Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"I'm not interested in a relationship right now," Arthur says.

Eames blinks at him from across the table. It's part of the hotel room set: intricately carved and not designed to serve any actual function. They're eating dinner—Arthur a mesclun salad topped with blue cheese, Eames a chicken piccata—and the distance between their faces is alarmingly small. There's no trace of humor in Arthur's expression.

While the assumption that Eames desires a vow of commitment is absurd bordering on laughable, the fact that Arthur's addressing the topic at all means that he's giving Eames' proposition serious consideration. And that, at least, is good news.

"I don't care for peas in my soup," Eames says with carefully cultivated nonchalance. "Have we reached the portion of our conversation in which we list random trivia about ourselves?"

"I don't want there to be any misunderstandings," Arthur says in that bland, typically American way. Eames imagines Cobb sitting where Arthur is right now, speaking those words, and shudders. Hell for Eames is a never-ending dream populated by projections all wearing Cobb's wretchedly earnest and weepy face. "Since you're the one that brought up changing the terms of our… mutually beneficial arrangement."

"I don't see how this has to change our—arrangement at all," Eames replies. "I have a list of sex acts, we have sex, and with your agreement, the twain shall meet in a manner satisfactory to both of us."

Arthur and Eames have been having sex intermittently over the past six years, typically in the context of a shared job or vast amounts of boredom. When they aren't working together, Arthur tends to initiate contact and inquire about Eames' whereabouts, typically with such good timing (Arthur always 'happens' to be within a ten kilometer radius) that Eames suspects he merely asks for show. Arthur's ability to locate Eames no matter the circumstances used to unnerve Eames, drive him to attempt to shake off Arthur's tracking. A futile exercise, of course.

As the years had trudged on and nothing more harmful than the occasional surprise booty-call took place, Eames found himself less inclined to sulk over the fact that Arthur could always find him--even if he couldn't always find Arthur in return. Arthur's cultivated network of constantly updating information was something no one in dreamshare could hope to replicate, and it was pointless for Eames to waste his energy trying when his strengths lay elsewhere. That didn't stop him from circulating occasional rumors about Arthur being an escaped robotic military experiment, however.

"So tell me a little bit more about this sex… bucket list of yours," Arthur says.

"'Bucket list' is such an inelegant term," Eames says as he sips his Laphroaig. It goes down smooth and warm; to think, once upon a time he couldn't stand the stuff. "I prefer 'list of novel sexual acts to experience before death or insanity via limbo take me.'"

"A cabbage by any other name…" Arthur also takes a drink from his glass, the red wine staining his lips in a most appealing way. Eames decides, then and there, that he made the correct decision in approaching Arthur for this particular endeavor. There were other options, but Arthur really is a beautiful specimen of man, if somewhat lacking in creativity (inside the bedroom and out of it). As an added perk, he should be intelligent enough to make the unavoidable process of negotiating the outer boundaries of what they'll do together easier.

"Would be just as odoriferous?" Eames volunteers.

For the first time all night, a smile cracks across Arthur's face. "So what is actually on this list?"

"I've written it down somewhere." Eames stands, makes a great show of rifling through a folder filled with miscellaneous documents and old takeaway menus. He returns to the table with a used cocktail napkin; it wouldn't do for Arthur to catch on that this isn't merely another lark born from alcohol and whimsy. There's even a ring running through half the words to complete the artifice.

"Nippleplay, iceplay, edging and watersports," Arthur reads aloud. "Is that it?"

"Of course not," Eames lies hastily. It had never occurred to him that Arthur—straight-laced, dull in a way that borders on tragic, Arthur—could be unimpressed by a list containing waste excretion. "I merely thought we'd try our hand at these and see whether the experiment took. Should tread a bit of water before we leap into the deep end and all that."

"You had me worried that this was going to be the most vanilla sex bucket list ever," Arthur says, throwing up a smile as if to take some of the condescension off the words. It doesn't really. "I assume that the receiver of most of these acts will be you?"

"The nippleplay and iceplay, yes." Eames pauses as he continues his mental reevaluation of Arthur. "I was rather hoping you might be up for the task of enduring delayed orgasm and, well, being pissed on."

Arthur is silent for a moment, and Eames watches him weigh the pros and cons in his head. If Arthur says no, Eames isn't going to push outright (working with an unenthusiastic partner isn't the least appealing way he can imagine making his way through the bucket list, but it's close to the top), though he reserves the right to tease, mock, or otherwise goad Arthur into giving it a second thought. "Have you considered working with projections for those two?"

"I have, but experiments have proven disappointing," Eames says. "And yes, I've tried both prostitutes and sex clubs, but was drugged by one of the former and nearly killed in the latter. I don't know if you've realized, but we live in a dreadfully dangerous world."

Arthur seems amused. "And you are ever the delicate, defenseless victim."

"I am an artist, a dreamer, a flower in a sea of—"

"You're former SAS, a thief, and an occasional bounty hunter when you're hard up for cash," Arthur says flatly. "I've seen you take on fully armed men double your size without breaking a sweat."

"I had no idea you were even capable of such blandishments." Eames props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. "Pray, do go on."

"I guess my real question is: why me?" Arthur says, expression still serious. "You don't need me to tell you that you're hot enough to get other people to do this stuff with you. And that you're fully capable of defending yourself if any of them turn out to be assassins."

"Because I hate having sex with people I don't know," Eames answers immediately and with something close to the truth. "Sex with someone new is always, at best, pleasant but uninspiring. After twenty-five years of dabbling with this person or that, I'm no longer interested in novelty, only in a certain level of consistency. Quality control, if you will."

"So you want me because I'm predictable?" Arthur says slowly.

"Predictably good," Eames says. Arthur frowns and Eames is dismayed to realize that all the goodwill he'd worked to earn this evening through dinner and low level flattery might not be enough to convince Arthur of Eames' lack of ulterior motive. "You are utterly gorgeous, darling, but you already know that. I always enjoy our time spent in the bedroom, which is why I keep coming back. And if you're concerned that this is all an elaborate setup for a long con or job of some sort, we can go under together. You can take a poke about, determine for yourself what my true motivations are. "

"You'd really let me extract from you?" Arthur asks, searching Eames' face for deception.

"How many jobs have we worked together?" Eames spreads his hands, palms up. "How many times have we entered each others' minds?" He considers adding, I trust you implicitly to finish, but decides to hold back. Their professional relationship may be collegial and their sexual one a half-step above that, but too many embellishments will raise suspicion. He lets the suggestion of the sentiment hang between the words instead.

After a long moment, Arthur seems satisfied with what he sees. "Guess Limbo really got to you, huh?"

