[fic] What's the Time, Mr. Wolff. (6/8)

[kiyala.livejournal.com]

One Arthur, Eames decides, is mind-blowingly brilliant. Two Arthurs… Well, Eames doesn’t think his brain is currently functioning well enough to think of something better than mind-blowingly brilliant. So far, his best attempt has produced, “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, yes.” He hadn’t known what to expect from the two of them. For all his theorising, he wasn’t sure how they would react when faced with each other. He certainly hadn’t expected them to be so close to being in sync when they descended upon him. He wonders what that means about how well he knows Arthur. He can easily distinguish between the real Arthur, who is on his knees between Eames’ legs and undoing his trousers, and the projected Arthur, who is undressing Eames and sucking on his neck. His subconscious is clever, and he can tell that his projection of Arthur changes with every moment the real Arthur is in his dream, feeding off his actions, making adjustments, constantly just one step behind the real thing. “Are you going to marvel at your subconscious all night, or are you going to help me?” Arthur the projection murmurs into his ear. “I know you’re fascinated by all of this, but I don’t think you’ll be enjoying yourself if you’re trying to take everything in,” the real Arthur joins in. “I’m being lectured by two of you. Why did I not see this coming?” “I’m glad you’re just as unwilling to sit back and let him do as he pleases as I am,” the real Arthur says. And then he pulls his projected self into a kiss. Eames is fairly certain that he’s died and gone to heaven. “You—you’re evil. Both of you. I hope you know that,” Eames says, as they both push him down onto the large bed, covered with silk sheets and surrounded by candles. Watching the way the candlelight dances along Arthur’s muscles makes him think that perhaps candles aren’t as much of a terribly overdone romantic thing as they are a very damn sexy thing. The real Arthur is just that little more aggressive in bed than the projection and Eames tries to take notice of all these little differences, but it’s so very difficult when there are two mouths, four hands and two very erect cocks—three, counting his own—that are demanding attention right away. Arthur is indulgent, compliant with every one of Eames’ desires, and absolutely determined to do anything he wants. He barely notices that Eames’ projection of him is gone until they’re disentangling themselves from each other and he looks around. “Didn’t feel like sharing,” Eames says by the way of an explanation. “With your own subconscious?” Arthur asks, “Possessive bastard, aren’t you?” “Does this surprise you at all?” Eames asks, stroking the side of Arthur’s face. “How much time do we have left here?” “Three minutes,” Arthur replies, not having to check. They get dressed, and Eames takes Arthur by the hand, leading him out into a night garden that he creates as they walk. “Won’t your projections get unsettled?” “It’s just me,” Eames replies. “And you. I doubt somebody’s projections would attack anyone they truly cared for, if it was their own dream.” Arthur slides his hand out of Eames’ grip and wraps his arms around himself, shivering for good measure. It would be so easy to tell him about Mal, right here, with nobody else to hear them, without having to worry about facing Dom for another day. “Eames,” he begins, but he can’t continue. He thinks of the tortured look on Dom’s face whenever she appears… whenever she shoots Arthur. This is his burden to bear, and he can’t let it weigh Eames down too. “What’s wrong?” Eames’ voice is just a touch harder, the way it is when he knows Arthur is hiding something. “I—” Arthur begins, knowing he won’t need to finish the sentence. Their three minutes are up. • “You what?” “I missed you.” Technically, Arthur isn’t lying. “Oh, darling,” Eames murmurs, not probing any further, and Arthur wonders just how terrible the expression on his face must be to have Eames believe it so easily, “I missed you too.” Arthur sits back up, pulling the needle out of his wrist and winding the tube back into the PASIV case. “How do you want to celebrate your birthday tomorrow?” Eames asks, helping him put everything away. “I thought you had plans.” “I plan on spoiling you rotten, but I’m rather flexible after that point.” “And did you plan on us leaving my apartment at all?” Arthur asks with an amused smile as he puts the PASIV away. “Of course I did," Eames replies in mock-offense. “I hear there are actually fun things you can do in a city when you’re not working yourself to death, imagine that. We’re going sight-seeing.” “Exploring historical architecture and listening to you tell the stories behind them,” Arthur smiles, considering it. “That does sound like fun.” “Of course it does. Pretend all you like, but I know you haven’t forgotten how to have fun. Did you know Cobb was concerned about you?” “About me?” Arthur frowns. “As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about?” “He’s caught up in the grief of losing Mal, and he still noticed that you’re overworking yourself. Birthday or not, he was going to force you to take a day off.” Eames pauses for a moment, letting that sink in, and then smiles. “So we’re going to make the best out of tomorrow, because it’s my head on a plate if you don’t look even the tiniest bit more relaxed by the time we see Dom again. I think the fact that he went out of his way to call me here itself says a lot.” Arthur nods. “Fine. I can have fun, you know. I’m not actually a robot.” “Of course you’re not. You just like pretending sometimes.” Looking out of the window as the sun slowly sets, Eames pulls the cuffs of his sleeves back down and says, “I’ve already made us a reservation for dinner. And