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It happens at the end of a three-month job.
Here's the thing: most dream-workers opt to remain sober whilst on a job – they’ve all experienced the unfortunate side effects of mixing alcohol with somnacin at least once and wisely chosen not to repeat the experience. Here's the other thing: most dream-workers don't stick around after a job is done. But three months is a long stretch by any standard for a job, so their hard work--and success--calls for a particular brand of celebration: alcohol.
Lots of alcohol.
The job wraps and the team descend into a dark, unassuming bar in downtown Pittsburgh. Ariadne is the second to arrive, Arthur is already there, sat at the bar, his neck craned back to intently watch a baseball game on the lone flatscreen. The Mets are playing the Braves, the former losing spectacularly.
She greets him with a hug, her eyes widening as she takes in the large jug of beer he is already halfway through. He doesn’t appear to be affected, however, standing to accept her hug and awkwardly patting her on the back in return. Cobb and Yusuf arrive shortly thereafter, joining them for a round of drinks. They raise their glasses to give a hearty (but discreet) round of cheers for a job well done.
The conversation starts light, if not a little stilted. Cobb becomes more morose with each subsequent drink and Arthur seems to be too distracted by the baseball to engage in small talk beyond grunts of assent or annoyance.
The night looks set to fizzle out early. But then Yusuf orders the team a celebratory round of Grey Goose shots in which they all eagerly partake. And then come another round. And then another.
Arthur throws them back easily, getting progressively more wasted with each shot. She knows he is truly six-sheets-to-the-wind when he starts cursing at the TV and unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt, his hair curling around the nape of his neck. He looks like the average businessman blowing off steam after a long week at the office. It’s kind of funny, at first. Ariadne has never seen Arthur drunk before.
She quickly realizes why.
Cobb raises his glass in a toast. “Cheers,” he says, “to another successful job.”
Arthur groans.
“This job sucked,” he complains and throws back another shot. “It sucked balls.”
His skin is flushed and damp with sweat, his posture sagging with each drink until he is only held upright by his elbows on the countertop. “No, seriously,” he adds, even though no one has said anything. “I don’t care how good the money is, nothing is worth spending three months in this hellhole."
“I like Pittsburgh,” Ariadne frowns. “It’s a cool place.”
Arthur huffs. “Yeah, well, you’re Canadian,” he says in the same aggrieved tone he reserves to refer to pedestrians and cyclists, “what would you know, eh?” He makes a drunken raise-the-roof motion with his hands and then chugs back both his and her shots without taking a single breath. He barks an order for another round to a young, harried-looking bartender who hurries to comply.
Beside her, Yusuf pauses mid-chew on a mouthful of bar peanuts as he watches Arthur slowly unravel like a loose thread.
“Here, Arthur,” Cobb orders a jug of water and pointedly hands him a glass. He slides it over with an uneasy grimace. “I think you should drink this.”
Arthur pours the water into his fresh jug of beer and sculls the entire thing, slamming it down when he's done. As he's wiping a hand over his mouth a handsome man slides next to Arthur, eyeing him with unabashed interest. The guy is forty-something, slim, has a charmingly crooked nose and, to his credit, doesn't flinch when Arthur pats his own tummy and quietly belches into his fist.
He boldly presses into Arthur's personal space and orders a whisky, nodding at the TV. “Are you a Met’s fan then?” the man asks Arthur loudly, leaning further in to yell into his ear. “I’m a Cubs fan, myself.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
The guy laughs good-naturedly. He looks him up and down appreciatively. “Can I buy you a drink, gorgeous?”
Arthur shrinks away, protectively cupping his shot of vodka. “No,” he says flatly.
The man laughs again, awkwardly this time, glancing around. “Come on, let me buy you something nice. We can go top shelf,” he says already fishing out his wallet.
“Again, no.”
“Are you sure–-”
“I said no,” Arthur snaps, his face pinched, “and if you don’t remove your hand from my thigh within the next three seconds I’m going to punch you in the throat.”
Paling, the man retrieves his hand and promptly skedaddles, tripping over his feet to leave.
“Arthur,” she admonishes, gesturing after the guys retreating back. What a waste. At least one of them could have gotten laid tonight. “You could have gotten some! He was cute!”
Arthur takes the man's abandoned whiskey sour and sculls it back. He sends her a look of disapproval which is immediately marred by a hiccup. “I’m not interested in ‘getting some’ with random men in bars, thank you.”
“You should,” she says honestly. “I really think you need it.”
“He not your type?” Cobb asks, trading his beer with water while he isn't looking.
“No.”
“Surely you’re not straight,” Yusuf leans back, a dismayed hand pressed over his heart.
“No,” an indelicate snort escapes Arthur as he unsteadily gets to his feet, swaying slightly. He threads his arms through his jacket, slapping a few fifty-dollar bills on the counter. “I’m married.”
Ariadne spits out her drink. "You're what?"
Arthur doesn't answer. They sit and watch, stupefied, as their point man mutinously flips them off and then leaves with an undignified harrumph, stumbling into multiple patrons on his way out.
"Wow,” Cobb is the first to break the quiet. He tiredly wipes his face with a napkin where Ariadne had sprayed him. “I… did not see that coming.”
She turns to him, bewildered. “You’re his best friend!”
“Perhaps he was fibbing,” Yusuf pats Cobb on the back consolingly. “Too much drink. I mean, what kind of psychotic nutjob would marry Arthur? I’d wager he was lying to save face.”
They share a look with each other. Then at the countertop littered with Arthurs's empty glasses. Then again with each other.
Ariadne raps the countertop with her knuckles. “Anyone wanna make a bet?”
