Who: Eames and Arthur What: Reuniting and arguing (1/2) Where: France, the Inception door When: Recently Warnings/Rating: Arthur's bloodied feet?
Arthur came out of the side door of the warehouse fast. He didn't think Cobb would follow him; no, Cobb would regroup and rethink and then he would approach again from another angle Arthur couldn't refuse. Arthur hunched his shoulders against the deepening Paris night, appreciating that in the coming darkness nobody would remark upon his horrific sweater, the mess of his hair, his lack of shoes. His mind wandered as he moved blindly over the pavement, avoiding cobblestones and cigarette butts. Maybe Cobb would use something to do with Mal to draw him back in. The woman was as much a soft spot with Arthur as she was with Cobb, though in a very different way. Maybe he'd get Ariadne to interfere. Ariadne had a glow to her and an affinity for her craft, and that kind of thing could probably pull Arthur into a job, just to see her work and make sure she didn't get herself killed in the process.
All Arthur knew was that Eames' name wasn't going to work again like it had this time. The slim chance that Eames would magically reappear would no longer work as an enticement. Once had been naive enough. He could still smell the cordite on his sweater, and rather than being really angry at Basilio, Arthur now saw the hitman as one of Cobb's many tools. Dangerous, because he was a blunt instrument, but still, a tool. If Arthur wanted to try this new solo game without Cobb's cooperation, he was going to have to try to avoid stepping on Cobb's toes, and that would be hard. Cobb was the best, and everybody knew him. They knew Arthur, too. Damn.
Arthur turned a few corners and slowed his walk. His feet were all the more tender from being typically sheathed in designer leather, but so far only one or two people had looked down to notice the white shape of his toes in the growing dark and brightening firefly yellow of the Parisian lamplights. Arthur paused and oriented himself with little effort. The warehouse was near the Métro stop Passy, with the Pont de Bir-Hakeim--a bridge with a view that Mal had always liked--leading away from it. Le Tour de Eiffel was to his left, across the water, and he watched it twinkle for a brief pause, hands in his pockets, trying to think of nothing, focusing on the gleam. It didn't work. He could feel the heavy weight on his eyes and on the edges of his mouth, and his damn hair was probably so long he would look like Fitzgerald or one of his foolish American friends, come to Paris to hide in drink and overpriced cigarettes. His sweater was practically two seasons gone. It might as well be turn of the century. A metro rolled overhead toward the center of the city, crossing the the bridge and running mostly perpendicular to the banks of the Seine. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to deal with the stares of anyone on the Metro just then.
Eames had, as indicated, been heading to the warehouse. As fate would have it, however, he was rather not immediately present when Cobb dragged Arthur through. He was still walking, lost in curves and tight alleys, where the large space wasn't quite so terribly empty, and it was only the sound of Arthur's rushed departure that dragged him from his reverie as he approached the building that was his intended destination.
It had been a rather hard week for Eames. It wasn't that losing Evan was distressing to him, because it wasn't. He'd grown rather disgusted with the other man in recent months, and he'd no desire to help him in his battles, not any longer. It was telling when a career criminal found someone disgusting, but there it was. Eames had simply had enough, and he wasn't at all surprised to see Evan fall back into his ways. Perhaps they had all been wrong, trying to change the man. Perhaps changing someone without their consent was a useless endeavor. Evan had fallen right back into his previous bad behavior, hadn't he? And it was only damn bloody luck that no one had ended up dead. So, no, it wasn't particularly troubling to lose Evan.
It was particularly troubling to gain consciousness in another mind without any notion of how much time had passed, and Eames had harassed his new counterpart until a timeline could be established through a visit with Evan. It was during that time that he realized his new counterpart would not be as malleable as Evan had been. It didn't trouble him terribly. In the beginning, Eames had rather preferred to leave Evan alone, and he was willing to do that with Joseph. But that didn't change the fact that the man was a bloody copper, which he was very intentionally not letting the others know about. He'd make an exception for Arthur, and for Arthur alone.
But the sound of the door dragged Eames from all those thoughts, and he turned a corner just in time to see Arthur's departure. Cobb be damned, Eames broke into a run. Arthur was lighter than him, quicker, and Eames lost him twice before he found a steady pace at a safe distance. Arthur would realize he was being followed eventually, Eames knew.
It certainly took longer than it should have. Arthur had such intensive training in counter-intelligence and military tactics (training he had so that he could teach it to others in a dream state, the first phase of the PASIV project) that using it was automatic. He had to pay attention for it to kick in, though, and Arthur wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings just then. Eventually, however, he noticed a pattern. Patterns were the way to spot followers, and avoiding patterns was the way to avoid being spotted when you were following. When Arthur moved, he would spot motion moving in the same direction. Civilians looked for faces and felt eyes, but trained operatives looked for motion. Whoever was following him was good enough that the movement wasn’t immediate, and therefore wasn’t obvious. The pattern was a delayed parallel pattern on his path, even less easy to see, but it was there, and after he instinctively turned away from the bridge and moved away from the center of Paris, he noticed it in the dying crowds.
The list of people who might be following him was disconcertingly long. In the allies camp was Cobb, who was unlikely to go this far out of his way just to continue a conversation, Ariadne, who Arthur didn’t think had the skill, and the unknown temporary addition to the team. (Saito would just call him; Arthur and Saito got on well enough for that.) In the neutral camp was a round dozen or so governments that might want him to consult on something. The enemies camp housed a few corporations and powerful individuals that he and Cobb (mostly Cobb) had crossed over the years. Such people might just want revenge, maybe a bullet, maybe information. Nobody that Arthur knew as a friend was necessarily informed about his skills and illegal activities, and therefore didn’t have the impetus or skill to shadow him for very long.