I have a small, early birthday present for you after that. We have three hours until dinner, why don’t you show me around your neighbourhood?” Arthur dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. “I’ve never really explored this place. I’d have no idea what to show you.” “Brilliant,” Eames declares. “We’re going exploring, then.” They walk in the opposite direction to the way Arthur goes to work, and find a large park with gardens throughout it and a lake in the centre. They easily spend two hours there, exploring the place, and committing it to memory to be replicated in dreams. Eames insists on playing a one-sided version of hide-and-seek in the hedge maze, and Arthur humours him, pretending that he isn’t smiling. Arthur turns a corner in the maze, knowing Eames is lurking somewhere behind him. Eames is almost silent; Arthur only knows that he’s there because he knows him so well, and knows what to listen for. He waits, and judges the precise moment to turn, just as Eames makes to tackle him. They grab onto each other and Eames’ momentum makes them stagger and overbalance. Eames lets out a loud whoop as they crash onto the grass. “Oh. Did I not tell you we were playing hide-and-seek-and-tackle? I win this round.” “That doesn’t count,” Arthur says, as sternly as he can manage when he’s trying not to laugh. “You don’t win just because we ended up on the ground. I heard you coming, it was just your utter lack of balance. You’ll need to try harder if you want to sneak up on me, Eames.” “Of course, “Eames chuckles. “Because I didn’t sneak up on your today at lunch, at all.” “That doesn’t count either—” Eames hushes him with a finger on his lips and grins. “And you’re assuming I actually wanted to sneak up on you, not drag you down onto the ground and do whatever I wanted with you.” “We’re in public, Eames.” “And if all I wanted was a kiss?” Arthur pauses, studying Eames’ expression and committing the soft look in his eyes to memory. Not even caring to look around at their surroundings, he leans in to press their lips together. Eames hums happily, holding the sides of Arthur’s face and kissing him back. Somehow, it’s this, rather than finally having Eames naked and to himself, that makes the tension in Arthur’s chest and shoulders slowly ease away. He’s sitting in the middle of a maze, kissing Eames and ignoring the rest of the world. He hasn’t felt this happy for the past two months. When Eames finally pulls away, he places a kiss on the tip of Arthur’s nose and smiles. “Shall we head back? We ought to get ready for dinner.” The restaurant is, unsurprisingly, Italian, but it’s clear that Eames has done his research. The décor suits Arthur’s taste impeccably, from the low lighting to the smooth curves and sharp lines of the interior. Eames wears a suit without a tie, leaving his collar unbuttoned, but the effect it has on Arthur is very reminiscent of that restaurant with a vase they’re yet to steal. Arthur stares blatantly and doesn’t even bother to hide it this time. Eames soaks up the attention, touching Arthur’s hands at every opportunity he gets and leans across the table in an effort to be as close to him as possible. “So why are we doing the dinner tonight?” Arthur asks when they’re having dessert. “Isn’t it a day early?” Eames smirks, “I knew I wanted to take you out to dinner. I just wasn’t very sure if we’d be able to leave your apartment tomorrow night.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smile. “Of course you’d plan around the sex.” “Would you expect any different?” Eames asks, motioning to a waiter for the bill. “Of course not.” Eames leads the way out of the restaurant and back to the apartment, where he busies himself by looking through his duffel bag for something. Arthur watches curiously, taking his jacket off and hanging it away, looking over his shoulder when Eames makes a sound of victory. “Birthday present,” Eames says by the way of explanation, handing Arthur a brightly wrapped parcel. “I could wait until tomorrow, but I want to give it to you now, when you actually have the time to enjoy it.” Arthur tears the wrapping, his curiosity piqued. He can tell it’s a book, and his eyes widen as he pulls the paper away to read the cover. It’s a thick, hard-cover book with gold lettering, which reads Of Paradoxes. Arthur looks up, mouth open in a small O, and Eames smiles at him. “You were reading it the night I first saw you. You had it open in your lap and it took me a good few minutes to move it out of the way without jostling you awake. Then we started dreaming together and I realised how much you like paradoxes. I didn’t end up stealing your old copy back for you, but I hope you’ll like it anyway.” “God, Eames,” Arthur breathes, wrapping his arms around the man and kissing him hard. “I love it. I love you.” “Love you too,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s lips with a grin, “but I’m hoping that was obvious enough.” • After a day and a half with Eames, Arthur looks utterly relaxed. Dom raises an eyebrow at the way Eames’ hand lingers on Arthur’s shoulder as they meet for brunch in a restaurant and busies himself by looking through his menu. “I’m guessing that you kept him thoroughly distracted from work,” he says to Eames, who is eyeing Arthur in a way that makes them both wonder why they got out of bed, and how they managed to make it past the shower. “Oh, he was thoroughly exhausted,” Eames replies absently, eyes not leaving Arthur’s face. “Distracted,” Arthur corrects. “By all the architecture and museums.” “That too.” Dom clears his throat. “Thanks for that. So if we order our food, I can brief you on the job I’ve organised for us. That is, of course, if you’d like to join us, Eames.” “Love to.” Dom wonders if he ever watched Mal with the intensity he sees in