Valerie knows Arthur (takespoint) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-03-06 16:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | arthur, door: inception, eames |
Who: Eames & Arthur
What: An attempted extraction that makes Arthur very cranky.
Where: Inside the Inception Door; Eames' Level 4 Snow Facility, and also in a Parisian Warehouse
When: Say recently?
Warnings/Rating: Confusing world mechanics. PG13.
The dream was Eames’, and Eames knew it like the back of his hand.
Every bit of snow and white was Eames’ creation. Every secret way into the facility in the distance, every break between the trees that led down the side of the snow-packed mountain. It wasn’t a pleasant place. There was no shack for holidays down the mountain’s side. No fire with warmth in the facility below. It was a utilitarian place, a place born of necessity. When Eames dreamt his own dreams, they were very different. Eames’ dreams, when they were his alone, were wealthy places with soft beds and hot water in large tubs. But this place was not his alone. It was shared. Created the last time he’d come through the door, borrowed from Ariadne. It was, he thought, a better way to speak to Arthur.
It would be a lie to say Eames was not concerned about Arthur. The other man’s insistence that the world beyond the door was a dream was troublesome. Arthur worked with logic, rules and science, and he sought a reason for this situation that Eames did not believe existed. Here, in the dream space, Arthur understood the rules. Eames was counting on that to keep the other man calm enough to reason with. Arthur was always a bloody menace when he fixed on science like the world was a calculator with buttons he could press like the PASIV.
Eames had gone back to the place where the last job had begun, to the warehouse, and he’d set out the chemicals and hooked himself up. Arthur had agreed to come, and Eames knew he would come. If Arthur was anything at all, it was bloody predictable. He didn’t understand dreams, and Eames thought it was a shame, all that intelligence and no creativity, even if the man did look lovely in a good suit.
Arthur forced his feet out of the hard-packed snow on the side of the mountain and peered out through the glare before pulling his goggles down against the white and the chill wind. At least he was dressed to be here, snow blot camo and winter gear, and in the very far distance he could see electricity lines leading down the maintain to an unmistakably military facility. This was exactly the kind of place an architect would build so that a subconscious would have a secure place to hide their secrets, and Arthur made a mental note to try to avoid the building and signs of civilization. Few minds were as well-trained as Arthur’s, and his subconscious made any elite military force on earth look like the boy scouts.
“A snowstorm,” Arthur observed with his signature cynicism, even though there was no storm, and the chill white sun was visible in the empty sky. “That’s typical.” He turned to survey the treeline, looking for movement, a little on edge because... he was always on edge. He noticed that he was armed, which was, on the one hand, reassuring, but on the other, disturbing. The dream was constructed to arm him? Against what, himself? “...Oh.” This must be Ariadne’s work. That made sense. It explained a lot of things, like why he hadn’t ever actually been here, but it seemed familiar nonetheless.
There was movement in the facility in the distance. At first glance, it seemed to be patrols, but further attention would reveal it was a lone man, one that moved from one end of the long walkway surrounding the upper walkway of the facility to the other, before ducking inside. He was familiar, stocky in his white gear and snow cap, goggles perched atop his head. The man on the walkway perceived no immediate threat, that was certain, and his shoulders were relaxed as he disappeared inside the facility once more.
There was a feeling of destruction to the place. Singed spots in the concrete that served as the main support for the facility, a grate torn blown off its hinges, crushed tree branches in the distance, a clear path made by skis in the snow. Someone had been this way recently, recently enough that the snow had not yet erased signs of their existence.
There should have been patrols. There should have been all kinds of patrols. The place should have been crawling with every kind of patrol in existence. Arthur wouldn’t have been surprised if his subconscious manifested unmanned stealth drones to patrol his damn secrets. With good reason, too, because of all people, Eames was one of the last on earth Arthur wanted seeing his secrets. The irritating man would probably think the effort was hilarious. “EAMES,” Arthur shouted down the mountain side, trying to project his voice as if that alone would yank Eames back from his little pleasure jaunt into Arthur’s subconscious.
Nothing happened, of course, and Arthur started pushing forward toward the facility, moving at a diagonal from his last position in case the shouting attracted undue attention that was probably coming at a pace. Arthur thought he heard helicopters and snowmachines. If Eames was lucky, there wouldn’t be anything with nuclear devices. “Incredible,” Arthur said, talking to himself as he plowed along and, in about a minute and thirty seconds, took out a squad of four men that were his own heavily armed subconscious and took a snowmobile. “He couldn’t just have a normal conversation over tea or something...”
