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shannys_corner2011-02-14 12:10 am
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[fic] What's the Time, Mr. Wolff. (1/8)
Part One. (give me something to believe in.) Sometimes, it feels like the bar is filled with more smoke than air. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke coil above his head, twisting and bending in the gentle breeze that blows through the open windows, before it joins the cloud that’s settled above the tables. He thinks idly that there mustn’t be a smoke alarm installed here; it simply wouldn’t be any good for business to be serving drinks to the background noise of beeping alarms. And a no smoking sign? The owners might as well set fire to the bar themselves. “You’re late,” he says, looking at the bowl of peanuts he is quickly finishing. He takes a sip of the bourbon sitting on the table before him and slowly, almost lazily, looks up. “Still. It’s good to see you, Yusuf.” “Blame the cat,” says Yusuf in explanation, taking a seat after placing his bottle of beer on the table, shaking his head at the offer of a cigarette. “Nice to see you’re not in prison yet, Eames.” “I’d imagine so.” Eames extinguishes his own cigarette as he smiles at a private joke. “That cat of yours thinks she’s the queen of your lab.” Yusuf smiles at that too, taking a long gulp from his bottle. “Well. She isn’t named Rani for nothing, no? So, I’m guessing you didn’t call me out here to talk about cats. You have a new plan.” Eames’ lips curl into a smile and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “There’s a rumour that the Wolff family has an art collection worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, have you heard?” Yusuf raises his eyebrows, and glances around them. Leaning forward as well, he lowers his voice. “And have you heard that they have one of the strictest teams of security personnel surrounding their estate? Forget about getting out alive with those paintings, how do you even plan on getting in without being shot in the head?” Eames’ smile simply grows, which Yusuf finds terribly worrying. “I’ve been doing a bit of research regarding that, actually. I do believe I have most of it covered. There’s just the matter of slipping by anybody that happens to be in the way. Butlers, maids... you know how I am with hurting people. That’s where you come in.” Yusuf shakes his head emphatically. “Not a chance. This is foolish, Eames. It’s not going to work.” “I’ll pay you up-front. Does that make you feel any more inclined?” Eames hides his smile by taking another sip of his drink, watching the gears turn in Yusuf’s mind, leading to the answer he already knows he will get. “Okay, fine. But you pay me tomorrow. Do you want the same as usual? I’ll even make some extra, free of charge, because I like my friends being alive.” “You’re a good man, Yusuf. A very good man.” “And you, Eames,” Yusuf replies, taking a longer sip from his bottle this time, “are a terrible man. I’ll have everything ready for you in two weeks. Please do more research if you can. If not to dissuade you, then to make sure you have at least some chance of walking out alive and not behind bars.” Eames laughs at this, genuinely amused. “You’re only this concerned for my welfare because I’m such a good customer.” Yusuf doesn’t deny it. “Over the years, I’ve learned to look out for my investments. It just so happens that you are the boldest person I know.” “Which makes me the most successful,” Eames finishes with a grin. With business out of the way, they continue their conversation like the old friends that they are. There’s a good reason Eames likes this bar as a meeting place. The regular crowd consists of mafia thugs and con-artists, from the unapologetically corrupt gang leaders to the rookies still testing the waters. Compared to the majority of the conversation around them, anything Eames and Yusuf plan between them is tame. The surroundings allow them to blend in, unnoticed between the illegal gambling on a table to their left and a quickly escalating scuffle, three tables to their right. By the time the first few tables are knocked over, Eames and Yusuf are already gone, leaving no sign of ever having been there. Just as he knows how to blend, Eames knows when to leave. It’s all part of not getting caught. All part of being a master thief. “Arthur, are you coming or not? I will not be late to this dinner.” He sighs, looking up from his book. Snapping it shut, he stands and walks to the door. He’s already said it three times, but of course his excuses won’t be acknowledged until they’re made to his father’s face. “I’m sorry. I’ve got another migraine coming on, so I’m staying home. Send my regards.” His father frowns, disapproval etched into the deep lines of his expression. He says nothing for a long moment, and Arthur fears that his bluff has been called, but in the end, the old man grunts in acquiescence. “You wouldn’t get so many damn headaches if you stopped playing with those stupid trinkets of yours. At your age, your brother was already married.” Arthur’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. Not until his father and older brother are on their way to another mind-numbing social dinner in the shiny black Mercedes. Then, sitting back at his desk in his own room, he mutters under his breath, “fuck you too.” It isn’t that he resents being compared to his brother, which he only does sometimes, but there are things he knows Phillip can do that he will never. Like inherit the position of CEO of Wolff Corporations, which Arthur honestly doesn’t care much about, anyway. Like get married, a fact that isn’t too bad in itself, except that he is fairly sure that if he ever gave the real reason for his lack of interest in all of his potential partners, he’d immediately be disowned. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs before he turns back to the assortment of tools on his desk, picking up a cog with a pair of tweezers and attaching it to the half-made watch sitting before him. He’d become interested in watch-making as a boy, when his grandfather had told him that their large family company had started off as a modest watchmaker’s shop on a street corner. While his great-grandfather’s interest had become more focused on the money, Arthur has always loved the comforting feeling he gets from the precise, almost mechanical movements in pulling apart a watch and putting it back together. There is a satisfaction that comes with finishing a time piece, whether it is one from his own collection of pocket watches, or a wristwatch, or even the large grandfather clock standing against the wall. Wolff senior has no appreciation for this part of their family’s history, believing it to be something of the past and thus absolutely irrelevant to their business now. Arthur is an excellent businessman, and if he lacks the flair his older brother has, he is much more thorough, more interested in the specifics of how everything works. Somehow, this just makes his father even less tolerant of Arthur’s hobby, claiming that if he’d redirected his passion toward the family business, they’d all be much better off. Not that Arthur has ever paid his father’s opinions very much attention, which is the main reason he’s never been the favourite son. He has a high-paying job that puts him in charge of a branch of the Wolff conglomerate that runs one of the biggest property development firms on the international stage. Regardless of what his father thinks of him, he commands a great deal of respect from his position and provided he makes his own money and has the time to do what he actually enjoys, Arthur doesn’t give a damn what anybody else thinks. Once he finishes his current project, a clock face inserted into a miniature clock tower that sits on his desk, Arthur takes a book from the shelf and settles in his comfortable, stuffed, armchair. He enjoys novels, but his real interest lies in non-fiction. He collects textbooks, articles, and encyclopaedias, covering a vast range of subjects that he reads with enthusiasm, soaking up whatever facts he comes across. Tonight he reads about paradoxes, both mathematical and natural, about Necker cubes and Penrose triangles. He falls asleep in the chair before he even realises that he’s tired, and dreams of a world resembling some of the Escher paintings in the book, with stairs that lead nowhere and floors that become walls. The guards patrolling the perimeter of the estate are disappointingly easy to deal with and it takes Eames no more than five minutes to sneak up to the mansion and slip around the side, finding a good ledge to climb up. Of course, the offices of Wolff Corp are located elsewhere, along with the bulk of their money, and breaking into there would be an entirely different story, even though Eames thinks he’d be capable, given the time and resources. Still, it doesn’t mean security here is lax enough that there isn’t a single electronic security device. Not that Eames is complaining, of course. He slides the large window shut behind him, finding himself on the second floor of the mansion. The corridor stretches out before him, the doors shut except for one. It opens to the only room with lights still on and Eames frowns, glancing around him as he creeps carefully, soundlessly, closer. The mansion is meant to be empty tonight; he’s picked it especially for the fact that the Wolff family should be attending a banquet at the Fischer estate. He glances into the room and relaxes. The only occupant is of a much smaller build than him and, conveniently, asleep. Eames notices a large painting on the wall and enters the room, careful not to disturb its sleeping occupant. He stops in his tracks. Up close, Eames recognises the sleeping man from a handful of pictures his extensive research has yielded him about the younger of the Wolff brothers. Arthur, he remembers the name distantly, his mind far more concerned with appreciating the way he looks when sleeping. The Arthur Wolff in the photos, usually taken while he’s at some kind of function with his father and brother, is all tailored suits, slicked-back hair, and frowns that make him look like he’d rather be elsewhere. Asleep, it’s an entirely different story. The frown is notably absent and in fact, he looks so relaxed that it’s difficult for Eames to believe he has ever frowned. His position; head resting against the back of his chair and the book still open in his lap, leads Eames to conclude that he’s fallen asleep by accident. His hair is messed, falling around the sides of his face and sticking up at the back. While his trousers are still far more formal than anything Eames would wear at home alone, he wears a simple, pale blue, polo shirt that is open at the collar. Eames swallows hard and tries to tell himself that falling in love with someone based on how they look asleep is not a very sensible thing to do. He tries. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a globe of a faintly blue gas, and then a mask to cover his mouth and nose. This is Yusuf’s creation; a knock-out gas that leaves people unconscious for hours after they inhale it. It’s the reason behind a pile of snoring guards outside the mansion, and after Eames makes sure he’s not going to inhale any himself, he flicks the lid open and throws it at Arthur’s feet. If it’s even possible, Arthur relaxes further, falling into a deeper sleep. His shoulders slump a little and his head lolls to the side. Eames watches him carefully for a few moments—just to make sure Arthur’s completely asleep, he tells himself—and covers up the globe as the gas dissipates after the fifteen seconds it is designed to linger before reacting with the air. The mask and empty globe go back into his pouch and Eames steps towards Arthur, hefting him over a shoulder and looking out into the hall carefully before he leaves the estate. No paintings, but a very handsome man, Eames thinks to himself with a wry grin. Not bad. He gets as far as sneaking Arthur into his apartment, tucking him into the bed, and making some tea, before the gravity of what he’s