Eames’ eyes. His chest tightens and he looks away. Arthur, sharp as ever, and now experienced enough to know when Dom is thinking of his wife, turns his head with a frown. Just like that, Dom thinks in dismay, he’s managed to undo all the good of the past two days. “So, what’s the job?” Arthur asks once their food has arrived, his tone clipped and professional once again. If Dom thinks that’s a touch of resentment he sees in Eames’ expression for a split second, he doesn’t doubt that he deserves it. Instead of dwelling on it, he launches into an explanation of their next extraction. Their mark is a police officer who his boss suspects of assisting the mafia. It’s dirty work, but Eames’ rumours boast that Dom and Arthur are the best, and it’s the truth. “Eames, I’ll let you decide who you’re going to impersonate. I don’t think I need to stress the fact that this is a very dangerous job. If we make it, we’ll be paid well. If we don’t, well…” “A challenge,” Eames grins. “I’m definitely in.” Dom nods. “I’ll give you the rest of the information when we’re at our office. And I’ll introduce you to our new architect.” “Why do you change architects so often?” Eames asks, sipping his tea. “Have to keep things interesting somehow,” Arthur answers. “Might as well make use of the fact that we’ve got people lining up to build dreams for us.” Eames nods slowly. He knows Arthur well enough to know that he’s only ever this casual when there’s something to hide. He doesn't push; not just yet. The architect this time is a tired-looking man in his late twenties, who introduces himself as Raul. He likes to build office complexes with labyrinthine layouts and elevators that barely feel like they’re moving. He’s designed such a place for the first layer of the dream, where he’ll stay while the others go down another level. Their mark, a Giovanni Moretti, has a gambling habit that he usually indulges in an underground gambling den of a bar, but he also makes regular visits to larger casinos and the second layer of the dream will be a hotel with two entire floors of dedicated casino space. “There’ll be a vault in this level,” Dom says, pacing in front of a whiteboard in their makeshift office. “My job is to get there. Eames, I’m going to need you to make Moretti think of his mafia contact, so the information will be waiting there in that vault. Arthur, you’re the dreamer and this casino will be filled with Moretti’s projections.” “My preliminary research hasn’t found any records of his subconscious being militarised,” Arthur says. “But he’s a cop, working with the mafia. He’ll be one paranoid fucker, I’ll guarantee that,” Eames looks at Arthur. “I’d be concerned, if you weren’t the best.” “Right, so we keep Moretti and by extension, his subconscious, nice and distracted so you have time to break into the vault.” Arthur frowns in thought. “If his subconscious notices you’re poking around, his projections will attack right away. Raul, we’ll need another labyrinth for this level. The vault will be on one of the lower levels, so if the projections get hostile, I’ll need to make them chase me upstairs to draw them away from Dom. If we put the poker tables on the upper level of the casino, and then access stairs to the next floor…” “Thinking of putting your Penrose stairs in?” Eames asks, already knowing the answer. “Confuse the poor sods when they try to chase us down.” “Us,” Arthur repeats, sounding both surprised and pleased, but doesn’t comment further. Raul raises an eyebrow, and goes back to sketching his ideas out. “Right,” Dom nods approvingly. “I think we’ve got the basics covered. We’ll meet here again tomorrow to discuss any new developments. Raul, contact Arthur if you need to ask any questions about the dream levels. Eames, the sooner you decide on who you’re impersonating, the sooner we can start doing the research to flesh it out.” They part ways, and Eames goes back to Arthur’s apartment with him. Despite his light-hearted nature at other times, work makes Eames get serious and as they sit at the dining table with their tea and coffee, doing their research and bouncing ideas off each other, Arthur feels a little guilty for thinking that despite the long gap of not working with each other, he and Eames plan together much easier than he and Dom. • “It turns out that Moretti has a mistress,” Eames announces at their next meeting, holding up a picture of a young woman. “Marina DeCosta. If I impersonate her and tell Moretti that I’m worried about his safety, that a man’s approached me, he’ll immediately think of this mysterious contact we’re after.” “I’ve done a background check,” Arthur adds, “she doesn’t have any suspected mafia links, so he’d try and make sure she doesn’t find out about the contact. That information should go straight into the vault for Dom to find.” Dom nods. “Good. Arthur, how long do you think we’ll need?” “Ten minutes in the real world,” he replies, and when Raul raises an eyebrow, he adds, “it gives us two hours on the first level. An entire day on the second. We can’t afford to have Moretti realise he’s just lost an hour that he can’t account for. Ten minutes will be easier to get away with.” “Brilliant as always, Arthur,” Eames declares with a smile, and then turns back to his dossier. “DeCosta works as a waitress in a bar just near the police building. Not the one he gambles at, but he goes there regularly enough for lunch with his colleagues. Getting access to her should be very simple.” “I want you there today around lunch in case Moretti shows up. Do a bit of observation on the way they interact,” Dom says. “Take Arthur with you. I’ll stay here and go over the plan with Raul again.” Eames is far too happy to have Arthur with him and goes as far as to call it a research date. Arthur rolls his eyes at this, but