Inception/Brick - Ouroboros (2/?)
Title: Ouroboros
Author: osaki_nana_707
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Brendan, Eames (eventual ArthurxEames)
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Word count: 4,250 (this part)
Warnings: language, vague allusions to drug abuse, mentions of past character death
Summary: Eames comes to Arthur for help in taking down a group of drug peddlers selling a new recreational and more potent version of somnacin, but Arthur still has some of his own demons to fight off. Fusion/Crossover with Brick.
Part Two
It turned out that Arthur had been right. There was no one to ambush them at the airport, and they effortlessly got onto the plane without issue.
Eames watched Arthur's profile as he handed over his ticket to the flight attendant and had her direct him to his seat. It was subtle to most people, but to Eames it was so obvious…
Arthur hadn't been sleeping well.
There were dark circles under his eyes, and a distance within them, not to mention the weight he'd dropped. There was the slightest dip in his shoulders as well, as if he was carrying something that was growing heavier with time. As a forger, Eames had been trained to notice things like that almost immediately. Of course, with someone like Arthur, who had a poker face that rivaled his own, he didn't have any reason other than that he'd been paying very close attention.
Arthur had the kind of face that Eames couldn't help but linger on. He was attractive but far from conventional with distinctively set features and slightly oversized ears, a pair of dimples he could swim in, and intent brown eyes that sometimes looked so dark they looked black. He was interesting, and those were always Eames's favorite faces. The poor face really had suffered from the lack of sleep though. Even Arthur's skin had suffered, losing some of its color, dotted with a few blemishes near the hairline, and his lips were chapped from being licked and chewed on. Something was most definitely troubling him, but Eames didn't know Arthur well enough to be sure of what it was (though it wasn't for lack of trying to know him-Eames tended to find it much safer to have all the people he worked with pegged so that he could use them appropriately. Arthur had just been difficult from day one).
So, with no answers, and no way to find them on his own, Eames went out on a limb and asked him, "So… been having insomnia?"
"Why would you think that?" Arthur asked, blankly taking long looks at everyone else on the plane, trying to find that trace of suspicion while he shoved their bags into the overhead compartment, and also likely asserting what could be used as a weapon should he need it. Typical pointman stuff.
"You look exhausted," Eames said but put great effort into making his voice blank of emotion.
"I've been on the run too," Arthur mumbled as he took a seat, voice quiet enough for only Eames to hear, "which you already know if your comment about my failing track record last night was any indication."
The bitterness in Arthur's voice didn't slip by Eames, but then again, Eames doubted it was supposed to. "I said no such thing. I had just heard your last jobs had gone badly. It could have been the fault of your team, not you. Why? Was it you?"
"No," Arthur gritted out, opening his laptop and purchasing internet access and then proceeding to set up walls so that no one else could find his searches without the right key. "Do you have any names that I can start with?"
"I'd say your best bet is to start with Scott Babson. He was a frontrunner back in my day, and rumor has it that he's the kingpin now."
"Mm," Arthur said, face carefully blank. "Scott? You'd think he'd have a tougher name than that."
"Don't be fooled," Eames assured. "Babson's a brick shithouse. He's all blood and muscle. He's the type you wouldn't want to come across in a dark alley or even in daylight really."
"…and you thought it would be wise to piss that person off?"
"I was young and stupid," Eames shrugged. "Both of us were bullheaded and out for blood, out to be the best. If it helps, I am smarter than him or at least I was."
"Dope peddlers are dope peddlers," Arthur said vaguely, and Eames wasn't sure if he was insulting him or just stating. "So, Mr. Babson's the pin. If you were able to find that out, how were you not able to find him? Why do you need me?"
"These aren't small town junk dealers, Arthur," Eames assured. "They're selling their stuff all over the globe. The fact that his name is only being whispered about proves of his ability to disappear under the radar. Odds are good that he's constantly on the move as well."
"Well, it's doubtful that destroying the pin destroys the business," Arthur said, not looking up from his screen. "In an operation of this size, he's pulling the strings, but he's not the only one with hands on the paddles. If you want to take down the whole group, you're going to have to off more than just Babson… There's also the possibility that Babson's a fall guy. If he's as stupid as you've said, then his business wouldn't be nearly so successful under his helm… Then again, I'm expecting he's not as dumb as you thought if he was able to make it up the ranks anyway."
"For the record, his stupidity might have been fabricated out of my disdain for him, but I still stand by the fact that I was smarter at the time."
Arthur glanced at him, bemused. "So, if he hated you so much, why did he ask for your help?"
"I was good at what I did," Eames replied lightly. "He had the title, so he probably figured it wouldn't be degrading for him to ask my assistance. Plus, he needed better forgeries of travel documentations for his other dealers. No one forges like me, after all. I suppose in the ten-something years since we'd last associated, he'd forgotten that I was a bit of a cheeky bastard who didn't mind fucking people over if it served my purposes."
"So, did you fuck him over because of your morals or out of spite?" Arthur asked, and Eames wasn't sure if Arthur completely believed his story.
"Perhaps a bit of both," Eames said, giving Arthur nothing.