Despite not knowing the map of Ariadne’s maze, Arthur got to the foot of the facility in about ten minutes, give or take a minute because he ran into a second patrol. He followed the path of destruction and just barely prevented himself from screaming at the as-yet-invisible Eames. He was also starting to feel just a trace of panic, as he didn’t want Eames seeing whatever his mind put in the facility under all Ariadne’s security.
The facility itself was as familiar as the exterior to Eames. After all, he’d supplied all the details to create this level of a dream used once upon a time. He’d no real reason to think Arthur’s subconscious would devour him. In fact, if he’d stayed outside the main facility, as intended, it might have all gone as planned. But Eames was the kind of man who didn’t like lines he wasn’t meant to cross, and the moment Arthur entered the dream the kernel of an idea took root in his mind. The locked door inside would be easy enough to penetrate and, perhaps, he’d find out just how serious Arthur was about killing them both. That was a bit of a concern, really.
Time to get creative.
Eames didn’t hear the yelling, but he did hear the helicopters overhead. Really, Arthur? Helicopters? He ducked into one of the ducts he’d had Ariadne add for easy access to the center of the facility. It was all a gas, really. Hah hah, and that sort of thing. If he died, he’d prove his point just as easily as he would by talking to Arthur. And, who knows, perhaps he’d find out there was more than logic and infuriating condescension to the other man. If not, he’d annoy him, at the very least - and surely that would be sufficient proof that he was, in fact, himself.
Eames was whistling as he exited the air duct into the large room beyond the vault, and he’d a very large machine gun in his hands. Despite Arthur’s constant assertions, Eames was not entirely stupid.
Arthur himself didn’t know the facility at all, but it was the setting for the dream he had entered, and his mind populated it with his subconscious, and his subconscious had enough of extraction training to know what was going on without Arthur’s conscious input. The men (and women, interestingly, in almost equal proportion) protecting Arthur’s mind were anonymous in their snow masks except in the heart of the facility, which was kept at a manageable temperature. In here the men all wore anonymous striped gray Gucci over body armor, and they were armed with Glock 17 pistols (among other things) with which they did their absolute best to put holes in the intruder trying to access the vault, the thing designed to be the most difficult thing to access.
The resulting armed combat was like a small war contained in four walls, and the only reason Arthur even managed to access the interior of the facility was because he had hijacked one of the airborne recon divisions and dropped in from above. He should have taken the precaution of learning all of Ariadne’s mazes, she was naturally gifted at this, and here he was, trying to break past his own defenses to find some mad Brit who was probably trying to hack his secrets for a lark.
The vault door, monstrous thing that it was, was now the only thing protecting Arthur’s secrets--the most recent wave of guards dead and the rest coming on what sounded like transport jets and snow-track SUVs. Something like a missile whistled in the distance. Arthur got one foot stuck in the cable he used to scale down the first room and landed flat on his stomach on the concrete outside the window. “EAMES,” he shouted, unmistakably threatening, pounding on the window.
Eames was quite busy. He’d had to blow apart the duct which had led him into the room, ensuring no one followed in that manner. He’d emptied his impressive machine gun into the bodies of countless products of Arthur’s militarized subconscious. It was a lot of work, really, but he was willing to endure in order to see the displeased look on Arthur’s face when he arrived. Oh, he heard him this time. He suspected he’d fallen, thanks to the sound, but that was nothing, not in a dream.
If Cobb was there, Eames was sure he would have told him to leave well enough alone. But there was no Cobb, and Eames whistled as he started setting explosives on the vault door. A password would work, of course, but that was elegant, and Eames was more prone to breaking his way into places than finessing his way. Plus, he’d no idea what Arthur would even use for a password, and he suspected Arthur (once he managed to get off the concrete outside the window) would be unlikely to assist. If he managed this, he’d be able to hold it over the other man’s head whenever he looked down that sharp nose at him in future. He rather liked that idea.
Explosives set, Eames put the timer on and, yes, for a lark, started trying names, jobs, dates, anything he could think of on the keycode that was the truly intended entry point to the vault. He whistled - because it would be annoying if Arthur heard - and he tapped at the key with white-gloved fingers. He had sixty seconds to kill before seeking cover, after all.