----
The bet is set at ten thousand apiece. Whoever correctly deduces who Arthur is married to first, by any methods necessary, is the winner. Personally, Ariadne has her money on Jean-Luc, the dashing arms-dealer from Nice they met during the Barton job last year. She bought her first handgun from him and has very fond memories of the time. He's someone who can handle a range of firearms and she thinks Arthur would be super into that. It would have to be someone in the business, right?
The team doesn’t get together again until six weeks later for the Tokyo job. This time they’re joined by Saito for drinks at a hoity-toity exclusive club he owns in Roppongi.
Arthur, who hasn’t managed a single smile once over the last month and a half, has joined them once again, under the condition that he’s only there for ‘one single drink, and that’s it’. They'd side-eyed each other behind his back and agreed. But, with gentle encouragement, one serve of sake turns to two, before they start losing count. They all watch with greedy eyes as Arthur becomes increasingly intoxicated, a little more relaxed and loosened up.
Saito, who should be excluded from the bet for income-disparity reasons but isn’t, gestures to the worried-looking bartender to keep the drinks flowing. She squeezes onto the seat beside Arthur and pretends to listen to whatever he's rattling on about now, the operative word being pretend because christ, drunk Arthur is a loud, chatty drunk. And a fucking lightweight. No wonder they don't normally do this.
And, okay, Ariadne doesn’t feel, like, super great about taking advantage of Arthur's increasing intoxication, but she has a bet to win, so.
“So, Arthur,” she begins, apropos of nothing, twirling her hair around a finger, “who is the lucky other-half?”
Arthur, who had been detailing the engineering feat of the PASIV’s innards halts mid-sentence to send her an incredulous look. “Really? It's not a secret, Ari.”
"And yet, we are all very curious," Saito picks up the tokkuri from the table and tops up Arthur’s cup. The sneak. “You must tell us how you met your spouse, at least.”
Arthur tips back the sake as if it were a shot of vodka. He smirks. “She spilled hot coffee over my lap.”
She? Ariadne turns her head to mouth the word at Cobb and Yusuf behind Arthur's back. They shrug back at her. She was so sure Arthur was gay - not that she's one to stereotype others exactly, but she’d had saucier kisses in the third grade than the one she’d shared with Arthur in the Fischer job and she knows he's never so much as looked at her breasts once. Not even that time in Kuta that they pointedly don't speak about.
Saito prompts him again. “So, it was love at first sight?”
“Ha!” Arthur swipes the tokkuri from him and pours his own drink and throws that back too. “No.”
Yusuf leans forward, speaking urgently. “A name, Arthur–-we need a name.”
“What – ?” Arthur cuts himself off when his breast pocket suddenly illuminates with a bright light. He plucks his phone from it with two fingers, his expression doing something strange when he looks at the notification. If she squints and tilts her head Ariadne thinks he might be smiling.
“That the missus?” Cobb leans in, flinching back when Arthur abruptly stands up.
“None of your business,” he protectively clutches his phone to his chest. He drunkenly nods at all of them, bowing respectfully to the bartender, swaying slightly. “I'm leaving, see you in Chicago,” he looks back and adds “assholes,” as an afterthought - or perhaps an endearment.
“Bye!” Yusuf calls cheerfully. He turns back to the group, his expression turning grave. “We're getting nowhere -- we have to crack Arthur. Crack him like a walnut.”
“There’s only one way,” Cobb says darkly, already taking his phone out. "Time to bring in the big guns."
They all nod in unison.
“Eames.”
----
Eames laughs uproariously in Chicago when they tell him about their bet.
“Oh my days,” he says, rubbing his hand along his beard, eyes alight with mirth. “You’ve figured out Arthur has loose lips when he’s properly pissed then.”
“He’s married!” Ariadne exclaims. “Arthur! Did you know?”
“Of course I did.”
They simultaneously converge on him, like a pack of wolves on prey. Eames eyes them warily and leans away to reclaim his personal space, fingers stilling in the ruddy hairs of his beard as he eyes them all uncomfortably.
“It’s hardly a secret. They’ve been married for years.”
Cobb points a finger at his chest. “How did you find out?”
“Well,” he swats away Cobb's finger, “I was there for the whole courting process.”
“Arthur said he met his wife met when she spilled coffee on him.”
“That’s true,” he admits. “Ruined a lovely pair of cream trousers, she did.”
Yusuf looks ready to burst. “Who is she? A name, Eames. We need a name.”
Eames looks between them, pursing his lips. “I’m not sure I should be telling you," he says, casually inspecting his nails. "Arthur might get a bit shirty.“
“There’s a thousand in it for you.”
Eames rolls his eyes. "Pennies."
Ariadne elbows Yusuf sharply in the chest. Clutching his breast, he blurts out, “Two thousand!”
“Well, in that case,” Eames sits up straight. “Arthur pursued her.” He pauses, head tilting in thought. “It was all a bit weird, actually.”
“Weird?”
A mile-wide smile transforms Eames’ face, storm-grey eyes turning soft and glazed with apparent nostalgia. “You see lads, when Arthur is on the piss he also gets a bit flirty,” his voice lowers to a whisper. “Sultry.”
She recalls a sweaty, dishevelled Arthur shoving peanuts into his face and flipping off the baseball players mere months ago. “I wouldn’t say he gets sultry,” says Ariadne, shaking off the memory. “He threatened someone who hit on him in Pittsburgh. He looked a bit gross, really.”
Eames smooths his hand over his mouth, poorly concealing his grin.
“Did he now?”
The office door creaks open as Arthur enters. He slams the door behind him, looking a little windswept, his tie somewhat askew. “Sorry, I’m late, I–” He stops himself, as he takes notice of their close huddle, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He carefully loops the strap of his satchel off his neck and drops it to his desk with a thud. “What are you all up to?”
“We were having a very productive conversation about work, Arthur,” Eames threads his fingers together and settles them over his belt. He twists his wrist toward him to check his watch and tuts disapprovingly. “And you are fifteen minutes late.”