Arthur sped up and took a few turns. He avoided a street named after Benjamin Franklin, choosing a slightly smaller one that headed deeper into the 16th Arrondissenment, steadily moving away from the Warehouse and his own apartment, which was in the opposite direction in the 4th Arrondissenment overlooking Notre Dame. He wasn’t going to get that far on foot, but Arthur was tougher than he looked, even without the pomade and the suits. He walked five blocks, crossed a thoroughfare, and went down an apparent dead-end before he turned into a silent, green little copse shielded by white walls where the residents of the nearby apartments stored their motorbikes. Behind him, the dark silhouette of the Passy Cemetery stood. Beyond the iron fence and a few yards through the crowded stones, Claude Debussy napped, hopefully to the strains of his gentle music. Arthur waited there for whoever was following to show up, patient, settling in a half-sitting, half-leaning pause against the leather seat of a parked Vespa.
Eames knew the moment Arthur realized he was being followed, and he would have called out then, had Arthur not seemed intent on continuing onward without stopping. He wondered, briefly, why Arthur wouldn't simply pull a gun and turn, but curiosity got the best of him, and he continued on at the same distance. It was until the Arthur crossed the thoroughfare that Eames realized the bloody man was wearing no shoes. It wasn't until later, around the corner to the apparent dead-end that Arthur realized Arthur's hair was quite the wreck. That was troubling enough to make him move faster, to begin closing the gap, and he wondered if he erred in trusting Cobb to bring Arthur back to the warehouse. Cobb wasn't always gentle when getting the job done, but he was fond of Arthur, and Eames hadn't worried; now he worried.
The choice of the cemetery only added to Eames' worry. Not that it was a terrible spot to confront someone - the dead, after all, told no tales. But it seemed a strangely romantic choice for Arthur, who liked straight lines and corners that he could cover with his firearm without needing to move in order to do so. In short, it was an impractical choice of location, the type of location he might choose, but not the type he expected from Arthur - even a shoeless Arthur. But Arthur didn't enter the cemetery, and Eames lost a second to confusion. At least in the bloody impractical cemetery there was ample cover, the mausoleums tight, crowded and tall.
The second Arthur's footfalls went quiet, Eames stopped. He listened, trying to settle on a direction, now that his originally intended location was proved incorrect. He almost cursed under his breath, but that would hardly help. He listened to the Parisian night and, in the end, moved forward. Arthur wouldn't shoot him; he was counting on that. He looked left, right, and he noticed the form against the Vespa only moments before he stepped in front of it.
Eames was dressed in grey slacks and a white shirt with blue flowers on the collar, and he looked unruffled, even after the blocks of pursuit. He stopped slowly, hands in the pockets of his trousers, and he looked at Arthur. He was in the middle of the road, was Eames, a generous distance away from the man leaning against the Vespa, and he didn't speak immediately. "Hello, darling," he finally said, hoping against hope Arthur didn't associate him with some Mal-like vision of non-reality.
Arthur stared. He took in the familiar, stocky form, the embroidered shirt. There was real surprise on his face, as he had simply dismissed the idea that the journal and Cobb’s assurances where anything but temptations. It would have been easy for Basilio to switch the journals, and Arthur had not taken the time out of his own emotions--quick rushing things that were all pressure on the inside if his head and at the back of his skull--to really evaluate it. In his right hand Arthur held a Ruger 0.40 black pistol, which he’d purchased with Cory’s name in Vegas. He held it respectfully, with his finger off the trigger and the deadly end down, but there was a loose comfort in the set of his elbow that implied a full willingness to use it. Arthur only looked like that in dreams; or perhaps he should only carry a gun in dreams. For a few moments he said nothing, just stood and adjusted to the situation.
For once, Eames had Arthur made in the wardrobe department. The last time he’d been through the door it had been two AM and he’d been making plans in his apartment, so the soft loose sweater revealed a long line of neck and stood askew where it bunched against one shoulder and relaxed over the other. The night leeched the color from it, hints of midnight blue gone gray from the many washings since the runway made Arthur look like a corpse standing up. The walk had turned his feet filthy with dirt and blood, but the pants were not his usual trim cut, and hid most of the damage.
“You,” Arthur said, finally. He was hesitant to even speak to the apparition. Perhaps it would shout accusations at him or insist death was easy. Those were things Mal did. Arthur had chased himself onto strange ground, and it felt like a dream even more than it ever had before. He stepped away from the tires and leather seat to face Eames, moving without limping. “He said you were here, but I didn’t believe him.” Unrestrained, long lengths of his hair settled on the crown of his skull and fell in all directions behind his ears. Had his eyes not been so serious, he could have been mistaken for something harmless. His fingers flexed on the gun, keeping it in place, like a baseball player with a bat. “Was it just you I was running from?”
Eames glanced at the gun once, and only once. He let Arthur see the drop of his gaze, and he didn't bother making any attempts to hide it from the other man. He didn't interrupt as he waited for Arthur to speak. He merely waited, rather unwilling to end up with a bullet between the eyes. He was armed, of course, but the gun was at his back, and he made no attempt to reach for it. This wasn't, after all, a dream, and no one would be waking up from it if it went terribly.