"I thought I'd have done certain things by the time I reached forty," Eames says, seizing on the moment to display some genuine emotion that could be read as vulnerability. "Forty came and went but I saw no need to fuss—I still had years to reach any unmet goals. The possibility that I might not have those years in the way that I'd assumed was—troubling."

"And I'm the only one you know that understands that," Arthur says, leaning forward until he's astoundingly close to Eames' face—too close for comfort, really. "The only one who really can."

Eames doesn't know whether to be disturbed or annoyed by Arthur's newfound perceptiveness; perhaps it's inevitable that one would develop a keener sense of human nature after chasing a madman round the world for a year. Yet another strike against the name of Cobb. "Will you do it then?" Eames bats his eyelashes, trying to lighten the moment. "You're my only hope."

"I highly doubt that," Arthur says dryly. "But yeah, okay. I've never done most of those either. Could be interesting."

"Excellent," Eames replies, relieved, and oddly unsettled at the same time. Arthur seems entirely too tranquil—as if he knows something he shouldn't. "I have some business to wrap up, but we can start the day after morrow—"

"Not so fast." Eames halts immediately; of course there's a catch. "First, we should discuss what I'm getting in return."

"Are you seeking compensation of some kind?" Eames imbues his voice with surprise, but mentally readies himself for negotiation. He has a fair bit of cash on hand as well as a list of art, jewelry, and furniture he's willing to part with if it comes down to it. He'd prefer to trade away as little possible, of course, but isn't going to push too hard—it wouldn't do to sour the deal over trinkets.

"You do realize that you're asking to pee on me, right?" Arthur's lips quirk upwards a moment before he's all business again. "I actually have a few things I've been meaning to get to myself. It's not as sexy as your bucket list, but now seems like as good a time as any to start checking some items off."

"I'll have you know that there are dozens of people around the world dying for me to pee on them," Eames says haughtily, and is rewarded with a chuckle. "And please tell me these activities you have in mind won't require me to flee yet another country in a wagon filled with chickens and C4."

"One bad job in the former Soviet Union and no one ever lets you forget it," Arthur says sourly. "And no, it's nothing work-related. The risk of death is minimal."

Eames raises an eyebrow, not sure whether to be intrigued or wary. "If reassuring is the effect you are aiming for, I hate to inform that you're somewhat left of the mark."

"I want to visit the Great Wall of China." Arthur rolls the bowl of the wineglass in the palm of his hand, the burgundy of the liquid swirling as he does. "And while we're in the eastern hemisphere, I've always wanted to try pufferfish."

"Isn't that the second most poisonous vertebrate animal in the world?" Eames sits back, a bit surprised. "I never took you for a thrill-seeking gastronome."

"The chances of being poisoned while eating commercially available pufferfish are very low," Arthur says. "We're more likely to fall off the Great Wall and be eaten by a tiger than die from a lethal dose of tetrodotoxin."

"There's a cheery notion." Arthur's demands seem relatively reasonable and not likely to result in actual danger, but one must always mount at least a token protest to avoid unnecessary concessions.

"Well, it's like you said—we could have ended up trapped in something worse than death for centuries." Arthur stares down at the open mouth of his glass. "And if that's not a reason to start living now, what is?"

"An excellent point," Eames says. "Well done, me."

Arthur cocks his head to one side. His expression is contemplative, and it occurs to Eames to wonder why someone like Arthur—who could, at a moment's notice, summon a horde of breathless admirers—would choose to climb the Great Wall and eat a poisonous delicacy with a man he wants only the most casual affair with. A question to ponder later. "So do we have a deal?"

"Kinky sex in return for climbing an ancient pile of rocks and eating a fish with the potential to kill me. How could I reject terms like that?" Eames holds up his glass to clink gently against Arthur's.

"To be clear, that's only in exchange for the first two items on your list," Arthur says. "I'll have bigger demands when it comes to the edging and watersports."

"Excellent," Eames says with a falsely cheery smile. "A topic we'll return to at a later date."

Arthur finishes eating his salad (and who eats only a salad with a glass of red wine? Honestly, now) while Eames picks at the remains of his chicken breast. Eames says, "Would you care to order something else now that you've finished your salad? A dessert, or something a bit more substantial? The food in this hotel is top notch."

"No, it's fine." Arthur wipes his mouth with his napkin and sounds almost sheepish. "Honestly, I'm not very hungry. I thought that when you invited me over for a 'room-service dinner' that was a euphemism for—well. A different kind of room-service."

Eames thinks back to the beginning of the evening, and how startled Arthur had looked when he received a menu. "Well, that explains a few things." Arthur shrugs, but seems more amused than embarrassed. Eames gives him another appraising look. "I appear to have underestimated how depraved you truly are. This bodes well for our future exploits in sexual perversion."

"So now that we're in agreement about the terms of our deal." Arthur stands. "Up for dessert? Of the metaphorical variety?"

Eames glances at his watch. "Well, I suppose we can, but I really do have to be somewhere early tomorrow morning."

"Let's make it quick, then." Arthur leans over and hooks a finger into Eames' lapel. "No more talking about the list. A vanilla fuck and we call it a night."

They've developed a routine over the years: they snog for a bit while getting their trousers off as quickly as possible, Eames jerks Arthur till he's hard (sometimes Eames uses his mouth if he's in a generous mood), and then Arthur fucks him either doggy style or with Eames on his back.

Arthur's a decent enough fuck—nice size cock, not too large or small—though he doesn't always remember a reach-around. There aren't any fireworks, but orgasms arrive reliably, and cleanup is relatively easy.

They don't deviate much from this sequence, which suits Eames fine. He doesn't particularly care for the taste of semen (though it has been, admittedly, a while since he's tasted Arthur's). From what he remembers from years back, Arthur gives dedicated but uninspired blowjobs (good suction, occasional attempts at deepthroating, hands sweaty and disappointingly unmoving on Eames' thighs). There's not much foreplay and certainly no cuddling, as usually one of them leaves immediately after.

The only exception to this routine is when they're working a job together. The sex is the same but the after is different: they stay in bed a while, talk shop about work, gossip about incompetent team members, and share a companionable smoke. With the insanity of the inception job a week behind them, that doesn't happen tonight. Instead, Eames watches drowsily as Arthur puts his clothing to rights and itches for a cigarette.

"You're really serious about quitting smoking, huh?" Arthur says as he slips back into his jacket, smooths back his hair.

"Your low opinion of my self control warms the cockles of my heart," Eames replies, yawning.

"I didn't mean it like that," Arthur says. "I just mean—you're making a lot of changes. It's… interesting."