“I got stuck in traffic.”
“Traffic,” Eames shakes his head. "A likely story."
Arthur rolls his eyes as he extracts his laptop from his bag.
“Whatever, get back to work.”
Eames winks at the team. He whispers, “A story for another time.”
----
The story isn’t unearthed until two months later when they’re all in Paris for Ariadne’s birthday, sans Saito, who sadly has a global empire to run but has sent her a Maserati for a gift, and Arthur who can’t make it, stuck on reconnaissance for a nearby job, but has sent his gift early -- a fourth generation PASIV of her own.
It’s only seven in the evening and they’re already blindingly, roaringly drunk.
“You’re lucky you came to me,” Eames gestures at them with his beer bottle, spilling liquid everywhere. “If left to Arthur he’d completely doctor the whole story and make himself seem like some dashing casanova. He is not. Let’s just say our dear Arthur isn’t exactly… smooth when it comes to the art of seduction.”
“So, what’s the real story?”
Eames leans back, spreading his arms over the back of the couch, resting one knee over the other. He seems to take up the entire piece of furniture, and he may as well, with the remaining team members taking a set in a circle at his feet like attentive children listening to a bedtime story.
“It all started at the turn of the century.” He waves his hand in a small, theatrical arc, voice lowered to a dramatic whisper. “The world was entering a new technological era.”
Yusuf rolls his eyes. “Just say the year two-thousand.”
“The turn of the century,” Eames says again, repeating the arc motion. “Our young Arthur was enlisted in the army. His hair was long and lustrous and he unapologetically wore cargo pants and polo shirts.”
Ariadne leans in, already enraptured. Cargo pants, she mouths to herself.
“He’d been recruited into the third incarnation of Project Somnacin and was conducting his very first dream experiment when he met her: the love of his life.”
“What does she look like?”
Eames grins wickedly. “Beautiful, Ariadne. Absolutely beautiful.”
----
Ten years earlier
----
The first time Eames meets Arthur they are sharing a dream.
Eames technically wasn't supposed to be there. Not on that military base, and certainly nowhere near the PASIV device. But he was on assignment, posing as an American soldier and had wheedled his way into the program with false documents and a crisp Texan accent. He had a job to do.
The dream was a rudimentary recreation of an American diner. The dreamer, Arthur – Corporal Levine – was sitting alone in a vinyl booth, staring out the window with a thunderous scowl. Before that day, Eames had known of him only through rumours from the grapevine–-horror stories from the young men in his unit who spoke of a frightening young American who had a violent, nasty streak.
To Eames, he looked like a sullen understudy for a Backstreet Boy instead of a monster.
Really. What kind of ‘monster’ wore oversized leather jackets and parted their hair down the middle?
Eames, still mastering what the Americans didn’t yet know about their own program, was in the body of a saucy, voluptuous waitress from a coffee shop he used to frequent back home. In the handful of dreams he’d entered no one could alter anything beyond their clothing–but Eames could shift his whole body, his voice and become someone else entirely. It was exciting. He'd never experienced anything like it.
He’d caught sight of Levine’s glum, dour expression that day and had the sudden, most strange impulse to ruffle him up and provoke him.
Still wearing the waitress Eames had sauntered over with a full tray and ‘accidentally’ stumbled over his own feet as he passed him, spilling red-hot coffee all over his lap.
“Fuck!” Arthur cursed, scrambling to stand.
“Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry,” Eames said blandly, watching as Arthur shuffled frantically on the spot and attempted to pat himself dry with napkins, not offering to help. The trousers are a lost cause. “That’s going to stain.”
Arthur, now visibly angry, directed a withering glare at Eames.
“You’re not a projection," he demands, furious. “Who are you?”
Eames had wanted to answer, really, but then all of Arthur’s actual projections to descended on him with some very pointy steak knives.
Three weeks after being gored by Arthur’s subconscious Eames left America in the possession of a dossier on the American take on dreamsharing. He returned to the motherland to a chorus of polite, cordial adulations from his superiors for a job well done.
Three months at home, already bored of his regular life in service, Eames sells his secret copy of then PASIV’s schematics to the highest bidder for half a million dollars. Because here's the thing: being in Her Majesty’s ranks was cool and all, but in dreams, Eames felt like he had superpowers.
He could no longer maintain a life where he felt stifled, his talents limited, he needed a way out lest he drive himself crazy ruminating on the possibilities that life could hold for him if he went three skips to the left.
So he steals a PASIV from his own military and flees the country. The rest, as they say, is history.
----
Eames doesn’t expect to see Arthur ever again. He'd almost forgotten about the man, truth be told, but after nearly two years they meet again in a drafty Berlin warehouse for a job. Or, meet for the first time, in Arthur's case.
Arthur looks just as young and sullen as before, dressed in a smart striped oxford and a blue denim jacket, hair still parted down the middle. He doesn’t recognize Eames when he enters the warehouse, having never met him in his real body.
Something in Eames lights up, tickled when he remembers how his sulky pout had twisted in vexation in that little diner. He kind of wants to see him make that face again; Eames has always liked to push buttons. Something tells him that Arthur is utterly riddled with them.
Arthur stands, hand outstretched. “You must be the forger.”
Taking his hand and shaking it, Eames bit down a smile. “And you are?”
“The engineer,” his grip was warm, firm, “Arthur. I look after the research and machines.”
His a tone erring on the side of haughty, or perhaps cautiousness, like he’s had one too many wannabe-mechanics tinker and toy with his tools. The look he gives Eames says he thinks that he’s the kind of person who can’t keep his hands to himself.
“Well met, Mr. Arthur.”
“Just Arthur,” he rolls his eyes, “Mr Eames.”
“Alright,” Eames released his hand. “Just trying to be polite.”