Arthur smiled, thought not at all with anything positive in the movement, shaking his head when Eames ignored him. “Son of a bitch.” It was, at least, something, that he didn’t suspect Eames was here on some kind of job. There were quite a lot of people that would have liked Arthur’s head on a platter, and his secrets too. Arthur gave a last pound on the glass as Eames finished attaching his explosives, and it took the intervening thirty seconds before Arthur could figure out a way through the bulletproof, reinforced glass. He had to get creative about attaching the grenade to the surface, but he got there just as the first helicopter made a sweeping pass.
The window exploded inward, sending bits of glass everywhere, and Arthur slid sideways into the room after hurling himself a few crucial seconds after it. The dates were, it seemed, a wise idea. Several years ago, the date formatted in Gregorian Little Endian, with the year first, then month then year. Eames would know that date, because it was the first job that he and Arthur had worked together. The door made an ominous thunk as it opened, but by that time Arthur was up and hurling himself sideways into the other man.
The explosion, Eames thought, was rather overly dramatic; he liked that - it was very unArthur. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. He ducked instinctively, a habit, rather than any real attempt to avoid a shard of glass to the back of the head. Working in dreams made a person stupid about situations that could result in death, and Eames was no different than anyone else in that regard. When nothing from the explosion reached him, he kept entering numbers and letters. When the door swung open, he made a surprised little sound. Of course he knew the date. He was good with memories; it was a requirement to forge an identity, remembering small details others might forget. He turned his head as Arthur began to hurl himself at him, having caught the movement from the corner of his eye.
“Liked that job did you?” Eames asked, just as Arthur slammed into him and they both went rolling into the vault - quite intentional on Eames’ part, really, the direction of that fall.
The interior of the vault was black glass, more Ariadne than Arthur, but what it contained was uniquely him. It looked like a secretary’s back room, or perhaps a library archive made to hold things of odd shape and size. White file boxes secured with yellow evidence tape perched on rows of metal shelves lit up by incongruous black iron lamps in a distinctly modern style that hung from the ceiling in clusters. Shapes draped with sheets leaned against the shelves, frames the size of a man that hinted at dusty pictures, forgotten belongings in what looked like a green plush toy chest, closed laptops in models not sold for years still wrapped in plastic. On either side of the room warm oak desks with New York Public Library brass fixtures sat at an angle, waiting for study. The whole room shook with the assault of the army just outside the walls, but the room was not equipped for defense. There were no cameras, no weapons, not even a blade to open an envelope.
Recorded voices as yet impossible to make out whispered from the back of the vault as Arthur gained his balance more quickly than should have been possible considering the winter coat he was wearing. Arthur dug one foot in to propel him back forward and slammed one knee as hard as he could high against Eames ribs and he came up with one of the familiar black Glocks about two inches from the other man’s face. “Yes. I made a lot of money.” He should have just shot him right there. They’d both wake right up, blam, done. But he didn’t. Arthur was glaring at Eames with impotent rage, the kind that typically came with murder, and almost ignoring the bits of his life stored all around him. Two, three, four, five seconds later, and Arthur still hadn’t pulled the trigger.
Eames’ expression was placid waters. If he was at all concerned at all about the radiating pain in his ribs from Arthur’s knee, it didn’t show. If he was worried about the gun pointed at him, it didn’t show either. “Really, Arthur. Must your subconscious be so dull?” he asked, the question posed in his normally criticizing voice, the one that accompanied a quirk of eyebrow and a ghost of a smirk. A second later, he pushed the gun aside with two fingers and lumbered to his feet. He was a large man, muscle layering heavyset bones, and the white snow-gear only made the differences in their sizes more evident.
The voices (recordings, he thought) made Eames turn his head in their direction. Somehow, he’d never thought Arthur a man of secrets, but this vault indicated quite the opposite. “Cobb gave you his cut, if memory serves,” he said of the job that corresponded with the date on the keypad. He was distracted by his surroundings, though, and it was evident enough. There was no real danger here, and he knew Arthur would kill him (rather than torture him), so he took a step toward the back of the vault, hands casually sliding into his pockets as he moved. “Ariadne is too like you in her work.” He looked over his shoulder. “Such lack of imagination, darling.”
