him.
The run-through with projections, a dress rehearsal if you will, of the second-level, almost went as badly, albeit for different reasons.
“Hey,” Eames called out as he sauntered up to Arthur catching him in the tastefully designed lobby of the hotel. He was wearing Ariadne's face, partly to see if that would affect how the projections reacted to him, but mostly just to see if he could pull it off.
Arthur glanced at him once, mouth pulled into a frown, “Stop that Eames. It's perverse.”
Oh well, there went that idea. He slipped back into his own skin, leaning casually against the wall, reaching out to push the button for the lift before Arthur had the chance to. “I thought I had that one down pretty well,” he gave the point man a mock pout, “How did you know it was me?”
Rather than smirk as Eames had expected, with a particularly pointed remark as to Arthur's skillfuly superiority, instead a strangely affectionate, even wistful smile ghosted across his face. “I always know when it's you.”
“You say the sweetest things Arthur,” he teased, placing a hand over his heart in an overly dramatic gesture. But deep down he could feel a curl of warmth at the idea, and wondered what it said that ever since that first time Arthur had always been able to pick him out no matter the face he was wearing.
“You're making a scene,” Arthur pointed out drily, and yes, looking around, they were starting to draw the attention of the projections, although that could have been the fault of whatever changes the rest of the team were making.
Acting on impulse, and really, it was just an impulse, not matter how much Arthur might accuse him of otherwise later. “Well, lucky for you I know how to distract them,” he leaned forward as he said it, to capture the point man's lips in a kiss, a gesture originally aimed to be but a brief peck before he beat a hasty retreat, but somehow evolving into something deeper as Arthur drew him in.
Fuck, he'd missed this.
After a few, glorious, moments however, the point man seemed to realise exactly what was happening because he tensed, pushing him away and glancing quickly around as the surprisingly disinterested projections. “What the fuck was that Eames?” he hissed, clearly unwilling to risk regaining their attention.
“I believe that Arthur, was what is colloquially known as a kiss.” And because the first one had felt to right, Eames leaned in for another one. Suprisingly, despite his protests, Arthur let him and suddenly they were all over each other, Eames walking the smaller man backwards into the conveniently waiting lift, and hitting the emergency stop button after a few seconds to ensure they weren't interrupted.
Then, just when things were getting interesting, Arthur pushed him away, eyes wide and panting, hair messed, and fuck, Eames never wanted to give this up again.
Arthur, it seems, had different ideas. “Don't, just... don't,” the words sounded as if they were being dragged out despite himself. There seemed to be another internal battle playing across his face, in the subtle curve of his mouth and the tightening lines around his eyes, and Eames had a suspicion he was going to get caught in the cross-fire.
Still, he wasn't going to let Arthur have the final say here, “You can't tell me weren't enjoying it. Or is that just a gun in your pocket?” He gestured somewhat obscenely towards the obvious evidence of the point man's arousal and was rewarded with the beginnings of a blush spreading oh-so-endearingly across the man's usually composed cheeks.
As was so often the case, he covered up his embarrassment with anger, “need I remind you, Eames, that we're in the middle of a job.”
Hiding himself in work, another typical Arthur reaction, one which was starting to get old, “We're in the middle of a run through, you can't tell me you don't already know this level by heart.” Eames pointed out to him, and then because he couldn't quite help himself, continuing, “You've probably already put in lots of those little Penrose steps and paradox traps you're so fond of.”
Arthur didn't bother denying it, instead turning his back on him to push the button for the next floor, the stiffness in his shoulders clearly saying that the conversation was over. Once again, Eames intercepted him before he got there. “Oh no, Arthur, you don't get to just run away from this. Isn't that what you told me, that I didn't just get to run away?”
Arthur glared at where their hands were touching, before quickly wrenching his hand out of Eames' grasp. “I think I also that you should say it to my face when it was over.” He pointed out sharply, before continuing with not a bit of bitterness and maybe even some measure of regret, “ I think we both made pretty clear in Oslo, don't you?”
Oh yes, very clear love, Eames thought, his chest twisting bitterly inside, but he was nothing if not persistent, stubborn even his mother would say, and suddenly this, this, wasn't something he wanted to just let go any more. “And right now I can't think of a single reason why that was, can you?”
Arthur paused for a few moments, and at first Eames thought he wasn't actually going to respond, eventually though he sighed, “Because we were impossible together.”
He sounded resigned, regretful over the fact, which just caused Eames to push all that much harder, “Ah, and here I was under the impression we were in the business of the impossible these days.”
Arthur looked for a moment like he was about to give in, and the forger couldn't help but feel a twist of victory at the fact. But then laughed, a short sharp ironic, not to mention bitter, laugh, “Fuck, I can't believe you want to do this now.”