done truly registers. His hand immediately goes to his phone. “Yusuf?” “Eames? You’re not in prison are you?” “I’m afraid I’ve done something extremely foolish. Heat of the moment. You know how it can be.” “God—you didn’t kill anyone, did you?” “No, no. I… I think you should come over to see what I’m talking about. I’m not quite sure words would do him any justice.” Yusuf’s tone is filled with dread when he replies, “I’ll be there in five.” He actually arrives there in three minutes, which is impressive since he lives fifteen minutes away by car. Eames lets him in and speaks quietly. “This way. Quiet, we don’t want to wake him.” “Who?” Yusuf demands, and immediately wishes he hadn’t asked. “Oh god. No. Please tell me this is a joke. Please. You did not kidnap Arthur Wolff.” “I’m afraid I did,” Eames replies, scratching the back of his neck. “I just… saw him sleeping there when I entered the mansion and before I knew it…” Yusuf sighs. “You didn’t steal any paintings, did you?” “Look at him, Yusuf. He’s a bloody work of art on his own.” “Eames, you cannot simply kidnap people just because you like the way they look when they’re asleep. Look, maybe we can make some use out of this. There might be some information in his head that we can sell.” “I’m not an extractor,” Eames says, raising an eyebrow. “No, you’re a bloody impulsive idiot who kidnaps rich boys and doesn’t know what to do with them.” “I have plenty of ideas of what to do with him.” “You know what I mean. Give this a go, Eames. You may not be an extractor but you’re a damn good forger and that must at least make it easier to get information out of him.” Eames considers this for a moment and looks up. “Do you have any of that wonderfully sharp sedative of yours on your person, by any chance?” Yusuf smiles, producing a small bottle from his jacket pocket. “Always. Who will you impersonate?” “I’ll try his brother first. I somehow doubt he’ll be very open with his father. Either way, this will be one hell of a gamble. I haven’t done nearly enough research on the family relationships, here.” Eames reaches for the folder on the table containing his research on the Wolff family, flicking to the page on Phillip Wolff. “Good thing I like gambles, eh? If all else fails, a pretty girl might do.” Yusuf shakes his head. “You take a perverse enjoyment in confusing people’s sexuality, Eames. Get your PASIV out and get comfortable. I’ll hook him up once he’s woken from the previous sedative, or it’ll be impossible to judge how long he’ll be out.” “I’ll wake myself up once I’ve gotten enough information. Keep us under until then. And if he has militarised projections, I’ll be out of there quickly enough. Just keep him sleeping like a baby.” “I don’t charge you half as much as I should for making me put up with you,” Yusuf says, shaking his head. “That’s what friends are for, aren’t they, mate? Help yourself to my tea if you’d like.” “Good. I plan to.” …stirring… sure I saw him move… …sure?… put him under?… The voices are unfamiliar, and Arthur frowns for a brief moment before a wave of calm washes over him and he feels himself relaxing, slipping… He’s in the mansion, sitting at the piano. It’s a polished, black, grand piano that produces a wonderfully rich sound. A book of sheet music sits open before him, notes dancing up and down the staves; semibreves to semiquavers, combining to form a pattern, a song that Arthur hums under his breath, testing it out before placing his fingers on the keys. The music comes to him effortlessly. It sounds familiar as he plays, like a combination of several pieces he’s heard or played. Before he can dwell on it for too long, he hears Phillip clearing his throat behind him. He turns on the piano bench, finding his brother standing in the doorway, his posture straight and rigid, the way it is in front of the cameras, in front of their father, the way it is whenever he thinks someone might be watching him. “Phillip,” he acknowledges with a nod. “Nice playing,” comes the reply. Arthur’s expression darkens. “You don’t have to pretend. I know that you think it’s a waste of time. You’re just like him. Unless it makes you money, it’s not worth your time.” Phillips eyebrows rise at this. “Father—” “Oh, please,” Arthur cuts in. “I don’t want to hear about how wonderful you think he is. If you’re going to feed his massive ego, do it where he can hear you.” Phillip raises his hands defensively and gives him a look of exasperation. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you alone.” “Good.” Arthur turns his attention back to the piano, continuing to play the piece. When he reaches the end of the three-page piece, he’s a little surprised and extremely pleased to realise that this is the most he’s enjoyed playing the piano in a very long time. “Oh, excuse me, darling,” a feminine voice interrupts him this time. He glances over his shoulder to see one of the maids in the room. She’s blonde with curly hair, and he simply nods at her and turns away once again. She comes closer as he resumes and speaks again from behind his shoulder, her voice husky. “You play wonderfully. I’m sorry, I just happened to be cleaning outside and wanted to tell you.” He turns to her again, and this time he smiles. “Thank you.” She smiles back, her eyes lighting up, and places a hand on his shoulder. “How long have you been playing the piano for?” Arthur immediately tenses beneath the touch, but if she’s noticed, she doesn’t show it. “A long time. …If you don’t mind…” He shrugs her hand off his shoulder as casually as he can and she murmurs an apology. He thinks she leaves then, but doesn’t bother to check. Half an hour passes as he sits at the piano, uninterrupted while he plays and plays again. He considers taking a break from the piano when a man wearing a well-tailored suit and carrying a briefcase walks into the room. “Sorry to disturb,” he says with a British accent, “I’m here to speak with Phillip, but I’m told that he’s stepped out for a moment. Is it okay if I wait in here?” Arthur turns with a light frown, but stops short when