"You're willing to basically empty your bank accounts to me in exchange for taking this guy down," Arthur reminded. "You expect me to believe that you just want him taken care of because of your love of the business and a ten-year-old grudge?"
Well, that answered Eames's theories about Arthur believing him.
…or maybe not.
"I guess I can understand that," Arthur said quietly.
Eames really couldn't figure him out.
Arthur searched on in silence for a good twenty minutes before Eames saw any change in his expression. "L. D.," Arthur said. "I keep seeing the initials L.D. here. Is that some kind of code or something?"
"Probably one of Babson's men," Eames shrugged. "Some of the boys preferred to go by initials or by aliases back in the day."
"It does make it easier for you to disappear," Arthur replied idly, and it wasn't until that very moment that Eames began to wonder if Arthur was Arthur's real name. Everyone had always called him such, and Eames had just assumed. Then again, most people called him Eames, and that had only been a name he'd taken up when he really started making a splash in mind crime. It just happened to be the alias he was using at the time his infamy began, and he quite liked it, so he stuck with it.
"No… no, I don't know," Arthur said, knocking Eames out of his thoughts. "I'm not seeing anyone on his list of goons with the initials L.D."
"You already found a list of people working for him?"
"Not exactly," Arthur admitted. "There's no way to be absolutely positive that they all do or if this is even the whole list. Most of these people were convicted for possession with intent to sell, some just for being under the influence, but all of their police reports mention something about the kingpin. The police in the UK have apparently been looking for him for quite a while, but his loyal followers gave them nil."
"Locked up blokes aren't going to do us much good."
"Don't be so sure," Arthur said. "Maybe we could talk to one of them, get some answers… and besides, most of these people aren't in prison anymore. There was apparently a successful escape attempt about four months ago. Something-I don't know what, but I can guess, was smuggled in, and the guard conveniently fell asleep off the edge of a railing. They got the keys and the codes and got out before anyone even knew they were gone."
"Well, that's unfortunate."
"There's a couple left, so I'm guessing they've either outlived their usefulness to the team or have ratted out some information that the police didn't put down on paper. I'll look into it."
"All right then," Eames replied. "In the meantime, I think I'll settle in for a bit of a catnap. Wake me when we get stateside, would you?"
"Nine something hours doesn't sound like a catnap to me."
"Cats can sleep up to twenty hours a day, Arthur," Eames replied lightly, letting his seat back a little. "You should try and get some sleep too. I don't want your supercomputer of a brain to get all foggy."
"Go fuck yourself, Mr. Eames," Arthur replied with a condescending little smirk, and honestly, Eames didn't expect any less.
Pretty little thing.
When Eames woke up a few hours later, he found that Arthur had indeed fallen asleep, though it didn't seem to be part of his plan. He was slumped with his chair still propped up, laptop still placed on the fold out desk in front of him, head lolled onto the shoulder closest to Eames. He would have appeared almost peaceful if it weren't for the little wrinkle between his eyebrows, the slightly downward curve of his mouth.
Curious, Eames reached out and brushed a fingertip feather-lightly over Arthur's bottom lip, and Arthur inhaled sharply through his nose, spasming awake. Eames pretended to still be asleep so Arthur wouldn't know he'd touched him at all. Arthur seemed like the type to get really upset about those sorts of things.
Eames acted as if he was just waking up but found he didn't need to because Arthur was wildly looking around for something or someone. When he looked back at Eames though, his expression carefully turned blank, and he started smoothing at the hair that had been rubbed upwards from slumping in the seat.
"Any leeway on this L.D. character?" Eames asked.
"Zilch," Arthur said, rolling his shoulders. "Maybe the guy's already dead or something. Maybe it's code for some sort of drug. I don't even know what they're calling this somnacin stuff on the market."
"Sand," Eames said.
Arthur looked at him in agitation and said disbelievingly, "Sand?"
"Yeah. You know. Like… that bloke who sends people to sleep. The Sandman."
"You're right. This Babson guy is stupid," Arthur said, cracking the first real smile Eames had seen on him since they'd reunited. It brought a tiny bit of life back into his eyes, and Eames for one wasn't sure why this brought forth a twinge of relief.
"You don't know a joke when you hear it, pet," Eames chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. Arthur tensed a little from the contact but tried not to let it show on his face, and Eames decided to ignore it (for the moment at least). "I don't know what it's called."
"You're so helpful," Arthur said sardonically and shut his laptop. "I'm going to the bathroom."
"Do try not to get sucked out," Eames said, and Arthur didn't dignify his joke with a response.
Arthur really needed to find a sense of humor, Eames thought.
The plane landed at last, and bleary eyed the two got off and out of the bustling airport.
"Wait just a bit," Arthur said. "I'm going to make a phone call."
Eames dug out a cigarette to light up and wait on Arthur's call, but then he realized that the pointman was walking away. "Hold on… where are you going?" Eames asked, tailing after him like a puppy dog.
"Making a phone call," Arthur replied, stepping into the short line of payphones outside of the airport, absurdly enough.
"Use your mobile."
"I don't have one," Arthur replied simply.