"Cobb?" Eames asked, clarifying who had said he was there. "I can't control my new person in Las Vegas, but Cobb can control his, and it seemed the best way to bring you back through, since we couldn't reach you any other way," he explained, looking Arthur over slowly and carefully as he spoke, because he knew it had to be intentional on Arthur's part, avoiding them all. He kept looking - looking for injuries, but he was also looking at the general picture the man in front of him presented. He hadn't been gone that bloody long; surely there was no reason for this. "You do realize you're not wearing shoes, Arthur?" he asked, turning the tables on practicality, then taking a step forward. "Of course it was me. You would have shot otherwise. Put away the gun, darling." He took another step forward.
Arthur thought about that. Real Eames would speak about the same way as a dream Eames, especially now that they’d actually had sex. Six months ago all Arthur had to do was assume any Eames that wasn’t real would serve up some definite wish fulfillment. Of course there was always the possibility that he had. Arthur blinked twice, and on the second blink he left his eyes closed for an extra couple seconds. He regarded the inside of his eyes, felt the twinge of his feet against the uneven ground, smelled the ivy growing on the rusting iron behind him. Arthur got his eyes open again. It took effort. He nodded once to agree that yes, he had meant Cobb. He smiled faintly and shifted, lifting up the sweater and tucking the gun away in the small of his back. Having it there was stupid, but he engaged the safety and that was about the best you could do without a holster. “Cobb can’t control his.”
Arthur knew that his clothes were a mess and he hadn’t had time to put his hair together, but he was almost sure he’d been eating. Most certainly Cory hadn’t lost any weight. The both of them had just spent a lot of time with the PASIV. Arthur’s dark eyes fell to regard his feet. “Last time I was through the door it was the middle of the night.” He lifted his left hand in a general motion that was going to touch his hair, but he aborted at the last second, and it fell like a dead weight against his leg, fingers numb. He could feel the six-sided die in his pocket, pressing against the flesh of his thigh. He didn’t reach for it. His eyes flickered again, another long blink. He didn’t move.
The statement that Cobb could not control his murderous bastard in Las Vegas made Eames' eyes narrow. That was just like Cobb, the selfish prick, not to pass along that crucial bit of information. "He told me he could," he said, wanting Arthur to at least know that he wouldn't have sent a bloody hitman after him if Cobb hadn't assured him of control. He took another step forward, which put him just shy of the pavement and Arthur. "We'll have a chat when next I see him," he assured Arthur, because nothing made Eames crankier than when Cobb lied through his bloody teeth. Eames liked making decisions with all the details, even if they were poorly thought out, impulsive decisions.
"Last time you were through the door?" Eames asked, taking that last step. He didn't touch Arthur, but he was close enough that the heat off his substantial frame was a tangible thing in the Parisian air. "When was that, darling?" he asked, concerned. He wasn't a man that was often concerned, and he certainly wasn't often concerned about Arthur. Arthur, Eames had always thought, was perfectly capable of taking care of himself - and nearly everybody else to boot. "Cory's been fine," he added, an indication that he'd seen the boy, in some capacity at least. It was why Eames hadn't been terribly worried, you see, the fact that Cory seemed well enough to eat horrifically fried food with a stranger.
Arthur simply assumed that Basilio would not have done the things he had done unless he was free to act on his own. Basilio had said Cobb was worried, and that was why he was there, but that didn’t mean that Cobb could control the man. Arthur gave a sudden smile, this one bitterly amused. It wasn’t that Cobb didn’t shoot him all the time, it was just that the idea he would shoot at his feet to get him to cooperate was ridiculous. Cobb had better ways of working than that. Arthur’s eyes returned to Eames’ form as it got bigger and more substantial in the evening air pressed between the white buildings on either side. This close to all that empty space and dead stone of the cemetery beyond the fence, there was a mild breeze and a green smell in the air rather than the humid, choppy smell of the Seine and the arid rush of traffic.
Arthur tensed, but stood still, taking in a quick breath through his nose and holding it, as if waiting for a bomb to go off. He wanted to see if this Eames would kill him, as he assumed that was what a dream Eames would do, just to wake him up, and all. Arthur was willing to wait for that to happen, but when the gun did not make an appearance, he had to reevaluate. He tipped his head a fraction of an inch at the question about his door, but instead of answering it he seized on the topic of Cory. Arthur’s eyes widened slightly, glassy walls of doubt and curiosity. “What makes you say that?” Quite deliberately, Arthur put one palm out in a move fast enough to steal the wings off a fly, and pressed his fingers against the front of Eames’ shirt. It could have been a strike, but it wasn’t, it was just a touch. His nose twitched. He couldn’t tell if the gunsmoke was him, or Eames.
The amused smile, sudden as it was, was disconcerting. It made Eames realize there was more to worry about than he'd thought there was, and he didn't like that realization at all. Arthur tensing stole the thought away, and Eames began to feel like he was on a job, reading body language in order to forge his way into information. But this time the stakes were higher than any bloody job Cobb netted them, and he merely watched as Arthur took the quick breath in. Eames didn't move, didn't reach for the gun, didn't do anything but stand there, as if they had all the time in the world to stand on the pavement with Arthur in his bare feet.
"My new bloke saw him," Eames said of Cory. "I'd rather the others not know," he said of the team. It could be problematic, and he was certain Arthur would realize that once he realized who the person in question was. He left the statement at that, watching Arthur's face to see if his perpetually logical nature kicked in, if it filled in the blanks. Eames was quite hoping that would be the case, because Arthur - the Arthur he knew - needed that bloody logic to exist.