he sees the man leaning against the wall, watching him with a look of clear appraisal. “R-Right, sure,” he says, eyes unconsciously widening as he takes in everything he can about the man. “Fine with me.” The man smiles, and the first thing Arthur notices are those lips, wonderfully plump and pink and—Arthur looks elsewhere when he realises he’s been staring. Unfortunately for him, he only ends up looking up into the man’s eyes, which are an attractive colour between blue and green, and impossible to break contact with. “I-I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?” “How rude, I didn’t introduce myself.” The man smiles and walks toward him, holding out a hand. “Call me Eames.” They shake, and Arthur’s skin tingles where their hands meet. “A… pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eames. I hope my brother doesn’t make you wait too long.” “I hope he does,” Eames replies with a secretive smile and Arthur coughs, feeling his ears go pink, unable to stop his lips from curving into a smile. “Do you play the piano, Mr. Wolff?” “Yes.” Arthur suddenly feels like an awkward teenager, trying to impress someone. “Do you… uh…” “I’d love to hear you play,” Eames replies, his smile growing. “May I sit here?” Arthur slides over so there’s space on the piano bench, and looks away, biting back another smile when he feels Eames’ arm brushing against his. He feels the man’s gaze on him and he looks back at him, giving Eames his best calm smile before placing his fingers on the piano keys once again. He plays better than the times before and he hears Eames murmur in appreciation here and there throughout the piece. By the end, he has no hope of hiding the smile on his face and Eames claps loudly. Arthur laughs in delight, even taking a small, comical, bow. “You’re amazing,” Eames murmurs, and their shoulders are touching and Arthur thinks—or maybe he hopes—that he’s not just referring to the performance. Arthur can’t help but lean in, especially when Eames is so close, so obviously attracted to him, and they’re alone together, Eames’ breath on his lips, his cologne intoxicating. Eames licks his lips slowly, ready to close the gap, but an old, angry, voice interrupts them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” They both move apart, sitting up straight, and the colour drains from Arthur’s face. “Father—” “Mr. Wolff, sir,” says Eames, standing up and putting himself between father and son, “I can explain everything. Please. Just a small walk outside to clear everything up—” “Who are you?” the old man spits, scowling. “I’m a friend of your son—your older son. Please. Let’s just go outside.” Wolff senior still looks furious, but now it’s directed at Eames instead. “You’d better have one hell of an explanation, boy. Let’s go.” They leave the room, with Arthur sitting at the piano by himself. Eames allows himself a glance over his shoulder on the way out, locking gazes with Arthur, and feels his heart break at the look of utter resignation on the younger man’s face. Eames opens his eyes, ripping the IV line out and winding it back into the case. He shakes his head and Yusuf looks up, eyebrows raised. “Keep him under,” Eames mutters, pacing back and forth. Running his hands through his hair, he sighs. “Jesus Christ, Yusuf, this is messed up.” “Didn’t like what you found?” Yusuf guesses. “Or did your blonde bombshell not work as well as you’d hoped?” “She wasn’t his type,” Eames replies with a small shrug. “Wrong gender.” “Oh,” Yusuf nods understandingly. Then he pauses. “…Eames. Don’t tell me you did what I think you did.” “That I ended up discarding the disguises and being myself?” Eames asks. Yusuf shuts his eyes with a frown and exhales slowly, doing all he can to stay calm. “You’re an idiot, Eames.” “Yes, we’ve already covered that, thank you.” He stops beside the bed, looking down at Arthur’s sleeping figure. Brushing his fingers lightly over Arthur’s cheek, he sighs heavily. “He’s amazingly repressed. We were about to kiss, and his projection of his father stopped us.” “Kiss?” Yusuf sputters. “Bloody hell, you move fast.” Eames smiles without humour. “I do know how to charm people, Yusuf. Part of the job.” “And this is all just part of the job, is it?” Yusuf asks, “What did you find out from him? That you can blackmail him with his sexuality?” Eames’ expression darkens. “I’m not going to do that to him.” “You have a very confusing moral compass, Eames.” “I’m well aware of that.” Arthur stirs and Yusuf increases the dose of sedative. “This is going to keep him out for another half hour, so you can unhook him from the PASIV. I’m leaving. You have that long to decide what you’re going to do with him, because you can’t just keep him unconscious like this until you get a good idea.” Eames nods reluctantly, patting Yusuf’s shoulder in thanks. “Give the cat my regards. Your uncle, too.” He lets Yusuf out and checks the time. He has twenty-five minutes to figure out what he’s going to do with Arthur Wolff, and he still has no idea. When twenty five minutes becomes twenty, an idea suddenly comes to him. Getting to his feet, he takes out the PASIV once again and begins to rearrange the furniture. With five minutes left, he ties Arthur loosely to a chair, and then sits down in the one opposite him. He checks the time again and watches it steadily tick away. Exactly half an hour after Yusuf’s final dose of somnacin has entered Arthur’s system, Eames looks up and watches his eyes flutter open. Arthur wakes to a place he does not recognise. There is a man sitting before him, watching intently, which makes him frown a little. There’s something he can’t quite place, because the man looks familiar. He’s about to ask when he realises he’s tied up, and instead swears under his breath. “Did you sleep well?” the man asks amiably, and his British accent tugs at Arthur’s memory. “Did you drug me?” Arthur asks in return. “Untie me, damn it.” “All in good time—” “Are you holding me hostage?” Arthur asks, “Because you kidnapped the wrong brother if you’re planning on demanding some