“You’re a criminal,” Arthur looked him up and down. “No need to be so formal about it.”
Eames waits until the end of that first job, just as soon as the extractor has worked their magic, to transform into the curvy waitress from their first meeting, winking at Arthur and brushing past him before turning back into himself.
Grinning, Eames readies himself for another death by steak knives, to finally see this so-called ‘monster’. Maybe Arthur will throw his coffee on Eames as payback.
He does none of those things. Instead, Arthur stills, his body going as taut as a guitar string.
“That was you back then,” he says slowly. He licks his lips. “I see.”
Then, very calmly, Arthur retrieves a grenade out of his pocket and pulls the pin.
They die and wake. Beside him Arthur rises, pulling the cannula from his wrist. He turned to Eames and swallowed roughly before making a swift beeline to the bathroom. He doesn’t come out for fifteen minutes.
“Everything alright, Arthur?” Eames asks after he re-emerges, beginning to get mildly concerned. Maybe he got an odd dose of the compound.
“Shut up,” says Arthur, smoothing down his clothes. He looks him up and down again. “You’re very competent, Mr. Eames.”
What a weird guy, Eames thought as Arthur brushed past him to start clearing the area.
----
“He was well dressed though,” Eames tells his attentive audience. “An absolute weirdo, but a denim-on-denim delight at that.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then, Dominick, things start to get weird.”
----
The next time they meet is four months later in Paris. Their headquarters is a too-warm, dusty office that sets off Eames’ allergies every other hour. The team consists of a stout, balding extractor, Phillipe, their architect, Jenna, a thin, nervous woman - and Arthur and Eames.
It quickly becomes apparent that Arthur is behaving a little…differently from their last job.
At first, Eames doesn't think much of it. Arthur’s sense of style has again changed, his trousers are a little tighter, his hair a little shorter so it no longer curls around his ears and the nape of his neck. He’s started wearing brogues instead of sneakers.
He’s still the oil-streaked, quick-fingered smartass, however, using every opportunity to slap Eames’ ‘surprisingly dexterous, but grubby,’ hands away from the PASIV every time he nears it.
There, in hindsight, is where it all starts.
The equipment is often left alone, wide open, with plenty of shiny buttons for Eames to press, only to be thwarted by Arthur appearing at the last second out of nowhere to smack his hands away.
“Don’t touch,” Arthur tuts each time, hip-checking him, their sides brushing together as Arthur shuts the case. “This is worth half a million dollars.”
“I know. I stole the prototype, remember.”
“Yeah, you did.” Arthur locked eyes with him then, wetting his lips.
“Yes,” Eames blinks. “I just said that.”
After a long, uncomfortable pause Arthur stepped out of his personal space.
“Carry on, Mr. Eames, and keep your hands to yourself.”
Arthur keeps leaving the PASIV out in the open but Eames doesn’t try poking at it again. The thrill is gone and besides, it seems like Arthur is testing him, almost. He's not sure he likes how that makes him feel, to be honest, because despite what Arthur thinks, Eames can keep his hands to himself. He’s been very good at it, this job. He’s not even pinched Arthur’s pert bum, not even once, no matter how many times Arthur tantalizingly bends over at the waist to calibrate the machine.
One night they’re following their mark to a funky little dive bar downtown. Both Arthur and Eames have followed up for a spot of recon. They order drinks, sipping on them to blend in, it’s all going fine until the mark, sitting by the bar, starts eyeing them conspicuously.
They might get made, Eames thinks, if they don’t stop sitting around like a couple of stoned otters.
“Fancy a game?” Eames offers to Arthur, tilting his head to a newly vacated pool table towards the end of the bar. “Winner takes five hundred bucks?”
Arthur stands unsteadily. His face is flushed and has clearly had a bit too much to drink. “You’re on,” he tilts his chin up, whole body brushing up against Eames’ as he passes him.
They take a cue each. Arthur breaks the first rack, sending balls scattering over the table, sinking a striped ball straight away.
Lining up the cue for his turn, Eames aims it toward the nearest solid and intentionally misses. Catching Arthur's eye he shrugs, bashful. “I don’t really know how to play,” he lies.
Arthur, who had been leaning against the other side of the table, strokes his hands down his cue as he saunters over to Eames’ side.
“Watch and learn,” he bends over.
Then, Arthur hikes a leg up over the edge of the table, draping his body over and–there are no other words for it—mounting the green baize. The fabric of Arthur’s trousers stretches obscenely over his arse as he wriggles his bottom like a puppy before thrusting the cue forward, hitting a striped ball all the way over the other side.
Eames stares, speechless.
He’s pretty sure Arthur is the one who doesn't know how to play pool, but the ball sinks all the same. Arthur straightens and sends a triumphant grin his way.
Sometime throughout the game the mark disappears without confronting them, Eames loses track of exactly when. He also loses five hundred bucks to a smug, drunk Arthur. But he’s okay with that. Especially when he herds said drunk Arthur into a taxi, cash peeking out of his back pocket like a pair of panties.
–---
In Chicago they are hired by two flush newlyweds looking to acquire a PASIV for recreational usage. They know of an old professor, a remnant from the Project Somnacin, who was still in possession of the earlier models.
Eames had initially scoffed at the frivolity of it and attempted to warn the besotted couple of the dangers of dreamshare-for-funsies but they’d waved cash at him and insisted.
You don’t have to ask Eames twice to take someone's money.
For this job, his role is simple. Arthur and Phillipe extract the location of the PASIV from the old professor; it's up to him to steal it topside.
The extraction is simple and successful – the location of the device is stored in an old Parisian bank vault. Eames sets to work, carefully forging the documents and identities required to get into the vault to retrieve it.
Once or twice a day Arthur finds reason to crowd himself around Eames’ workspace. A hand gripping the edge of his desk, another at the back of Eames chair, leaning over him as he inspects his work. He has a brand new gold watch and smells like Calvin Klein.