doesn’t contradict him. Of course, Eames takes their work seriously and spends the majority of is time observing Marina as she waits tables, making sure to engage her in conversation as often as possible. Moretti arrives with a few colleagues for lunch and Eames takes Arthur by the shoulders, moving him in their booth until he’s sitting directly in front of their mark. He leans in and looks, for all intents and purposes, as though he’s deep in conversation with Arthur, while he watches Moretti. “Eames—” Arthur says, after some time. “Eames. Do you realise that you’re reciting Shakespeare under your breath?” “Much Ado About Nothing,” Eames nods, “I have to keep my mouth moving or I’ll look suspicious. It’s either Shakespeare or dirty talk.” “It’s… kind of having the same effect,” Arthur says, with a straight face only he would be able to manage when admitting something like this. Eames focuses on Arthur immediately, and gives him a broad grin. “Really? I’ll have to… explore this fact in depth when we have the time. …You know, Moretti keeps looking at his lovely lady friend at every available opportunity. He must have it bad.” “Well, I can see DeCosta doing the same,” Arthur says in a low voice. “They aren’t very subtle about it. I’d be surprised if his colleagues didn’t at least suspect something.” “That works in our favour,” Eames replies, looking away from Moretti to focus on Arthur. “The more obvious it is, the more likely it is to have… certain people take advantage of this fact.” Arthur frowns in thought for a moment and asks, “Are we that obvious?” “Why, it only takes a glance to see how crazy you are about me,” Eames replies with a grin, but lowers his voice to add, “but on a more serious note? I don’t think Raul’s quite worked it out yet, and this is my lovely post-coital Arthur we’re talking about, all happy and relaxed. The day-after version, who has realised he can actually unwind sometimes. As opposed to the directly-after version, who can’t quite form coherent sentences just yet.” Arthur whacks him in the arm. “Public place, Eames.” He only gets a grin in reply as Eames absently rubs his arm. They stay and watch for a little longer before Eames decides that he’s gathered enough information for now. They return to their apartment and Eames hooks himself up to the PASIV to try on Marina’s skin. Arthur gets his laptop out and begins a new document on Marina and her interactions with Moretti, already onto the second page when Eames wakes. “I’m going to enjoy this one,” he declares, kissing Arthur’s neck. “You always do, when it involves pretending you’re a woman,” Arthur comments, not looking up from his work but tipping his head to the side to give Eames better access. “What is it you like the best? The fact that you’ve got breasts, or that you’re fucking with someone’s sexuality, even if they don’t know it?” “Oh darling, don’t make me choose,” Eames says in mock-horror, and Arthur can feel him grinning against his neck. “It’s the fact that I’m treated so differently as a woman. It’s very interesting. And honestly, after a while, the breasts just kind of get in the way.” Arthur huffs in amusement. “Right. Well, while you were under, I was compiling this—fuck, Eames. You know I can’t concentrate when you’re doing that.” Eames bites into Arthur’s neck a little harder this time, and is rewarded with a rough moan. Licking over the bite mark, he smiles. “That can wait. Now tell me, what’s this thing you seem to have for Shakespeare? Because I did quite a bit of theatre as a schoolboy.” • Dom manages to book a meeting with Moretti, posing as a concerned client who has been referred to a talented investigator. They meet in an office that has been rented for this very purpose, set up to look like an accountant’s, and Moretti is quickly knocked out by a sedative mixed into his drink. “Right, we’ve got half an hour. That should be ample time to finish the job and put some distance between us and Moretti,” Dom says as Arthur hefts the silver case onto the table and pulls out five IV lines. They rearrange the chairs in the office, make sure they’re comfortable, and Arthur sets the timer before depressing the button. They find themselves standing in an empty meeting room and Raul glances out of the window, into the rest of the office. “He’s at that desk over there. We need to get him to the secure room so we can put him under again.” “Leave that to me,” Eames says, glancing at the mirrored panel on one of the office’s cabinets. “…If you gentlemen don’t mind, a girl needs her privacy.” “Eames…” Arthur looks over his shoulder at what now appears to be Marina. “We were going to save this for the next level—” “Oh, relax darling,” Eames says, in a husky Italian accent. “If Marina tells him that she has something to talk to him about, he’ll follow her anywhere.” “Right,” Dom says, understanding. “So then he’ll already be thinking of her being contacted by the mafia before we put him under.” “So it will be much easier to make him project the information we’re after into that vault,” Arthur finishes, impressed. “Here. This small tranquiliser dart should knock him out without him realising. Can’t have him losing his trust in her. We’ll follow at a safe distance.” “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him so distracted that he won’t notice anyone but me.” “You do that,” Arthur does his best to hide the affectionate look in his eyes. “And be safe.” “Always.” Eames leaves the room, his disguise perfect to the gentle sway of Marina’s hips as she moves, and then stops in her tracks when Moretti looks up at her. Arthur can’t hear their conversation from where he is, but he waits until they’ve started walking before he leaves the room with a large folder of papers. He goes unnoticed among the other office workers, but he still