Eames watched the deliberate movement of Arthur's hand to his shirt. The movement, fast as it was, made Eames grin one of his trademark, cocksure grins. "Have you convinced yourself yet, darling?" he asked, his voice turning fond on the mossy night air. He reached out a hand, fingers curled, long and capable, and he tipped Arthur's chin by pressing up and underneath it.
Arthur was made for such puzzles, mazes that needed to connect knowledge to its owners, both original and secondary. He traced back the number of people that had seen Cory well enough to gauge his state, and there weren’t really that many candidates. Arthur could see Joseph’s face clearly across the table as he informed Cory what Evan had said, and he remembered too that Joseph had known to whom he was speaking at every point in that conversation. Arthur remembered the moment he realized that Eames was gone out of existence like a light bulb snapping into death, and he realized that Joseph had just sit there and let him think it. Cory, a dense weight at the back of Arthur’s mind, said something unpleasant, but Arthur barely heard it. His thoughtful expression split open like flesh under a sharp knife, and hurt flickered over his eyes and nestled somewhere in the darkness in the center of his pupils. Lashes scraping fast over his cheek, Arthur took a hard breath and pushed past it. That bastard. Arthur tried to decide whether he was angry at Joseph for not correcting his misinterpretation, or if he just resented the lack of information because there was a good possibility it was all just a dream.
Arthur’s throat lengthened under Eames’ fingertips as his chin came up, but instead of arching back, Arthur pressed forward abruptly, battered toes tightening together against the pavement as he pushed his weight against Eames’ hand and then his chest, a movement that would have easily choked him if he hadn’t thought to slide his chin a bare inch to one side. Arthur shut his eyes again, and his voice was small. “I wish I knew if you were real.” Maybe this place wasn’t real, and he was still navigating somewhere in Cory’s mind, or he was six months ago in someone’s basement sleeping out a lie. But if Eames was really there with him, then at least there would have been that, some kind of solid reassurance, and not just a projection. But without a trust in that damn die, Arthur couldn’t know for sure. His failsafe was gone, first when he realized he did not always have his die, and again when Eames vanished from Evan’s mind, where he should have been firmly anchored. Logic didn’t work here, and without some kind of surety to ground him, Arthur was convinced Eames could vanish with the damn sunshine at any second.
Eames watched Arthur's dark eyes as he worked through the puzzle, and that made him feel slightly better, though the effect did not last. He watched those intelligent eyes settle on a conclusion, and then he watch them shutter once more, only to be overtaken by hurt and pain. Arthur's throat worked beneath his wrist, and Eames would have spoken then, if only to fill the seemingly endless silence. But then Arthur pressed forward abruptly, and Eames was left with no choice but to dig in his heels to keep them from moving off the pavement and onto the road. Arthur, slight though he was, was all muscle beneath the rumpled clothing, and Eames had to contain his very visceral desire to find skin beneath fabric.
Eames slid his hand from beneath Arthur's chin, back alongside Arthur's neck, and then tangling in those wild curls to cup the back of the other man's head. He took the weight against the broad expanse of his chest without protest, and he almost spoke over Arthur the moment Arthur's lids shut again. "I am real, darling," he assured the other man, though there was a fair dose of desperation in his rough voice. They'd been through this. Arthur had been mostly convinced. What the bloody hell happened in the meantime? On the heels of that thought, his hands both moved, both cupped Arthur's cheeks, forcing Arthur's head up. "Look at me, Arthur," he insisted, and his fingers were undeniably real, brought with them a pressure that was intentionally bruising.
Mostly convinced had been good for Arthur. The memories had been so unique and detailed that he had allowed the certainty of everyone around him to support his hope that it was real. The situation, sharing a door and Cory's existence, was just hellish enough for Arthur to believe it was real life. Even his relationship with Eames, an insane, unexpected roller coaster, even that was difficult enough that Arthur found it less likely that he was living a dream. But Eames' sudden disappearance, Cory's plunging loss after Evan had crashed through his life once more, it had taken Arthur's supports away. The doubts were back, and the tiny sliver of uncertainty dug into his brain and stayed there, spreading infection and solitary fears.
Arthur didn't resist the movement, or the hands cradling his skull. Tears threatened the base of each dark lash under the line of his lids, blossoming crystals in Arthur's vision and making him feel young and stupid again. His fears that Eames would simply vanish outweighed the fear that the man would decide he was not interesting enough to stay, and there was no job to pretend for, not after storming out on Cobb. "Real enough?" he asked, choking a little on the words. Christ, he was going to cry. He never cried.
Eames stared for a few seconds after Arthur choked on those words. His gaze was steady, direct and unwavering, and his fingers pressed just behind Arthur's ears, his thumbs exerting the same pressure against Arthur's cheeks. "Entirely real, darling," he assured the other man, his olive gaze intense. There needed to be a resolution to this, he knew, or Arthur would drive himself bloody mad with it. Something like determination flickered in his gaze, and he stepped back, his calloused fingertips chasing a path along Arthur's jaw.
The movement precipitated Eames pulling the gun from the small of his back. It was his preferred firearm, an old 1935A polished to perfection and smelling of gun oil. It glinted beneath the streetlights, and he held it up, muzzle pointing into the Parisian sky. "If this was a dream, Arthur, and I killed myself, I would wake up. I'm not willing to die, darling," he added with a grin that didn't reach his eyes sufficiently to make them crinkle around the edges. "But an injury wouldn't persist after waking, would it? It certainly wouldn't carry over to Las Vegas, if you're thinking that's a separate dream?" he asked, because he'd no idea how Arthur rationalized it all in his head. He knew one thing; this madness was ending here, and it was ending now.
