Chapter Text
Eames wakes up to an empty bed, the sheets by his side cool to the touch. He gets up with a grunt, not bothering to dress beyond the joggers he went to sleep in. After a long piss and a cursory cleaning up in the sink he walks out into the living room.
Arthur is seated on the floor in front of the coffee table, the TV on a business news channel, his laptop open, perched precariously on one edge of the table and open on the New York Stock Exchange page, on the table is a file. Arthur is frowning at a glossy picture of Robert Fischer that he held in his hand, a recent one from what Eames could tell.
“I didn’t know we still had Fischer under surveillance,” Eames comments idly as he rounded the sofa and bends down to kiss Arthur’s temple.
The man hums distractedly, reaching over to switch tabs and open a live CCTV feed from Fischer’s office. It’s empty.
“You know if I was a jealous man, this would be cause for concern,” Eames proclaims, glancing over his shoulder at all that was gathered on their former mark. It isn’t the first time he’s walked into a scene like this.
It was the first time he’s been in close quarters with Arthur after a job is finished so it might as well be his modus operandi after one, given his meticulous nature. But something tells Eames that that’s not all there is to the story.
Arthur graces Eames with an eye roll dropping the photo onto the table and rubbing at his eyes. These little signs of stress, the constant thumbing through news feed on his Blackberry device, the distraction that’s evident over the past few days, these are all signs Eames has flagged for further observation. It’s in his nature to observe behaviour, to identify patterns, to form connections and justifications, suss out motives, and he’s not quite sure he’s liking what he’s seeing.
Eames pulls away but before he can make his way to the kitchen, he’s stopped by Arthur’s hand snaking out and gripping his wrist.
“I’m just being cautious, Eames. Don’t worry about it,” He replies, turning his head up and pulling Eames downwards, slightly, like a pup asking for pets.
“Seems to me it’s a bit more than caution, darling,” He says as he gives in to the unspoken demand and leans down to kiss Arthur. The man can be downright adorable when he tries to subtly ask for affection. After two weeks of living together, Eames has gotten adept at reading some of the signs.
They pull away after a while, before going in for another, small pecks that speak of comfort and familiarity. Domesticity.
If anyone had told him that there would come a day when Eames would be exchanging soft morning kisses with Arthur-no-name, then he’d have laughed himself silly. Neither of them have ever really been the soft and sweet kinds but perhaps almost losing one’s mind to Limbo changes certain things. Eames is also inclined to blame the years of complicated feelings between the two.
“I’m craving a fry up. We still got some of those sausages?”
“Mm, yeah, put some coffee on? I slept like shit.”
“Oh did you?” Eames teases, entering the kitchen and searching through the cabinets. “Was this after you passed out from orgasmic bliss?”
“I woke up to your fucking ice cold feet and come dried all over my stomach. Had to take a shower in the middle of the night. Couldn’t go back to sleep after.”
“You’re making me sound like an animal, I cleaned you with those wet wipes you’ve got on your bedside table.”
“You didn’t do a good enough job, Mr. Eames.”
Eames looks over his shoulder from where he’s browning the sausages. “Next time why don’t you stay awake long enough to take a shower instead of passing critique on my washing up skills?”
Arthur brushes past Eames and pours himself some of the freshly brewed coffee. “I don’t pass out every time, asshole.”
“No, just when you’ve been waking up at ungodly hours to add to your Fischer shrine,” Eames bandies back, deliberately nonchalant.
There’s a beat of silence before Arthur puts his mug down with a pointed noise. “Keeping tabs on me?”
Eames rests the spatula on the side and turns around, folding his arms in front of his chest. He sees Arthur’s eyes trail down his biceps and he’s a little perversely pleased that his lover is distracted by him for a moment, even during the midst of their little domestic.
“You really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Can we not? We work very differently, Mr. Eames. Let me do my job-”
“It’s not your job to stalk the mark weeks after the job’s done, Arthur. Give me some credit. I’ve worked on a good number of dreamshare jobs myself.”
Arthur pushes away from the counter with an annoyed scowl. “Your eggs are burning,” he says snippily before going back to the coffee table and gathering up his papers and laptop.
“What? You want me to serve you in your office, princess?”