"I nurture my ability to frustrate expectations," Eames says, eyes already slipping shut. "It adds to my mystique."

Arthur huffs what sounds like a laugh. "Goodnight, Eames. I'll see you in Beijing."

Present

"So first things first," Arthur says as he walks. "Safe words."

Eames trails behind Arthur, already out of breath and sweating profusely. No one ever mentions that visiting the Great Wall of China involves, at many points, a literal climb up broken stairs so steep they practically form a vertical cliff-face. Despite the fact that this section of the wall has been cleaned up for tourists, the stones they're walking on are still uneven, pocked with deep pits and slippery surfaces. Arthur, who is apparently part mountain goat, seems unperturbed by such trivialities, managing to keep a surefooted and brisk pace up terrifying inclines.

"Are you listening?" Arthur asks from meters ahead.

"Yes, but I need to—" Eames grabs the railing, sagging forward until he thinks better of leaning on centuries old stones for support. "One moment. I—this is—"

"Are you okay?" Arthur asks, coming towards Eames with what looks like genuine concern on his face. Eames can't be certain though—it's 40 degrees Celsius, his muscles ache from the hour they've spent climbing, and he may have already sweated away half his body weight.

"I'm fine," Eames says, straightening with tremendous effort and pasting on a smile. "Just needed to catch my breath, is all."

"You sure?" Arthur asks, not sounding convinced. Before Eames can answer, Arthur says, "Hang on a sec," and breaks into an easy jog towards a woman selling bottled water a few meters away. Eames watches, dazed, as Arthur returns. He isn't even out of breath. "Drink up."

Eames guzzles most of the bottle Arthur hands him in one go, then finishes it off with a second gulp. It's possible that this may be his body's way of informing him of a dire need for exercise. His metabolism isn't what it used to be, and running about in dreams does little if his actual body is lying in a barcalounger.

"I think I could use a break," Arthur says, sipping his water casually, as if it isn't obvious that Eames is panting like a dying hog. Eames wants to brush it off, but there's a very real possibility that his heart will explode in his chest if he tries. He has his pride, but self preservation always wins out.

"About the safe words—how about a word for stop, slow down, and full speed ahead?" Eames suggests, trying to get their conversation back on track. "Gives us more maneuverability in case we don't wish to call a total ceasefire."

"That makes sense." Arthur's rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. Instead of darkening pit stains, the sweat is literally glistening in the hollow of his throat and along his collar bones. Eames doesn't know why he's surprised—Arthur somehow manages to make even his ridiculous orgasm expression (nose scrunched with beet-red ears) marginally attractive. Everything less is an amateur affair. "How about this: small cap for stop, mid cap for slow, and large cap for go ahead?"

"Market capitalization terms?" Eames chuckles, then winces when it aggravates the stitch in his side. "But what if we wish to discuss the stock market during our sexual adventures together? I find the recitation of debt to equity ratios to be particularly erotic."

"I think I can live without your thoughts on how to achieve maximally efficient operating leverage," Arthur deadpans. "But if you really want to put the topic back on the pillow, you can pick the safe words next time."

Eames snorts a laugh and then hisses with pain. "You're presuming there will be a next time. How uncharacteristically optimistic of you."

"My job is to take down stupid plans and point out holes that will lose us our paychecks." Arthur shrugs. "I'm not on the clock, and I won't be for the next few months. So I'm going to take the opportunity to be someone other than the guy everyone hates for being a killjoy and run with it."

Eames blinks. "You know about that?"

"Grayson calls me Arsehole Arthur to my face." Arthur's tone is casual, almost dismissive, but underneath the veneer Eames can see it actually bothers him, being disliked—including by useless toadstools like Grayson. "And it's not exactly a secret that teams always hate the point man for shooting down ideas."

"Well, Grayson has difficulty distinguishing his elbow from a hole in the ground, so I wouldn't take his ill-regard personally." Eames files Arthur's words and expression away for further review. "His jobs are always bound to go tits-up, anyway. You're better off avoiding his incompetence."

A wisp of a smile hovers at the corners of Arthur's mouth, but it doesn't travel any further north. "Hey, you wanna get off this rubble? I've had enough of staring at mountains and countryside. Plus, I hear there's a toboggan ride back down."

"I don't know what that last sentence means," Eames says with great dignity, trying not to let his immense relief show. "But I'm going to assume it's something disgustingly perverted."

Arthur does laugh at that, shaking his head as he leads the way back down the wall—slowly, for Eames' sake.

As it turns out, there is a literal sled ride on a track that winds all the way down the mountain. Eames would be lying if he said he didn't push the acceleration as hard as he could, whipping through all the curves and shouting at the top of his lungs, Arthur a scant few feet behind him.

It's the most fun he's had in ages.

Eames flops back onto the bed, naked, and doesn't move. A few minutes later, Arthur strolls out of the shower, towel around his waist. He runs a finger up the instep of Eames' left foot.

Eames can barely feel it for all the exhaustion and dueling aches across his body. "Darling, if you'd fancy a go, I should warn you that I've fallen and have no intention of getting back up."

"Oh?" Arthur says as he glances down pointedly. "Part of you seems to disagree."

"Let me clarify: you may feel free to visit all of your depraved desires upon my person. But I will not be actively participating in this communion of flesh, per se."

"So you're saying I have to do all the work."

"My kingdom is yours." Eames waves a hand airily at his genitals. "Have at it."

"Because this is exactly what I look for in sex partners," Arthur says. "Passive lack of resistance from an unresponsive body."

"Arrange me however you like, so long as I needn't move or exert myself in any manner," Eames instructs. "If you feel compelled to touch me, do so gently and sparingly about my groin, as I feel as though I've been assaulted with a meat tenderizer and twice cooked."

"This is going to be one of our better sexual encounters," Arthur says, "I can tell already."

"I'll moan if you do it right," Eames says helpfully. "With moderate enthusiasm."

"Well, you were much better about visiting the wall than I expected you to be," Arthur says thoughtfully while Eames wiggles his toes as seductively as he can. "You up for being fucked? All you have to do is lie there."

"That would be ideal, yes." Eames spreads his legs while Arthur crawls onto the bed. "And remember: no other touching while this is going on. Unexpected searing muscle pain will bring an end to the festivities."

"No other touching at all?" Arthur says as he kisses the side of Eames' knee. "How about here?"

"I suppose that's alright," Eames says, watching Arthur lean forward to do the same to his other knee.

"And here?" Arthur asks as he kisses ever so gently up the inside of Eames' thigh, backing away when Eames makes an aborted movement forward.

"I believe this all falls within the groinal region." Eames spreads his legs further and inches downward on the bed. "Which we've already established is indeed a fly-zone."