Embarrassed, Arthur’s lashes fluttered as he made an obvious attempt to get a hold on his emotions and work the constriction out of his throat. His neck became more tense, strong cords of wire under flesh, and then eased as he forcibly pushed them into relaxation. Arthur was like that. Nothing could be spontaneous, it all had to be something he could force into the shape he needed, even if it was something so small as an emotion. Arthur lifted his head and rocked back on his heels as Eames let him go. He lifted a hand to his arm, where he’d fallen when Basilio dropped him--in Cory’s body. “Injuries stay. It’s all one...” he trailed off. His eyes flicked from Eames’ face to the gun and back. He frowned. He’d seen Eames pull a gun in that way before, in the dream on the beach. Arthur knew what happened after that, even if he hadn’t in that dream. Eames left, and he left with a bullet. “No.” The black eyes went twice their normal size and Arthur made an abortive movement to grab at the gun with absolutely no skill whatsoever.
Eames' gaze dropped to the hand Arthur pressed to his own arm, not quite understanding the significance yet, even with the statement that injuries remained. He did understand, almost immediately, that if Arthur believed injuries carried as part of the dream state, then it was going to be bloody impossible to convince him of anything. It made him so utterly despairing that he didn't see the abortive movement for the gun until Arthur had already reached out, and his questioning gaze as he lifted the gun out of Arthur's reach had everything to do with the lack of skill Arthur displayed, rather than the attempt itself. Arthur was one of the most graceful bloody fighters Eames had ever met, and the choppy move left Eames feeling even more concerned than he had previously. "I'm not going to kill myself, Arthur. I rather like being alive, and I thought I was done for a time there," he admitted, something in his voice that conveyed true fear, which didn't happen often with Eames. The experience, switching from Evan to Joseph, had thrown him in a way he didn't care for. He grabbed for Arthur's arm while he spoke, for the hand reaching for the gun.
Eames’ fear was reflected in Arthur’s eyes, in the very visceral flare of his nostrils and the flicker of his lashes. His mouth tightened, and when the breeze went through the cemetery it crept chills down his back and through his hair. “Listen. Mal is here, and now you’re here, and I’m just not sure. But I’m not going to risk leaving. We’ll stay and... and try to wait it out. Make the best of it.” Arthur’s eyes grew hard. “But if you disappear again...” Sufficiently reassured that the appearance of Eames’ gun didn’t mean what he had thought, Arthur let the man reach for his arm, and he didn’t think twice about it until the growing bruise there made itself known. Arthur flinched slightly but recovered fast; it was just a bruise, and not a deep one. He touched his tongue to his lips and then forced his shoulders down from where they had tensed on him once again.
Arthur's words were far from reassuring, and the hairs on the back of Eames' neck stood on end as he imagined a lifetime of Arthur believing life was a dream. He hadn't been around for most of Cobb's madness with Mal, and that had been entirely intentional. "It's life, Arthur," he argued, "I don't want to only make the best of it," he argued, and he wondered if he should have a discussion with Cobb about how to best handle this. But the very thought brought a mirthless laugh rumbling in his chest, because Cobb had done such a bloody good job with that, hadn't he?
Eames waited for a continuation of the sentence - if he disappeared again what? But then Arthur was flinching, and Eames released his grip entirely. The gun disappeared so quickly that it might never have been out at all, tucked back into the back of Eames' trousers, and he kept his hands off Arthur as he tried to find the injury through the rumpled clothing. "What happened?" he asked, looking up in time to see Arthur touch tongue to lips.
Arthur brushed at Eames’ hands as they pulled on the old sweater, which was stretched in some places and bore the signs of more wear than the rest of Arthur’s clothing put together. There were some things that were only meant for comfort, meant for home, and he was embarrassed to be seen in this state as much as he was at getting caught down some Parisian lane because he hadn’t been paying proper attention to his surroundings. Arthur made a faint sound of dislike against the roof of his mouth as Eames pulled on the neck of his sweater and exposed his shoulder. He glanced down at it. Just a bruise, as he’d suspected, still forming. Arthur frowned at it. “Cobb’s alter came to Cory’s to get me, but he had to wake me up. That’s the kick.” The frown turned into a scowl. He and Basilio hadn’t exactly gotten along, and Arthur sniffed at his sweater to see if it still smelled like Basilio’s gunshot before looking down at his slacks to see if the ricochet had sent up any bits of concrete from the side of Cory’s house. He felt alright. Arthur took in a deep breath and let it go. “I want a glass of wine. Did you bring a car?” Or they could hail a taxi. Whatever.
Eames didn't like the bruise, and he didn't like the explanation that came with it, but he said nothing about either; that was a conversation for Cobb. "I followed you on foot, and we can't go anywhere while you're barefoot, darling," Eames said, disbelief at his own words in the tone of the statement. It didn't go without notice, either, that Arthur had asked him nothing, that he'd barely shown any true concern for the logical progression of the thing that had occurred. Eames was starting to feel sure he was the one who needed the drink, though he didn't say as much. He stepped, back, and waited for a taxi to come close enough for him to wave down. There was, he knew, wine at Arthur's flat; they could go there, and maybe Arthur would settle somewhat in his own space, with shoes and more annoyingly perfect clothing.
