Inception Fic: I've Got Nothing To Do Today But Smile (The Only Living Boy in New York), 2/2

[gyzym]

For more information, please see Part One.



Weeks pass, and Arthur's case is going to trial.

This does not mean a lightening of Arthur's workload--quite the opposite. Research is all well and good, but trials can go on for months, and precedent and unexpected stays and discovery, and oh, god, if he fucks this up he's never going to make partner and if he never makes partner he's never going to--

"Darling!" Eames says, and Arthur yanks his headphones out and blinks, startled. Eames is grinning down at him indulgently, and the entire shop is empty but for the two of them and Ariadne, who seems to be cleaning the espresso machine.

"Shit," Arthur sighs, "how far past close am I this time?"

"Twenty minutes," Eames says cheerfully. "Hardly a record, but impressive nonetheless. You're lucky I'm so fond of you."

"Maybe it's all the free labor," Arthur says, as Eames hands him a beer and shakes his head.

"Don't be like that," he says, trying to frown and doing a frankly shitty job of it. "I have, repeatedly, offered to pay you."

"One of these days I'm going to sue you for all my unpaid time," Arthur says, ignoring this.

"I wish you would," Eames says, putting a melodramatic hand to his forehead. "It just feels wrong, it's like stealing--"

"Oh, come on, I haven't paid for coffee in months," Arthur laughs. He pops the top off his beer, because this has become something of a ritual--without someone tapping him on the shoulder he rarely notices that the place is closing down, and Ariadne and Eames have just gotten used to his continued presence.

If, sometimes, he notices the other customers shuffling out and pretends not to, it's not like anyone has to know about it.

"You do know you cover my overheads with the profits from the Monday sales alone," Eames says, raising an eyebrow and leaning on the mop in his left hand. "People come from Brooklyn, Arthur."

"They do not."

"They do," Ariadne confirms. She's got her own beer, and she tosses one to Eames and moves to fuck with the iPod. "From all five boroughs, actually. On Sunday afternoons, too."

"You guys are crazy," Arthur mutters. Eames opens his mouth to argue, and then closes it again, looking toward the speakers.

"Hold that thought, love," he says. "Ariadne, is this--"

She nods, smiling and tying her hair back. "We haven't had a good rock-out in ages."

Arthur is confused for a split second, and then he hears the strains of Baba O'Riley coming through the speaker system. He grins up at Eames. "The Who? Really? Are you trying to be a characterization of your country?"

"Anyone who doesn't appreciate this song doesn't have a soul," Eames says at once. "Nationality has nothing to do with it. Now get up."

"Why?" Arthur asks, immediately suspicious.

"To dance, asshole!" Ariadne calls. "You can't not dance to Baba O'Riley."

"She has a point," Eames says. "Also, the stress relief factor should not be ignored."

Arthur's opens his mouth to say no. He's totally, totally going to say no.

Which is why it's inexplicable, the way he's standing on the counter sixty seconds later.

"Teenage wasteland," he screams into his beer, "it's only teenage wasteland--"

"They're all wasted," Eames comes in, singing into the handle of his mop and laughing like a hyena as Ariadne starts pounding the drumline on the counter, and the thing is…

The thing is, Arthur's life is a lot less shitty than it once was, somehow.

--

Of course, it's still pretty shitty some of the time.

"I need your kitchen," Arthur barks, walking through the door on Wednesday afternoon. His hands are shaking--he is aware that his hands are shaking--but there's not really much he can do about it.

"Darling," Eames says, startled, "what--"

"Eames, please, I just, I need the fucking kitchen," Arthur says, and he means it to come out vicious. Instead it sounds desperate and strained, like he's choking on it, and Eames steps aside and lets him through at once.

Arthur should be in the office, but Arthur can't be in the office right now, because Robert Fischer is in the office. Arthur should be working but Arthur can't fucking work because Maurice fucking Fischer is going to hand over the whole firm to his fucking son and how the fuck is that even allowed and he won't even fucking speak to Arthur and that kid is barely out of fucking law school and Arthur's put in six fucking years and still can't get the man to--

He's smashed every egg in the carton in slamming the damn thing down.

"Shit," Arthur says, "shit, shit, fucking shit--"

"I've got it," Eames says, and what is Eames even doing back here, doesn't he have customers, "I've got it, Arthur, it's okay. You just--you just make whatever you were going to make, alright? There's another carton in there, don't worry."

And Arthur can't even thank him, because Arthur is so angry he could kill something, and so he just grabs and measures and stirs and whisks and he isn't even really aware of what he's making until the ramekins are in the oven. Then there's ganache in a bowl and three empty bags of frozen blackberries littered over the counter and Arthur realizes, idly, that he's made those souffles he's been meaning to try for awhile now.

He doesn't know if they're going to be good, but he doesn't fucking care, he doesn't fucking care one bit.

He breathes out through his nose and leans on the counter, keeping his eyes down. His tie is loose and his arms are covered with flour and he's rolled up his sleeves, even though he doesn't remember that happening, even though he can't remember doing that at all.

And then Eames' hand is on his back, his fingers broad and fanned wide, warm through the thin starched line of Arthur's shirt. Arthur bows his head further and tries to pull himself together, but he can't manage it, he can't manage it, and he draws in a ragged breath and. And.

"Arthur," Eames says quietly. "Arthur, tell me."

Arthur shakes his head, because he doesn't trust himself to speak. It's so stupid, it's so weak and it's so stupid--

"Arthur," Eames says, and almost against his will, Arthur finds himself opening his mouth.

"I'm never going to do it," he says. "I'm never going to get it--because Fischer will hand over his whole company to his fucking kid without a thought but he won't, he won't even look at me and he's got the final say and I'm. I'm not jealous, it's not that I'm jealous, because of course, you know, it's a--he's a name partner and his son has his fucking name, he was always going to--but that's not the point, that's not the fucking point, it's that it's not fucking fair and I work so fucking hard, Eames, I work harder than anyone. I work so hard and I just, I just want them to fucking look at me, I'm just so sick of doing everyone's fucking grunt work and getting called on every little fucking thing and I can't do them all, I can't do everything, and I'm sorry but some people just have this fucking cakewalk and I don't bring in enough new clients, I just work and work and it's not enough. And I'm not even happy, I can't remember the last time I was happy, and Maurice Fischer doesn't like me and he's never, he's never going to, I'm never going to--"

"Oh, love," Eames says, and his mouth is twisted and pained and raw as he pulls Arthur into his arms.