"I want to make sure I understand the boundaries," Arthur murmurs as he noses down the seam of Eames' thigh again, against his bollocks, and then behind.

"Oh god," Eames murmurs as he hurriedly reaches down to cup his cock and balls, pulling them out of the way to permit greater access. Arthur rarely ever offers such pleasantries, so it's best to take advantage. "Right there, yes."

"Tell me," Arthur says in between long licks, "if it hurts."

Nothing hurts, really, not when there's Arthur's solicitous tongue to keep Eames focused on other matters. Eames starts to get into it only for Arthur to abruptly back off scarcely two minutes later. "What—" Eames starts, plaintively, but it's no use. Arthur's already gotten off the bed to fetch the lube and the condoms, leaving Eames with saliva cooling in the chilly hotel air on a very sensitive area. He sighs and strokes himself, but his prick's simply not as enthused.

"Here we go," Arthur says as spectacularly cold lubricant gets shoved straight into Eames' arse with no fanfare.

Eames yelps and squirms away, triggering a cascade of aches and pains across his entire body. "Good lord, Arthur, I didn't think we'd be starting on the iceplay now."

"What?" Arthur frowns once he catches on to Eames' meaning. "My fingers are not that cold."

"My shriveling prick begs to differ." Eames gazes mournfully down at it. "How in the bloody hell did I never notice that yours is the touch of arctic death?"

"I have occasional problems with the circulation in my extremities, okay?" Arthur says, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is why I usually let you do all the prep. Forgive me for trying to be considerate."

Eames sighs heavily. "The condom's lubricated, isn't it? Forget the fingers and go slowly."

Arthur's wearing a grumpy expression as he rolls the condom on and pushes in, but after he's fully seated he seems to get over it. Eames relaxes while Arthur builds up a rhythm—the angle's not doing much for Eames—and closes his eyes, letting the occasional buzz of pleasure wash over him.

Arthur comes eventually, and Eames is roused back to full wakefulness when a mouth descends on his mostly soft dick. It's been a while since Arthur last blew him with the intention of getting Eames off—years, maybe. And though he still doesn't do anything with his hands, at least the suction is good.

Eames lets himself fall into the warm, wet heat and tugs on Arthur's hair in warning before he comes. He's in the throes of a perfectly good orgasm one moment and howling in agony the next as all of Arthur's weight comes crashing down on Eames' right leg.

He opens his eyes to find Arthur hacking semen onto the bedspread, eyes tearing as he chokes and coughs. Eames scoots back, putting more room between him and Arthur's spit-up. It's a disgusting mess of saliva and come across the bedspread.

"You couldn't have given me a warning?" Arthur asks once he's resumed semi-normal breathing patterns. His face is a mottled red, a vein in his forehead prominent, eyes both bleary and angry.

"I did. I gave your hair a good pull." Eames reaches down to rub his bruised calve. "I was the one that nearly lost a leg to your crushing weight."

"Well, you clearly didn't pull hard enough," Arthur snaps, getting up. "Or did you not notice me nearly choking to death?"

"Jesus Christ, you make it sound as though we've never done this before," Eames says, feeling somewhat indignant. "I always pull on hair—or ears, in the rare case where there is no hair—that's my signal. That's always been my signal."

"Yeah, well, it was a shitty signal the first time I blew you and choked, too," Arthur says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I was hoping you might have figured that out at some point."

"I appear to have left my telepathic abilities in my other suitcase," Eames snaps. "Next time I'll be sure to read your mind before we shag."

"You know what? Forget it. I'm going back to my room."

"This session doesn't count for the iceplay," Eames calls out while Arthur throws on a robe and grabs his clothing. "Even if I was fingered by the Grim Reaper himself."

Arthur mutters something Eames can't make out as he leaves, seeming not to care about traipsing through the halls in a robe and dress shoes. The door slams and Eames rolls onto his side. This is what happens when one deviates from routine. What a bother.

Past

"Hola," a man said with a flat American accent as he touched Eames' back to get his attention. "Está ocupado este asiento?"

Eames leaned back in his barstool to get a better look at him—dark hair, muscular arms in a tight-fitting black T-shirt, handsome—and shook his head. "No."

"Hablas ingles?" the man asked as he slid onto the stool.

"The Queen's own." Eames took a sip of his tequila sunrise and licked his lips.

The man's gaze fell to Eames' mouth and didn't travel back up. "My name's Percy."

"Jack. Can I buy you a drink?"

Percy smiled. "I think that's my line."

"No, I believe your line is--" Eames leaned in close and murmured directly into Percy's ear, "your place or mine?"

Eames watched, gratified, as Percy's smile fell away and was replaced with surprise, then lust.

The sex was a pleasant, if mostly forgettable affair (an exchange of blowjobs in the rundown hovel of Percy's cheap motel room). As Eames snuck out, he found himself idly wondering what young Percy's body—which felt and looked fantastic under the sheets—would be like in the full light of day.

He walked into the Marriott a few hours later to meet with an architect and the painfully green point man he'd recently hired over the phone—only to find none other than Percy, of the heavily accented Spanish and the fantastic naked body. But of course Percy was Arthur, only back then he'd worn a buzz cut and a cheap, ill-fitting black suit in the dead heat of Oaxacan summer.

"Percy like Percival," Eames said. "One of the knights of Arthur's round table."

Instead of flinching at being caught or bumbling awkwardly about, a slow smile spread across Arthur's lips. "The jack of all trades."

The job had gone tits-up after that, unfortunately. A year passed before Eames got the chance to see Arthur again—upgraded into a rather more expensive off-the-rack suit and no longer green at all.

Present

Eames picks the lock to Arthur's hotel room easily, but knocks as a courtesy before opening the door. When he steps inside, Arthur's sitting across the room at a desk with his laptop open in front of him. Arthur doesn't turn around, but Eames would be willing to bet a sizable sum that he has a gun (the non-metaphorical kind) in his lap and at the ready.

"Am I interrupting?" Eames asks in his most complaisant tone. After a nap, he'd awoken to the unpleasant realization that perhaps leaving Arthur to stew in his own irritation wasn't the best way to ensure a positive, ongoing sexual relationship. Despite a disinclination towards ever admitting to being wrong, Eames knows when he's near the burning of a bridge. And thus, his pride must suffer yet another ignominious defeat today. "I could come back later."

Arthur swivels around in his chair. There is, indeed, a Glock in his lap, which he picks up and places on the desk. "Something you need?"

"It occurred to me that I did not, perhaps, fully express my appreciation for your efforts earlier," Eames says, letting the door shut behind him. "I'm not here to make excuses for my behavior, even though I was in a great deal of pain—"

"That's an excuse," Arthur interrupts.