It was a good notion, and one Arthur understood about himself. Everyone that understood extraction did too; everyone reacted better in an environment in which they felt was safe and familiar. Paris helped that, and so did Eames. Arthur pulled up the neck of his sweater and smoothed it in a fruitless attempt to keep himself in shape as the taxi stopped on the main thoroughfare. He let go of the back of Eames’ shirt at his hip where his fingers had curled and stepped off the side of the road to pull the back open. The back of the cab was cleaner than New York but not as clean as London, and Arthur slid inside first. He gave his address in good French and watched Eames through the frame of the window before he got in. “Tell me about Joseph.”
Eames felt the loss of the touch keenly, despite not really registering it initially. He watched Arthur's process of smoothing and straightening with something like relief, because any movements like that meant good things when it came to Arthur. He waited for Arthur to get into the backseat before he spoke, waited until he settled his own large frame beside him, waited for the taxi to move. "I like him," he admitted of Joseph, a hand straying to rest on Arthur's knee possessively, then sliding up to the other man's thigh with a careful, intentional pressure that was more restraint than Eames ever showed when it came to his sexual partners. "He's rather going to be a problem, though," he admitted, his gaze finding Arthur's dark one in the recesses of the taxi. "What were you doing in Las Vegas, Arthur?" he asked casually, a momentary glance at the driver, then back again to the man at his side.
Arthur looked into the rearview of the taxi driver too, more reflexive than suspicious. Like most Parisian taxi drivers this close to the Tower, Arthur figured this man probably knew a decent amount of English, but would refuse to admit it unless induced by profit or curiosity. Arthur just needed to talk around the particulars, especially since this driver seemed honest enough to take them on a shorter route despite Arthur’s American accent. Arthur therefore turned his attention away and rather blatantly leaned into Eames’ side with his elbow against the inside of Eames’ arm. Of Joseph, Arthur said, “Your recommendation isn’t reassuring.” Arthur hadn’t disliked Joseph, in the end, but he was pissed at him, and would probably stay that way for a while yet. He was a good influence on Cory, though, and God knew that such a thing wasn’t easy to find. “I’ve been looking for the link between me and Cory. I’m sure there is one, I’m just not sure what it looks like or how deep I need to go to find it.” Arthur touched cool fingertips to the grooves in Eames’ knuckles, and then looked out the window at the glittering Seine as they passed it.
The weight of Arthur's body against Eames' side was reassuring, and the apparent dislike of Joseph was equally reassuring. The remainder of what Arthur said, however, was not. "A link?" Eames asked, keeping his voice neutral, intentionally quiet. "Darling, how deep have you been going?" Eames asked, and he almost asked what Arthur intended to do once he found his bloody link, but he managed to keep from voicing the question. He knew he wouldn't like the response, whatever it was, and he knew himself well enough to know he was going to start bellowing shortly. Eames could be rather short on patience at times, and he was having enough trouble dealing with the unexpected changes; he wasn't expecting any of this. Though, in retrospect, he should have known precisely how things were going to go, given Arthur's reluctance to believe this was the waking world.
“There has to be a link,” Arthur said, defensively. “Something that’s unique to the two of us that makes what happens when we go through the door happen. If I’m in him and he’s in me, there has to be a reason.” It was obvious that Arthur hadn’t talked to anyone about this, he’d sat there and tried to find a logical reason this was happening, and this was the theory he’d come up with. “I’ve only gone down two or three levels. I don’t have a formula stable enough, and even Cory’s mind can get dangerous at a certain point.” Arthur propped an elbow just inside the window on his side of the cab so he could spread his fingers through his hair anxiously, but with a certain amount of fatigue. Something occurred to him, and he frowned. “I wonder if Basilio did anything else to try to wake me up before he dropped me.” Arthur wasn’t sure how difficult it was to wake ahead of the timer.
Eames had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from responding to Arthur's defensive comment, but the taxi driver was already paying too much bloody attention, and Eames wasn't the most trusting of men. He glanced over when Arthur mused about Basilio dropping him, and he wondered how literal that statement was, but he said nothing then, either. He waited until the taxi stopped, and he shoved out of the thing without even waiting for the brakes to be engaged.
Outside the taxi, Eames rubbed his hands over his face, and he walked ahead of Arthur into the building and up toward the flat. If he stopped, he would whirl around and tell Arthur precisely what he thought of this bloody plan to go far enough in Cory's psyche to do whatever Arthur intended to do.
Arthur was aware that he’d said something to make Eames angry, but he wasn’t willing to let it take the man that far from him. Arthur glanced at Eames’ departing back and then back at the man waiting for payment, frowning. He checked his pockets, but he didn’t exactly wear his house keys and his wallets to bed, so he sighed and asked the man to wait while he went and got the cash. The cabbie was not happy. Threats were delivered, which just made Arthur put on a bored expression and touch the small of his back under his sweater. He told the cabbie he’d be back and walked away halfway through the tirade. Who knows what the man thought of his bloody feet.
Arthur decided not to push Eames until they were in front of the door to his flat, which was, of course, locked, with the security engaged. Arthur leaned on it, and then sighed. “Can you pick this lock?” It was an expensive lock for paranoid little Arthur to have his privacy. Arthur’s ex-lover who lived in the same building had a key, but Arthur wasn’t going to say that just now.