Arthur can't even fight him, can't even pretend to push him off, because Arthur can't breathe. He can't breathe, because he's pinned everything to this one thing and it's a pipe dream, and maybe it's always been a pipe dream and he's so, so fucked. He clings to Eames' shirt instead, buries his face in Eames' neck and breathes in the bitter scent of sweat and dried coffee and having someone to do this for him. And god, god, what does it say about Arthur's life that the only person he knew to come to was the guy who owns the coffee place across the street from his fucking office, a man whose phone number is a mystery to Arthur, what the fuck does that even mean.

But Eames--Eames doesn't make him feel like he's pathetic, and Eames doesn't make him feel like he's weak and lost and never fucking good enough. Eames rubs his palm up and down Arthur's back and murmurs, "Darling, darling, it's alright," and Arthur's not crying or anything, but he is shaking, because he's so angry that he can't help but shake.

"I hate it," Arthur chokes out, "I hate it, I hate my fucking job, I hate this stupid game and the people I work for and all of it, I hate it, I've never hated anything so much in my entire fucking life."

And then he catches his breath, because really, really, that's the worst of it. Arthur has thrown away a decade of his life and thousands of dollars in student loans and every hope he's ever had and he hates it, he's hated it the whole time, he hated law school and he hates being a lawyer and he'd honestly, he'd forgotten what it was like to have fun. He'd forgotten and then there was Eames and this place and people coming from Brooklyn and it's worse, actually, it's worse, because Arthur wants to feel as good as he feels here.

He wants to feel that good all the time.

"Arthur," Eames says, "oh, Arthur, it's alright, I'm sorry, it'll be alright."

Arthur's pretty sure Eames doesn't know what he's saying. Arthur is pretty sure that Eames is just talking in that panicked way you do when someone has a nervous breakdown in the kitchen of your shop, but he hasn't let go, either, so it's enough. His arms are tight around Arthur's back and he's stroking Arthur's hair and Arthur thinks he could relearn to breathe like this, given enough time.

And Eames…Eames gives him time. Eames holds on until Arthur feels like he can think again and then he steps away, and he makes Arthur a latte and sits down on the counter next to him. He puts his hand on the back of Arthur's neck and lets Arthur babble, lets Arthur talk and talk and talk.

And Arthur tells him everything; Arthur tells him all of it. Arthur tells him about the company he'd defended even though their product had obviously, obviously killed those kids, and Arthur tells him about his father dying without him in the hospital room because Arthur couldn't get out of court fast enough. Arthur tells him about the time in his second year of law school when he'd gotten so drunk he'd needed his stomach pumped and Arthur tells him about meeting Dom the week after.

Arthur tells him about being hired as a summer associate on Dom's word. Arthur tells him about accidentally spilling wine on Maurice Fischer's jacket at the company party and never being able to live it down. Arthur tells him about the first case he ever lost and how he'd gone home and felt useless and Arthur tells him about the first case he ever won and how he'd gone home and felt soulless, and Eames listens, and listens, and listens. He follows as Arthur moves, as Arthur paces and sits and puts his head in his hands and bakes three batches of cookies and drinks a lot of rum, and eventually, when Arthur drops into a chair, Eames puts his hands on his back and kneads Arthur's shoulders.

"God," Arthur moans, slumping across the table, "god, oh my fucking god, that feels so good."

"Well of course it does, darling, you're so tense it hurts to look it you," Eames murmurs.

Arthur isn't sure when the shop closed--he knows Ariadne must have done it, must have seen him like this, and that's mortifying, but he's going to have to be mortified tomorrow. Eames' hands are massive and his fingers are strong and he works Arthur like he's fucking bread dough and fuck, fuck, nothing has ever felt this amazing, not ever, not in his whole life.

"Must you tie yourself in knots this way?" Eames asks, his voice gentle.

"Apparently," Arthur manages. He is--this is not--he should not be doing this, he has so much shit to do, he did not have time and he can't believe some of the things he's told Eames and he should apologize but he feels…he feels a lot like he's very drunk. "It's a skill-set."

"You are very talented at pushing yourself to the edge, it's true," Eames tells him. He digs his thumbs into a knot and Arthur groans, long and low.

"You don't have to--"

"Shut up, Arthur," Eames says softly, and Arthur does.

Sometime later he's on the train, and he doesn't really remember getting to the train, and his head is on Eames' shoulder, and he closes his eyes. And then he's standing in front of someone's door and it's not his door, he'd know his own door anywhere.

"This isn't where I live," Arthur says, a little drunk and so badly under-slept that he's having trouble stringing thoughts together.

"No," Eames agrees, "this is where I live."

"I'm," Arthur says, "I'm sorry, but I can't---I can't do any--I'm just, I'm really, really tired."

Eames laughs at him, low and a little sad. "Do you think I brought you here for sex, Arthur? Is that really what you think?"

"Oh," Arthur sighs. Eames' arm, he realizes, is around his waist. "I don't know, Eames. I don't know, I never know. I'm not--it's been a long time since I--you know, that."

"Well, that's a right shame," Eames says lightly, getting the door open and helping Arthur inside. "Somewhere out there are a number of idiots who are missing out."

"Never," Arthur says, "you know, not enough time. You could, if you wanted, I'm just--I really want, I want to sleep, but we should probably do it now because in the morning I'll be too embarrassed. I mean. I mean, if you even, if that's something that you'd--"

"Arthur," Eames says, and Arthur's sitting on his couch now, and Eames is sitting next to him, and how did they get here? "Arthur, love, of course I want to, but you've had a rather bad day, as you may recall."

"Did I?"

"And a lot more rum then was strictly advisable," Eames mutters under his breath.

"I am going to be in trouble," Arthur realizes. "Tomorrow. I--I had a meeting, I should have gone to my--"

"Stop that. I'm going to get you something to sleep in," Eames says. "And a pillow, and a blanket, alright? I'll only be a minute."

While he's gone, Arthur manages to get out of one shoe and half of his shirt. Eames laughs when he gets back and helps him off with the rest of it, and Arthur pulls on a pair of Eames' sweatpants. They're soft under his hands, soft like the pillow Eames slips under his head and the blanket Eames drapes over him, and Arthur is so fucking comfortable it doesn't bear thinking about.

"Why're you," says Arthur, at a loss. "You don't have to do this."