focuses on the reassuring weight of the Glock hidden beneath his jacket. He hears Dom and Raul somewhere behind him and the sound of Marina’s voice somewhere in front of him. He doesn’t look up from his files, walking at a slow pace that keeps Moretti from realising he’s being followed. “In here,” he finally hears Eames say, and looks up just in time to meet Marina’s gaze as they enter the room. “Giovanni,” he hears, followed by the gentle smack of lips against lips. “What are you doing here…?” Moretti asks, his voice trailing off as he is stuck with the dart. Arthur enters the room to find Eames back in his own skin, pulling a PASIV out of a cupboard. “Were you jealous?” Eames asks with a light smile at the look in Arthur’s dark eyes. Instead of replying, Arthur simply turns and kisses him, nipping on his lower lip and moving away to hook Moretti to the PASIV by the time Dom and Raul reach the room. “You know what to do,” Arthur says as Raul helps him set up. “We shouldn’t be long, and the projections shouldn’t notice anything unusual.” “But I’m ready just in case,” Raul replies with a nod, taking both of his guns out and placing them on the table. “Shoot anything I see. Got it.” “I’ll see you two down in the casino, then,” Eames smiles at Arthur and Dom. “Sweet dreams,” Raul says as he starts the PASIV. “And good luck.” • Moretti is sitting at a poker table in a low-lit room with clouds of smoke hanging in the air, and Eames hovers behind him, forging Marina and playing the part of the concerned girlfriend. “Someone you know?” Arthur asks from his place opposite Moretti at the table, raising an eyebrow. “Mar—is something wrong?” Moretti frowns with concern as soon as he sees the wide, hazel eyes brimming with tears. “I—I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.” Her voice catches and Moretti is immediately on his feet. The game continues and Arthur and Dom return to their cards, knowing that Eames is running through his planned lines about being approached by a mysterious stranger and asked about things that she doesn’t understand. Arthur clenches his jaw as he folds his cards this round, sensing the way the projections around him tense in reaction to Moretti’s own panic. The game ends by the time Moretti returns, after telling Marina to go home where she will be safe. Eames joins the new table, replacing Dom, who leaves with the excuse of having to call his children. He ignores the glare Arthur gives him at that, and sets off to find the vault. Eames cheats, but purposefully loses the next game. Arthur has an impenetrable poker face and wins, to make sure he has Moretti’s attention. “A drink for my fellow players?” he suggests, when only he, Eames and Moretti remain at the table, and leads the way to the bar. Their conversation is polite and shallow. Moretti is clearly troubled, but neither Arthur nor Eames make mention of it. “That woman before,” Eames finally says. “She’s absolutely gorgeous. Is she your wife?” Moretti looks down at his hands and sighs quietly. “No. Unfortunately.” Eames talks him into telling them the story of how he and Marina had met, and Arthur keeps track of the time. They’ve been talking for half an hour when Arthur’s phone plays its message tone, telling him that Dom has successfully found the information. He excuses himself from the table, giving Eames a meaningful look before slipping away and climbing the stairs to the next level, where the labyrinth begins. Some projections watch him pass and he steels himself, ignoring them and reminding himself that Dom wouldn’t have been able to break into a high-security vault without causing some kind of disturbance. He has ten minutes before Eames joins him and they navigate the maze to escape any projections and make their way back downstairs to meet Dom. With a soft sigh, he prepares to wait, happy to have a job without a hitch for once, when he hears an all-too-familiar voice greet him from behind in a French accent. “Hello, Arthur.” And Mal shoots him in the stomach. She walks into his line of sight as he crumples onto the floor, holding the SIG Sauer she’d always favoured. He doesn’t look up at her and she makes a sound of irritation. Arthur curses Dom at the back of his mind for this; for the way his projection of Mal is so close to the way she once was, but with the entirely wrong personality. “Where is Dom?” she asks. “Don’t you know?” he replies, his voice shaky, his hands slick and red with blood as he tries to staunch the flow. “He won’t be here to watch you kill me this time. Sorry.” Mal glares at him and puts her gun away. “Then you can die slowly. I’m going to find my husband.” Arthur watches her stalk off and swears under his breath. The blood has stained the carpet around him a deep, dark red and he struggles to breathe, to stay alive, just a little longer, waiting for the kick. Time slowly ticks by and Arthur keeps track of it, of every minute, until he hears familiar foot falls. “Oh—oh god, no.” Eames sees the blood, then Arthur. “Calm down, calm down,” Arthur gasps out as Eames kneels beside him. “Who did this? Was it a projection?” Eames demands, and Arthur knows he can’t find out the truth. Eames doesn’t know about Dom’s projection of Mal, and it needs to stay that way. “Didn’t see the shooter. Eames, we need to continue with the job. Help me up.” “Are you mad?” Eames asks, “You won’t be able to stand. God, Arthur, I will end whoever did this.” “It’s just a dream. Just a projection.” “And before you know it, you’ll be telling me ‘tis nothing but a flesh wound,” Eames laughs hollowly. “We’ve watched each other die before,” Arthur murmurs, tasting blood in his mouth. “Doesn’t get any bloody easier,” Eames replies, cradling Arthur’s head in his hands, “Just hold on, love. The kick’s coming.” “Not for another twelve