It was then that Eames realized that he'd never seen Arthur pull a mobile phone out of his pocket, never use one… never… "Darling, are you aware that we've stepped into the new century? How do you survive?" Eames knew he could never make it an afternoon without his Blackberry. He got most of his job offers via phone call, not to mention managed to keep up communication with necessary people (and maybe play games when he was bored).
"I use pay phones and email," Arthur replied, sliding quarters into the coin slot. "I can't effectively keep people from tracing my calls on a cell phone. That's probably how they've been finding you. If you want them to stop hunting you down, I'd suggest tossing the phone."
"You can stick it up your arse. That's ridiculous. You've been reading too many conspiracy theories."
"I've tracked down plenty of people using their cellular signals-" Arthur cut himself off and looked at Eames, the spark of an idea in his eyes. "Do you know the numbers of the dope heads?"
"I could probably get them… Hell, you could probably get them."
Arthur nodded, turning back to the phone and dialing a number. He waited in silence for a long moment and then said, "Yeah, it's me. Hey, listen, do you remember that new technology you were experimenting with when we last talked? Yeah, I know it was over two months ago. I've been busy. Anyway, did you ever get it running? No? Shame."
Eames hovered around, hoping to figure out what exactly he was talking about, who exactly he was talking to. In the meantime, he did light up his cigarette.
"All right then. Mind if I run some words by you, some names? Maybe you can give me the rap. You've always been good at that. Yeah, I know it's kind of more my game, but I'm playing in your field right now-don't be a bunny about it, it's kind of spillover into my line of business too."
Eames lifted an eyebrow and made smoke rings, looking out at the passers-by, and… Oh. Oh, shit.
"L.D.," Arthur said. "Sound familiar?... Okay, well, have you heard of Scott Babson? Ah, so that's a name you can sink your teeth into. Send me all the information on him and anyone related to him if you could. I'll transfer some money to your bank account. A couple grand should suffice, right? I'll contact you again if I need you. Keep your specs on for any new scoops on Babson and friends."
"Ah… Arthur," Eames said, tugging on his sleeve.
"What do you mean I sound tired? I'm fine. I just got off a plane. I-I'm fine, I swear-don't pretend you're worried."
"Arthur," Eames said more firmly.
"What?" Arthur hissed, turning to look at Eames, and as he did a bullet went whizzing into the nearby wall. "I'll call you back," Arthur said and just barely managed to hang up before Eames had grabbed him by the wrist and started dragging him away.
"They've already tracked us down," Eames growled, cutting into traffic and very nearly getting them hit by a car or two. "How have they already found us?"
"Probably had a gink on the plane," Arthur said, ducking behind a taxi when more bullets came their way, "told them where we were headed, had someone waiting for us. Shit… I don't even have any weapons on me. You?"
"Nothing. Your American airports are bloody frustrating, remember? I'd have to be daft to bring anything with me here. That's why you didn't."
There was another spray of bullets, and Arthur ducked lower. "They've sent a whole group. We need to make like trees before they kill us. They won't be able to just fire like that. The coppers are probably on their way already. We don't want to get detained either."
"What graceful and elegant solution do you suggest?"
"Duck and run. Get lost in the crowd. As soon as we can get free, we've got to change our rags."
"It's as good as anything I had. Split up and meet later?"
"There's a bar off of Noon Street. Meet me there in three hours."
Eames couldn't really argue that, so he patted Arthur on the shoulder and said, "Good luck."
Arthur's eyebrows knitted together, like he couldn't understand, but all he said was, "You too…" hesitantly.
They split.
Eames immediately went through the line of fire, while Arthur disappeared into an alley, probably to make a run for some fire escapes and rooftops. The shooters were distracted by Eames so that Arthur could get away, and Eames wasn't completely sure why he wanted Arthur to remain safe, but he did and didn't exactly have time to question it at the moment.
Eames had always been pretty good at dodging bullets anyway.
The police sirens were already wailing in the distance, but Eames didn't pay much mind to them, bolting down the sidewalk as the men gave chase, apparently having run out of bullets. Eames knocked over a hot dog cart and never slowed his pace, and then he was clambering over the hood of a car that came screeching to a stop as he broke into its path. He threw himself into a maze of alleyways, but one of them was still right on him, and Eames didn't know if he had a knife or another gun or what. He turned a corner, everything blurring past him, planning on finding out just what the guy had in him, but the man had tripped, head slamming into the concrete.
Eames stopped, panting and stared.
There was Arthur, crouched by the wall, legs extended. He'd tripped him.
"Good luck," Arthur said and disappeared down another alley. "Three hours!"
"You bloody wonder," Eames said.
Eames had shut his phone off, just for safety's sake, and rented out a hotel room under a false name. It was one of those crummy places that didn't ask for identification, but he'd slept in worse. He showered since he was a sweaty mess from the chase, shaved, ruffled up his wet hair, and changed into a pair of somewhat baggy jeans, a blue bowling shirt with white stripes, a pair of trainers, and his favorite pair of aviator sunglasses. Forgery was so easy for him at that point that he didn't even have to really decide the outfit so much as just dig it out. He'd even used an American accent when he rented out the room so if anyone went asking for a British guy, the lady at the front desk would be none the wiser (though she probably couldn't give two shits anyway).