"First of all," Eames says, quirking a very slight smile, "it's a bit late for that, now that we're here. And secondly, love, you've sent the distinct impression that you'd do the same for me."

"Well, yeah," Arthur says, "but that's different."

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't talking to the coffee," Arthur murmurs, and that's complete nonsense, but Eames must know what he means, because his face twists up a little again. He brushes Arthur's hair out of his eyes and sighs.

"Darling," he says, "I am very, very fond of you, but you're a bit fucked in the head, did you know?"

"Law school," Arthur says. "Law school gets everybody in the head. That's, you know. That's the whole point. Of law school."

"I believe it," says Eames. He leans down, and he must press his lips to Arthur's forehead, because Arthur sees him get close and feels it happening, but he kind of doesn't think it's possible. Because, you know, it can't be.

"I think," Arthur says, "I'm having some trouble sorting out--what's happening. Reality. Right now."

"Don't hate yourself too much in the morning," Eames says, instead of replying properly. His fingers are in Arthur's hair, and Arthur closes his eyes and sighs. "I know you'll want to, but I really, really don't mind. Not any of it. Alright?"

"Alright," Arthur agrees, and passes out.

--

The next morning is…well. It's less unpleasant than it could be, Arthur supposes, standing across from Eames in his kitchen. He'd tried to apologize and Eames had made him coffee; he'd tried to apologize again and Eames had made him eggs.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says for the third time, the weight of his hangover thrumming heavily through his veins, and Eames sighs.

"Look, pet," he says, "if anything, I'm glad, alright? You needed that."

"You didn't," Arthur mutters rebelliously, and Eames grins.

"You're quite wrong, actually," he says. "The sight of you with bed-head is clearly something I could not have gone another day without."

"There's no way my hair is as bad as those pajama bottoms," Arthur mutters, because there's not. He's fully aware that he looks like shit, but Eames is wearing pink and white flannel pants, which appear, upon closer inspection, to be printed with cups of coffee and pieces of cake.

It would be completely ridiculous, Arthur knows, to read into that.

In addition to the hideous pants, he's not wearing a shirt, which is why Arthur is having so much trouble fighting down the urge to stare as Eames says, "That's the second time in our acquaintance you've insulted a gift from my mum."

"Well, I don't mean any offense," Arthur says, pointedly not thinking about how much he wants to run his hands down Eames' pectorals, "but, between this and the beanie, I'm starting to worry about her eyesight. And I'm almost positive those are women's pants."

Eames laughs, warm and very fond. "This isn't even the worst of it. The woman is completely mad."

"What was the worst of it?" Arthur asks, not even sure he wants to know.

Eames tells him ridiculous stories about things she's sent (an air conditioning unit one time and a parakeet another), and that mutates into a discussion of his childhood, and his father, and how guilty he feels sometimes for not going home. They talk through breakfast and through the train ride uptown, and by the time they separate on the street--Eames to open up shop and Arthur to go into the office ridiculously early--Arthur's laughing and loose, relaxed. Eames promises him a latte if he comes in later and wishes him luck suffering through the day, and his eyes only tighten a little when he says that.

Arthur's at his desk before he realizes that they didn't talk about any of it--the completely unacceptable way Arthur had behaved, the strange, half-drunk discussion of fucking, the soft look in Eames' eyes. Arthur hadn't brought it up, and instead of pushing Eames had talked about himself, had stepped back and given Arthur all the space in the world.

There'd been a giant pink fucking elephant in the room, and it wasn't even awkward.

--

Arthur's trial starts, and he doesn't have time to go into the coffee shop in the mornings anymore. He tries one time, but the line is fifteen deep and the way Eames scrambles to make his drink first causes some muttering about favoritism, so Arthur starts coming by once he's out of court. Eames complains--"But darling, how can you possibly be getting through the morning without…oh bloody hell, are you cheating on me with a Starbucks"--but not too much.

"You know, it's approaching actually terrifying," he says one afternoon, standing behind the counter and looking Arthur over appraisingly. "You've broken my scale."

"What scale?"

"The scale he keeps for the circles under your eyes," Ariadne says. "At heart, he's a very creepy man."

"It's not creepy," Eames corrects, affronted. "It's only logical. Otherwise I'd let him have an extra shot all the time, and that much caffeine isn't good for him."

"Do you talk about me like this when I'm not here?" Arthur asks, trying to sound put out and mostly sounding relieved. He's really, really looking forward to having some coffee.

"No," Ariadne says. "When you're not here, it's much worse."

"Good to know," Arthur says, eyeing the espresso machine longingly. "Hey, Eames, if I've broken the scale, does that mean I get--"

"You make me feel like a drug dealer," Eames complains, but he presses the extra shot of espresso into Arthur's hands. "If I come in here one morning to find you've broken in and are actually eating the coffee grounds, we're going to have words."

"Well, yeah, I would imagine breaking and entering isn't high on your list of favorites," Arthur agrees. He downs the shot in one go. "Fuck, I needed that."

"Arthur," Eames says, in a very different tone, and Arthur tenses. He knows what's coming--he knows that Eames has been holding back a rant about his work schedule since the night Arthur lost control. He waits, but Eames just sighs, lets his shoulders slump.

"You'd best grab your table," he says, sounding defeated, and Arthur feels guilty even though he's not sure what he's done wrong. "That couple over there is eyeing it."

"Clearly they don't know the rules," Arthur offers, and Eames cracks him a sliver of a smile, and--if only for a second--everything's alright.

--

Arthur's three weeks into trial and he's going to lose and he wants to lose, actually. Or, well, he doesn't want to lose--he wants the clients to lose, because they make a product that kills people, and he's seen things in the context of being their attorney that make him want to go home and shower for the rest of his life.

He goes straight back to the firm after trial on a Thursday, and Yusuf's in his office.

"Hey," Arthur says, "what's up?"

"I wanted you to hear it from me first," Yusuf says, sighing. "Before the company announces it or Ari tells you."

"Wanted me to hear what from you first?"

Yusuf sighs. "I made partner."

Arthur blinks at him. He waits for the jealousy to well up, but finds that it isn't there, and wonders why. He decides that's a question for later, though, and glares at Yusuf.

"And why the hell aren't you smiling about that?" he demands, mock-stern as he breaks into a grin. After half a beat, Yusuf matches it, his tension slipping away. "Jesus, Yusuf, congratulations."