Eames swallows down a sharp retort with a smile. "Yes, that's—you are correct, of course. I took some paracetamol so that should no longer be an issue, and, having had some time to mull it over, I'd like to apologize. For my behavior and—ingratitude. I didn't mean to cause you to choke, and from now on, I'll strive to communicate my impending orgasm through more vocal methods."

Arthur is silent for a long minute while Eames tries his best not to fidget. Eventually, Arthur says, "Thank you. And I'm sorry about my—fingers. Sometimes I forget how unpleasant it can be to have something really cold go up your ass when you're not expecting it."

"Apology accepted." Eames shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. This discussion went much more smoothly than he expected, nobody's been shot, and he feels—relieved? Confused? Hungry? "I was wondering if I could interest you in dinner. There's a fantastic restaurant that specializes in Peking Duck I was thinking about visiting. The extractor I worked with last time I was in Beijing recommended it highly."

"Is this before or after she tried to have you killed?" Arthur asks, a bit of wry humor sneaking back into his tone.

"Oh before, of course. I'm almost 99% certain that it is an actual food-service establishment and not merely an elaborate front for hired killings," Eames says. "And at that point, she didn't know I'd slept with her sister."

"You just make friends everywhere you go, don't you?" Arthur says, seeming cautiously amused.

Eames shrugs. "My raw animal sexuality cannot be denied."

Arthur snorts and says, "I guess I could go for some dinner if you're buying. Let me finish up some work and I'll meet you in ten."

Eames squints at the screen behind Arthur. It's hard to get a good look from this distance, but it seems like a large spreadsheet filled with rows and rows of numbers. "I thought you were taking some time off."

"I am from dreamshare," Arthur replies. "This is my… other job."

Eames gives Arthur another curious look, but he doesn't seem inclined to reveal any more pertinent details, so Eames decides not to press his luck. "Very well. Ciao, then."

"Ciao," Arthur echoes as Eames closes the door.

Past

The first time Eames entered one of Arthur's dreams uninvited had been years ago on a job in the Middle East. They'd been working for weeks on recreating an exact likeness of a small village in Afghanistan, and when Eames plugged into the PASIV, he expected blazing heat and the grit of sand between his teeth.

What he got instead, however, was water. Oceans of it, in fact. Eames blinked at the fact that he appeared to be floating underwater--with no apparent need to breathe--and paused to admire a group of books passing by, opening and closing in motions remarkably reminiscent of a school of fish. Not seeing Arthur anywhere in the area, Eames started swimming upwards towards the surface.

Except that upwards merely led into darker parts of the ocean, the books transforming from brightly colored, cheerful things into relatively somber tomes with dark covers and luminescent binding. He halted when he caught sight of a crevice and what looked like red ground--some distorted version of what the abyssal plain looked like in Arthur's mind--a cross between the surface of Mars and the uncharted territory of the sea. Eames sighed, then twisted round and began swimming in the opposite direction--interrupting a school of books and causing them to disperse in a flurry of pages.

After an indeterminate amount of swimming, Eames reached the surface--or what would probably be more accurately termed the end of--the water. There, he found Arthur walking around on top of it in flannel pajamas, pruning some upside-down plants.

"Ugh," Eames said. He felt the sharp sensation of vertigo, his perception of the world inverting sharply as he realized they were strolling around with what appeared to be precariously suspended gallons of water above them.

"You get used to it after a while," Arthur said, seeming unconcerned and unsurprised by Eames' appearance. "Now, are you the real Eames or my projection?"

"Entirely real and in severe danger of motion sickness." Eames took a step forward gingerly, waiting for the confused notion of gravity to reassert itself and send them all tumbling arse over tits. "Why in god's name would you subject yourself to this?"

"I'm recreating the Hanging Gardens of Babylon," Arthur replied, walking around the side of mass of dangling, greenish vines.

"So why the ocean?" Eames asked, pointing towards the water. "And shouldn't there be some sort of ancient temple of myth and legend?"

"One step at a time. Creating an ocean is easier than a Mesopotamian irrigation system," Arthur replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Anyway, this is just a project I work on for fun."

"Every time I think I've got you pegged, you go and do something like this," Eames said, and Arthur huffed a soft laugh.

"Right." A radioactive green boa constrictor slithered down (or up?) the trunk of the tree that Arthur was fussing over and twined itself around his feet. "Now, was there something you needed me for, or is this invasion of dream privacy a charming new practice you've picked up?"

"As if any of our dreams are truly private," Eames scoffed. "And no, I don't usually make a habit of invading the recreational sleep of my team members. I actually came with somewhat urgent news--the target's mother has had a stroke and been rushed to the hospital. The next two hours are critical, and so I wanted you to be aware that you might need to review the hospital layout more carefully before we go in for extraction."

Arthur's brow furrowed. "A stroke? That changes--well, a lot of things."

"Indeed."

"Do you want me to go topside?" Arthur asked, a gun materializing in his hand.

"No, it's fine." Eames waved Arthur's concern away. "Your timer's almost run, anyway. But I thought it'd be best if you knew."

"Hm." Arthur lowered his pruning shears and the gun, already deep in thought. The boa constrictor slithered up his leg, coiling in an alarming manner, but drew no visible reaction from Arthur.

Eames was about to go—really he was--but proved unable to resist the easy joke. "Large snakes, really?"

"Well, I like cocks," Arthur replied, completely unperturbed. "But you already knew that."

"Do you enjoy erotic asphyxiation as well?" Eames asked as the snake inched higher, past Arthur's knee.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Arthur didn't even look over.

Eames pouted for a moment, annoyed that Arthur had missed his leer and appeared to have lost all interest in his presence. "Fancy another tumble then? After the job, of course."

That caught Arthur's attention. It figured. "After the job? Why wait?"

"It does sound dreadfully prudish of me, doesn't it?" Eames affected his most casual pose, scratching idly behind his right ear. "Rest assured it's not due to any lack of desire. I've merely had some--unfortunate past experiences due to a welling of emotion at an inopportune moment during a job. Not mine, of course, but my previous partners'."

"Is that right?" Arthur said. "So you're telling me that people thought your dick was so good they couldn't let go, after."

"Tragic, really. I hear I'm quite the catch."

Arthur actually laughed, the wanker. "Yeah, I always imagined bringing a misanthropic, tattooed criminal home to meet my mother."

"Hey now," Eames said, slightly miffed. "I'll have you know that there is quite a bit more to me than tattoos and a penchant for illegality."