He hailed a taxi and had it drive him to Noon Street, then wandered up and down it for a good fifteen minutes before finding the bar, rolling a cigarette around from one corner of his mouth to the other.
The bar was one of the tiny, crammed places that housed weathered old fogeys and college students who weren't partiers. There were squashed wooden tables throughout, as well as a wall of wooden booths, and the walls were covered with license plates and old movie posters. The salt-and-pepper haired bartender barely gave Eames a passing glance as he slid a Budweiser down to one of the older guys. It was Eames's kind of place. It probably had all kinds of little nuances about it that other people didn't notice but that Eames could delve into looking at for hours.
He didn't see Arthur anywhere though, and that instantly set a tiny fear free in his chest.
He asked the bartender if he'd seen a young man come in, about his height, dark hair, brown eyes, and the bartender thumbed Eames to the booth in the corner.
Arthur was sitting there in jeans and a t-shirt, brown leather jacket slumped over his shoulders, hair greasy from gel but hanging in his eyes, and he was wearing his glasses. It wasn't any wonder Eames didn't recognize him. Eames really wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to seeing Arthur looking very un-dapper.
"Thought you'd been offed," Arthur said, swilling his glass when Eames approached. "Why are you dressed like an asshole?"
"It's America. I thought I'd look the part," Eames replied, sitting across from him. He noticed Arthur still had his suitcase with him. "You didn't rent out a hotel room?"
"I went into a gas station bathroom and changed," Arthur shrugged. "I didn't want to go anywhere that I intended to stay in case they were following me. You can never be too careful."
"I've got a place. We can go back there together," Eames replied. "Any injuries?"
Arthur slid the jacket off of his shoulder and lifted a bloodied sleeve to show Eames where a bullet had grazed his arm just slightly. "Nothing that won't mend. You?"
"Right as rain thanks to your little ambush back there. How did you know where I was?"
"I didn't. I came across you by chance and pulled the move. It worked once before, so I figured I'd take a chance. Did you clean out his pockets?"
"I was too busy running to do that," Eames said, smirking. "I don't believe you made any move to do so either, need I remind you before you get your knickers in a twist."
"I'm not upset. I was just hoping maybe you could have had the opportunity. We're still sort of flying blind at this point," Arthur sighed, rubbing his eye under his glasses.
If Arthur looked tired before when he was all dressed up, he looked ten times worse this way. It was almost unsettling to see how he hunched in his seat, screwing up his perfect posture. He looked so young and so old at the same time.
"Well, either way, I appreciate the assistance," Eames said sitting back and snagging Arthur's glass to take a swig out of it himself. "Water?"
"The last thing we need right now is inebriation," Arthur replied, tugging his jacket back on with a slight wince.
"It's not like you Americans have any good beer anyway," Eames said. "Who was that you were ringing up before we were ambushed?"
"Someone I used to eat lunch with," Arthur mumbled, scanning the nearest license plates. "A friend, I guess, though we don't really do friend things together. I only call him when I need his help."
"So, he's what, in the FBI or the CIA or something? He seems to know an awful lot."
"Not exactly," Arthur said. "He could be if he wanted to, but he'd rather get the files using his own skill rather than them being handed to him. He's a criminal like us. He just functions mostly in the digital age. He's made loads of money just digging up stories."
"Does this bloke you 'ate lunch with' have a name?"
"Everyone just calls him the Brain."
"Does he have an incompetent mate named Pinky?"
"You're hilarious. I'm sure he's never heard that one before," Arthur replied with a sardonic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "He had been experimenting with a certain kind of software that could pinpoint the location of someone just from the sound of their voice on any telephone. It's… a lot more complicated than it sounds."
"It sounds complicated to start with."
"Exactly," Arthur said, grabbing the glass back and tilting it back. "It was a disastrous failure from his perspective, which-given how critical he is-means he'll get it working eventually."
"He sounds a lot like you."
"If he became a pointman in dreamshare, he'd put me out of business," Arthur said with a rueful grin. "He doesn't like getting his hands dirty though. The physical aspects of the job aren't something he's interested in."
Eames snagged an ice cube from Arthur's glass and sucked it into his mouth while putting out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. He crunched it between his teeth, watching Arthur curiously, but as always Arthur never gave away anything in his steely gaze, swilling his glass around uselessly.
"These guys really mean business," Arthur said suddenly, catching Eames a bit off guard.
"It's their livelihoods," Eames said with a shrug, "their lives, really, if you think about it, or even the lives of their loved ones. Babson was never above threatening people to get what he wanted. Everyone has something they'd give up everything for."
"Not everyone," Arthur snorted.
"You've never had anything you'd sacrifice all for?"
Arthur fell silent, and then his gaze dipped down to the tinkle of ice cubes in his glass, and he mumbled, "I did once."
A part of Eames wanted to reach out and brush one of his curls out of his eyes, but he refrained. When he asked Arthur what it was he'd once been willing to kill or die for, Arthur didn't answer.