kind of ransom out of my father.” The man raises an eyebrow at him and Arthur immediately feels uncomfortable about the insight in those sharp eyes. “You don’t think he’d care?” This is not something Arthur intends to discuss with an utter stranger; particularly one that has him tied to a chair. Despite this, he growls under his breath and replies, “I’m replaceable. It’s Phillip you’d want.” “Do you resent him for that?” “What are you, my kidnapper or my therapist?” “Neither, to be honest. Well admittedly, I did bring you here, but I’m not planning on keeping you here against your will.” Arthur frowns. “Then why am I tied up?” “I’d just like you to stay where you are so we can talk. I’d like you to see something.” The man goes to a table, opens a case and reels two tubes out of it. “What is that?” Arthur asks, eyeing the device warily. “Ah, so you aren’t familiar with this at all. That would explain a few things. Please relax, and you won’t feel a thing. Look, I’ll even do myself first.” Arthur watches in confusion as the man inserts the needle at the tip of one tube into his own wrist. Nothing happens, but it doesn’t make him any less tense when the same is done to him. Reaching into the case, the man’s fingers hover over the yellow button in the centre and with a final smile, he says, “sweet dreams.” Arthur wants to frown and ask what that means, what the hell is happening, but the button is pressed and he feels his eyes slipping shut. When he opens them again, he’s back in the mansion. He looks over at the man beside him, suddenly remembering him. “Eames.” Eames gives him a satisfied grin. “You remember me.” “I saw you here before—what is this?” “You’re dreaming, Arthur. Do you remember the room we were in before? The chair that you were tied to?” Arthur frowns and, slowly, nods. “We’re still there,” Eames explains. “This isn’t real.” “Dream sharing?” Arthur asks, eyebrows raised in realisation. “We’re in… my head? I thought only the military used this.” Eames smiles. “That’s what the public is led to believe. With sufficient funds and training... well, dreaming is becoming much more popular. It is, for one, a wonderful way of gaining information that would otherwise remain hidden.” Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Right. Just like you did before, with—” His eyes widen as the rest of the previous dream comes back to him and Eames chuckles lightly. “I take it you remember just what it is that I’ve managed to find out about you, Mr. Wolff.” The colour drains from Arthur’s face and he shakes his head. “If you’re going to blackmail me, Mr. Eames—” “I don’t plan on doing anything of the sort. Perhaps I’ve found out that you tend to prefer your girls to be… well, not girls, but—” “Wait,” Arthur interrupts with a frown. “Let me get this straight. You have a piece of information that can absolutely destroy me and you’re just letting me walk away with it? So what, I’m going to be in your debt because of this?” Eames sighs. “No. You aren’t listening. I couldn’t care less who you like, and I’m not out to damage your reputation. So can you please accept this fact, so we can move on?” Arthur blinks and nods slowly. “Fine. So why are we in a dream?” Eames gestures to the mansion, empty but for the two of them. “When we met earlier, I also found out how shaky the relationship between yourself and your father and brother is. You’re at odds with them over the family business, and it made me think perhaps you’d like to see what else you’re capable of.” “Dreaming?” Arthur asks with a raised eyebrow. “It’s not just dreaming,” Eames replies. “There’s an amazing amount of freedom that comes with it. You’re opening your mind—not only to the people you share your dreams with, but to yourself.” “Self-exploration, then,” Arthur says. “Finding out what you can do when you don’t have to adhere to the rules of the real world?” “Exactly,” Eames nods. “And it’s much more fun when there’s a mark involved; someone you need to fool into believing they aren’t dreaming.” They walk down the hall and Eames indicates their surroundings. “This all looks real enough, but it takes very little for a dream to collapse. Part of the thrill, to be honest.” “So how do you… trick them? To think that they’re in the real world?” Arthur asks. “Research. The easiest way to trick someone is by understanding how they think, and how they feel. It let’s you predict how they’ll act.” “Their personality,” Arthur says, understanding. “And their background. I suppose any sort of information would be helpful, but you’d need to go much deeper than what you could find out about them at face value to pull them into a dream without having them realise.” “You learn quickly,” Eames says, sounding pleased. “The wonderful thing about working with the subconscious is that everybody is different. No matter how many times you do it, no two jobs will ever be the same. The thrill never fades.” Arthur nods in appreciation, and Eames is satisfied to see the flicker of fascination in his eyes. It’s brief, but he knows he’s managed to get Arthur’s interest. All he needs to do now is make sure he stays interested. “Come,” he says, leading the way up the stairs. “I’ll show you what fun you can have while you’re asleep.” Eames doesn’t look back as he reaches the landing, and Arthur allows himself a brief smile before hurrying to catch up. Arthur wakes with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes widen and a thrilling jolt running through his entire body at the mere sensation of being awake again. He feels the rope around him being untied and he looks up to find Eames grinning at him. “Did you enjoy that?” “I…” Arthur finds himself struggling to describe exactly how amazing it feels. He shakes his head with an incredulous smile when he realises that he doesn’t have to, that Eames knows exactly how he feels without needing any explanation. “How long have we been out for?” “Approximately ten minutes,” Eames replies, checking his watch. “Which gives us two hours down there, if I remember correctly. I’m making a cup of tea, would