It nettled Arthur that Eames wasn’t at least a little concerned that he would shoot him, even to wake him up, and there’s nothing quite so insulting as having one’s gun nonchalantly pushed aside out of a potential victim’s face, is there? (Well, unless you count breaking into his subconscious for a field trip into his secrets.) It had been a while since Arthur had seen Eames in person, it felt like months, months after disappearing into America to check on his investments and then the months alone in Las Vegas with Cory. It always surprised Arthur how solid the man looked in person, as if time gave him an unreal quality that made absolutely no sense once he turned up again.
The voices got louder as Eames got closer. It wasn’t Arthur speaking at all, not in the faint crackle of memory from the back of the vault; in fact it was Eames. The recorded Eames actually said Arthur’s name, in that irritating, sing-song way he adopted when he was chastising him about something. Arthur’s eyes widened just slightly, and he didn’t bother to reply to Eames’ observation. He took something out of one pocket and dropped it on the black glass floor. The red die bounced once, turned on its edge, and seemed about to tip, but apparently Arthur had seen enough. He raised the gun, sighted on Eames, held it there for the count of one--and then dropped it as a spasm of frustration touched his features. Oh for God’s sake.
Arthur tipped his head sideways with a gesture of resignation and roll of his eyes. He wasn’t playing this game anymore. And he did not want Eames in his secrets or hearing things he shouldn’t be hearing. Arthur turned the gun up, and in one motion, held it to his head and pulled the damn trigger.
Eames wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t his own voice reflected back at him. He turned his head, mirrored that, “Arthur,” perfectly from the recording, and quirked that insufferably lazy brow once more. He watched the familiar red die fall on the floor and bounce, and he wondered (as he had in the past) why someone like Arthur chose a die over something practical, like a pen or a paperweight. He’d always meant to ask. His fingers, in the pocket of his trousers, rubbed against the red chip that he used to mark reality as itself, and he looked up as the gun raised. “Your secrets are that interesting, are they? I never would have guessed.”
Once the trigger was pulled, the items in the vault disappeared, leaving only Ariadne’s creation behind, sleek and without emotion or life. Eames paced the black floor, watched his reflection in it, but he did not wake yet. He was thinking. A kick would wake him, of course, and he expected it would come soon, if Arthur was annoyed enough. But he was wondering what was so important that Arthur would leave the safety of the dream (and the world he understood) to hide it away. Maybe the boring little pillock wasn’t as boring as he’d thought.
Arthur was very annoyed. He was beyond annoyed and into immature temper. As soon as he had his eyes open and his head right, he jerked upright and hauled himself up off the chair he’d set up within reach of the PASIV device that Eames was connected to by another IV tube not more than a yard off. Yanking the needle out and throwing it aside, Arthur stalked around the small table that held the open silver suitcase toward where the man was slumped in his own chair with an expression of thoughtful serenity on his face. When Eames did not immediately awake, Arthur picked up one foot (red-brown leather, thick sole, military look, good with the slim-cut dirtgray cuffed slacks--Marc Jacobs had outdone himself in his Fall ‘12 collection) and kicked Eames’ chair over sideways.
He was already shouting before Eames was entirely awake. “You had no right. NO RIGHT.” Arthur’s forehead was creased with anger and he kept on pointing at the ground like he still had a gun in his hand and he was afraid to bring it up for fear he might put a bullet through something. “What in the hell are you doing? Do you have something you want to know, Eames? You want to just ask me or do you have someone on the line that wants something I won’t be willing to tell?” It was still trailing winter in Paris at this time of year and the warehouse didn’t have heating. Arthur was still wearing the no-button topcoat and his breath was visible in the air in front of his face.
Eames did not like the floor. He made note of that before he paid attention to Arthur’s yelling. He pushed himself to sitting, righted the chair, and then stood with very little in the way of grace (he was too sturdy for that). His horrible brown shirt was open at the throat, hinting at hair and a gold chain, the trousers he wore were a lighter tan, and the brown shoes that were faux Italian and pointed at the ends. He had a five-o’clock shadow, and his hair was neat. His expression, once he found his center, was unimpressed, while managing to be entertained all at once. “Yes, Arthur,” he said in that condescending way, “I’m going to become wealthy selling whatever’s in the dull recess of your mind.” He didn’t actually believe there was much worth selling there, actually. Oh, Arthur was wonderful at what he did - meticulous, careful, dependable. He was also as boring as watching paint dry. But, rather...
“You were hiding something,” Eames added smugly. Oh, no. He certainly wasn’t going to let that go. Arthur had insulted his intelligence enough over the years that he relished a chance to have the upper hand. He pulled a toothpick out of a box in his pocket, and he tucked it into the corner of his mouth (habit). “Has Arthur been doing things he shouldn’t?” he teased, eyes going warm, joking, smile going dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with weapons.