“I’m not fucking hungry,” is the last response before Arthur disappears into the guest bedroom that’s seen no use since the first night Eames crashed there.
“Bloody buggering arse.”
Eames is in the middle of giving, in his opinion, a spectacular blowjob when Arthur’s phone chimes loudly and obnoxiously. Ordinarily he wouldn’t give it much mind if only his bed partner hadn’t removed his hand from Eames’ hair and reached for the infernal device. And then continued to use the bloody thing.
He pulls his mouth off Arthur’s cock, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Usually when I’ve got a bloke’s cock in my mouth, they don’t go soft before they come. Feeling your age, Arthur?”
Arthur looks over his phone at Eames with a frown, “I’m younger than you.”
“All the more reason for me to be concerned.”
“I’m not fucking soft,” Arthur argues, gripping himself at the base of his cock with his free hand. “Give me a second and I’ll - we’ll get back to it.”
“Don’t bother.” Eames pushes off the bed, tucking himself back into his pants. “Kind of a mood killer, playing second fiddle to your phone.”
He’s tempted to leave Arthur holding his dick in his hand, to maybe find the nearest warm body willing to get off with, come back smelling like someone else. It’s easy to be vindictive and want to hurt Arthur because his own pride is hurt.
It’s harder for him to see that maybe Arthur is already hurting and that these are all symptoms. Maybe there’s something to be said about personal growth.
“I- It’s Fischer.”
“I gathered as much,” Eames says, plopping onto the other side of the bed and reaching for the cigarettes, lighting one up in the room. Arthur can deal with his pet peeve of not wanting smoke inside his flat since Eames is dealing with his shit on a daily basis.
“Don’t fucking do that in there,” Arthur, predictably says, finally having located his sweatpants and in the middle of putting them on.
Eames shrugs and ashes onto the bedside table.
Arthur throws away the phone and rubs his temples, leaning back to sit against the headboard. “He’s just finished his appointment with the therapist. She types up her notes after every session.”
Eames remains silent, there’s nothing he can say that he hasn’t already. They both know that none of this is in any way just a routine check up.
“I know this isn’t - I know I’m being... excessive and I’m sorry if it’s affecting you -”
“Affecting me? Arthur, you nitwit, I’m concerned because it’s affecting you . Do you think I’m upset because you’re distracted with work? I expected I’d be seeing something like that, given you’re the textbook definition of a workaholic-”
“I don’t understand then, if you knew it was a part of me then-”
“Oh, I did. I do. And I accept that fucking part Arthur. But this isn’t work, it’s an obsession. To be quite honest, I think this is you filling the gap that Cobb left behind.”
“Oh my god, you cannot be serious. You think I’m in fucking love with Fischer or something?”
Eames takes immense pleasure in stubbing the cigarette onto the pristine wooden side table. “Don’t be absurd, Arthur. You were never in love with Cobb. You were inexplicably attached to him. I think you exchanged one obsession with the other.”
He walks towards the door, pausing only to grab his trousers and shirt from where he’d thrown them in a fit of passion.
“I’m going for a walk. Text me if you need something from the shops.”
“It’s almost midnight!”
Eames doesn’t deign to respond.
Arthur 4:47 pm
Are you seriously going to walk out on me every time we have a disagreement?
Arthur 6:14 pm
Can you reply to let me know you aren’t dead in a ditch?
Arthur 7:31 pm
I’m sorry.
“What’s all this?” Eames asks, even though the question is a bit redundant. He can recognise most of the papers and photos from Arthur’s constant surveillance on Fischer. There’s a lot more than he anticipated but he’s not exactly surprised.
“You know what this is.”
“Is this a grand gesture where you’re going to throw all of this into a fire in some symbolic bonfire?”
“What? No that’s so fucking stupid and wasteful , jesus, not to mention this is still relevant information we can use- why the hell would I burn it all?”
“If not that then what are you trying to accomplish, darling?”
“It’s.. an intervention of sorts. And an explanation I guess.”