It boggles Eames at first, uncomprehending his sudden proximity. Then the proverbial penny drops with a sickening clang— Arthur is keeping a close eye on him because he thinks Eames going to steal the PASIV for himself.
And, alright, Eames had been thinking about it but he wasn’t actually going to do it. Eames has grown as a person and a thief since he stole from their respective governments – and he’d like to think he’s developed a sort of professional trust with Arthur since.
Now, it appears that Arthur had never trusted him at all.
The following Monday he returns to the office, disgruntled by this revelation. He can’t even enjoy the sight of Arthur’s brand-new vest cinching in his narrow little waist. Nor can he even appreciate the delightfully tight curve of his perky bottom when Arthur comes over, clutching a mug of coffee. It’s awful.
Oblivious to Eames’ inner turmoil, Arthur shifts aside a pile of paperwork to seat himself on the edge of the desk. He smiles cautiously when the desk wobbles. “Mr. Eames,” he greets, taking a sip from his mug before setting it on the desk. “What are you up to?”
Eames blinks behind his loupes.
“Forging,” he says evenly.
"Cool," Arthur nods. “Hey, I was wondering, after the job, did you maybe want to–-”
As he speaks he gestures in a grand sweeping motion that arcs too wide, knocking his mug over and spilling its contents over the counterfeit documents Eames has spent every day of the last month perfecting.
Eames stares at the growing pool of liquid.
Hands slapped over his mouth, Arthur looks properly horrified. He quickly stands, taking the handkerchief from his pocket and patting it over the paperwork, smearing the ink even further.
“Oh god,” his eyes widen. He drops the handkerchief like it’s on fire. “I am so, so sorry –”
Eames holds one hand up to silence him, removing his glasses with the other to massage the bridge of his nose.
“Perhaps it would be best if I did the rest on my own,” he carefully pushes his chair away as coffee drips over the edge of the table. “That is unless you don’t think me capable.”
“No, no, of course,” he backs away as quick as a skittish cat, hands outstretched in contriteness. “I just— I’m, fuck— I’m gonna go. Leave you be.”
Turning on his heel, Arthur shoves his binders and notebooks into his oversized backpack and all but flees the office.
What a clumsy guy, Eames thinks, his blood lowering from a boil to a simmer.
The job gets completed, eventually, and the stupid, stuffy couple gets their stupid PASIV and everyone gets paid, whoop-de-doo, la-di-da and his bank account grows forty-thousand fatter, thanks to a 'bonus' from Arthur, who kept a wide berth from Eames’ personal space since the coffee incident.
After he’s well and truly calmed down Eames supposes it’s well within Arthur’s right to be suspicious of him. He does have a track record, after all. Eames will just have to work harder to prove that he’s evolved.
Besides, what’s a little spilled coffee between friends?
----
Next, come the lollipops.
By their next job together Arthur has traded his denim and leather jackets for polyester-blend sweaters over his oxfords, the fabric a little oversized still, but in a way that makes him look lithe and on-trend.
The job is based in Los Angeles during one of the worst heat waves on record. Eames walks into the downtown office that first day and claps Arthur on the shoulder in what he hopes is interpreted as an olive branch. Arthur returns the gesture awkwardly, leaving a streak of oil and sweat from his palm on Eames' silk shirt. His favourite one. Mortification quickly blooms on Arthurs' face so Eames pretends not to notice.
“Eames, hi," Arthur steps back. "I’m glad you make it.”
He gestures to the potent sun streaming through the windows and says drily, “And miss all of this lovely weather?”
Arthur’s lips quirk in amusement before releasing his hand and returning to his desk. Eames watches the sway of his hips unashamedly as he walks away. He thinks maybe Arthur has invested in tailoring, the way his trousers fit him now – either that or he has gained weight, not that it's any of his business whatsoever, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the divine curvature of a well-filled derriere, right?
Eames has never paid particular attention to Arthur's culinary inclinations, not after their first job together when he’d witnessed him picking at a garden salad and chewing with his mouth open as he barked down his Nokia 3310 like an uncultured boor.
But, well. Arthur starts bringing in lollipops, is the thing.
Eames has always known Arthur's worst kept secret is his ferocious sweet tooth – from his sugar-laden coffees to his secret stash of Werther's Originals and butter menthol lollies (that sometimes Eames nicked when he was peckish) – but the lollipops are new.
So are the bananas. For one week straight, he brings in bananas. Long, slightly curved bananas. Their tips disappear behind Arthur's lips as he idly suckles on them, too distracted by his work, poor love, to even chew.
And yet, Eames says nothing, not even when it’s sometimes hard to concentrate when Arthur moans rapturously from the other end of the office as he eats his bananas. Who is Eames to fault a man for getting his daily intake of potassium?
But then come the popsicles.
Eames watches, bizarrely fascinated, as a popsicle disappears behind Arthur’s lips with shallow, absentminded thrusts. One afternoon Arthur thrusts too far in and he makes a choking noise. With a cough, Arthur extracts the popsicle from his mouth, his eyes watering.
“Maybe stick to ice cream, love,” Eames calls over to the other end of the room, licking his thumb and flicking the next page of his dossier over, grimacing.
“You okay, Arthur?” Ben, their chemist asks.
“I have a really sensitive gag reflex,” Arthur says miserably.
Ben perks up at that.
“Don’t even fucking think about it, mate,” Eames warns, his chest going inexplicably hot.
With a pout, Ben skulks away. Still sniffling, Arthur dumps the remains of the rapidly melting popsicle into the waste bin under his desk. He pointedly does not look at either of them.
As the job and heat wave drag on, Arthur decidedly does not take up Eames' suggestion to stick to ice cream. In fact, he denies his sweet tooth altogether and reverts to his sad, boring salads again.