“That is not the point!” Arthur snapped back, not amused at all. Eames could actually become wealthy selling many of the secrets in that vault. You didn’t become as good at extraction as Arthur was without experience, and Arthur had a lot of experience, and therefore a lot of secrets. He was more worried about his personal secrets, thought he would never admit it; secrets about himself and even one or two about Eames, not that those were important at all. Not at all.
Eames was clearly underestimating Arthur’s reaction to this. “Son of a bitch.” Arthur might not have had a gun out here but he was still just as angry as he had been in the dream. His glare moved from Eames eyes to his mouth, and he took his fist back and then launched it sideways into the other man’s face. He actually switched hands from his lead fist because he didn’t want to get a toothpick in the knuckle.
It was the hand switching that did it, really. See, Eames spent his days in hard places. Third-world countries, poker tables where everyone was a bloody sore loser. Sweaty places that knew nothing of air conditioning or dress codes. Places where the waitresses moved the chairs aside as soon as someone lost a hand, all in preparation of a bar fight. Eames had provoked enough of those bar fights with marked cards and chips that were misspelled, and he saw that swing coming from a mile off. He smiled, as if he was oblivious, and he didn’t snake out a hand to grab Arthur’s forearm until the very last moment. He grabbed the forearm, not the wrist, and it was an intentional show of easy force. His hand spanned Arthur’s entire forearm, kept it entirely immobile, and he made a tsking sound as he shook his head. “If I wanted to con you, Arthur. I’d have done it years ago, and I wouldn’t do it in a dream you’d already seen. Give me some credit for originality, darling.” Smug smile, that toothpick still precisely where it had been before.
Arthur, who was doing his best here to make sure Eames didn’t find out how easy it would be to con him, stood there for a second, glaring at him, his mouth moving together as if he was chewing on words that didn’t make it past his teeth. He slid his arm down the block and snapped his elbow forward over Eames’ hand. He stopped his elbow about an inch from Eames’ face, just as he had stopped the gun on the floor of the vault. Eames would feel it when the fight went out of his arm as Arthur intentionally reigned in his temper and brought his chin up. He jerked his fist back toward him to get his arm free. “I wouldn’t put it past you.” It was not a compliment. Arthur put his other hand into his breast pocket, searching for his die.
“Scrappy little thing,” was Eames entertained reply when Arthur jerked free. He’d held his stance through all that showing off, and he hadn’t so much as flinched when the elbow neared his face. Arthur might pretend violence, but Eames knew violent men; Arthur wasn’t one of them. “You don’t trust me? I’m terribly hurt, Arthur,” he said, that same tip to his voice when he said Arthur’s name. He stepped away, rolled up his sleeves to the elbows and exhaled into the cold French air. “Toss the die, then we’ll talk,” he said. He suspected he was truly awake. It was too bloody cold to be a dream - one of Arthur’s dreams anyways. His settings were always boring things with corridors and order. He rubbed the chip in the pocket of his trousers between his fingers, and he walked to the mirror that had been stuck against the wall long ago. A toss of the chip in his palm, and a (failed) attempt to change into Arthur, and he was convinced.
Arthur just ignored the taunt, and he gritted his teeth against the little sing-song note that Eames seemed to save just for him. He didn’t pay any attention to what Eames was doing in the mirror, turning his head away to find one of the chairs he hadn’t sat in yet, a weathered thing of blue pipe and half-desk. It looked like it had been commandeered from a schoolroom. Arthur kicked it around and dropped into it sideways so he had enough room for his legs. He let the die bounce once on the surface of the desk connected to the arm rest, but it seemed one bounce and a spin was enough, because he caught it again and put it back into his breast pocket. Reality, then. For now. “You still think it’s real,” he said, trying not to think about the vault and pretty close to seizing on any other topic in reach.
“Out there?” Eames asked without motioning anywhere at all. But it was clear what he meant. Beyond the door. “Yes, I do. I have no idea what we’re from yet. I don’t think comics are right, and I’d hate to think we’re from a book. Cinema or television?” He finished, walking back to Arthur and the table that was being abused. “You can look into it. Find out for us. Mine,” as in the man whose head he shared, “is complicated. Sending him to do things isn’t a good idea,” That came with a grin. He rather liked Evan, actually. He couldn’t say the same for Cory, but then he hadn’t seen much of him when he wasn’t screaming about something. He stopped directly in front of Arthur, crowded him with his size, and his voice turned uncommonly serious. “Either we trust each other, or we don’t. Your choice. If you don’t trust me, I’ll go it on my own.” It was clear he thought he’d be better off on his own than Arthur would.