"It's not really that exciting," Yusuf demurs, trying for modest but still smiling like crazy. "They promised it to me to pull me from my other firm anyway--"

"It's huge," Arthur says. He would know. "You said you told Ari already, so--fuck, I'd ask if you wanted to go out for drinks, but I don't exactly--"

"Have time, yeah, me neither," Yusuf sighs. "Rain check?"

"Absolutely."

"So you're not," Yusuf says, and then winces. "Ah, sorry, mate, this is going to come out wrong, but--I was a bit worried that you'd be…"

"Jealous?" Arthur asks, laughing a little. "What made you think that? Could it be the way I've been a complete ass about it?"

Yusuf chuckles. "That's got something to do with it, yeah. But I know you didn't mean to be--"

"I'm happy for you," Arthur says firmly. "You earned it and you deserve it, sorry I've been kind of--it was never about you, and I'm sorry. Do you know if anyone else is getting a nod?"

"Not yet," Yusuf sighs. "I won't know until they announce next week--I wasn't even supposed to know about me, but Dom let it slip."

"He's funny like that," Arthur replies, nodding. "Well, good on you. Congratulations again--we'll go celebrate when our trials are over, yeah?"

"Yours will probably wrap before mine does," Yusuf says, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of Arthur's desk. "It's a bloody mess at the moment. And actually, I've been meaning to ask you if you'd glance over this--I just need a second set of eyes on it, but the geniuses on my team aren't proving to be very helpful."

Arthur takes the proffered folder and spends forty-five minutes he doesn't have going over Yusuf's case. In exchange, Yusuf spends forty minutes of his own time glancing over Arthur's stuff, wincing sympathetically at how hideously fucked he is.

When they break, it's 6:30, and Arthur packs up his laptop and goes across the street. Ariadne smiles at him a little nervously and then calls Eames' name, and that's when Arthur realizes Eames must know about Yusuf, and is probably anticipating another psychotic break.

He's distracted from that thought, though, when Eames comes out from the back in a shirt that's covered in coffee. He's pinching the bridge of his nose and half of his hair is sticking up at odd angles, as though there'd been coffee in that too.

"Hey," Eames says, "you okay?"

"I'm fine," Arthur says at once. "What happened to you?"

"Seriously, I heard about--"

"Why are you covered in coffee?" Arthur asks. "Did one of the machines blow up?"

Eames rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I made a sub-par Americano," he sighs, "and apparently I deserved to wear it."

"Someone threw coffee at you?" Arthur demands.

"I heard about the partner thing," Eames says. "Is it--I cleared out the kitchen, do you need the--"

"Yusuf deserves it, I'm happy for him, shut up," Arthur snaps. "Can we go back to the fact that someone threw coffee at you? And why are you rubbing your face? Are you burned?"

"No," Eames says at once, "no, don't look at me like that, Christ. I've got a migraine, that's all."

"Just to confirm that I'm following here," Arthur says slowly, "today one of my closest friends got a promotion, and you developed a migraine and were attacked with hot liquid, and the first thing you did when I showed up was ask if I was alright?"

"Er," says Eames.

"Jesus," Arthur mutters, "I must be even more of a fucking nutcase than I thought," and he gets the Advil out of his bag.

"Thanks," Eames says, taking the bottle from him. "I didn't mean to--"

"For fuck's sake, Eames," Arthur growls, "take the damn pills and stop worrying about pissing me off."

Eames kind of grins at him then, and he hands over a cup of something--Arthur has no idea what, he hadn't stopped to order--and waves a hand when Arthur tries to pay him. Irritated, but not even sure why, Arthur sets up at his table and flips open a briefing. He's halfway through it when Eames collapses into the chair across from him, drops his head to the table, and moans.

"Darling," he says, "I am having a completely shit day."

"I know," Arthur says, his irritation draining away. "I'm sorry."

"Why did I decide to open a coffee shop?" Eames asks the table. "And if I was going to do it, why did I have to put in fluorescent lights?"

"You know, you could probably sue them," Arthur says. "The person who threw the coffee at you, I mean. Depending on how hot the--"

"Your litigious nature, while appealing, is not actually helpful right now," Eames sighs. "Fuck, my head hurts."

Arthur doesn't look up from his briefing, because he's busy and not at all because he's afraid. He does let his hand creep across the table to brush against the top of Eames' hair, fingers skating across the stiff tufts that had dried with coffee in them.

He means it to be a brief touch, but Eames groans and butts up into his hand, and almost unconsciously Arthur finds himself sinking his fingers into his hair. He rubs at Eames' scalp in slow, soft circles, and Eames makes a series of increasingly distracting noises, but Arthur doesn't look up.

"Why do you have to be so bloody good at everything," Eames mutters.

"It's a gift," Arthur says. "Why do you have to be such a mess?"

"I'm hardly the mess here," Eames says, but Arthur notices that he doesn't actually ask him to stop. "What're you working on, then?"

"Oh, you know," Arthur sighs, "selling my soul, one tiny piece at a time."

"Why do you do it?" Eames asks, and here it is, the conversation Arthur's been dreading for weeks. Eames doesn't sound judgmental, though, just interested and maybe a little concerned. "If you hate it so much, I mean."

"I," Arthur says, and pauses. His hand pauses too, and Eames makes a sound that is close enough to a whimper that the corner of Arthur's mouth turns down. He resumes, thinking.

"I don't know," he says finally. "Which is probably sad, but--you just fall into things sometimes, don't you? I went to law school because it seemed like the thing to do, and then--you know, and now it's my life. It's not like I can quit."

"You could absolutely quit," Eames points out. Arthur sighs.

"Well, if I lose this case I'm going to get fired," he says, "and if I win I'm going to feel like an asshole until I die, and I've never quit anything in my life, so I'm kind of fucked no matter how you slice it."

Eames is quiet for a minute. Then he says, "Well, if it's any comfort, you give an excellent head massage."

Arthur laughs. "You're just desperate."

"And you're not an asshole," Eames continues, ignoring him. "You are, at very worst, a bit of a stubborn git, but I'm prepared to let that go."

Arthur snorts, but he presses against Eames' scalp a little harder. Eames makes a low, appreciative noise, and Arthur focuses in on that spot. Eames' shoulders relax and he slumps further into the table, sighing.

"There?" Arthur asks.

"Yeah," Eames murmurs, "yeah, love, right there."