“Perhaps he’s trying to lose weight,” Ben suggests one day as they watch Arthur angrily devour a caesar salad at his desk.
Which would be a shame, Eames considers, if that is truly the case -- Arthur has a marvellous body. He doesn’t have an extra inch of fat to even lose the poor sod, no wonder he needs all that sugar. Not that Eames cares or anything, not at all, nor is it any of his business -- it's just that Arthur would have to get all his clothes tailored again if he lost weight. What a shame. And they would have to recalibrate his dose of the dream compound. What a waste of time.
But again, Eames bites his tongue and refrains from commentary, mostly, even if he thinks Arthur is being a little silly. Ben continues to look at Arthur appreciatively and for some reason that makes Eames want to karate-chop him in the trachea but he abstains and nods encouragingly when Arthur surreptitiously sneaks a butter menthol or two.
This is all fine, until one day Arthur brings one of his salads in a container and gives it to him.
Eames drags it closer, inspecting it. “Erm, what’s this?”
“I thought you might like it,” Arthur smiles, folding his arms behind his back, rocking back and forth on his feet.
Nervously, he opens the lid, the plastic creaking like a trap door. Inside reveals a monstrosity of green, wet-looking foliage. Tentatively, he gives the container a jiggle to see if anything crawls out. Feeling a bit green himself, he repeats, “What’s this?”
Arthur taps his shoes together, his smile broadening. “It has superfoods! It’s got spinach and kale and cranberries and quinoa,” he cuts himself off, rocking on his feet again. “It’s really good for you. Anyway, I was wondering, after this job —”
“ —Arthur,” he speaks very slowly, perturbed, “are you putting us all on a diet?”
The smile drops from Arthur's face.
“What?”
“You don’t need to do this, you know,” Eames gestures to the salad, trying on a kind smile.
“What,” Arthur repeats, blinking.
“I mean it’s your body, but for what it’s worth you don’t need to lose another pound, darling. You shouldn’t, really.”
“Wait —you think — ohh,” Arthur seems to shrivel within himself, arms folding over his chest. His tone is airy and wavers when he speaks. “No, uh– I thought— um, team lunches!” he balls his hands into fists to cheer awkwardly, eyes darting. “I just thought for, you know…team bonding?”
“Ooh - did you bring me food?” Ben asks loudly from the other end.
Arthur pales.
“You can have mine,” Eames offers magnanimously, holding the container aloft. He sends Arthur an apologetic smile and lies. “I brought in curry, sorry.”
“No, that’s– good. Good teamwork,” Arthur points to his desk with his thumbs. “I’m gonna just– I’m gonna go back. To work. At my desk.”
That afternoon, Arthur procures a box of Turkish Delight from nowhere and proceeds to devour it entirely in one sitting, scowling as he chews. He gets icing sugar all over his paperwork.
At least it’s not Eames’ forgeries, this time, he supposes.
----
Things don’t come to a head until the Bykovec job.
The job is a relatively easy one, typical corporate espionage. Sometimes Eames truly marvels at the state of his life; that at twenty-five he can call corporate espionage typical or mundane, or generic. Pedestrian, even. Like, when is someone going to invent a new crime for him to commit?
In any case, he takes the job because their extractor had called in a favour-- and also because Arthur was going to be there and Eames had oddly missed him and his weirdness and his animalistic way of eating, and perhaps also of pushing his buttons.
It’s only been two months but Arthur looks different. More confident. More grown-up. Maybe it’s the clean cut of his hair, styled artfully in a messy quiff with just the right amount of gel, or perhaps it’s the appearance of an expertly knotted tie at his neck. It looks soft. Expensive.
Eames very much wants to take it.
“Glad to have you on board, Mr. Eames.”
Arthur’s fingers are still callused and his nails are still unkempt but he looks and sounds more polished than before. The sharpness of his non-rhotic accent has rounded into something more dime-a-dozen that could place his origins anywhere in the US.
“You look nice,” he says, extending his hand.
“Really?” Arthur’s hand falters for a moment before awkwardly returning the handshake with vigour, cheeks going pink. “Um, you too.”
Eames clears his throat after a long moment.
“....Can I have my hand back?”
“Oh, shit – sorry –”
Arthur hurriedly drops his hand and turns on his heel and returns to the whiteboard without another word. Some things never change, Eames supposes.
----
One day comes Eames into the office and overhears Arthur on a phone call in their shared break-room to maintain privacy for what is clearly a very personal phone call.
Eames shrinks against the wall to better eavesdrop.
“I give up,” Arthur sighs into the phone. “It’s a bust. I’ve tried everything.”
A pause.
“Yes, I tried the clothes. I tried the stretching and the food, I’ve tried — what the hell is a bend and snap?”
Another pause as Arthur listens. “You know I don’t speak French! What do you mean I should cook? I can't do that either!”
Eames peeks around the corner to witness Arthur wipe a weary hand down his face, sighing into the phone.
“Look, I think it’s best to give up,” Arthur says, knuckling an eye. “It’s a lost cause.”
He sounds so downtrodden and sad that even Eames’ shrivelled old heart expands in sympathy for him. Maybe he should be more supportive. He vows at least to stop laughing at Arthur when he gets lettuce stuck in his teeth. It’s the least he can do.
The forlorn downturn of Arthur’s mouth haunts him those first few weeks. Eames takes it upon himself to try and make him feel better. He brings Arthur coffees unprompted and even listens to Arthur’s briefings with minimal interjections. Once, he stops Arthur before he leaves for the day and thanks him for his research on their mark.
“Nobody does it quite like you, Arthur,” he says quite genuinely.
Arthur slides his hands into his trouser pockets and quirks a tiny smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Eames.”
----
Four weeks into the job Eames is tucked into his hotel bed when he receives a late-night text from Arthur that has his stomach falling to his feet.