minutes.” Eames bends over, resting his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder with a growl of frustration. That is when Arthur sees Mal again, creeping closer to them, a gun in her hand. “Eames,” he whispers, hands on the sides of his lover’s face, holding his gaze. Eames leans into their kiss, ignoring the taste of blood, holding Arthur tightly and shutting his eyes. There’s a haunted look in Arthur’s eyes when he pulls away and whispers, “I’m sorry.” Before Eames can ask why, he hears a gunshot and feels himself descend into darkness. • Raul looks up with a frown when Eames stirs and sits up. “Did something go wrong?” The frown on Eames’ face is all the answer he needs. Taking the needle out of his wrist, Eames gets to his feet and stands in front of Arthur, who sleeps on peacefully with no indication of the mess he is one level deeper. “Cobb should have the information we need. We’ll wake them,” Eames decides, leaning over Arthur and placing his hands on the back of his chair. He gives it enough of a push to rock backwards before he stops it with his foot. Arthur wakes, gasping and clutching his stomach. Eames gives him a cold smile. “Good morning. Care to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Arthur frowns, unhooking himself from the PASIV and pushing Eames out of his way. “Forgive me for not wanting you to watch me bleed my guts out.” “Oh, because a simple turn around, please, wouldn’t suffice half as well as a bullet to the head?” “Eames…” Arthur sounds tired and he turns to Raul. “Wake Dom.” Raul nods hastily, turning away to give them whatever little privacy they can manage. Dom sits up and looks at Arthur. “I think I saw—” Arthur cuts him off with a warning glare and shakes his head subtly. Dom takes a breath. “I think I saw this mafia contact we’re after. I found the file in the vault. I’ve got his name and location. We’re done here.” Arthur nods, checking his watch. “Our somnacin doesn’t run out for a while. We’re going to need to resort to other methods to wake up.” “Wonderful,” Eames mutters, taking his gun out. “Being shot in the head twice. Just what I always wanted.” “Keep Moretti under,” Dom says, getting his own gun out. “We’ll dose him with more of the sedative when we’re topside. He can wake up in a cab thinking that he’s turned down my fictional case, and everything carries on as normal.” Eames loads his fun and flicks the safety off, giving Arthur a mirthless smile. “Can I shoot you this time, love?” “Your relationship is kind of fucked up,” Raul comments, and Arthur shoots him first. • Arthur truly hates his imagination. As much as Eames likes to tease him about not having one, it plagues Arthur now to the point where he just wishes the barbs were true. Because right now, it’s the reason he can’t sleep. Eames’ arm is heavy around his waist as he breathes deeply, and Arthur slowly and carefully slips out of the embrace, out of bed, and picks his boxers up off the floor. The kettle is loud as he makes himself coffee, but Eames is always a heavy sleeper after sex. Arthur moves to the couch with his mug, sipping as he idly traces the bruise Eames’ grip had left on his hip just a couple of hours earlier. Every time he shuts his eyes, his imagination assails him with mental images of Eames being tortured by the projection of Mal. Each time, Arthur would be powerless to do anything and Cobb would watch on, doing nothing. So far, he’s managed to keep Eames from finding out about Mal, but he knows that it’s only a matter of time. Eames already knows that something is wrong—he’s known for a while, now. Arthur just needs to be brave enough to admit it to him. “What are you doing up at arse o’clock?” Eames mumbles sleepily as he shuffles into the room. “We’ve been through this before. Coffee does not equal sleep.” “Go back to bed,” Arthur says, despite the fact that he curls against Eames as soon as he sits on the couch. “There’s a distinct lack of Arthur in our bed,” he murmurs against Arthur’s forehead, before kissing it. “Was the angry sex too angry? Did I yell too much about shooting me?” “Not any more than I deserve,” Arthur murmurs, linking their hands together. “And will you tell me the real reason sometime?” Eames asks, his voice quiet and serious. Arthur hesitates, and then finally nods. “Yeah. Sometime soon.” “Thank you.” Placing his empty coffee mug down on the table, Arthur wraps his arms around Eames. They fall asleep there on the couch and even if Arthur startles himself awake from nightmares two more times before sunrise, he knows that it would be much worse if Eames wasn’t with him. Cobb decides they’re moving again, the next day. This time, they’re leaving Italy and though Cobb never says it, Eames knows that the invitation doesn’t extend to him. He consoles himself with the fact that Raul isn’t invited either, and that Arthur is a touch colder to Cobb today. Eames decides that it’s been a while since he’s been home to London. He sorely wants to invite Arthur along, but already knows the choice Arthur would make between relaxing with Eames or remaining in his thankless position as what essentially equates to being Cobb’s caretaker. Arthur sees him off at the airport and Eames watches him patiently, waiting to be told of this dark secret he’s sensed looming over him and Cobb even before he’d joined them for the job. Arthur must know what Eames is waiting for, because he avoids his gaze now and then, clearing his throat uncomfortably. Eames’ flight is called and they part ways. Arthur still hasn’t told Eames anything, but when he presses a quick kiss to the forger’s lips, he can’t quite bring himself to care all that much. They don’t speak again until Arthur calls a week later, informing him they’re in Belgium. “Is that an invitation?” Eames asks, and he hears Arthur