you like any?” “One sugar and no milk, please,” Arthur replies as Eames puts the PASIV away. He leans back in his chair, which is now feels infinitely more comfortable when he actually has a choice in sitting on it. Ten minutes, he thinks to himself in wonder, suddenly feeling like an entirely different person. For starters, he already finds Eames much more agreeable after spending hours with him in the dream. He begins to explore the apartment, fingers ghosting over the spines of thick folders filled with files, gaze skimming over an assortment of old newspaper articles. He finds a table with various poker chips, playing cards and dice, and steps closer. He remembers glimpsing Eames slip a poker chip into the pocket of his chequered pants and wonders if they have a particular significance to him. “Do you like gambling, Mr. Wolff?” Eames asks from behind Arthur, holding their cups. Arthur turns, accepting one and glancing back at the table. “I… don’t, really. I just noticed before that you have a poker chip in your pocket…” “Very observant of you,” Eames replies, sounding pleased. “A colleague of mine insists that we use these… totems, we call them. Something unique, something only we know intimately. That way, by checking the totem, you can be sure you aren’t in another person’s dream.” “The poker chip is yours?” Arthur asks. Eames nods, standing beside Arthur and looking at the table. “Take one.” Arthur turns his head, not quite understanding, and Eames indicates the dice with a nod. “I’d rather you didn’t take another chip, and cards are too light and too easily copied. But a die would function well.” “You said only the owner should know their totem intimately.” Eames smiles. “I have more dice than I care to remember and I don’t know the specific weight and size of each individual one. Honestly, I wouldn’t be able to remember the one you’ve taken. You’re safe.” Picking one up, Arthur cradles it in his palm and then rolls it, then picks it up and rolls it again. “Weighted. I should have known. No, thank you. I don’t need it.” “It isn’t very polite to refuse a present, you know.” “Present,” Arthur repeats disbelievingly. “Yes, a present. Take it as a small token of my remorse for kidnapping you, however unintended.” “How do you unintentionally kidnap somebody?” Arthur asks, finishing his tea and leaving the die untouched on the tabletop. “I am, as you know very well by now, a thief,” Eames says plainly. Arthur nods and he continues. “I broke into your family mansion last night, intending on stealing some of those famously expensive artworks you collect. Then I saw you instead.” Arthur waits for Eames to continue, but he doesn’t. There are many things left unsaid, that Arthur can’t be sure about. The one thing he is sure about, however, is the dread he feels when he hears the next thing Eames says: “I’m going to let you go, Mr. Wolff. I can’t keep you here with me when I shouldn’t have brought you here in the first place.” It’s childish to protest, Arthur thinks to himself, especially when he’s protesting against being set free. So he simply nods and says nothing. Eames looks at him carefully, his gaze penetrating, but says nothing either, instead takes both of their cups into the kitchen. “What time is it?” Arthur asks, realising all the windows have their blinds and curtains drawn and he has completely lost track of the outside world. For his obsessive checking of the time, he has absolutely no idea what hour or what day it is. “Close to four in the morning,” Eames replies from the kitchen. “Even I’m not enough of a bastard to turn you out onto the street at this hour. Stay until tomorrow morning.” Eames’ bed is large, soft and comfortable. It’s big enough for the two of them, but Eames has taken the couch, even lending Arthur a pair of pyjamas that look comically loose on him. Under the covers, all Arthur can smell is Eames and he’s far too tired to filter out the thoughts running through his mind of Eames leaning in close to him on a piano bench, of Eames’ pleased smile as he watches Arthur learn far quicker than he’d even expected. Before he can even question why these things matter to him, and why having the smell of Eames surround him feels so comforting, Arthur is already asleep. Arthur wakes early the next morning, surprised to find Eames already in the kitchen, drinking coffee and making breakfast. “Good morning, Arthur,” Eames greets with an easy smile and for a moment, Arthur is taken aback by how comfortable this feels, returning the greeting along with a thanks when Eames slides a plate of food across the counter top. It’s a simple breakfast of baked beans and eggs on toast, but Arthur enjoys it more than the lavish morning meals with his family. Mostly because of Eames, talking between mouthfuls, telling Arthur more than he strictly should about all of his past heists. Instead of being offended by the obvious disregard Eames has for the legal system, Arthur surprises himself by enjoying the stories and even going as far as to feel a little jealous of the excitement his own straight-laced life so clearly lacks. When the time comes for them to part, Arthur doesn’t want to leave. Not that he admits it, of course, even to himself. His looks around the apartment one last time as Eames washes their dishes in the kitchen, and his gaze settles on the red die from before. He walks towards it, glancing towards the kitchen where Eames is humming to himself, unaware, and reaches out to pocket it in one smooth movement. It’s a ridiculous thing to do, but Arthur thinks to himself, I’m stealing from a thief, and it thrills him in a way he’d never even desired just a day ago. Eames, when he returns, makes no indication that he’s noticed the die has gone missing and is all polite smiles as he sees Arthur out. “I could turn you in to the police,” Arthur says at the door, hands in his pockets in an attempt to look more casual than he feels. “You’re a thief after all. And a forger. And probably other things, too.” “You could,” Eames replies simply. Arthur waits