Neither one of them says anything for a few minutes; Arthur reaches into his bag to switch his briefing for yet another horrifying case study he hopes against hope the plaintiff hasn't gotten their hands on. Then his resolve gives way and he says "Oh my fucking god, Eames, can I just tell you how dirty I feel sometimes for doing this? Because, just, seriously. You don't smoke, right?"

"Quit years ago," Eames says. "Nasty habit."

"You've got absolutely no idea," Arthur mutters, flipping over the case study again. "No idea. Shit, I can't believe I'm defending these fuckwads."

"Don't they teach you not to internalize it?" Eames asks, voice soft. "The work, I mean."

"They tried," Arthur says, barking out a brief, bitter laugh. "Didn't take."

"Shame," Eames growls, "since it's not your bloody fault your clients are pigs."

Arthur doesn't answer him, just sighs long and low as Eames rubs his head up against his hand a little. He's almost forgotten what they're doing, to be honest, until Ariadne walks up and raises her eyebrows at them.

"Uh," she says, "I hate to break this up, but Eames, you said I could go early? Yusuf and I are going to celebrate the promotion."

"Mmmph," Eames groans. "But I'm comfortable."

"Tough," Ariadne tells him, grinning. "My boyfriend's a rock star, that takes precedence. Besides, Arthur will help you close, won't you, Arthur?"

The glint in her eyes is very dangerous, and Arthur really doesn't want to cockblock Yusuf on his big night. Plus, Eames is pretty pathetic like this, and Arthur isn't necessarily looking for an excuse to leave.

"I will help you close," he confirms, giving Eames' scalp one last good rub and retracting his fingers. Eames glares at him half-heartedly for a second at the loss of them, but then he drags himself to his feet, offering Arthur a hand.

"Thanks, by the way," he says. "I actually feel a lot better."

"Yeah," Arthur agrees, surprising himself, "yeah, me too."

--

When it happens, it takes Arthur all of a minute to realize it was probably inevitable.

It doesn't really help, though.

He's behind the counter on a Friday afternoon--court had adjourned early and the coffee shop had gotten a write-up in the Times, which Arthur had read on the way to work that morning. It'd carried him through a shit day, and when he'd gone in to offer his congratulations, the place was swamped.

"Arthur!" Eames had yelled, "Get your arse in an apron, we're in the bloody weeds over here," and Arthur hadn't even thought about it.

So he's behind the counter, running the cash register, laughing as Eames tosses him a bag of the prepackaged decaf and Ariadne smacks him with a steamed towel. He's laughing and he's letting the horrors of that fucking trial slough off of him and he feels good, he feels so good, so of course that's when it happens.

Maurice Fischer says, "Well, I'm beginning to understand why your case is going so poorly," and Arthur's whole life goes all to hell.

"Oh, god," Arthur says, whipping around, hoping he's mistaken the voice--but no, no, there he is in all his glory, whip-thin and hawk-eyed, looking at Arthur like Arthur's something on the bottom of his shoe. Arthur feels more than sees Eames go still behind him, and he wants to crawl into a hole and die.

"Mr. Fischer," he says, "I--"

"Oh, spare me," Fischer says, looking him over disdainfully. "I knew full well that you weren't ready to take on a case like this, but Dom spoke so highly of your work ethic. It seems he was…mistaken."

"Arthur's work ethic is exemplary," Eames snaps, before Arthur can stop him.

"For you, apparently," Fischer agrees, looking around. "Tell me, Arthur, is this a second job? Interesting that you're doing it on my time, of course--do you have gambling debts to cover, perhaps? Some drug lord to whom you owe money?"

Eames makes a low growling noise, but Arthur shoots him a quelling glare. "No, Mr. Fischer, of course not," he says, "I just--"

"Because barring that," Fischer continues, "and considering your salary, I really can't imagine why you'd need this position. He can't be paying you more than minimum wage, after all. And if you don't need this job, Arthur, then I have to ask what the fuck you're doing here."

"I--"

"Did you forget," Fischer inquires silkily, "about our client? Did you forget that you are losing their case? Oh, don't look at me like that, of course I'm tracking how you're doing--you didn't honestly think I'd just let an associate take lead on that account without some modicum of control, did you?"

Arthur jerks back like he's been stung, and then Eames' fingers are on his spine, warm and solid. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to keep from leaning all the way into the touch. The customers--god, the regular customers, people Arthur knows and Ariadne and Eames and they're all staring and this is the most fucking humiliating moment of Arthur's entire--

"I apologize," Arthur says, "I really do, it won't happen again--"

And then Fischer leans across the counter and hisses, and no, no, this is the most humiliating moment of Arthur's life, right here. "You are pulled from this case," he growls.

"But," Arthur says, and it's so fucking stupid, he shouldn't even try, "but it's only--all we've got left are the closing arguments, you can't--"

"Oh, I can," Fischer snaps. "Frankly, if I have anything to say about it you'll be fired before the week is out. Enjoy your weekend."

He turns on his heel and walks out, and Arthur stares after him, blinking, for a long minute. The whole shop is silent and he knows his face must be bright red and Eames' hand is still on his back, but he's not sure how long he's been there when Eames says, "Arthur?"

And god, god, his voice is so--like he's talking to a skittish dog, and what Arthur wants to do, what Arthur really wants to do, is turn around. He wants to turn around and fold himself into Eames' arms, wants to bury his face in Eames' neck and breathe in, wants to hear Eames say his name over and over again. He wants to hold on because he knows, he knows it's the only thing that will feel good, but--

--but, well, doing the things that feel good haven't really gotten him very far, have they?

"Fuck," he says instead, "oh, fuck," and he's moving, back towards the kitchen, away from everyone's eyes. Eames follows him, because of course Eames follows him, because Eames never pushes except when Arthur needs him to push, when Arthur needs him to push and wishes he wouldn't.

"Slow down," Eames says, as Arthur hits the back door and steps outside, "Arthur, Christ-- "

"Don't," Arthur snaps, "you've gotten me into enough fucking trouble, don't."

"You know that isn't true," Eames says, his voice completely even. He reaches out and grabs Arthur by the arm, pulling him around so they're facing on another. They're in the delivery alley, brick everywhere, and Arthur wouldn't actually be surprised if the walls started closing in on him.