Arthur didn’t want to find out where he was from in Cory’s world. He really didn’t want to see himself do anything, and he didn’t want Eames to have that third person view any more than he wanted to see it himself. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. If I go back I’m going to have to explain things to Cory, and it’s hard to be convincing when you’re a disembodied voice. There’s no way he’s not going to notice I’ve been gone this long, though.” Arthur glanced at his watch (worth several thousand pounds), and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. Eames got his attention again with his approach, but Arthur refused to do more than look at him from under his brows, a boy’s glare. “I have a hard time trusting people who try to break into my head, Eames.”
“Your head was in my way,” was Eames’ reply, and it came with a smile that didn’t reach his warm eyes. “You put a safe in front of a thief,” he added, motioning to himself with both hands when he said thief. At some point in his life, Arthur had likely been something more law-abiding than he was now. Eames had never had a law-abiding moment in his entire adulthood. And, as his expression made clear, he was still offended. “You’re going to have to fix that situation with him, Arthur. I don’t think we’re going anywhere anytime soon, and all the others are well ahead of you in learning to coexist. He’s on the journals,” he said, pulling his own betting book out of his back pocket and waving it lazily. “He already knows about you.” That came with a look that said he disagreed with Arthur’s methods, which was nothing new; he generally did.
Eames was the one offended? Arthur was not impressed. His expression didn’t change. He knew Eames was a thief, but he didn’t think of it like he thought of Evan as a drunk. He had a little bit more respect for the man than that. Maybe it was misplaced. “You don’t think you’re going anywhere soon,” he corrected. “I’m not convinced yet. You think the cinema or whatever it is will convince me, or just prolonged exposure to Cory?” Arthur almost smiled. “He knows. I’ll talk to him. I only have doubts, not proof.” Arthur rolled the die between the knuckles of his left hand and his palm, watching it move, wondering if it was real, trying to figure out if it mattered.
Eames was a much more laid back man, much less concerned with logic. He followed his gut, and he used his imagination, and he believed they were well and truly stuck in the minds of these dysfunctional men. “No. I don’t think we’re going anywhere soon, darling. You can be a stubborn as you like, but this isn’t a maze, and you won’t find the exit.” pulled his hands from his pocket, and he flipped his red poker chip between his fingers. “I think time will convince you, assuming you don’t shoot us to wake us up on the other side.” His gaze sharpened then, and he measured his words, decided they were worth saying before continuing. “Let’s not be like Mal, Arthur.”
Arthur’s head snapped up, his concentration broken. He took care with his appearance, pushed his hair back, pressed his clothes, did everything he could to look capable and at least twice his age. The fear made him look young, though. Even if it was just a flash of it. “I’m not Mal. I want to be sure.” His voice turned cruel and uneven. “And don’t worry, Eames. If I’m convinced, I won’t take your decision away from you. You and Evan are nice and safe from me.” He shoved up out of the chair, which screeched over the pavement, and started away from the door. A quick roll of his shoulders to settle the coat was as close to a farewell as Arthur was going to come as he tried to escape the warehouse and Eames’ misplaced concern.
Nothing was Eames’ response, hands deep in his pockets. He didn’t actually try to stop the other man, and he wasn’t about to chase him into the snow. He’d said his bit - for now. “You’re going to have to learn to live with it, darling, or it’ll drive you insane. As for Cory and Evan, we should try to mend those fences. It’s beneficial if they can at least spend five minutes in the same room without killing each other.” He looked toward the doors of the warehouse. “Go home. There’s nothing for either of us here. You know where I am, if you require me.” Grin. “If that temper of yours calms down.”
“I look forward to seeing you try to mend the fence between Cory and Evan,” Arthur said, on his way across the warehouse. “Not even you can talk that fast.” Arthur had his own PASIV at the apartment he kept in Paris. It wasn’t his favorite residence and it certainly wasn’t home, but it was safe and it didn’t have a distracting, loud-mouthed thief in it. “I can deal with Cory without your help, thank you Eames.” He slammed the door behind him. Hard.