"I find that unlikely," Arthur said, still chortling. Even the snake seemed to be grinning at this point. "Anyway, I'll think about it. If this job gets FUBARed because of the stroke, I'm not sticking around, sex or not."

As always, emotional entanglements were no match for Arthur's relentless practicality and keen sense of self-preservation. It was one of the things Eames most liked about him, even if it was an occasional cockblock. "Fair enough. But if we do manage to finish this up without anybody wanting to mount our heads on top of pikes, my hotel door is ever ready for your lock-pick."

"Now who's using crappy sex metaphors?" Arthur said, half under his breath. Eames turned round so Arthur couldn't see him roll his eyes, and shot himself out of the dream.

Present

"This place is pretty good," Arthur says as he takes a bite of his Peking duck roll-up.

Eames nods as he concentrates on dipping a piece of duck into sugar without dropping it. His chopstick abilities are woefully deficient, and this isn't the sort of establishment that keeps forks about for clumsy foreigners. "Have you had much Peking duck before?"

"A few times. My—" there's the slightest hesitation in Arthur's voice, almost unnoticeable if one isn't listening for it, "my ex-boyfriend used to love duck."

Eames succeeds at dipping his food without dropping it and brings the morsel to his mouth, gaze flickering up to Arthur's expression surreptitiously. Arthur's not closeted by any means and even if he were, obviously Eames isn't one to take exception to the fact. Unresolved issues regarding this ex-boyfriend, perhaps? "This is quite delicious. I'll have to remember to come here again before we fly to Japan—if I'm to die at dinner, I'd like my last meal before that to be a fond memory."

"Dramatic as always," Arthur replies. "Actually, that reminds me. We should talk about what we'll be doing tomorrow night. Pain limits, toys, that sort of thing."

"What, here?" Eames takes a look around the crowded restaurant; it's noisy and there's a fair amount of room separating them from nearby tables, but still.

Arthur finishes eating his roll-up. "Yes?"

"I merely expected that your American sensibilities would be aghast by this sort of candor in public," Eames says as his eyes dart around the room.

"Pretty sure it's not my sensibilities we need to worry about here," Arthur says, seeming amused. "Besides, it'll give everyone here a good chance to practice eavesdropping in English. They'll leave this conversation knowing all sorts of new words like nipples and clamps."

"No clamps." Eames takes a last look around the room, but nobody seems to be paying attention. "I don't care for metal objects coming into forceful contact with my skin."

"Noted. Did you have any specific ideas for how things should proceed?"

"Pinching, licking, sucking, and light biting are all good," Eames says. "Teasing and dedicated attention for, oh, ten to fifteen minutes is good. And variety, if you please—if I can predict what you're going to do, it's going to get dull very quickly."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"After a warm-up period, I think I'd like to be blindfolded," Eames says levelly. "Visual deprivation should serve to heighten the other sensory input."

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. "Intriguing. Any other restraints?"

"No," Eames says. "I don't—no."

Arthur's eyes are thoughtful—he knows about the aftermath of the Barcelona job, of course—but to his credit he says nothing more than, "How much pain on a scale of one to ten?"

"Let's take it slow and start with three," Eames says. "Mild discomfort. Light nipple biting and pinching. Nothing more for now."

"Okay," Arthur says agreeably, seeming to have no more questions.

A few minutes pass, and then a thought occurs to Eames. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to finish out the night?"

Arthur dabs at the corner of his mouth. "A blowjob would be nice."

"Alright," Eames says, almost wanting to add, that's it? He waits a beat for Arthur to use his leverage and extract more from Eames, but Arthur simply returns to eating his food.

The rest of dinner passes quietly.

Past

"You never stop thinking, do you?" Arthur was lying on his side, one arm curled under his pillow. His hair was delightfully mussed.

"Thinking? I'm afraid you dramatically overestimate my abilities." Eames held out his cigarette. "Does this look perfectly round to you? I could swear it's nearly squarish."

"We've known each other too long for me to fall for your, 'oh la, who, me?' act." Arthur's impression of Eames' accent was atrocious; there was no way he sounded nearly so airheaded when he said, 'oh la.'

"Well, the quickest way to a man's dick is through flattery." Eames stared at his spent dick. "Oh wait."

Arthur chuckled. "You know, I thought you'd have changed." He shook his head. "But you haven't. At all."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "I am deeply flattered you gave the topic of moi any consideration at all."

Arthur shrugged one shoulder. "You turned forty last year. I've seen the number lead to some pretty profound existential angst—which then goes on to some regrettable leather jackets and red sports cars."

"Concerned about my existential well-being, Arthur? I'm touched." Eames blew a smoke ring up into the air. "But the venerated day of my birth came and went and, as far as I know, no leather jackets were purchased in honor of the occasion."

"And the red Porsche?" Arthur asked, smile almost sly.

"I can assure you that’s been in my possession since my last shopping spree at the tender age of twenty-eight," Eames replied. "No existential implications whatsoever."

"Well, good," Arthur said as he rolled onto his back and stretched. "I need all hands on deck for this job. Trying to hold Cobb together so we can get through this is enough for me to handle."

"Yes, I meant to ask—what is all this business with his dead wife and that decidedly unpleasant projection?"

Arthur draped an arm over his face. "He says he didn't kill her, but apparently his subconscious disagrees."

"Wonderful," Eames said, and put out his cigarette. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"He says it won't be. But he's so far gone I can't tell when he's bullshitting me and when he actually believes it." Arthur lifted his arm to peer at Eames. "Thinking of backing out?"

"And pass on the chance to attempt inception with nearly unlimited resources? Never." Eames tapped another cigarette out of the box. "Cobb may be halfway to the madhouse, but he's still one of the finest extractors I've ever worked with. Besides, I can always leave if he decides to take us all on a journey off a cliff."

Arthur snorted. "Yeah. Guess there's that."

"And what about you?" Eames lit the cigarette and took a deep inhale. "From what I heard, you didn't even think inception was possible."

"We do impossible things all the time. But there's a line, and some things aren't possible unless you're willing to abandon reality completely."

"A profound non-answer," Eames said, and studied Arthur's rigidly blank face. "I know why I'm interested in seeing this through, but what about you? What's your stake? I know it's not the money."

Arthur was silent for a long moment before he said, "This is what friends are for."

"Oh come now," Eames said, slightly offended. "If you're going to reply with a platitude, at least do me the honor of delivering one that applies."

"It does apply." Arthur frowned and sat up. "And if you're going to rag on me for responding with platitudes, I should point out that you're not the most forthcoming guy I've ever met either."

"A platitude or the truth are my only two choices?"