Eames raised an eyebrow at him, a slightly mocking mirror of Arthur's oh so frequent expression, whilst leaning casually against the lift control panel, effectively boxing the point man into the corner. “Can you think of a better time?” he challenged him, because he was so close, he could feel it.
He was rewarded with a twitch of his lips, and almost resigned smile, and Eames knew he'd won at least some part of the argument, although possibly not the part he'd been expecting, “How about when we're not about to go into the most difficult job of our lives?”
Despite his otherwise persistent and stubborn nature, years of being around the point man had nonetheless given him a refined sense of when he should actually give in and take what he could get, even if he rarely actually bothered to listen to it. “Fine then Arthur, afterwards, we'll set up a date, my people will call your people.” The last part was said with a hint of a smirk, an attempt to lighten to mood and it drew out a smile of affectionate amusement from the man in question.
“Idiot,” he said fondly, before continuing more seriously, “I mean it. Afterwards, we'll talk. Fuck, if we pull this off, I suppose anything's possible.”
++++
Los Angeles, August, 2010
They pull it off.
Even Eames, despite his insistence on Inception being well in the realm of the possible, although still firmly hovering around downright improbable, was actually quite surprised by this fact. Of course by the end of it he was even more surprised that they all made it out of there with their mind's actually intact, despite the close call with Cobb and Saito. Not of course, that Eames could bring himself to care about Cobb, since he was the once who failed utterly to tell them about the fact that if they died in the dream, they wouldn't just fucking wake up.
Worse, the git had the temerity to blame Arthur for this being an issue because he failed to dig out that Fischer was militarised. After all, it wasn't as if anyone had ever had an issue getting torn apart by feral projections in an untrained mind before. Or for that matter, like they had to worry about getting attacked by the shade of their team-mates dead wife, which he'd also conveniently forgotten to tell anyone about.
Not that Eames was actually feeling particularly bitter about all that at this point in time, although he was mentally adding it to his list of reservations when it came to working with the extractor again, should he ever return to the business of course. He probably would be later, when the true enormity of who close it had all come to going to shit had properly sunk in, but right now he was too high on the fact they were still alive, the fact they'd pulled it off and, just possibly, the small, inviting, if not downright seductive, smile Arthur had given him when telling him to “Go to sleep, Mr Eames.”
Despite this, other than the surreptitiously shared glances and muted smiles in the airplane, they didn't look at each other once they'd landed. None of them did, except for Ariadne, who seemed to keep forgetting that they weren't meant to know each other, weren't meant to be seen together. She'd learn, and in the meantime her half-aborted sideways glances would no doubt be interpreted as the natural reactions of a healthy, red-blooded, young woman towards a well-dressed, and more than slightly attractive, if Eames' might say so himself, older man, well older men really since she was sharing them equally between himself, Cobb and Arthur.
He caught one of her final glances, just as she was struggling to get her bags of the carousel, and gave her a wink, at once flirtatious and innocent. He felt something, someone, bump his shoulder as he did so, he turned around, instinctive apology on his lips, to come face to face with an oh so familiar sharp suited figure.
The smile Arthur gave him was at once polite and disinterested, apologising as he would to any stranger, deftly moving away through the crowds without a backward glance. Not, however, before letting a small slip of white fall casually, as if by accident, from between the pages of the newspaper he'd managed to acquire somewhere along the line.
Eames smirked, very smooth Arthur. He waited a few moments, until the point man was well and truly gone before casually letting slip a couple of the various travel documents he was carrying, bending down to grab the paper even as he picked the various offending objects back up. It was, he noticed, a card of the Christmas variety, an incongruous site in the middle of the August, with a forlorn sprig of mistletoe on the front which made him smirk slightly at the obvious allusion. Inside, printed in Arthur's precise, tidy script, the one, Eames had discovered, he only used for other people's benefit, was Tomorrow, 8pm, bring wine and an address. The smirk turned into a full-blown grin at that, and he was sure he was probably attracting not a few curious glances at his expression, but really, he couldn't bring himself to care.
++++
He got there at 8.30, because the taxi he'd ordered failed to turn up on time. LA traffic was, it appeared, a nightmare at any time of day and the driver had somehow, impossibly, managed to get lost, despite the clear Satnav voice Eames could hear filtering back from besides the drivers seat. He wondered briefly if the ever, almost obsessively, punctual point man would slam the door in his face for the crime, before dismissing the idea as being far too petty for Arthur's style, he'd probably just make him pay the offence in other ways.
In any case, Arthur must have been in a forgiving mood, because he simply quirked his lips when he opened the door and commented, “Trust you to be fashionably late.”
“What can I say love, it's breeding,” he responded with a grin, pushing the door shut behind him and placing the bottle of wine on a convenient side table in the hallway. He'd barely finished the manoeuvre before he found himself being pinned against the door and thoroughly ravished, and really there wasn't a better word for it, by a particularly frantic point man.