Eames glanced at Arthur, and he considered suggesting they leave and return through his door, to Mombasa, but he decided against it. He was too wound, too likely to snap if he opened his mouth, and he pulled out a key ring laced with tools for opening things that shouldn't be opened. A bit of work, a bit of shoulder, and the ridiculously expensive lock gave way, and Eames pushed the door open for Arthur to enter first, and to disengage any security that required disengaging.
Eames didn't stay in the hallway, however. He pushed past Arthur, and he made a beeline for the bathroom, because he'd noticed Arthur's feet on the landing. In the narrow hall, the smell of copper had finally reached his nose, and he cursed as he tossed his gun on Arthur's bed and went to run water. He didn't tell Arthur he expected him to follow, but he did, which was rather evident given the open door and the steam making its way into the body of the flat. As far as Eames was concerned, the bloody taxi driver could come collect the fare himself, if he was so terribly keen on having it.
Arthur watched the opening of the door. He swore in French because he thought it would sound as if he cared a little less that Eames could pretty much come through Arthur’s locked door as if it was a curtain. All the same, he was a little impressed, and he tried not to think about Eames coming through Arthur’s locked door whenever he wanted to. A little more slowly after Eames pushed past, Arthur limped into the bedroom after him and watched the angry assault on the bathroom door, uncertain if Eames was angry about the lock, about the cab, about Cory or about Cobb. After a second, as the water started running, Arthur went to the dresser and sorted through some loose change and found his wallet, which he’d left there when he was last here. He picked up the expensive fold of soft Italian leather and limped a trail back into his living room. (A morose look at his floor. Damn.) “I’ll be right back,” he said to the door, hesitating because he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if Eames wasn’t still here when he returned. Arthur wondered if maybe he could just throw money down on the roof of the cab to make him go away. He seriously considered it, looking at the sitting room window.
"Let him come up if he wants it," Eames finally called from the bathroom, not hearing the front door open or close in a way that indicated Arthur had gone to pay the taxi. He sounded tense, but not angry, a result of the soothing water rush, and the fact that they were in a safe, familiar place. "Get your arse in here," he added. "I'll pay the bloody fare if he knocks."
Arthur hesitated. He looked at the door. He didn’t want to be known as someone who didn’t pay a taxi fare, but he was tired and his feet and shoulder hurt. He also didn’t want Eames to vanish the second he turned his back. Arthur sighed, and then, turning, returned to the bedroom. He rounded the corner and returned to the bathroom to see what Eames was doing there, the wallet loose in his hand. “The drivers gossip to each other,” Arthur said, just to say something, eyelids lowering warily at the situation, wondering about the mood swing.
"We'll tip well enough once he comes up that it won't bloody matter, now roll your trousers up and sit at the edge of the tub," Eames ordered, and there was little more than annoyed command in his voice just then. He realized it, and he dragged his hand through his hair in frustration with himself. It wouldn't bloody help, letting his emotions get the better of him just then, and well he knew it. But Eames was rather shit at controlling his feelings about things, and they showed in every pore of his being. Thankfully, someone knocked on the door just then, and he edged past Arthur to go pay the bloody fare.
Arthur wasn't feeling as argumentative as usual, and in fact he looked somewhat cowed after the chase through the city and his fight with Cobb. At least he didn't feel as alone as he had before, and his relief at Eames' physical presence was almost tangible. His fingers drifted over Eames' arm in the close quarters. Arthur moved out of the way as Eames left the room, and he obediently sat as directed, listening to the conversation in the living room. He tossed his wallet in the counter, and set the gun next to it a moment later. "I should start sleeping in my shoes."
Eames tipped the taxi driver generously, just to ease Arthur's conscience, and he returned to the bathroom just as Arthur was tossing his wallet on the counter. "Maybe you should try less sleeping, Arthur," he suggested. Eames, like everyone in their business, had spent a fair amount of his spare time connected to a PASIV, especially in the early days, when everything was a novelty. Forgers, like him, spent more time there than most, their ability to change who they were both gratifying and profitable. But Eames had seen rooms full of men and women who lived in their dreams, and he was always rather wary of falling into such a trap. His expression, therefore, when he walked into the bathroom the remainder of the way, was concerned. He sat on the far edge of the tub, and he gave Arthur a long, thoughtful look. "We'll need to find a way to get you out of this mindset, darling. I won't have you turning into Mal."
Already deep in steam, Arthur had rolled up his pants so they were just short of his calves, the lines of muscle defined under pale skin. Arthur’s skin was always pale and contained, and his movements always hinted at something like yoga rather than anything that would really build him up, like swimming or bicycling. Balancing on the lip of the tub, which curved elegantly into a deep saucer, Arthur put his feet in the hot water, which immediately turned gray. He dropped his eyes, watching the grit drift away and tensing his fingers on the porcelain on either side of his hips. He avoided Eames’ gaze, but he showed his teeth in a brief explosion of frustrated anger. “For the fiftieth time, I’m not Mal. I wouldn’t ever leave like that.” The water splashed at one end as Arthur gave a sharp kick, trying to get the water through his toes. There must have been at least one cut in his arch, because it stung at the motion. “I was trying to find out where you’d gone and why. It’s not that crazy.” His hair fell forward over his temple to hide his eyes.