Arthur shook his head as he swung his legs off the bed. "You want to know what I really think about inception? I think it's a long shot with terrible odds, and that Saito should be pouring all the money he's spending on us into making his business more competitive in the global market."

"Spoken like a true capitalist," Eames said as Arthur picks his pants up off the floor and yanks them on. "But what if it works?"

"It won't."

"And if it does?"

"It won't," Arthur repeated. At Eames' look, he paused. "If it does, it'll remake the map of the global energy market forever. It'll be to dreamsharing what nuclear fission was to warfare. It'll—" Arthur stopped and shrugged. "It'll change everything."

"And we get to be on the ground floor of that." Eames ashed his cigarette. "Can you imagine the possibilities?"

"No," Arthur said as he walked to the door. "That's your job."

Eames sat in bed, smoking for long after the door clicked shut, and thought: Arthur hadn't changed much either. Odd, how comforting that was.

Present

"I never realized how many tattoos you had."

Eames lifts his head off the pillow disbelievingly. "We've been sleeping together how many years now and you've never bothered to pay attention to my body in all that time?"

"Well, it's not like we spent long Sundays in bed," Arthur says, defensive. "I was usually distracted by other things."

"Hopefully one of those things being my nipples," Eames says with a meaningful look.

Arthur snorts and gives Eames a pinch on the nipple that's probably meant to be retaliatory, but ends up not feeling like punishment at all. "Good?"

"Not too many times in a row, but yes." Eames' breath catches when Arthur does it again. There's the pleasure of being touched in a place that's all too often neglected (alas) mixed with pressure and an edge of pain that's quite enjoyable. "Yes, do it again."

"So these crisscrossing serrated knives." Arthur bends over to lick over the ink covering Eames' right pectoral, deliberately ignoring the command. "What's the story behind them?"

Eames arches his back to try to encourage more licking, but Arthur backs away and raises an eyebrow until Eames answers. "Prison tattoo. Didn't think it was too sanitary using old pens and whatever rubbish they had lying about, but I preferred passing the time with my cellmate in this manner over the alternatives."

"Nice story." Arthur traces the tattoo with a finger. It hasn't been particularly sensitive in years—not since it healed—but somehow the saliva combined with his touch makes it almost tingle with sensation. "We both know you've never been caught for anything worse than being drunk and disorderly in public. So how'd you really get it?"

Eames tries half-heartedly to pull Arthur's head downwards, but Arthur simply pins his wrists to the mattress. Eames sighs. "It was selected for me by a young oil baron's son seeking a physical show of loyalty. It was either this or kill one of his father's enemies, and since I didn't fancy an unmarked grave in Siberia, I opted for the tattoo."

"A long con, I'm assuming?" Arthur doesn't lower his mouth, but deigns to resume stroking Eames' nipples with his thumbs. It's not as stimulating as his tongue, but it is surprisingly soothing.

"The longest. The payoff was good, but the whole affair was an unmitigated disaster, start to finish. How I escaped alive, I'll never know."

Arthur makes a thoughtful noise as he leans down to kiss Eames' neck, fingers escalating to pinching both of Eames' nipples, first one and then the other. "You sleep with the mark?"

"No, but I almost wish I had." Eames cranes his head back to allow better access. "Instead, I had to suffer through months of bullshit machismo homoeroticism—jokes about my cocksucking mouth, odd excuses for nudity and touching, and oh yes, tattooing my goddamned chest."

"With crossed swords, no less," Arthur says dryly, alternating between pinching and rolling Eames' nipples between his fingertips now.

"Subtlety was never Innokentiy's strong suit." Eames relaxes into Arthur's ministrations, losing himself in the constant tension and relief, the pain and then the soothing immediately after.

"Why haven't you gotten the tattoo removed?" Arthur asks, letting Eames' nipples go and splaying his fingers across the heated, raw skin.

"It's a reminder." Eames stares up at the ceiling. "Sometimes it's better to abort, whatever I've invested in the job up to that point be damned."

"Sunk costs." Arthur gives Eames a thoughtful look before bending down to take a nipple into his mouth.

"Survival," Eames moans when Arthur begins to suck. His nipples are bordering on oversensitive, but still the lavish attention feels fucking amazing. "Survival's what matters."

Arthur lets go of Eames' left nipple with a wet pop and sits up. "You ready for the blindfold?"

"Large caps," Eames says just to see Arthur's startled smile as he reaches for the blindfold.

In his last remaining moments of sight, Eames makes sure to take in the lines of Arthur's body—lean but muscular, highlighted by the outrageously tight cut of his shirt and trousers. Eames is naked but Arthur isn't, mostly to avoid the temptation to start fucking once they got going. A sound precaution, considering Eames is so hard he's smearing precome across his stomach. Arthur, Eames notes with some satisfaction, is sporting a fairly impressive tent in his trousers as well.

The material of the blindfold isn't soft, but it's not terribly scratchy and it is fully opaque. As Arthur ties the blindfold, the instinct to roll away and rip it off immediately rises up. As if sensing his thoughts, Arthur puts a palm very gently on the center of Eames' chest. "Okay?"

"Mid caps." Eames takes a few deep breaths, surprised by how strong the desire to run is, even if mentally he knows it's only Arthur. It's not as though he hasn't been in more vulnerable situations with him than this, and he's not truly in danger here—yet he can't hold back the rising wave of unease in his chest, kicking off a surge of adrenaline through his system.

Get a hold of yourself, Eames tells himself in a voice that sounds disturbingly like that of his father. Arthur's going to start to suspect something's wrong and that simply cannot come to pass.

"Alright, large caps," Eames says out loud. His voice is level, though his heart is racing.

Arthur doesn't say anything for a long moment, but then the hand still resting on Eames' chest lifts. "You're sure?"

Eames takes a breath, then another, trying to quell that panicky sense of unease. He focuses on relaxing all the muscles in his body, one by one, but his hands keep clenching up into fists no matter how many times he forces his fingers open. "No," Eames says reluctantly as he pulls the blindfold from his face; it feels a little like defeat. "Not this time."

Arthur's sitting on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed. He doesn't touch Eames--but he doesn't move away, either. "You're probably tired from the Great Wall."

Eames looks up at Arthur's expression, which isn't cold or hardened with contempt. It takes him a minute to realize that this may be Arthur's version of kindness. "I'm fine, I—" Eames sits up and tosses the blindfold into the far corner of the room. "Care to be sucked off, then?"

Arthur's eyes are dark and difficult to read. Eames looks away. "Sure."

Eames focuses on undoing Arthur's trousers, helping him slide out of the tight white briefs he's wearing. When Eames gets his mouth around Arthur's mostly soft cock, it's a relief to focus on something else.