“Not that I'm complaining, Arthur, what happened to talking?” Eames eventually asked when he was able to come back up for air. Not, of course, that he wanted him to stop but there was a part of him trying desperately to remind him that this was where they went wrong the first time, jumping into things without sorting out where they stood first.
Arthur growled, a low deep rumble of need that went straight to Eames' groin. “Later, we can talk later. Dammit Eames, we could have lost out minds down there, just let me have this.” There was almost a plea in his voice at the end, a sound so out of place in the repertoire of Arthur's intonation, that all the forger could really do was nod in shaky acceptance as the point man sank to his knees in front of him.
Afterwards, they ended up spent and exhausted on Arthur's new sofa, in his new living room, and Eames suspected that had something to do with FBI agent he'd heard second-hand rumours off, the hot shot in the Mind Crimes division with a highly ironic name who'd set his targets on making his mark by catching some of the most high profile names in the business.
Or of course it could just be that Arthur had wanted a change, he'd half to ask him about it later, once he could actually get his brain's higher functions back into some form of working order, when he didn't have Arthur burying his head in Eames' shoulder and murmuring something that sounded a lot like “God, I've missed this.” Somehow Eames' didn't think he was referring to the sex, frantic and messy as it was after so long apart.
“I don't want this to be like before,” Arthur announced suddenly after, as he was dragging back on the articles of clothing which had ended up strewn all over the living room.
Eames got that sinking feeling in his stomach that this was going to be The Talk, the type of conversation where only one of the parties actually did any of the talking. This feeling was only intensified by the way that Arthur refused to look at him as he talked, focusing instead on the oh so interesting sight of his shirt buttons.
Before he could come up with a suitable reply, Arthur continued, obviously trying to get the words out before he lost his courage, “I don't want this to just be something we do in between jobs when he have the time.”
Oh. Whatever bitter retort Eames had been preparing died on his lips at the words, and he had to take a moment to process them before he could reply. He tried and discarded a number of ways he could say yes, oh yes without sounding like a complete lunatic, before eventually settling on, “You know love, I hear the best point man in the world might be in need of a partner. Do you think a forger would do?” He put the suggestion forward casually as if he wasn't talking about what could be the most important thing in the world to him right now, and was rewarded with a smile, one of those rare genuine ones which seemed to light up his whole face.
“That could work,” he agreed, the point man's attempt at casual doing little to disguise the clear happiness in his voice. “Of course not every job is going to need a forger,” the words were both tentative and firm, as if uncertain how Eames would reaction to this insistence on still maintaining a level of separation in their work lives yet also clearly unwilling to compromise
Eames could understand the sentiment, especially coming out, as Arthur was, of what was no doubt a suffocating professional partnership. There was something scary about being tied down entirely to one person. “True, and not every team is going to need a point man. Still, I imagine with our reputations we'll be in more than a position to pick and choose our jobs,” he replied, trying to convey as best he could how very much he was in agreement on this.
Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood he added, “Of course, I don't know about you love, but after that last job I wouldn't mind taking some time to enjoy the fruits of our labours.”
“Really? And what fruits would those be, Mr Eames,” Arthur was clearly of a similar mind, because he replied in a tone that was guaranteed to get the forger worked up for round two.
“Oh, I'm sure you can use your imagination for that one, as limited as it may be.” He dragged the point man down for another kiss.
Because they may not be ready to put what they had into words yet, maybe they never would be, and he had no doubt that it wouldn't always be easy, but this was something he was going to fight for every inch of the way. After all, when all you really had left were dreams, you had to do everything you could to keep them.
The End
Longer author's notes: Thank you everyone who's keept with me through writing this. I can't believe that from my initial six line outline detailing no more than three things happening each year this has moved into a massive 60,000 word epic.
I hope that everyone enjoyed reading it. I set out with an aim to avoid portraying a relationship where one side does all the chasing and the other constantly acting like a dick, and instead aim for a relationship where they both push and pull in relatively equal measures. Although in the end, I think Eames did more chasing, because his personality strikes me more as someone to take a chance, at least at a physical level and then run when things got too messy whilst Arthur struck me more as someone to avoid taking that chance in the first place.
I'd like to think I mostly succeeded in my aim, but I'd be interested to hear other people's opinions on this (as well all other feedback, good and bad).
I was also quite happy with how when I put in the film dialogue it didn't seem out of place against the Arthur and Eames I'd just spent 6 chapters developing, although again I'd be interested in other people's views on this.
Oh, and as a final note, if anyone is confused by the Ofdream reference, service regulators in the UK tend to be Ofsomething, the most commonly heard of being Ofcom, which is where people compain when they see (hear about) something that offends them on TV.