Come to the warehouse, the text reads.
At first, he’s confused – but then it quickly occurs to him that Arthur might actually be in trouble. Fuck. Maybe he’s been shot. Maybe Arthur is bleeding out right now.
Heart racing, Eames quickly dresses and leaves, brandishing a wad of cash at the nearest taxi.
He arrives to the warehouse on fire.
Well, actually, it's just a small table on fire -- but the table itself is in the warehouse and the flames aren't very big, but still, there is fire. A bonfire, of sorts. Standing six feet away, Arthur is ineffectually whacking a tea-towel at the flames, coughing and spluttering at the smoke.
Eames acts fast. He races to the supply closet and retrieves the fire extinguisher.
“Get back!” he yells, aiming the nozzle.
Arthur surges forward. “Eames, wait –”
Possessed by a protective urge, he shoves Arthur out of the way, spraying the flames with foam until they are snuffed out. He drops the extinguisher to the floor and places his hands on his hips, breathing heavily.
What remains looks like what might have been a nice spread of dinner, were it not now steaming, blackened lumps of charcoal and candle wax. He glances over to Arthur, who is definitely alright, thankfully, and in one piece. Eames waves a hand, coughing slightly as the smoke lingers, adrenaline still coursing through his blood. “Are you alright?”
Arthur says nothing for a long time. His gaze is blank and firmly set onto the foamy mess of what looked like an expensive spread of food.
“Arthur?”
He suddenly blinks, as if snapping himself out of a stupor. “Nothing,” he says after a moment, seemingly coming back to himself. He waves a hand dismissively. “It was — you know. A training exercise.”
Eames stares at him. “A training exercise.”
“Yeah, uh, fire preparedness. You passed. Good job.”
“Right,” he draws the word out, not very impressed that he was pulled from his warm bed for this. “Maybe next time we can do this during working hours, yeah?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. This is the last time.”
“The last...training exercise?”
“Yeah,” Arthur exhales slowly, brow creased in consternation. “I mean, you can throw all the smoke signals out there because sometimes people can’t tell that there is a fire – you know? They can’t see that there is a big, raging fire—” he gestures with his hands, voice getting louder until it suddenly softens and almost peters out. He casts a furtive glance at Eames, shrugging as he does so, “— and sometimes…sometimes people just aren’t interested. And that’s okay.”
“...I’d wager most people aren’t interested in fire.”
Sighing deeply, Arthur wipes a hand over his face, smearing soot over his skin.
His fingers itch again, this time with the urge to reach out and wipe the desolate expression from Arthur’s face, to say I’m sorry everyone sucks, darling, you can test my fire preparedness at any time.
But Arthur has already started cleaning up, his back to Eames, and the moment is gone.
----
Post-fire, the job goes as smoothly as warm butter on bread.
But Arthur is different. He’s quieter, more sedate, and somehow all-together void of colour. He’s his usual professional self, but he never stumbles over his words or has a hair out of place.
Unsettled, and unsure why, Eames takes to stealing bits and pieces from him – his gold watch, his most favoured pen, his car keys– attempting to provoke a reaction that never comes.
Eames returns everything by the end, except the gold watch. Arthur either doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care.
For some reason, that disappoints Eames.
----
Eames is in New York City.
As well-travelled as he is, he’d never taken the time to explore the city, too busy ducking in and out of its airports and railways to appreciate the sights. He has a few months spare until he’s expected anywhere so he goes and gets himself lost.
He lets his beard grow unruly and spends days walking the streets, uncovering the city’s nooks and crannies. He eats from vendors, goes to the MoMA, and Central Park, befriends several stray dogs, spends a day picking pockets from Wall Street fat cats and dines finely on their credit cards, giving the cash and coins to the homeless he comes by.
On the fifth day, he treats himself to the experience of the great American past-time: baseball. He buys a ticket to a night game. The Marlins are playing the Mets at Shea Stadium, whatever that means.
It’s a novel experience. The first inning comes and goes, someone sings a heartfelt rendition of the national anthem, the crowd cheers and jeers and yells and it’s all awfully American, very stars and stripes and earnest patriotism. But the Yanks do know how to put on a show– Eames will give them that, even if he has no idea what is happening—and even if they are overly boisterous.
None more so than the angry American man sitting just behind him who has been loudly swearing a blue streak for the last twenty minutes.
“Pathetic!” the man yells as the Marlins batter gets a strike. “My grandmother has better aim than you! Get outta here!”
Eames does a double-take when he turns to take a good look at the enthusiastic fan.
He's nearly unrecognizable. Donned in a backwards cap, a striped Met’s jersey and sporting an impressive amount of scruff, there’s no denying that it’s Arthur behind him, beer in one hand, a half-eaten hot dog in the other.
Expression furious, Arthur shoves the hot dog into his mouth, somehow managing to sneer and chew at the same time. Without thinking, Eames climbs up the rows of plastic chairs and takes the seat directly beside Arthur.
“Hey, buddy,” Arthur snaps with his mouth still full, “excuse you, I paid for that seat—” His voice cuts off as he recognizes Eames, hand freezing in mid-air.
An elegant arc of Coors Light splashes over Eames’ jeans.
“Eames?”
His eyes rake down Arthur's form, taking it all in. He’s wearing a gold signet ring. His jersey is signed by various players in fading blank ink. Arthur is a baseball fan. No, he corrects upon closer inspection—Arthur is a baseball fanatic.
“Oh, my,” Eames utters hoarsely, heat coiling in his stomach.
Under Arthur's cap, his hair is coarse and wavy, curling under the brim like wayward roots. His jeans are stained and worn thin at the knees. He’s never seen Arthur look so unkempt and scruffy before. So rugged–-so suburban–-so--
So handsome.