laugh bitterly. “I wish. How are you?” They exchange pleasantries and Eames talks about visiting his mother, who is always far too happy to see him, He’s just finishing a story about his mother’s two dogs and the neighbour’s cranky cat when Arthur takes a deep breath. “Eames? Do you have a bit of time? Because there’s something I need to tell you.” “That sounds wonderfully ominous. Should I be sitting down, too?” “…That might help.” Eames frowns. “What is it, Arthur?” “It’s about Mal.” Arthur pauses for a moment before continuing. “She keeps showing up in our dreams. Cobb keeps projecting her.” “Well, that’s understandable, isn’t it?” Eames asks. “The man misses his wife. I mean, I used to project you into my dreams when I missed you—” “This is different,” Arthur actually sounds distressed. Letting out a shaky sigh, he adds, “This projection of Mal… she isn’t right.” “How do you mean?” Eames asks, unsettled by the obvious worry. If Arthur is outwardly concerned about something, he knows it must be serious. “She’s… the way she must have been after they got out of limbo. Worse, I think. She doesn’t want him to leave her. She’s slowly been making Cobb question reality. He doesn’t think I can see it, but it’s there in his eyes whenever he sees her.” “Arthur,” Eames says softly, frowning as he rubs his temples. “…Darling, when did you start calling Cobb by his last name? He’s been Dom to you since you first met.” “Yeah, well…” Arthur mutters, “Things change.” Eames’ frown deepens and he gets to his feet, suddenly feeling the need to pace. “What did Cobb do?” “Nothing.” Arthur’s voice is flat. “Absolutely nothing. And maybe that’s the problem. And Mal—she’s…” “Arthur?” “She blames me for keeping Cobb here,” he says in a small voice. “Or the projection does. Maybe that means that on a subconscious level, Cobb does too.” “Darling, no,” Eames murmurs, not even sure if he believes his own words. “Cobb would never blame you.” “She tortures me, Eames,” Arthur says, his voice cracking. “What.” “She makes sure I don’t die. Makes sure it’s slow and painful. And Cobb—he just watches. Hates himself for it, but he doesn’t do anything.” “Are you—” Eames’ voice is rough and it takes him a moment to collect his thoughts. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you Arthur? Just some—some really bad joke. Haha, very funny?” “Eames—” “She fucking shot you in the stomach during that last job, didn’t she? You could have told me—” “No, Eames. I couldn’t.” “You shot me so I wouldn’t see her. She was right there, wasn’t she?” he growls in frustration. “How long has this been going on?” Arthur doesn’t reply immediately. Eames sits down with a huff, deciding that he’s going to need to drink something very alcoholic. Perhaps after he tracks Cobb down and beats the ever-living shit out of him. “It’s been like this since the start,” Arthur says at length. “Ever since Mal—the real Mal—died.” “So for the past two months,” Eames concludes in a terrifyingly even voice, “you’ve been tortured by Mal. Bled to death. In front of Cobb. And you’ve done nothing about it. You’ve waited this long to tell me, and you’re happy to just carry on like this.” “It’s only until we can fix his charges—” “Damn it, Arthur. You’re more intelligent than that. Do you really think that someone—someone who can’t bloody do anything while his dead wife goes gallivanting about, fucking up his jobs—do you really think he can do anything about his charges?” Arthur takes a deep breath and says in a very strained voice, “You are never going to talk about Cobb like that again.” “Listen to yourself! You’re trying to defend the man when he’s already stretched you to the point where you’re distancing yourself from him! All it took was Mal shooting you in the stomach one too many times—” “She was going to shoot you,” Arthur interrupts, his voice and rough and angry. “If it’s me, I don’t care how many times it happens. I can handle it. But you…?” “And how the hell do you think I feel right now?” Eames asks and sighs, scrubbing at his face. “Come to London, Arthur. Leave Cobb and his fucked up projections. Breath a little. God, everything’s making sense now. How stressed you looked, how happy you were for that day and a half away from Cobb—” “Eames, I am not abandoning him.” Arthur’s tone is cold. “You’re just going to hang around and suffer for something that is in no way your fault.” “Yes,” Arthur spits. “If that’s all I can do, then yes. He’s like a brother to me, Eames. More than Phillip ever was. I can’t just leave him.” “And what am I, then?” Eames asks hollowly. “What do I mean to you, if it doesn’t even matter that the thought of you being tortured on a regular basis—by Mal, for Christ’s sake—makes me feel ill?” “God, Eames, don’t do this to me. You know I care. I just need to take care of Cobb right now. Once this whole situation gets fixed, I’ll be back. You’ll still be there.” “Will I, now,” Eames asks, his voice flat. “So nice to know I can just be put up on the shelf to be taken down later and dusted off, Arthur.” “It’s not like that—” Arthur begins, but Eames’ only reply is the disconnect tone. • “You told Eames,” Cobb says accusingly, when they meet the next day. They’re in a small room Arthur’s hired for them, a street away from their hotel. Cobb paces and runs a hand through his hair. “You told him about Mal—” “I don’t see how it’s such a big deal,” Arthur says, not even meeting Cobb’s gaze. “Not when you were about to mention seeing her during the job. Besides, she nearly shot him.” “And I hear she shot you,” Cobb says, and for a moment, he looks truly anguished. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” “So I’m guessing Eames called you,” Arthur’s gaze is fixed on his cup of poorly made takeaway coffee, and he tries to keep his tone disinterested. “If you can call it that. He threatened me over the phone, Arthur. Said that if I didn’t get a grip on my wife and stop torturing you—” “Doesn’t matter what he says,” Arthur interrupts. “You’ve seen Eames angry before.” “No I haven’t,” Cobb says. “Not like this. He was furious. Damn it Arthur, you had no right—” “She was going to shoot him, Cobb,” Arthur replies, his voice wavering. “Mal. Your projection of her.” “You’re blaming me too. I knew it.” Cobb shakes his head. “You’re going to leave to London.” “Jesus Christ, Cobb, calm down. I’m not going anywhere. I trust you. Eames is just angry, it doesn’t matter.” Cobb sits heavily in his chair and takes a breath. “It doesn’t matter? Not even to you?” Arthur’s shoulders slump. “Of course it does. Eames… we’ll work it out next time we see each other.” “Why don’t you go? Spend a bit more time with him. I’ll stay here, sniff out a job, and give you a call when something comes up.” Arthur considers it. He imagines spending his time with Eames, dreading a phone call, and never wanting to leave. He shakes his head. “I’ll stay.” Cobb doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says that he’s relieved. • “I don’t fucking understand you, Arthur.” The point man sighs, resting his forehead against the cold glass of his window, tightening his grip on his phone. He’s irritated by the fact that he didn’t see this coming. “Cobb gave you the choice to take a break from him,” Eames continues his rant, “yet, you turn it down. You’re either the most idiotic man I’ve ever known, or a masochist. A very idiotic masochist.” “I can’t just leave him,” Arthur replies, and by now, he’s repeated it so many times that his voice is toneless. “I owe him too much.” “And I’m just nothing to you,” Eames says, and adds before Arthur can interrupt, “because that’s exactly how you make me feel. It’s always been about Cobb, who taught you everything. Never mind this idiot Eames, who showed you what dream sharing is. Who realised how badly you wanted to escape your old, dull life. Never mind me, who is stupidly in love with you and just waiting for you to see sense.” “Eames, I—” “I can’t take this, Arthur. I really can’t. You’re willingly staying behind, letting Cobb torture you with his subconscious, and ignoring every bit of sense I try to get through that skull of yours.” Arthur straightens up, recognising the tone in Eames’ voice. He remembers the night in Paris, with Eames packing his belongings into a suitcase and leaving. He’s about to tell Eames to stop, that they’ll talk this out, when the forger continues. “At times like these, I can understand where your family’s coming from. I can completely sympathise with your brother and father.” “…What?” “It’s like there are two different versions of you. There’s Arthur—the brilliant, dedicated son that your family never got to see—my brilliant Arthur, who actually lets himself be happy. But you barely let anybody see that, do you? Instead, we get this Arthur, overworked, unhappy and unwilling to do anything about it.” “You…” Arthur’s voice is quiet and cold. “You’re siding with my family on this. With Phillip.” “Yes,” Eames says with a heavy sigh. “Yes I am. Do you remember what he said to you? How you have everything you want right in front of you, but refuse to see it? He was right.” Arthur struggles to find some way to reply to this. He distantly realises his hands are shaking, but he can’t tell if it’s from anger, or any other of the multitude of emotions crashing through his head, making it ache. “I’m hanging up now,” he hears himself saying. At the back of his mind, he notes that Eames isn’t protesting. “Goodbye,” he hears Eames say softly before he snaps his phone shut, the sound echoing in the small room. They both know this is the end. • If Arthur’s lack of sleep shows the next day, Cobb doesn’t comment. He finds them a job and Arthur throws himself into research. On his lunch break, he goes out and buys himself a new phone with a new number. He throws his old one out, without saving Eames’ number. He takes two more jobs with Cobb in quick succession. During the second, he is cornered by Mal, who shoots him in the kneecap and then asks him where Eames is. He screams wordlessly, clenching his jaw against the pain, sorely wishing that he could bring himself to shoot her. Cobb watches on silently, with the same tortured look in his eyes as always. When Arthur’s gaze meets his, Cobb draws his gun and aims a shot right between his eyes. The pain disappears, along with the rest of the dream. Arthur finds that he doesn’t quite mind dying this way, and then bitterly wonders at the fact that he even has a preferred method of dying. After this job, Arthur announces that he’s going to spend some time back in L.A. Cobb is only too happy to hear it and sends stuffed animals for the children. Arthur’s first stop is his apartment. The dust sheets over the furniture look as though they’ve been hastily thrown on, and the place has the faint smell of Eames’ cologne. He must have been here a week or so ago, which reflects the list Arthur still keeps updated at the back of his moleskine. The last destination on the list now, following Los Angeles, is Dubai. Arthur had waited before he had the information double-checked before booking his flight. But somehow, the discovery that Eames is using their apartment too, comes as a surprise. It shouldn’t, really, because they’d both lived here and in fact, Eames had lived here for longer, after Arthur had left to help Cobb. Still, Arthur thinks as he pulls the cover off the bed and crawls under, it’s strange to imagine Eames sleeping in this bed alone, the way he is doing right now. He falls asleep quickly, and if he ends up curled up on Eames’ side of the bed, face buried in the pillow, Arthur pretends not to know. • (Part Five.)