Eames nods, shucking his shoes and nicking the bottle of whiskey from the floor where it sits half empty next to Arthur. “Liquid courage? And no glasses?” he asks, needles to be blunt, but barely gets a twitch for his troubles. He sits next to Arthur on the sofa, taking a moment to simply look over him. Arthur meets his gaze unflinchingly. There’s an air of tired frustration clinging to him, the wrinkles and dark circles evidence of Arthur’s sleepless nights. Even on the most demanding of jobs, Eames hasn’t really seen Arthur in such a state.
If he’s being honest to himself, he’s not seen much of Arthur in the past few days. His frustrations over the little domestics they’d been having about Arthur’s problem had kept him from seeing how badly it was affecting the man.
It kind of makes his anger deflate which is closely followed by irritation at himself for being so easily mollified without even a word of apology. But then again, Arthur’s always affected him like no other. And his little two day outing had been more than helpful in mellowing him out a bit.
He takes a sip or two from the bottle but loses interest quickly and puts it down precariously on top of a stack of files. The sea of papers and photos are rescued from an impromptu whiskey bath by Arthur’s intervention but Eames is more focused on scanning through what all Arthur had managed to collect over the past three weeks.
“Jesus Christ, Arthur. Routine surveillance, was it? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d had a camera installed up his arse too.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me speak.”
Eames hums, half turning to him, curious despite the weeks of progressively increasing concern about his - about Arthur.
“I fucked up. On this job, I - no, wait, don’t interrupt. Let me - A lot of it was Dom, hell, most of it was Dom. Letting Saito come along, hiring a university student, his fucking secrets and his neuroses… God, none of that was okay but a part of it - of the blame was mine too. I fell short on my research. I should’ve known about the militarisation. I should’ve gotten through to Dom, somehow, should’ve told you, if not the others about Mal. I was too caught up in - in everything. In Dom’s shit, in my own crap, the job, whatever was happening between you and me…” Arthur trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Eames isn’t surprised at Arthur shouldering some of the blame, or responsibility rather - they could all do with a bloody self-evaluation now and then - but the level of self-recrimination is something Eames never expected from someone like Arthur. Although, it’s evident now that Eames might be operating on some prior biases that need to be reexamined.
“I think we all contributed to that cock up in our unique ways. But we got the job done, Arthur.”
Arthur snorts, “Not you. You were perfect.”
“I’m sorry, say that again?”
“I meant what I said. You… you got us through this job.”
“You helped,” Eames adds facetiously.
“I did more than just help , Mr. Eames,” Arthur cuts in, “Everyone pulled their own weight, don’t let this get to your head, but you… you did good.” The awkward phrasing is left hanging in the air before Eames attempts to wrangle the conversation back to the topic at hand. He’d be a right twat if he gets distracted by Arthur complimenting him in this roundabout yet brutally honest way, rare as it may be.
“Flattering me isn’t going to get you out of thi-”
“I’m not flattering you, asshole, I’m - I’m getting there.”
Eames holds up his hands in defeat and leans back propping his arm on the back of the sofa, waiting for Arthur to get his thoughts in order. Arthur looks over his shoulder with a smirk, the utter minx, before continuing.
“It’s funny, y’know, how it all turned out cause I fought Dom like hell to keep you out of the Fischer job.”
Eames simply raises an eyebrow urging him to go on despite how that one stung his pride a bit.
“After your… the Silvas job, I didn’t want you for inception. Nothing against you, you’re actually one of the best forgers in the business, so you should’ve been on the team but... I saw what it did to you. What happened to the mark. The crime scene photos alone… I mean after a while we’re desensitised to all this shit. You could parade a whole line up of mangled corpses and I wouldn’t twitch but that mark. Stuck with me I guess. Maybe it hit too close to home, what with Mal and all. Or Project Somnacin. I don’t know, I’m not a shrink. Point being…”
“You were worried that Fischer was gonna lose his mind because of what we did to him.”
“Yeah. In a sense. I mean this is so fucking unprecedented. It’s - there’s no data points to fall back on, no pattern to rely on. I hate uncertainty and there’s nothing but uncertainty here.”
“Did you find anything?”
“No, he seems… fine. Actually he seems more at peace now than before.”
“Told you we should’ve charged Fischer more for therapy.”