“Eames. What are you doing here?”
“Sightseeing,” he licks his lips, his chest doing something funny. “Are you… here for a job?”
“Nah,” Arthur sighs, leaning back against his chair with a thump. “Here for the game.” He raises a hand to adjust his cap, twisting it so that the bill can be tugged over his forehead to cover his eyes.
“You look…”
“Like a bum, I know,” he reaches down to a bag beneath his chair and procures another beer. He snaps the ring off the can and flicks it onto the ground. “Guess what, I don’t care no more. Not one single flying fuck. I give up.”
Eames knows his jaw must be open, but for the life of him, he can’t move to close it, too enraptured to speak.
“Jesus, look at these clowns,” Arthur gestures to the dismal scoreboard with his mostly empty beer. The Mets are losing. Arthur drains the rest of the can. “Fucking idiots.”
While Eames’ worldview is rapidly changing, Arthur loudly heckles the pitcher as the crowd jeers along with him.
What a brute, Eames thinks, his chest doing something funny, heart galloping underneath it. It occurs to him at that moment, how very much he missed Arthur; it makes his whole body feel fuzzy and his mouth dry. He wants to brush his cheek against Arthur’s scruff. He wants to lick the wiry veins on his surprisingly hairy forearms. He wants to taste the godawful beer on his breath. Worst of all, Eames very badly wants to steal this version of Arthur and never give him back.
He clears his throat to get Arthur’s attention.
“Mmm?” Arthur hums distractedly, raising the hot dog to his lips.
Delicately, Eames plucks the hot dog from his hand and sets it aside. Then, he fists a hand in his jersey and tugs Arthur in for a kiss.
The man oomphs against his mouth, stilling. After a moment, he melts into it, pressing his lips back, in a soft, dry kiss. It’s over quickly and Eames can’t help but tug him in for one more.
“Are we—are we on kiss-cam?” Arthur asks dazedly against his lips as the kiss ends, eyes opening with a flutter.
“No,” Eames releases him, leaning back. “I just really wanted to do that. I’m very attracted to you, Arthur.”
He looks down at himself, gesturing to his appearance. “But – I –”
“I’d also like to take you to dinner,” Eames continues quickly, afraid of Arthur rejecting him, offering what he hopes will seal the deal, “We can talk about fire preparedness.”
Arthur inhales sharply.
“Yes,” Eames nods, “and maybe I could kiss you again. Or you could kiss me, after."
“You could kiss me now.”
Heart expanding, Eames pulls him in and does just that.
“Huh,” Arthur leans back after, adjusting his cap so it’s facing backwards again. He turns his gaze back to the field, face suddenly breaking into a wide, boyish grin, cheeks dimpling with the ferocity of it. “Dinner. Alright.”
The Mets lose, 10-4, but Arthur doesn’t seem too disappointed. They head out of the stadium together, brushing shoulders as they make plans to meet tomorrow for dinner.
For a date.
Resting a hand on the small of his back Eames walks Arthur to his car in the parking lot. Despite his wealth, Arthur appears to drive an old, beat-up Challenger Ford that looks like it’s seen better days. Arthur offers to drive him to his hotel, but Eames declines.
“See you tomorrow,” Eames says, kicking aside an empty bag of take-out that fell out of the drivers-side door. “Seven o’clock.”
Smiling, Arthur presses a kiss to Eames’ cheek in farewell before entering his vehicle. It struggles to start. The exhaust pipe billows a plume of purple-grey smoke as it finally ignites.
Eames' heart swells, charmed.
I’m going to woo the shit out of this man, he thinks as Arthur drives off.
----
Now
----
“And they lived happily ever after,” Eames finishes, arms outstretched. “The end.”
Ariadne blinks herself out of her stupor. “That’s it?” she demands. “Where’s the rest of the story?”
“Yeah, Eames,” comes Arthur's amused voice from the front door. “Where’s the rest?”
They all turn in unison to watch as Arthur enters the apartment. Eames tips his head back against the sofa and holds out a hand, steadily beckoning him. To her surprise, Arthur rolls his eyes and walks over, unthreading his folded arms to lean against the sofa and joining their fingers together, a fond smile on his lips.
Eames audibly swallows. “Well, then they dated and fell in love. Moved in together and became disgustingly domestic.” Eames lifts their joined hands to his lips and places a tender kiss on Arthur's knuckles. "Two years later they tied the knot,” he finishes, voice more soft and mellow as she's ever heard it.
Yusuf looks between their joined hands, then back up to Arthur. “Eames is your missus?”
“Oh my god,” Ariadne whispers, looking between them, connecting the dots. This makes so much sense. “Oh my god. You can't leave it there, Eames. What happens on the first date?”
“A story for another time,” says Arthur, “I’m taking this idiot home.” He uses their joined hands to tug Eames into standing. “Come on, up you get.”
“Dearest, darlingest, Arthur,” Eames coos with the tenor of the truly drunk, leaning against Arthur for balance, clutching his arm. He turns back to the team and whispers loudly, “It's me. I’m his wife.”
“Husband,” Arthur corrects, winding an arm around his waist to support him, exasperatedly slapping Eames hand away when it sneaks down to pinch his bottom. He nods to the team as they head out. “Happy Birthday, Ariadne.”
“Well,” Ariadne downs the rest of her drink in shame as the pair leave. “I guess that means no one wins the bet. And now we owe Eames two thousand bucks.”
“Wait,” Cobb says, narrowing his eyes at them, “I thought Arthur was married to a woman.”
Ariadne ignores him.
“Their wedding must have been wacky as hell,” Yusuf muses, standing up and raising his arms high. “I wonder who proposed first.” He pauses mid-stretch.
The remaining three look at each other with thinly-veiled interest. Ariadne clears her throat, already taking out her wallet.
“Anyone interested in making another bet?”