"You know that isn't true," Eames repeats, and it's soft, like a caress. "Arthur, love, you can't let people treat you like that--"

"You have no idea what the fuck you're talking about," Arthur spits. "Jesus fucking Christ, I've probably thrown my entire fucking life away--god, he pulled my case, he pulled my fucking case--"

"Why the bloody fuck is that what you're worried about?" Eames demands. "Darling, maybe you missed the memo, but that's not exactly a proportionate response for finding an employee volunteering some time at a coffeehouse--"

"I'm losing the case!" Arthur yells. "Or I was, I'm not losing shit anymore because it's not my case anymore, I don't have time to be here, I never had time to be here, what the fucking fucking fuck was I even thinking about--"

"Maybe that you'd had about enough of living for your bleeding job?" Eames suggests, dangerous. "A job you don't even like, by the way--"

"I knew I shouldn't have told you that," Arthur snaps. "I knew you'd throw it back in my face, I knew it."

"No, actually," Eames shoots back, "no, I haven't, I haven't once, I've let you run yourself into the sodding ground, I've watched you torture yourself and I have't thrown a thing back, Arthur, because I wanted you to understand that you could fucking trust me. You've killed yourself for these bastards and I haven't said a bloody word even though all I want to do sometimes is pick you up and shake you--"

"And why the fuck would you want to do that?" Arthur demands. "What the fuck is it to you?"

"You're the biggest idiot in the entire bloody world," Eames growls, and kisses him.

And for a second--for a brilliant, brief second--Arthur forgets. He forgets about everything, because he's wanted this for months and he hasn't let himself have it, and Eames' breath is hot and fast in his mouth. He leans into the kiss, desperate and hungry, and Eames makes a sound like nothing he's ever heard and grabs him, drawing him closer.

Arthur wants to curl into him and never let go. Arthur wants to do this forever--Arthur wants to get to know every angle of his mouth, every plane of his body. Arthur wants to trace the lines of those tattoos with his tongue and he wants to mock every hideous pair of pajama pants and he wants to work behind the counter of the fucking shop, wants to wake up in the morning and go to bed at night for this, and this, and this.

But Arthur's never been particularly good at taking what he wants.

"I can't," he says, pulling back, "Eames, I can't, I can't--"

"You can," Eames says, and his hands are cupping Arthur's face now, warm and soft and impossible. "You don't have to do this to yourself, you don't have to be this person--"

"This is who I am," Arthur hisses.

"No," Eames says, and he looks so sad Arthur could hit him; he looks so sad Arthur could cry. "No, love, this is what you do."

"I can't," Arthur repeats, and he has to get away, he has to get out of here, he has to salvage what remains of his shambles of a career and he can't do it, he can't do it while Eames is looking at him like that. "I can't, I have to go," and he's running, down the alley and towards his office, towards his life.

"You're making a mistake," Eames calls after him. "You're making a mistake and if you'd just listen, Arthur, if you'd just listen for one fucking second--"

And then Arthur's across the street and inside his building, and he doesn't think of anything at all for a long, long time.

--

It's the worst weekend of Arthur's life.

On Saturday morning, Dom calls. He is disappointed and he's going to do what he can and he makes no promises and he's disappointed; he can't believe he had to hear about it from Fischer and he'd stuck his neck out on the line for this and Arthur's throwing his life away and he's disappointed. Arthur murmurs apologies into the phone, back hunched and agonized on his couch, and remembers being twenty four and drinking wine at one of Dom's parties, feeling like he was on the path to being somebody.

He gets drunk, by himself, and watches the Food Network for hours after they hang up.

On Sunday he can't go bake at the coffee shop, and he can't bake at his apartment, because every fucking tool makes him think about Eames. He can't bake and he can't work, so he sorts through his files, organizes six months worth of backbreaking effort to hand over to one of the other attorneys working the case. He thinks about calling Yusuf, and decides that he probably won't want the stigma of being attached to Arthur's flailing career; he thinks about calling Ariadne, and decides she's probably furious at him for what he's done to Eames.

He has his phone open to call Eames fifteen times, cursor hovering over the number he'd made a point to get after that night on his couch, but he never lets himself put it through.

On Monday he meets with the name partners, and is flayed more thoroughly than he'd have imagined possible. It becomes apparent over the course of the meeting that this has been coming for awhile, that the coffee shop had just been the last straw, and Fischer leads the charge. Arthur is dragged over the coals for every mistake he's made in six years with the firm, but there haven't been that many of them--it's his attitude that's the problem, the fact that he's never brought in enough clients, the way he's never cared as much as he should have.

And this is ridiculous, because Arthur cares so much it hurts most days, but probably for the wrong reasons.

It says something about his skill level that the partners--the name partners, fuck--meet with him at all. He is an associate, for all he is (was) high-profile, and this is unheard of. Dom talks at length about the time and energy they've invested in him, and Fischer talks at length about how he is a waste of both, and Saito is mostly quiet, observing.

"You shouldn't do this just to do it," he says when the other two have gone, and Arthur doesn't even know what that means.

He spends the rest of his week going over his case with Nash, the fuckwit who's been playing second for him all this time. He isn't half as good as Arthur, but he plays the game better; he's partner material, Arthur realizes, and wonders if he himself ever was. When he's not going over the ins and outs of his case--his his his, regardless of who's taken it over--he's staring out the window. It's stupid and it's pathetic and he misses Eames so much it's hard to breathe, which isn't even logical, which doesn't make sense at all.

He drinks Starbucks coffee and hates it. He brews his own coffee and hates it. He drinks the office coffee and hates it so much he switches to Red Bull, which tastes disgusting but at least keeps the headaches at bay.

He sleeps when he can manage it, which isn't often.

It's Friday before Yusuf comes into his office, throws himself into a chair, and stares at him. Arthur knows he looks terrible, but he can't be bothered to care--his life is a mess and he's hanging onto his job by a thread and he's a pariah, and he knows he's a pariah.

"Did they send you to fire me?" he asks. "Because I won't--you know, it's okay if they did, if they thought it would be better. I'll go quietly."

Yusuf says, "Why do you do this job?"

"What?"

"You practice law," Yusuf says, still staring. "Why?"

Arthur laughs, exhausted, running a hand over his face. "What kind of a question is that?"

"A simple one," Yusuf replies, stippling his fingers. "For example, if you asked me, I would tell you I practice law because it fascinates me. I'd tell you I love the idea that I'm building a body of precedent, that I love the complexity behind it, the history."