It didn't keep Eames from wondering though.
Author: osaki_nana_707
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Brendan, Eames (eventual ArthurxEames)
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Word count: 4,250 (this part)
Warnings: language, vague allusions to drug abuse, mentions of past character death
Summary: Eames comes to Arthur for help in taking down a group of drug peddlers selling a new recreational and more potent version of somnacin, but Arthur still has some of his own demons to fight off. Fusion/Crossover with Brick.
Part Two
It turned out that Arthur had been right. There was no one to ambush them at the airport, and they effortlessly got onto the plane without issue.
Eames watched Arthur's profile as he handed over his ticket to the flight attendant and had her direct him to his seat. It was subtle to most people, but to Eames it was so obvious…
Arthur hadn't been sleeping well.
There were dark circles under his eyes, and a distance within them, not to mention the weight he'd dropped. There was the slightest dip in his shoulders as well, as if he was carrying something that was growing heavier with time. As a forger, Eames had been trained to notice things like that almost immediately. Of course, with someone like Arthur, who had a poker face that rivaled his own, he didn't have any reason other than that he'd been paying very close attention.
Arthur had the kind of face that Eames couldn't help but linger on. He was attractive but far from conventional with distinctively set features and slightly oversized ears, a pair of dimples he could swim in, and intent brown eyes that sometimes looked so dark they looked black. He was interesting, and those were always Eames's favorite faces. The poor face really had suffered from the lack of sleep though. Even Arthur's skin had suffered, losing some of its color, dotted with a few blemishes near the hairline, and his lips were chapped from being licked and chewed on. Something was most definitely troubling him, but Eames didn't know Arthur well enough to be sure of what it was (though it wasn't for lack of trying to know him-Eames tended to find it much safer to have all the people he worked with pegged so that he could use them appropriately. Arthur had just been difficult from day one).
So, with no answers, and no way to find them on his own, Eames went out on a limb and asked him, "So… been having insomnia?"
"Why would you think that?" Arthur asked, blankly taking long looks at everyone else on the plane, trying to find that trace of suspicion while he shoved their bags into the overhead compartment, and also likely asserting what could be used as a weapon should he need it. Typical pointman stuff.
"You look exhausted," Eames said but put great effort into making his voice blank of emotion.
"I've been on the run too," Arthur mumbled as he took a seat, voice quiet enough for only Eames to hear, "which you already know if your comment about my failing track record last night was any indication."
The bitterness in Arthur's voice didn't slip by Eames, but then again, Eames doubted it was supposed to. "I said no such thing. I had just heard your last jobs had gone badly. It could have been the fault of your team, not you. Why? Was it you?"
"No," Arthur gritted out, opening his laptop and purchasing internet access and then proceeding to set up walls so that no one else could find his searches without the right key. "Do you have any names that I can start with?"
"I'd say your best bet is to start with Scott Babson. He was a frontrunner back in my day, and rumor has it that he's the kingpin now."
"Mm," Arthur said, face carefully blank. "Scott? You'd think he'd have a tougher name than that."
"Don't be fooled," Eames assured. "Babson's a brick shithouse. He's all blood and muscle. He's the type you wouldn't want to come across in a dark alley or even in daylight really."
"…and you thought it would be wise to piss that person off?"
"I was young and stupid," Eames shrugged. "Both of us were bullheaded and out for blood, out to be the best. If it helps, I am smarter than him or at least I was."
"Dope peddlers are dope peddlers," Arthur said vaguely, and Eames wasn't sure if he was insulting him or just stating. "So, Mr. Babson's the pin. If you were able to find that out, how were you not able to find him? Why do you need me?"
"These aren't small town junk dealers, Arthur," Eames assured. "They're selling their stuff all over the globe. The fact that his name is only being whispered about proves of his ability to disappear under the radar. Odds are good that he's constantly on the move as well."
"Well, it's doubtful that destroying the pin destroys the business," Arthur said, not looking up from his screen. "In an operation of this size, he's pulling the strings, but he's not the only one with hands on the paddles. If you want to take down the whole group, you're going to have to off more than just Babson… There's also the possibility that Babson's a fall guy. If he's as stupid as you've said, then his business wouldn't be nearly so successful under his helm… Then again, I'm expecting he's not as dumb as you thought if he was able to make it up the ranks anyway."
"For the record, his stupidity might have been fabricated out of my disdain for him, but I still stand by the fact that I was smarter at the time."
Arthur glanced at him, bemused. "So, if he hated you so much, why did he ask for your help?"
"I was good at what I did," Eames replied lightly. "He had the title, so he probably figured it wouldn't be degrading for him to ask my assistance. Plus, he needed better forgeries of travel documentations for his other dealers. No one forges like me, after all. I suppose in the ten-something years since we'd last associated, he'd forgotten that I was a bit of a cheeky bastard who didn't mind fucking people over if it served my purposes."
"So, did you fuck him over because of your morals or out of spite?" Arthur asked, and Eames wasn't sure if Arthur completely believed his story.
"Perhaps a bit of both," Eames said, giving Arthur nothing.