"No?" Eames asked when Arthur assured that he would never leave like Mal did. "You'll spend the rest of your life obsessively trying to prove it then?" he asked, his own frustration seeping through. "Cory is a damaged young man, darling. He's a thirty-year old who acts like a sixteen-year old. You'll not find anything there that ties him to you. It's bloody dumb luck, don't you see? They're expendable; we aren't. We're bloody movies, or books, or stories. Whatever they say we are. We're not going anywhere, and it's better to simply accept it." He reached into the tub, and he slapped the water with his fingers in annoyance before pulling the drain, and then running fresh, warm water in the place of the murky, grey water. "Right now, I'm more concerned with your sanity than anything else. Second to that is keeping Cobb from killing Joseph, which he's already indicated we should do if he's not convenient." He shook his head. "I need you here, darling, not over there trying to find a missing link that won't change a bloody thing."
Arthur lifted his feet as the water started to drain away, and he gingerly set his right foot on his left knee to examine it. There were cuts, but they were small, just product of running over six blocks of city pavement. That had to be one of his stupider stunts. Arthur tossed his hair out of his eyes and let his feet settle again on the floor of the tub, wincing as the new water washed over his toes. “I’m perfectly sane. I’m more sane than the rest of you, in my opinion, but I’m not so sane I’m going to do anything permanent. I’m not hurting Cory trying to figure out the nature of our connection.” Arthur’s distinctly guilty expression belied that particular statement, and he leaned over to put his hands in the water and rub the rust of the dirt off his heel. “Cobb wouldn’t kill Joseph. What if this time, it’s permanent?” And then, perhaps tellingly, he added, “Besides, Joseph is harmless. It’s not like he can lock himself up.” Arthur sat up and looked into Eames’ eyes. “He’s not watching, is he?”
Eames watched Arthur wiggle his toes for a few minutes longer than was absolutely necessary to ascertain they all still worked. He didn't need to see Arthur's expression to hear that lie in his voice, the one about not hurting Cory, and he sat back against the tile wall and wished for a cigar. "It's a waste of time, Arthur, figuring out the nature of the connection. Sometimes you just have to bloody accept things that aren't logical," he explained, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Cobb thinks it won't be, and he wasn't fond of the idea of Joseph being a cop. I convinced him it wasn't Joseph. I've not told anyone but you, and Joseph isn't inclined to tell anyone either." Which was obvious enough, as he hadn't even told Cory. "Basilio's a hitman for the mob, darling. Having a cop is rather a bad thing." He paused, and he reached out and dragged his fingers along Arthur's knee. "Changing people wasn't fun, Arthur. I'd rather not do it again," he said, tone confessional, gaze cast down at the white skin of Arthur's shin.
Arthur looked up at the tone, and when he realized Eames’ gaze wasn’t up and that his anger seemed to have been replaced with something quieter, something more vulnerable, Arthur’s own mouth flattened like steel. “Fuck Cobb. Nobody’s getting changed or replaced. Basilio is an asshole, and if he goes after Joseph I’ll put a bullet in him first.” It better be from behind, or something, since Basilio could probably take Arthur in Cory’s body unless Cory started getting out of bed more often immediately. Arthur refused to say this, however, and instead he pushed against the edge of the bathtub and slid along until his hip was against Eames’, and he could reach the man’s mouth with his upturned chin. Arthur couldn’t accept the illogical, but that wouldn’t prevent him from getting involved in every aspect of any growing conflict on Cory’s side of the door.
For whatever reason, Arthur's annoyance made Eames feel better. Maybe it was because he was accustomed to Arthur being annoyed, having been the target (and cause) of said annoyance for years. He grinned slightly. "I'd rather you not fuck Cobb, Arthur," he said and, by the time he lifted his gaze, Arthur was beside him, hip to hip. Eames raised a hand, cupped Arthur's cheek and then slid his long fingers back into that messy hair. "We're not going to tell Cobb or Basilio, darling," he informed Arthur, and it wasn't a question. He didn't want to go down the route they'd end up on if Basilio and Joseph encountered each other. "Joseph's one of those bloody good officers. He'd not be able to turn a blind eye to what Cobb does, not like Evan did." He pulled Arthur closer, those fingers tangling more deeply into the tangle of curls. "He's not watching," he answered belatedly, and his mouth was very close to Arthur's when he spoke again. "Why is Basilio an arse?"
The pressure of Eames’ fingers into his scalp felt alarmingly good, and it made the stress ease out of Arthur’s neck and even his shoulders. He flexed his ears and then his shoulder before reaching around to press his hand against Eames’ stomach on the opposite side, just far enough that his fingers curved against the edge of his body and he could pull him closer. The warm water continued to lap over Arthur’s feet, and he smelled the old building’s pipes in the faintly metallic steam of the tap water. His Prada cologne, sharp green vetiver, was sitting abandoned on the counter not far away, and the place smelled like comfort and home. Arthur relaxed a little more. “He broke into Cory’s house. Took the fucking PASIV at gunpoint. Shot at me so I’d give it up.” That last one pissed Arthur off, and his murmurs against the edge of Eames’ mouth, just where the stubble began, became slightly louder as Arthur’s eyes literally crossed in irritation. “No way that was Cobb.”
The closeness and Arthur's hand curling around his side made Eames momentarily forget the entire bloody conversation. Everything slipped away, and the only thing left behind was the desire to get Arthur out of his clothes and into the tub. Everything else simply ceased, if it was not need or desire. The mouth against his stubble spurned Eames into motion, and he reached for the ridiculously un-Arthur-like sweater the other man wore, and he pulled up at the hem. He'd only managed a few inches of progress when Arthur began speaking, and then his hands stilled entirely, and he sat back with an expression that was a combination of surprise and raw anger. "What?"