Work Text:
Eames doesn't remember how he got here.
That's the first thing really. There he is, tied to a chair whose legs stand at the edge of a pool, and the cool metal of a gun pressed to the side of his temple. The ropes on his wrists and chest are frayed slightly, where he feels the ends tickle his pinky. It's nighttime, a waning moon by the light, because his kidnapper may lack imagination but that has never stopped him from attempting flair.
"Arthur, darling,is this all necessary?" he asks, because if he's honest, there's an itch on his brow that's beginning to bother him more than he'd like to admit.
Arthur clicks the safety off before moving in front of eames' precariously placed chair. His mouth is pursed into a tight, unamused line and while Eames is typically always prepared to wax poetic about Arthur's face, the narrowed eyes at least partially accomplish their mission of intimidation.
He's in a sour mood, Eames thinks, and because he's Eames, he so enjoys moments of little forethought, and says exactly that. He can't help who he is, it's in his blood, his DNA, the very fiber of his being-
"You seem in a terribly sour mood, love."
"Don't call me that," Arthur snaps, and then slower, reeling himself back to the cool and collected mask that Eames despises, "Why did you sell me out to Myers?"
The anger in his voice is subtle (Eames snorts internally at the thought, because none of this is subtle), but he can picture it in the undercurrent of Arthur's skin, slow and venomous. He looks delectable here,(Now is hardly the time to be thinking of his fingers in those chocolate curls, scrapes of teeth on his neck, a heavy hand squeezing the solid line of Arthu's waist - no, Eames is simply cursed to have memories of this).
"This would go a lot faster if I knew what the bloody hell you're talking about," Eames replies.
The gun pushes closer. "Don't fuck with me Eames, I'm really not in the mood. Only 3 ppl in the world knew about the plan for Armstead Technology and who knew Myers would blow as many knee joints and break as many fingers as necessary to get the files from me, so," Arthur inhales deeply, "I'll ask again and only this once more, why did you do it?"
Eames' head spins as reality sinks in. Arthur believes every word. The tension of his forearm veins is stark in the blue reflected pool light, dancing across the fine hairs.
"As flattered as I am about the theatrics, you truly didn't need to go so far on my accord. I haven't the faintest clue what you're on about, so when you're ready to have an adult conversation about this, I'll be right here." They're bold words, and he hopes on hope that his nonchalance hides his fear about the situation.
Eames' head is yanked back by his hair, a sharp hiss escaping between his teeth. "Was the payoff worth it? I was this," Arthur emphasises, "close to being dropped into the Danube, just like this, so you'll excuse my impatience today."
"You think I'm playing? What's wrong with you, Arthur? I never even knew Armsweng, Amsterdam, whatever they are, before this, much less to sell you off to the highest bidder like cattle."
The grip on his hair has thankfully loosened, the tiniest fraction. Arthur's eyes bore into his, searching for the slip up that he's expecting, but Eames can only see fatigue and- a depth of something gone terribly wrong, like Arthur's world has turned itself inside and out.
For the first time in the evening, Eames catches sight of the healing cut running parallel to Arthur's hairline, how Arthur keeps his gun hand strong but wavering just the tiniest bit, Arthur's microexpression of a wince when he pulled Eames' hair.
Arthur doesn't say anything yet, just staring as Eames examines him. And then: "I saw communiques in your Sao Paulo apartment from Cha. The money was impressive, even by my standards, and the last someone had seen you was Bucharest. I can put two and two together. I really should've known." The inference is left hanging in the air, a live wire.
Eames gapes at him. "I haven't been to Brazil in months. And I'm not stupid enough to grass up one of the best point men out there and piss off no doubt the countless fans of your work. Did my apartment look liveable any way to you? Because I know for a fact that my electricity was out and the plumbing broke ages ago."
His hair is finally released, and he catches the flash of doubt in time. Bingo.
"What did they do to you?"
Arthur's jaw locks, and there's more wounds on the underside of his jaw that Eames can glimpse from this angle. He's somehow sure that what he sees is only a fraction of the damage that's been done.
"Arthur, I thought our relationship had more depth than that. What would I have to gain by getting rid of you?"
"That's not- you're-" Arthur groans, scraping a hand across his face, gun still held in his hand but thankfully, no longer pressed against his person. "You've always said you'd sell your own mother and her ducklings if the pay was good enough. What is anyone supposed to believe?"
Eames feels relief exhale through him. He's not 100% safe, he knows, not until he's been kicked awake and about 15,000 kilometres away from whatever seedy place Arthur has them camped out in.
A chair that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago is just far enough for Arthur to slump in and stretch his long legs. He looks drained as the day Mal died, a particularly unhappy memory that Eames can always perfectly recollect. Eidetic memories don't always come in handy, to many people's surprise.
"How low you must think of me, sweet." He wants to be shocked, but he knows that his own rumours and the reputation he had developed in the dreamsharing community is his own concoction. He's unsure why it bothers that Arthur thinks of him simply as everyone else.
"Fuck." Arthur's head is in his hands, and there's the slightest tremble in his hands. Clearly, the man hadn't recovered from whatever treatment had been doled out to him. "Fuck."
Arthur surges up and there's a flash of reflected light before the ropes on Eames' chest are cut loose and he can barely react before Arthur turns the barrel onto himself, a clean shot to the neck.
~~~
By the time Eames figures out a way to kick himself awake, only the faint scent of Arthur's cologne remains. A hastily scribbled note sits on the night stand of the bed.
I'm sorry.
~~~~~~
(Years later, Arthur and Eames will come back together for the Fischer job, where Eames will confront Arthur about all the favours he's called to pull Eames from every pickle Eames found himself in, self inflicted or otherwise. He'll catch Arthur at a weak moment and convince him for a drink when they land in LA, high on life and success and the sweet sound of his bank account filling up and by some miracle, Arthur will agree with only three attempts of flirtation versus his regular arsenal of five.
Arthur will flush so pretty in the yellow lighting of the dive bar, and apologise again about four times before Eames puts a hand over his. Arthur will pull away like he's been stung but it doesn't stop the blush or the way he turns away to gulp more beer with the smallest smile.
They'll go to bed together, and lie naked and touching, as Eames caresses each scar from all those years ago. He'll kiss each raised bump and feel this odd pull from his chest when he watches Arthur shiver each time. And slowly, he'll understand why Arthur couldn't do anything more to Eames that day, when Eames knows that had it been anyone else in that dream, they would've never seen him coming.)