Eames doesn't usually bother with technique when he sucks; the point is to plump Arthur up enough for a good fuck, not get him off. Some straightforward deepthroating usually does the trick, with wide fuck-me eyes thrown in for good measure. This time, though, Eames keeps his gaze straight ahead, eyes crossing as he takes in Arthur's well-groomed treasure trail, the light scatter of freckles across his lower abdomen. Arthur hardens in Eames' mouth, but monotonous sucking probably isn't going to be enough.

Eames can't recall whether Arthur enjoys having his balls played with or not; a light, exploratory touch with a few fingers seems to indicate that Arthur's not averse, at least. Arthur's never been terribly vocal in bed, so Eames slides a hand up to lie flat against his lower belly, feeling the minute muscles twitches beneath his palm.

Eames pulls back to suckle at the head, taking the balls more firmly in hand. He contemplates fingering but decides against it; they've never really gone near the topic of Arthur bottoming in any way, and even taking into account Arthur's general fastidiousness, one never knows what one might find up an unprepared man's bum.

Arthur's breathing picks up and Eames can feel the tension in his thighs as he restrains himself from thrusting. Eames pulls off to lick a line down Arthur's prick, stopping to mouth at the base and then take Arthur's balls between his lips. They're smooth and hairless, which is pleasant enough, all delicate skin and softness—a contrast to every other part of Arthur's body, which is scarred, calloused, and tightly muscled. Arthur's hips begin to shift and Eames brings a hand up to touch his cock, rubs a thumb over the head where precome's started leaking.

By the time Eames relinquishes the ballsack and takes Arthur's length in his mouth, Arthur's on the cusp of orgasm, muscles restless and twitchy. Eames only has to bob his head two times before Arthur is groaning, "Eames, I'm gonna—"

Eames sucks Arthur politely through it, holding his breath until Arthur's mostly finished before reaching over to grab a tumbler off the nightstand and spitting. As Eames trades the tumbler for a bottle of water, he reflects that Arthur's come is somewhat sweeter than he expected.

It takes Arthur a while to recover. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is slightly glassy. "That was… not your usual."

Eames raises an eyebrow. "Good?"

"Very." Arthur drapes an arm over his forehead, still panting. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Eames replies, finishing off the last of the water.

"Any more where that came from?" Arthur asks, jerking his chin at the now empty plastic bottle. His eyes are heavy-lidded, sated.

"Afraid not. I wouldn't recommend drinking the tap here, either."

"Too bad." Arthur sits up, shirt rucked up and hopelessly wrinkled. He scratches absently at his belly. "You want me to give your nipples another shot?"

"That won't be necessary," Eames says, getting off the bed. "The mood's passed."

"Okay." Arthur stretches, watching carefully. Eventually, he reaches for his underwear. "What's our next step?"

"Tokyo and that poisonous fish of yours, I suppose," Eames replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So we're just not going to talk about…" Eames levels a steady stare at Arthur until he trails off.

"I'll see you in Tokyo," Eames says.

Past

"I can't believe we did it," Arthur said, reaching over to steal Eames' freshly lit cigarette. "I mean I can, because we did, but—inception. Shit. I can't believe it worked."

"No cause for celebration quite yet," Eames replied as he reclaiming the cigarette. "All we've managed to do conclusively is avoid a lingering mental death in Limbo."

"Aren't you a ray of post-coital sunshine," Arthur said, sounding more amused than annoyed.

"I'm simply stating that it doesn't pay to get too ahead of ourselves. Anything could still happen—Fischer could go barking mad and attempt to buy the moon before week's end." Eames relented after he took another drag from his cigarette. "Although I must say—the scene in the vault went off even better than I expected."

"Yeah?" Arthur said, interested again. "What was it like?"

"It was—intimate." Eames held the cigarette out to Arthur and then stubbed it out on the nightstand when he shook his head no. "There's something remarkable about watching a man literally remake himself."

"So do you think he—we—succeeded?"

"I make it a habit of never giving guarantees," Eames said as he slides down on the bed and rests his head on a pillow. "But between you, me, and that psychotic projection floating about in Cobb's head—I think we did. I think we managed to implant an idea where there was nothing there before."

Present

Eames is packing when he hears the knock. Arthur has a particular way of knocking: three quick raps, a pause, then two slower ones. Eames doesn't bother going to the door—Arthur always lets himself in anyway. Eames can't count the number of times he's come out of the loo to find Arthur on the bed, watching pay-per-view porn on Eames' sterling.

But minutes pass without the telltale sounds of a lock being picked, and Eames frowns. Either he was wrong about the person at the door being Arthur (unlikely) or Arthur's actually waiting to be let in (even more unlikely).

Eames pulls the gun from the false bottom of his suitcase and stands. A peer through the peephole reveals only Arthur in the hallway, under no visible signs of duress. Eames opens the door warily, gun tucked away but easily accessible.

"Arthur," Eames says cautiously as he opens the door. "Don't you have a flight to catch in four hours?"

"I do, but I wanted to—ask you something before I go." Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Can I come in?"

Eames takes a step backwards to allow Arthur entrance, but stays ready for a trap to spring. "Of course."

Arthur doesn't move to sit down, and merely stands in the middle of the room awkwardly. "We don't really know each other, do we?"

Eames blinks and takes a step back. The hand that'd been reaching to put away the gun halts instantly. "We've known each other for eight years."

"I was trying to remember the last time we had a conversation that wasn't about work or a job or your sex bucket list," Arthur says quietly, "and I realized that before the other night, we never had."

Eames wonders if Arthur's been drugged or recently received a blow to the head. He doesn't seem concussed, but it would explain a few things. "I don't make heart-to-heart conversations a regular feature of my interactions with colleagues. Do you?"

"Not really, no."

They stare at each for a long minute before Arthur turns to go. "Why did you ask?" Eames says suddenly. "About my tattoos."

"I don't know," Arthur replies, sounding as baffled about the whole thing as Eames. "It just seemed like—the thing to do at the time."

"Right," Eames says dumbly as the vague confusion he's beginning to associate with Arthur rears its head again. Arthur, with whom things had been so straightforward and simple for so many years; Eames starts to wonder if he's taken a good thing and chucked it into the bin for the sake of a sex bucket list. "Well. Jolly good, then."

"Uh, cheers," Arthur says as he exits the room. "Have a nice flight."

After Arthur's gone, Eames looks down at his gun and wonders if he should be shooting himself out of a dream. A quick flick of his totem confirms that however fanciful the notion of Arthur being pleasant and sincere and respectful may seem, Eames is indeed awake.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Eames asks his gun. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—it has no answers for him.