for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Eames unlocks the door, hesitates and then claps Arthur on the shoulder. “Goodbye, Arthur.” “Thank you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies, and leaves, shutting the door behind him before Eames can ask what he’s being thanked for. He doesn’t need to. He already knows. “Oh. There you are.” There is no greeting, and no concern. Despite leaving Eames’ apartment at a little past eight, it’s well past noon when Arthur returns to the Wolff mansion, hands in his pockets and a frown on his face, slipping back into this world of money, inscrutable masks, and discontentment. Phillip stares at him, not asking where he’s been for the past several hours with no way of being contacted, but why he isn’t at work yet. Arthur doesn’t reply, pushing past him, locking himself in his room to change out of the casual clothes. The first thing he does is pull the die out of his pocket and set it on the table. He already misses its weight, and the way the plastic feels against his fingers. He’s held it in his pocket so tightly that the edges have made small grooves in his palm, and he traces them with his fingers in the shower, remembering a world—a multitude of worlds—that aren’t real, but feel much more welcoming than this. He thinks of the weight that has settled on his shoulders from the moment he’s left Eames’ apartment, making him feel more like a prisoner now than he did before. It distracts him at the office, once he’s dealt with all the necessary pieces of work waiting for him and has nothing else to distract himself with. He turns the die around in his fingers and sets it down on the table before him. It’s red and white—like Eames’ poker chip, he thinks—and he rolls it on his desk, over and over again. Each and every time, it clatters on the polished wood and lands on a four. Reality, Arthur thinks, and isn’t sure whether or not to be happy with this knowledge. From dice and poker chips, his mind wanders to Eames. From the man’s casual and amiable personality to his unabashed fondness for crime, Arthur realises quite some time later that Eames is difficult to stop thinking about. Not simply because of the different world he’s shown Arthur or all the things he’d been able to teach in two hours of dreaming, but the way he listens, the way he understands. The way they nearly kissed. He knows enough about how it all works now to realise the interruption itself is a part of his own subconscious. Perhaps his guilt, or his desire to hide from the truth. And he understands enough about Eames to know one very important thing: that it is entirely possible for him to have simply faked whatever attraction there had been in that dream on his part. He doesn’t know what he wants to be true. All he knows is that dreaming or not, the way he feels drawn to Eames is very real. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. He isn’t even quite sure what he wants; an escape from his mundane life that dreaming can provide, or the way Eames can make the entire world feel different. “Arthur.” His father is in the doorway and Arthur sits up straight in his chair, swiping the die off the table and hiding it in his pocket. “Father.” Wolff senior walks into the office, a man with a commanding presence, even in his fifties. He folds his arms across his chest and doesn’t sit, and Arthur doesn’t offer him a chair. Not bothering with pleasantries, he gets straight to the point. “I’m unhappy with your performance this quarter.” Arthur frowns. “We’re performing at two hundred percent of our current goals.” Even if he doesn’t enjoy it, Arthur is good at what he does. “You could do better, Arthur. If you stopped wasting your time with all the other frivolous things you do—” “I know. I’m a disappointment. You’ll never be happy with me. I apologise, Father,” Arthur interrupts, sounding bored. His hand is still in his pocket, fist tight around his die. This is real, he thinks to himself, and realises that he doesn’t want it to be. That he’s sick of it. Wolff senior glares at him, the way he does every time Arthur fails to be crushed by his criticism. Turning on his heel, he slams the office door shut behind him and Arthur sighs, feeling drained and irritated. He takes the die out again and rolls it from palm to palm, watching it settle on four again and again. He can’t help himself. He has to go back. “You did what? Are you mad?” “Calm down, Yusuf. I have this completely under control.” “I’ve heard that before, Eames, and I don’t care what you think. You don’t simply introduce a rich heir to the world of dream sharing and let him go. Especially not when you’ve just kidnapped him.” Eames shakes his head. “For one, he’s not the heir, and secondly, he’ll be back. He needs to come back on his own accord. It needs to be his decision.” Yusuf frowns, leaning back in Eames’ couch. He’s brought his cat with him this time and they both watch Eames pace back and forth in the small lounge room. For all his certainty in Arthur’s return, he cannot sit still. “What makes you so sure he’ll come back? For all you know, he could turn up on your door with the police. Why did I even agree to come here? I’ll be imprisoned as a co-conspirator—” “Yusuf. Calm down. He’ll be here. Alone. I know it.” “How can you?” “Before I woke up from that first dream,” Eames says, pausing mid-step and turning to his friend, “I had the dubious honour of meeting Wolff senior—or Arthur’s projection of him, at least. I found out some interesting things from the man. It turns out that their main point of disagreement is Arthur’s interest in things other than the family business. For starters, he’s fond of research, and reads from a wide range of subject matter.” “Useful for dream sharing…” Yusuf murmurs as he thinks. His eyes widen. “And if he likes research… oh. You sneaky bastard. You’re making a point man out of him, aren’t you?” “He’s sick of the bland world he’s stuck in, here. I could be blind and still be able to tell you that. The poor man is wasting away, Yusuf. I’ve done some research on Wolff Realty, which is Arthur’s branch of the company. Despite the fact that he has little to no interest in property development or running the business, they’re performing amazingly well. I saw the look in his eyes when we were dreaming, and he loves it. Imagine what he could achieve.” Yusuf shakes his head. “I’ll admit that it sounds promising, but I think you’re being a little too optimistic—” A knock on the door interrupts him and Eames grins brightly. “I told you.” Before Yusuf can even reply, Eames answers the door and even sounds convincingly surprised—and pleased—to find Arthur on his doorstep. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” Eames says as he leads Arthur back into the apartment, not commenting on the backpack slung over his shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable. This is Yusuf. This is Yusuf’s cat.” “Rani,” Yusuf supplies with a friendly smile, offering a hand to Arthur. “Nice to meet you. I’m the one who made the drugs to knock you out.” Arthur raises an eyebrow, but shakes Yusuf’s hand anyway. “A pleasure… I think.” Yusuf catches the look Eames gives him and gets to his feet. “Unfortunately, we were just about to leave. Perhaps I’ll see you later.” Arthur nods politely and Eames grins at Yusuf before he leaves, Once they’re alone, Eames sits down on the couch, right beside Arthur. Neither of them speak for a moment and Arthur takes the time to relish the feeling of being back here, back in this world, with Eames. “Why did you come back?” Eames asks softly, as if he doesn’t already know. Arthur has been expecting him to be reluctant and unwelcoming, but he looks genuinely pleased to see him. Even if Arthur knows Eames is a good actor, Arthur can’t deny how glad this makes him. He lets out a low sigh and sits back, his shoulder brushing against Eames’, reminding him of pianos and kisses that never happened. He does his best to push it from his mind. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he admits. “The dreaming. The way it feels so real. Everything.” Eames nods, but it’s a little hesitant. He turns to Arthur and frowns slightly. “I need to be sure you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into, Arthur.” “You showed me—” “I showed you the good parts of dream sharing. You need to know that it can get ugly.” Arthur pauses. “How ugly?” With a grim smile, Eames gets up and walks over to the PASIV, resting against the wall. “I’m going to show you.” “Eames, everyone is staring at us—” “I know, Arthur. That’s the point. And don’t worry. They’re not staring at you, they’re staring at me.” It doesn’t make Arthur feel any better. He hurries after Eames, who is walking down the street of a small town he’s dreamed up, changing things everywhere he goes. Eames imagines the streets lined with trees, then bushes, then nothing but pavement, and then back to trees. Arthur’s projections stand and stare, a cold intensity in their eyes. They’re about to attack. The first few people approach Eames, reaching out, grabbing him by the arms and shoulders. Others join in, and Arthur is left to watch as they push him to the ground and kick him, punch him, and tear him apart. He goes to help, but his own projections hold him back, pushing him out of the way. He’s thrown back, sent sprawling on the floor, and hears Eames shouting something. “Arthur—” he makes out, “—shoot me.” They’ve been through this before. It’s the quickest way to wake up from a dream, and after he gets over the initial perturbation of putting a bullet through another man’s head, he sees it for the convenient escape that it is. Still, there’s that moment of uneasiness as he flicks the gun’s safety off and takes aim at Eames’ forehead. A mere twenty-four hours ago, he’d never handled a gun, real or dreamed. It’s amazing how quickly things can change. There’s a loud bang and he’s already had enough experience to absorb the recoil, and then suddenly, he feels like he’s falling. He opens his eyes, gasping and groping for something to hold onto as his world tilts. The back of his head hits something warm and solid, and Arthur looks up to see Eames smirking down at him saying, “Kick.” Pushing Arthur’s chair upright once again, Eames takes his own seat and simply waits. “What the hell was that?” Arthur yells, “You don’t think you could have warned me or something? Maybe tell me what to expect, instead of just waiting for everyone to start attacking like that?” “Arthur,” he replies patiently, “Calm down. I was the one who got attacked, not you—” “That doesn’t make it any better!” Arthur replies, thinking that in actual fact, that makes it worse. Standing by and watching anybody get torn apart like that is troubling. It doesn’t help that Eames isn’t simply anybody. “I warned you it would get ugly,” Eames smooths his hair back and looks right at Arthur as he speaks. “You need to know these kinds of things can happen when something goes wrong. I need you to know that you’re willingly leaving a life of comfort, of not being chased by authorities, for all of this.” Arthur doesn’t reply and Eames sighs, looking away. “Of course, this would be the best time to turn back if that is what you wish.” “I’m in,” Arthur replies which makes Eames look up. Holding the older man’s gaze, Arthur allows himself the smallest of smiles. “Besides, you need a point man, don’t you?” Eames laughs and shakes his head. “You knew. How long?” “Since you mentioned the research. The time you taught me about dream sharing and ran through the different roles.” “You’re very clever, Arthur.” Arthur folds his arms across his chest, feeling pleased with himself. “And that’s why you want me.” There’s a brief hesitation as they both consider the double entendre in that last sentence. Finally, Eames smirks. “Yes. That is exactly why I want you. Tell me, have you ever been to France?” “No. Wolff Corp could never get a good foothold there. Why?” “Perfect. We’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon. So, you want to escape your family and the life you’ve made here, but how far are you willing to run?” (Part Two.) |