"Do you?"

"Of course," Yusuf says, quirking a slight smile. "I love what I do, Arthur. I wouldn't do it otherwise."

"But," Arthur says, "we work for--"

"Terrible corporations, sometimes," Yusuf agrees. "And sometimes good corporations who've made mistakes, and sometimes--most of the time--businesses that don't have a moral value either way. For me, personally, it's more about the act of practicing…but that's neither here nor there right now. Why do you practice law?"

"I have no idea," Arthur admits, and Yusuf's gaze goes a little deeper.

"Then," he says, like it's a closing argument, "why do you practice law?"

Arthur stares at him. For a second, Yusuf's expression is completely serious, and them his mouth quirks up at the corners. And Arthur's whole fucking worldview is crumbling in front of him, because he doesn't--he doesn't have to do this, he's never had to do this, this isn't who he is at all--and Yusuf is fucking grinning at him.

"You," Arthur says, "are a genius."

"I am deeply aware," Yusuf agrees, standing as Arthur pushes back from his chair. "If you're going to go on a destructive spree, stay out of my new office, alright? It's a corner office, it doesn't deserve that."

"Your office is safe from me," Arthur replies, and then, "thank you," because he's not sure he's ever been more grateful for anything. Yusuf claps him on the shoulder.

"Good luck," he says, and then he's gone.

It only takes Arthur twenty minutes to pack up his office; most of his shit is work stuff, things he won't have to take with him. It's another fifteen before he can engineer his way past Fischer's secretary and slip into his office.

"You can't make an appointment?" Fischer asks.

"I fucking quit," Arthur sings out, and it's the proudest moment of his entire goddamn life.

--

The handle of the coffee shop door is smooth and chilled under Arthur's hand--it's comforting and daunting all at once, the shape of it familiar under his fingers. He wonders how many times he's opened this door, and how many more he's going to, and when he steps inside he's smiling, thinking about it.

Then he sees Eames, and remembers to be nervous.

He's standing behind the counter, half turned toward the kitchen, and he's not looking at Arthur at first. There are heavy circles under his eyes, like he hasn't slept in days, and a towel wrapped around his left hand. He's wiping down the counter absently as he talks to someone out of sight--probably Ariadne--and the set to his shoulders is low and slumped, the way it always is when he's had a particularly trying day.

Arthur feels his heart jump and break all at once.

Then he turns, and his eyes widen, and Arthur feels his box of hastily gathered office supplies slip from him fingers. And really, that's just--he feels himself blushing before he even starts talking, and Eames is staring at him like he's not sure if he's real.

"Arthur," Eames says, and Arthur…can't control himself at all.

"I quit my job," he says. "I quit my job and that's--that's not even how I wanted to start out, fuck, but now that I've--I quit my job and I, you, shit."

"If you're trying to make a point," Eames says, and it's slow, like he's talking through water, but the corner of his mouth is twitching, "you're doing a fairly crap job of it."

"I quit my job," Arthur repeats, "and also I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you."

Eames' mouth drops open, and there are customers staring, and Ariadne is staring, and Arthur has never cared less about having an audience. He clears his throat and waits for Eames to do something, to say something, to react, but he doesn't, and so Arthur is forced to continue.

"I just," he says, "I just--I probably should have led with that second thing, but I'm a little, it's been a bad week and I haven't had any coffee because you ruined me for other coffee because you suck and, oh my god, Eames, Eames, you didn't expect me to be good at this, right? Because I'm pretty sure I just insulted you in the process of trying to tell you I love you and, fuck, it's probably really creepy to be saying that anyway but I, you know, I kept wanting to call and come over and as it turns out you're kind of the only thing about my life that isn't complete shit."

And that's when Eames grins, blinding and all-encompassing, and vaults himself over the counter. He's crossed the room in two strides, and he kicks the box on the floor aside and reaches out, drawing Arthur close. His hand is on the small of Arthur's back and his smile is inching closer to Arthur's mouth and his eyes are soft and fond and happy, happy like Arthur's never seen.

"Darling," he says, the undercurrent of a laugh in his tone, "I'm going to do you a favor now, and shut you up."

"Oh god, please," Arthur says, and then Eames is kissing him, and he forgets how to speak at all.

For a long moment, all Arthur knows is this--Eames' tongue in his mouth, Eames' hands on his back, Eames' five o'clock shadow brushing against his skin. Then there's a roaring noise in his ears, and for a second Arthur ignores it, thinks it's all in his head.

And then Eames is laughing and pulling back, and Arthur blinks and realizes that it's fucking applause. The customers are fucking applauding.

"What the hell," he mutters, blushing and ducking his head. Eames makes a small noise and catches Arthur's chin, tilting his face back up so their eyes are meeting.

"They had a pool," Eames tells him, and he's smiling like he's never going to stop, and you know what, maybe the applause is totally justified. "I think there's a website."

"You might've said," Arthur murmurs, and Eames kisses him again, swift and light, at the corner of his mouth.

"But then I might have missed that scintillating declaration," he offers, low. "Are you going to be offended if I return the sentiment without the insult?"

"Yes," Arthur says, "yes, totally, because then I'll have to be embarrassed for the rest of my life."

"Fine," says Eames, and he's laughing now, warm and thrilled and so close. "Arthur, pet, you are a complete prat, and I love you."

"Well, thank god for that," Arthur manages, and then what self control he has left finally, finally breaks, and he doesn't say anything else for a long time.

Epilogue

Arthur hasn't gotten any proper sleep in two days.

Eames had been right--taking three custom jobs for the same weekend had been insane. But Arthur's been pretty good about balancing their time, even in the wake of the boom in cake orders after Ariadne and Yusuf's wedding, and he'd thought he could handle it.

It wasn't that he was wrong, exactly--the cakes all look fabulous, and he knows they'll be fucking delicious. It's just that he feels a little bit like he's going to die.

He sends the last delivery van on its way, scrubs his face with the back of his hand, and goes back inside the shop. He can't help grinning a little at the second oven, even in his mildly sorry state--that Eames had been wrong about. He'd insisted that they could make due with one, and Arthur had been forced to talk him into changing his mind by denying him sex for two weeks.

It had grated on both of them, but the resulting purchase and four-day sexual free-for-all had been worth it. Whoever said business and pleasure shouldn't mix was fucking wrong.