"You're willing to basically empty your bank accounts to me in exchange for taking this guy down," Arthur reminded. "You expect me to believe that you just want him taken care of because of your love of the business and a ten-year-old grudge?"
Well, that answered Eames's theories about Arthur believing him.
…or maybe not.
"I guess I can understand that," Arthur said quietly.
Eames really couldn't figure him out.
Arthur searched on in silence for a good twenty minutes before Eames saw any change in his expression. "L. D.," Arthur said. "I keep seeing the initials L.D. here. Is that some kind of code or something?"
"Probably one of Babson's men," Eames shrugged. "Some of the boys preferred to go by initials or by aliases back in the day."
"It does make it easier for you to disappear," Arthur replied idly, and it wasn't until that very moment that Eames began to wonder if Arthur was Arthur's real name. Everyone had always called him such, and Eames had just assumed. Then again, most people called him Eames, and that had only been a name he'd taken up when he really started making a splash in mind crime. It just happened to be the alias he was using at the time his infamy began, and he quite liked it, so he stuck with it.
"No… no, I don't know," Arthur said, knocking Eames out of his thoughts. "I'm not seeing anyone on his list of goons with the initials L.D."
"You already found a list of people working for him?"
"Not exactly," Arthur admitted. "There's no way to be absolutely positive that they all do or if this is even the whole list. Most of these people were convicted for possession with intent to sell, some just for being under the influence, but all of their police reports mention something about the kingpin. The police in the UK have apparently been looking for him for quite a while, but his loyal followers gave them nil."
"Locked up blokes aren't going to do us much good."
"Don't be so sure," Arthur said. "Maybe we could talk to one of them, get some answers… and besides, most of these people aren't in prison anymore. There was apparently a successful escape attempt about four months ago. Something-I don't know what, but I can guess, was smuggled in, and the guard conveniently fell asleep off the edge of a railing. They got the keys and the codes and got out before anyone even knew they were gone."
"Well, that's unfortunate."
"There's a couple left, so I'm guessing they've either outlived their usefulness to the team or have ratted out some information that the police didn't put down on paper. I'll look into it."
"All right then," Eames replied. "In the meantime, I think I'll settle in for a bit of a catnap. Wake me when we get stateside, would you?"
"Nine something hours doesn't sound like a catnap to me."
"Cats can sleep up to twenty hours a day, Arthur," Eames replied lightly, letting his seat back a little. "You should try and get some sleep too. I don't want your supercomputer of a brain to get all foggy."
"Go fuck yourself, Mr. Eames," Arthur replied with a condescending little smirk, and honestly, Eames didn't expect any less.
Pretty little thing.
When Eames woke up a few hours later, he found that Arthur had indeed fallen asleep, though it didn't seem to be part of his plan. He was slumped with his chair still propped up, laptop still placed on the fold out desk in front of him, head lolled onto the shoulder closest to Eames. He would have appeared almost peaceful if it weren't for the little wrinkle between his eyebrows, the slightly downward curve of his mouth.
Curious, Eames reached out and brushed a fingertip feather-lightly over Arthur's bottom lip, and Arthur inhaled sharply through his nose, spasming awake. Eames pretended to still be asleep so Arthur wouldn't know he'd touched him at all. Arthur seemed like the type to get really upset about those sorts of things.
Eames acted as if he was just waking up but found he didn't need to because Arthur was wildly looking around for something or someone. When he looked back at Eames though, his expression carefully turned blank, and he started smoothing at the hair that had been rubbed upwards from slumping in the seat.
"Any leeway on this L.D. character?" Eames asked.
"Zilch," Arthur said, rolling his shoulders. "Maybe the guy's already dead or something. Maybe it's code for some sort of drug. I don't even know what they're calling this somnacin stuff on the market."
"Sand," Eames said.
Arthur looked at him in agitation and said disbelievingly, "Sand?"
"Yeah. You know. Like… that bloke who sends people to sleep. The Sandman."
"You're right. This Babson guy is stupid," Arthur said, cracking the first real smile Eames had seen on him since they'd reunited. It brought a tiny bit of life back into his eyes, and Eames for one wasn't sure why this brought forth a twinge of relief.
"You don't know a joke when you hear it, pet," Eames chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. Arthur tensed a little from the contact but tried not to let it show on his face, and Eames decided to ignore it (for the moment at least). "I don't know what it's called."
"You're so helpful," Arthur said sardonically and shut his laptop. "I'm going to the bathroom."
"Do try not to get sucked out," Eames said, and Arthur didn't dignify his joke with a response.
Arthur really needed to find a sense of humor, Eames thought.
The plane landed at last, and bleary eyed the two got off and out of the bustling airport.
"Wait just a bit," Arthur said. "I'm going to make a phone call."
Eames dug out a cigarette to light up and wait on Arthur's call, but then he realized that the pointman was walking away. "Hold on… where are you going?" Eames asked, tailing after him like a puppy dog.
"Making a phone call," Arthur replied, stepping into the short line of payphones outside of the airport, absurdly enough.
"Use your mobile."
"I don't have one," Arthur replied simply.