“Eames. We can’t know for sure. Fischer is smart. He knows how to - if he’s made a decision already - I mean-”
“Arthur. Stop. You can’t do anything. It’s out of your control. Whatever he decides, whatever direction he goes, it’s out of our hands. We did our job, we tried to limit the damage we could have wrought inside his mind. Beyond that,” Eames shrugs, “it’s not our responsibility.”
“I can’t - how are you so calm, I thought you -” Arthur shuts his mouth with a sharp click, and something falls into place for Eames.
It wasn’t like Arthur to ruminate over the morality of their actions. They both had a strong set of principles and lines in stone they would never cross, but if nothing was at odds with that then questions of culpability seemed almost laughable when their job was stealing from people’s minds. Arguments could be made that just entering someone’s mind like that was disturbing the equilibrium with untold consequences. If they stopped to think about the moral underpinnings of their every act, well, they’d have no time or the stomach to actually do their bloody jobs.
This was something else, something personal. Not to say that Arthur isn’t feeling the weight of guilt and uncertainty that he so openly admitted to. Not to say that Eames hasn’t lain in bed thoughts running along similar lines. Still there is something more, something closer to his heart to all this.
“Arthur, were you trying to protect me?”
Arthur avoids his gaze, and after a moment of silence, shrugs. “If I kept an ear to the ground, you wouldn’t have to. You - we wouldn’t be blindsided like the last time. Maybe I could do something to prevent it, if I knew in time, I don’t know, hadn’t thought that far.”
It takes a moment for the implications to sink it for Eames, for the naked proof of Arthur’s care be processed. Eames knew he cared, obviously, knew that those feelings ran much deeper and since much longer than he would have thought but to have someone go to such lengths to protect him, and for that someone to be Arthur - it was something overwhelming.
“What made you lay your sins bare for me to see?” At Arthur’s look, he clarifies, “I’m not taking the piss, okay maybe I am a little, but I really thought I would have to drag it out of you.”
“I didn’t want history to repeat itself.”
Eames frowns at that, having an inkling of where it was going, but he chose to let the silence linger. He’d discovered that with Arthur, there was no better way to get closer to the issue at hand than giving him some space.
“Mal’s obsession took her life, Dom’s… well, almost all of ours … at the trajectory this is going I don’t know what mine will end up taking. Maybe we’re all cursed,” Arthur scoffs.
“That’s a little fatalistic of you, darling. But you’re forgetting, there’s something you have that they don’t.”
“What, you ?” There’s a tinge of amusement there, a hint of a smile.
“No, insight . Although having me in your corner is a pretty big advantage to have too.”
“Do I? Have you in my corner even after you saw how much of a mess I actually am?”
“Undoubtedly, darling. More so after the fact. It’s a nice confirmation that you’re not infallible, and that you might need me too. For more than a shag.”
“You’re too high maintenance for me to tolerate you for just sex.”
“Me? I’m the one who’s high maintenance?” Eames asks, looking around the entirety of Arthur’s research pointedly.
Arthur huffs a laugh before leaning back and letting his head fall onto the back of the sofa, centimetres away from where Eames’ hand rests. “Thank you, for pulling my head out of my ass. You managed to do something I couldn’t for Cobb in years.”
Eames smiles, shifting closer and carding his fingers through Arthur’s soft unstyled hair. “He was too far gone for you, Arthur. Nobody could have saved him because he wasn’t ready to be saved. I would also chalk it up to you being a lot less barmy than him.”
Arthur smacks Eames’ chest with his free hand, “I don’t know why you’re so antagonised by him.”
“You don’t?” Eames quips, and Arthur relents with a sheepish smile before moving towards him. He straddles Eames’ lap, knees on either side of his thighs, and Eames’ hands come up to hold him at the waist, pulling him closer still.
“If I remember correctly, I’ve got some making up to do,” his lover says smirking at Eames, his dimple on full display. Arthur’s clever hands come up to frame his face and pull him into a long, filthy kiss.
“Mm, you taste like whiskey,” Eames murmurs before diving right back in for another taste. Arthur moans in response, and the sound is like music to Eames’ deprived years. “Missed you something terribly, pet.”
“No matter how sappy you try to be, you’re not getting me to fuck on top of my research.”
“...you know me too well.”