He checks on the madeleines--close, but not quite there--and goes out to the front of the house. It's quiet for once, a few customers chatting in the corner booth, and Eames is bent over and fucking with the espresso machine again.

"Decaf's still busted," Arthur says, sidling up next to him. "You're going to have to give in and call the repair guy at some point here."

"I am in charge of the coffee," Eames says loftily, "you stick to the baked goods." Then the machine shoots out a spray of steam that narrowly misses his face. He swears and jerks back, and Arthur can't help but laugh at him a little. Shaking his head, Eames straightens up and runs a hand through his hair. Then he looks at Arthur and raises his eyebrows.

"Christ," he says, "you look awful."

"Thanks," Arthur deadpans, rolling his eyes, but he lets Eames hook a thumb into the pocket of his apron and drag him forward a little. "That's deeply flattering, I appreciate it."

"It's like it's five years ago," Eames continues, voice heavy with melodrama. "Oh, god, I'm having these terrible flashbacks. You're going to start twitching again, aren't you?"

"I never twitched," Arthur protests. "That's ridiculous."

"You absolutely twitched," Eames informs him, even as he reaches up to push Arthur's hair back out of his eyes. "Less after one of my lattes, I'll admit, but the truth is the truth. And you always looked a few steps away from a nervous breakdown."

"Yeah, well," Arthur says, and he's laughing now, "it's a good thing I found my calling, then, isn't it?"

"A very good thing," Eames purrs. He pushes his advantage and kisses Arthur gently, drawing his lower lip in for a quick second, and then pulls back before it can get obscene in front of the customers (again). He doesn't go far, though, and his hands are resting lightly on Arthur's hips, and Arthur lets his head drop onto Eames shoulder. He tucks his face into the crook of Eames' neck, as familiar as breathing by this point, and lets out something that's half sigh, half laughter.

"Fuck, I'm tired," he murmurs.

"Mmm," Eames agrees, a rumble low in his chest. "I know, love. I'd tell you to go home, but Ari's called off again. The stomach flu, apparently."

"She's going to have to give it up and tell us she's pregnant eventually," Arthur says, as Eames reaches up and runs a hand down his spine. "It's not like Yusuf's doing a great job of hiding it, what with the grinning all over everything all the time."

"He's happy," Eames laughs, "he can't help it. Let her have her surprise, she'll be ready to spring it on us soon enough."

"That kid's going to have the best birthday cakes ever," Arthur mutters. "All the other kids are going to be so jealous."

"You must be tired," Eames says, amused. "You want to kip out on the couch until the afternoon rush? I'm sure I can hold down the fort until then, and I can always pull Kyle or Jess out of the back if I need a hand."

"They're busy," Arthur protests. "I didn't do shit except that cake this morning, someone's got to keep this place in pastry."

"Control freak," Eames says, but fondly.

"You knew that," Arthur sighs. He pulls back because it's high time he did, and because he's definitely going to need some coffee if he's going to stay awake. "I think I can push through for a little while."

"Suit yourself," Eames says. "Latte?"

"I can't believe you're even asking," Arthur says, and Eames grins at him as he breaks off to start the espresso.

Arthur levers himself up to sit on the counter and looks around, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. He's leaning against the back wall, which has been covered in chalkboard paint since the day he and Eames realized creating a set menu was useless, since they'd only deviate from it. They tend to make what they feel like--dark chocolate eclairs and rich Sumatra roasts, hazelnut biscotti with creamy white mocha.

There had been an article, two weeks after their official reopening as Small Vices Bakery & Café, that had called Eames the coffee sommelier to Arthur's pastry chef. Eames'd had the damn thing bronzed, and it's hanging on the far wall in all its ostentatious glory. When Arthur mocks him for it, Eames just looks pointedly at the Zagat plaque next the register, like he knows about how Arthur runs his fingers over it sometimes for good luck.

Which, okay, he probably does know about that, but Arthur doesn't mind so much.

The decorating in the place is eclectic at best--Eames' penchant for bright colors and patterns blending into Arthur's passion for straight, clean lines. It should look hideous, actually, but instead the atmosphere is open and warm, inviting. They've got more regulars than they know what to do with, and they have it on good authority that they're the best in the the city.

Arthur knows that's crap, though. He's pretty sure they're the best on the whole East Coast.

And the thing is, Arthur's never going to have a corner office. He's never going to win another case and he's never going to defend the top dogs and he'll never be high profile, and he's really, really okay with that. He's got a corner bakery instead, a booming business with loyal customers and fantastic employees. He's got a job that he loves, and friends that he couldn't live without, and Eames, and Eames, and Eames.

He's been a full partner for four and a half years now. It is, Arthur has to admit, a lot better than he'd thought it would be.

"Order up," Eames says, breaking him out of his reverie and pressing a mug into his hands. "Four shots, just like the old days. Takes you back, yeah?"

"I don't want to go back," Arthur says, hooking a leg around Eames' waist just because. "It was no way to live, as you were always telling me."

"Yes, well," Eames says, mock serious, "if I'd known then you were going to do completely mad things like take three cake orders for one weekend, I might have encouraged you to keep on with the legal nonsense."

"Liar," Arthur laughs. "You hated that job."

"You hated that job," Eames corrects, smiling up at him as he takes a sip of the coffee and sighs, content. "I loved you. It's different."

"Not that different," Arthur murmurs. Eames cocks his head, considering.

"No," he says, a good deal softer, "no, I suppose not."

The bell they keep hanging over the front door jingles then, and Eames breaks away to help the customer who's just walked inside. Arthur stretches and stands, knowing without bothering to check that the madeleines are going to be ready to come out in a second. He presses a kiss into the back of Eames' neck for no particular reason at all, and Eames grins over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

And later, later, when it's just the two of them and the darkened shop, Arthur's going to press him against the wall and grind their hips together. He's going to taste the faint flavor of his own chocolate croissants lingering in Eames' mouth, and his hands are going to linger over the places where Eames is starting to carry a little weight from eating so many fucking sweets. He's going to laugh and remind Eames that they're late for dinner with Yusuf and Ariadne, and Eames is going to growl and call him a cocktease. They're going to eat too much and catch a late train and fall into bed together and pass out in a tangle of limbs, and then tomorrow they're going to do it again. For now, Arthur goes to pull the trays out of the oven, already considering the best way to manage sprinkling flour in Eames' hair without him noticing.

He's got to admit, all things considered, that his life has turned out to be pretty fantastic after all.