It was then that Eames realized that he'd never seen Arthur pull a mobile phone out of his pocket, never use one… never… "Darling, are you aware that we've stepped into the new century? How do you survive?" Eames knew he could never make it an afternoon without his Blackberry. He got most of his job offers via phone call, not to mention managed to keep up communication with necessary people (and maybe play games when he was bored).
"I use pay phones and email," Arthur replied, sliding quarters into the coin slot. "I can't effectively keep people from tracing my calls on a cell phone. That's probably how they've been finding you. If you want them to stop hunting you down, I'd suggest tossing the phone."
"You can stick it up your arse. That's ridiculous. You've been reading too many conspiracy theories."
"I've tracked down plenty of people using their cellular signals-" Arthur cut himself off and looked at Eames, the spark of an idea in his eyes. "Do you know the numbers of the dope heads?"
"I could probably get them… Hell, you could probably get them."
Arthur nodded, turning back to the phone and dialing a number. He waited in silence for a long moment and then said, "Yeah, it's me. Hey, listen, do you remember that new technology you were experimenting with when we last talked? Yeah, I know it was over two months ago. I've been busy. Anyway, did you ever get it running? No? Shame."
Eames hovered around, hoping to figure out what exactly he was talking about, who exactly he was talking to. In the meantime, he did light up his cigarette.
"All right then. Mind if I run some words by you, some names? Maybe you can give me the rap. You've always been good at that. Yeah, I know it's kind of more my game, but I'm playing in your field right now-don't be a bunny about it, it's kind of spillover into my line of business too."
Eames lifted an eyebrow and made smoke rings, looking out at the passers-by, and… Oh. Oh, shit.
"L.D.," Arthur said. "Sound familiar?... Okay, well, have you heard of Scott Babson? Ah, so that's a name you can sink your teeth into. Send me all the information on him and anyone related to him if you could. I'll transfer some money to your bank account. A couple grand should suffice, right? I'll contact you again if I need you. Keep your specs on for any new scoops on Babson and friends."
"Ah… Arthur," Eames said, tugging on his sleeve.
"What do you mean I sound tired? I'm fine. I just got off a plane. I-I'm fine, I swear-don't pretend you're worried."
"Arthur," Eames said more firmly.
"What?" Arthur hissed, turning to look at Eames, and as he did a bullet went whizzing into the nearby wall. "I'll call you back," Arthur said and just barely managed to hang up before Eames had grabbed him by the wrist and started dragging him away.
"They've already tracked us down," Eames growled, cutting into traffic and very nearly getting them hit by a car or two. "How have they already found us?"
"Probably had a gink on the plane," Arthur said, ducking behind a taxi when more bullets came their way, "told them where we were headed, had someone waiting for us. Shit… I don't even have any weapons on me. You?"
"Nothing. Your American airports are bloody frustrating, remember? I'd have to be daft to bring anything with me here. That's why you didn't."
There was another spray of bullets, and Arthur ducked lower. "They've sent a whole group. We need to make like trees before they kill us. They won't be able to just fire like that. The coppers are probably on their way already. We don't want to get detained either."
"What graceful and elegant solution do you suggest?"
"Duck and run. Get lost in the crowd. As soon as we can get free, we've got to change our rags."
"It's as good as anything I had. Split up and meet later?"
"There's a bar off of Noon Street. Meet me there in three hours."
Eames couldn't really argue that, so he patted Arthur on the shoulder and said, "Good luck."
Arthur's eyebrows knitted together, like he couldn't understand, but all he said was, "You too…" hesitantly.
They split.
Eames immediately went through the line of fire, while Arthur disappeared into an alley, probably to make a run for some fire escapes and rooftops. The shooters were distracted by Eames so that Arthur could get away, and Eames wasn't completely sure why he wanted Arthur to remain safe, but he did and didn't exactly have time to question it at the moment.
Eames had always been pretty good at dodging bullets anyway.
The police sirens were already wailing in the distance, but Eames didn't pay much mind to them, bolting down the sidewalk as the men gave chase, apparently having run out of bullets. Eames knocked over a hot dog cart and never slowed his pace, and then he was clambering over the hood of a car that came screeching to a stop as he broke into its path. He threw himself into a maze of alleyways, but one of them was still right on him, and Eames didn't know if he had a knife or another gun or what. He turned a corner, everything blurring past him, planning on finding out just what the guy had in him, but the man had tripped, head slamming into the concrete.
Eames stopped, panting and stared.
There was Arthur, crouched by the wall, legs extended. He'd tripped him.
"Good luck," Arthur said and disappeared down another alley. "Three hours!"
"You bloody wonder," Eames said.
Eames had shut his phone off, just for safety's sake, and rented out a hotel room under a false name. It was one of those crummy places that didn't ask for identification, but he'd slept in worse. He showered since he was a sweaty mess from the chase, shaved, ruffled up his wet hair, and changed into a pair of somewhat baggy jeans, a blue bowling shirt with white stripes, a pair of trainers, and his favorite pair of aviator sunglasses. Forgery was so easy for him at that point that he didn't even have to really decide the outfit so much as just dig it out. He'd even used an American accent when he rented out the room so if anyone went asking for a British guy, the lady at the front desk would be none the wiser (though she probably couldn't give two shits anyway).
He hailed a taxi and had it drive him to Noon Street, then wandered up and down it for a good fifteen minutes before finding the bar, rolling a cigarette around from one corner of his mouth to the other.
The bar was one of the tiny, crammed places that housed weathered old fogeys and college students who weren't partiers. There were squashed wooden tables throughout, as well as a wall of wooden booths, and the walls were covered with license plates and old movie posters. The salt-and-pepper haired bartender barely gave Eames a passing glance as he slid a Budweiser down to one of the older guys. It was Eames's kind of place. It probably had all kinds of little nuances about it that other people didn't notice but that Eames could delve into looking at for hours.
He didn't see Arthur anywhere though, and that instantly set a tiny fear free in his chest.
He asked the bartender if he'd seen a young man come in, about his height, dark hair, brown eyes, and the bartender thumbed Eames to the booth in the corner.
Arthur was sitting there in jeans and a t-shirt, brown leather jacket slumped over his shoulders, hair greasy from gel but hanging in his eyes, and he was wearing his glasses. It wasn't any wonder Eames didn't recognize him. Eames really wasn't sure if he'd ever get used to seeing Arthur looking very un-dapper.
"Thought you'd been offed," Arthur said, swilling his glass when Eames approached. "Why are you dressed like an asshole?"
"It's America. I thought I'd look the part," Eames replied, sitting across from him. He noticed Arthur still had his suitcase with him. "You didn't rent out a hotel room?"
"I went into a gas station bathroom and changed," Arthur shrugged. "I didn't want to go anywhere that I intended to stay in case they were following me. You can never be too careful."
"I've got a place. We can go back there together," Eames replied. "Any injuries?"
Arthur slid the jacket off of his shoulder and lifted a bloodied sleeve to show Eames where a bullet had grazed his arm just slightly. "Nothing that won't mend. You?"
"Right as rain thanks to your little ambush back there. How did you know where I was?"
"I didn't. I came across you by chance and pulled the move. It worked once before, so I figured I'd take a chance. Did you clean out his pockets?"
"I was too busy running to do that," Eames said, smirking. "I don't believe you made any move to do so either, need I remind you before you get your knickers in a twist."
"I'm not upset. I was just hoping maybe you could have had the opportunity. We're still sort of flying blind at this point," Arthur sighed, rubbing his eye under his glasses.
If Arthur looked tired before when he was all dressed up, he looked ten times worse this way. It was almost unsettling to see how he hunched in his seat, screwing up his perfect posture. He looked so young and so old at the same time.
"Well, either way, I appreciate the assistance," Eames said sitting back and snagging Arthur's glass to take a swig out of it himself. "Water?"
"The last thing we need right now is inebriation," Arthur replied, tugging his jacket back on with a slight wince.
"It's not like you Americans have any good beer anyway," Eames said. "Who was that you were ringing up before we were ambushed?"
"Someone I used to eat lunch with," Arthur mumbled, scanning the nearest license plates. "A friend, I guess, though we don't really do friend things together. I only call him when I need his help."
"So, he's what, in the FBI or the CIA or something? He seems to know an awful lot."
"Not exactly," Arthur said. "He could be if he wanted to, but he'd rather get the files using his own skill rather than them being handed to him. He's a criminal like us. He just functions mostly in the digital age. He's made loads of money just digging up stories."
"Does this bloke you 'ate lunch with' have a name?"
"Everyone just calls him the Brain."
"Does he have an incompetent mate named Pinky?"
"You're hilarious. I'm sure he's never heard that one before," Arthur replied with a sardonic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "He had been experimenting with a certain kind of software that could pinpoint the location of someone just from the sound of their voice on any telephone. It's… a lot more complicated than it sounds."
"It sounds complicated to start with."
"Exactly," Arthur said, grabbing the glass back and tilting it back. "It was a disastrous failure from his perspective, which-given how critical he is-means he'll get it working eventually."
"He sounds a lot like you."
"If he became a pointman in dreamshare, he'd put me out of business," Arthur said with a rueful grin. "He doesn't like getting his hands dirty though. The physical aspects of the job aren't something he's interested in."
Eames snagged an ice cube from Arthur's glass and sucked it into his mouth while putting out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. He crunched it between his teeth, watching Arthur curiously, but as always Arthur never gave away anything in his steely gaze, swilling his glass around uselessly.
"These guys really mean business," Arthur said suddenly, catching Eames a bit off guard.
"It's their livelihoods," Eames said with a shrug, "their lives, really, if you think about it, or even the lives of their loved ones. Babson was never above threatening people to get what he wanted. Everyone has something they'd give up everything for."
"Not everyone," Arthur snorted.
"You've never had anything you'd sacrifice all for?"
Arthur fell silent, and then his gaze dipped down to the tinkle of ice cubes in his glass, and he mumbled, "I did once."
A part of Eames wanted to reach out and brush one of his curls out of his eyes, but he refrained. When he asked Arthur what it was he'd once been willing to kill or die for, Arthur didn't answer.
It didn't keep Eames from wondering though.