Archive of Our Own

'48 hours. We'll find you,' is all the note on the dresser says. Arthur's state of the art security system was expertly disabled. The paper yields no fingerprints, and nothing else in his house has been touched.

Courteous of them, Arthur supposes, to give him time to set his affairs in order.

"This doesn't seem like your scene," Arthur says, glancing around the hyper-modern, glass-filled hotel lobby.

"But it is yours, isn't it?" Eames replies. "Allow me to escort you to your room."

Slippery, was the first thing Arthur thought when he met Eames. Not like 'slippery when wet' in a sexy way, although that, too. Eames struck Arthur as the kind of guy who was always checking the exits, calculating who he'd need to get over to reach them. It used to make Arthur wary, avoid working with him no matter how impressive his skills were otherwise. Now it's a relief to be with someone who possesses such a finely honed sense of survival. He knows Eames will find a way out for himself, no matter what happens.

"Penthouse suite," Arthur says, when they step into the elevator. "For me?"

"A reflection of the high esteem in which I hold you and your talents."

Arthur gazes at himself in the mirrored doors; he looks tired, like he hasn't slept. He'd tried on the flight into Vancouver but couldn't quiet his mind long enough to drift off. "Even though I'm an unimaginative stick in the mud?"

Eames looks over at Arthur with wide-eyed dismay. "Unimaginative--now who would have the gall to say such a thing? Tell me immediately, so I may order the fool flayed alive."

Arthur snorts. Shit like that always bothered him--made him wonder if Eames was ever going to stop looking down his aristocratic nose at Arthur. But the usual swell of anger, irritation doesn't rise up. Probably because it doesn't really matter now.

They step off the elevator into the suite. It's massive, richly decorated, with floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides with views of the city. There's a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon on the table next to a fruit and cheese spread. Eames is definitely not spending his own money on the suite, but the fact that he arranged Arthur's pickup and accommodation on less than twenty-four hour's notice must mean that there's a hell of a payout. Or, more likely: Eames owes someone powerful and dangerous a debt he needs to work off.

Arthur's been pitched some appealing jobs with good terms, but he's not used to being wined and dined like this. The fact that's it's Eames doing it--gorgeous, sensual, gravelly-voiced--makes the whole situation that much more surreal. Under ordinary circumstances, it'd be enough to cause Arthur back out preemptively, slip away from the trap he'd suspect is being set.

But things are hardly normal. Why struggle to get out when he can relax into Eames' charm offensive instead?

"Shall I pop the champagne and toast to our new job?" Eames asks with a solicitous smile.

"You've barely told me anything about it." Not that Arthur actually cares.

"Haven't I? How careless of me." Eames covers the cork with a handkerchief and pops it expertly. He pours two overflowing flutes and offers one to Arthur. "Let's remedy that over a drink."

Arthur takes a sip. The champagne tastes expensive, the bubbles tickling his throat and threatening burps. Never been his thing, but for the sake of appearances he pretends to like it, just as he pretends to enjoy cheese and caviar and tiny portions of food with ingredient lists a mile long. He's half-listening to Eames make the sales pitch, wandering through the apartment and noting all the exits. He pauses by the in-ground Jacuzzi and turns it on.

He's thought about having sex with Eames. Who hasn't? Never seemed like a good idea, considering how small the dreamshare world was and how probable it was they'd have to work together again. After Conrad, Arthur learned his lesson about shitting where you eat.

No reason to worry about all that anymore. Kind of freeing.

Arthur interrupts Eames' spiel. "Care for a dip?"

There's a pause. "I suppose I could pop in. I'll fetch my swimsuit and be back in a minute."

"Who needs swimsuits in private?" Arthur begins undoing the buttons of his shirt, gratified when Eames' gaze follows the movement.

Never one to be caught off-guard for long, Eames says, "Not I, certainly."

"Might as well take advantage of the amenities while I'm here." Arthur kicks off his shoes, slips out of his trousers.

Eames doesn't bother hiding his interest in Arthur's cock. "Amenities. I suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Thinking about where to put it already?" Arthur tests the water with one foot. As far as lines go, it's a pretty weak one. Doesn't seem to put Eames off.

Eames advances, peeling out of his own clothing. He's hot as hell underneath the boxy suits: lightly hairy, tattoos, a nice ass. "Are my services being requested?"

Arthur slides into the tub and dunks his head under, emerging a moment later to push his hair back from his face. He pauses, water trailing in rivulets down the body he's worked so goddamn hard for. "Depends on what's on offer."

Eames' mouth has gone a little slack, those cocksucking lips parted and newly moistened. "I can come up with quite a few excellent offers, let me assure you. But before we get to that, you are acting rather--well, if you were anyone else, I'd say reckless. But I know you're constitutionally incapable of such a state."

Arthur shrugs as he glances at the cloud-filled sky. "Snowstorm's coming and we're gonna be trapped here for a day, at least. Might as well enjoy it."

Eames' expression is still wary, but he finishes stripping and steps into the water. "Very well. How about this: I would like to put that gorgeous cock of yours inside my mouth."

"Not a bad opening play," Arthur says, moving to sit on a higher step and raise his dick above water level. It's hard, of course, has been hardening ever since he stepped inside this ridiculous suite with Eames.

Eames gives a decent, business-like blowjob. It surprises Arthur; he'd have guessed Eames to be the type to tease, draw it out. But Eames sucks like he's trying to get Arthur off, determined and straightforward. When Arthur comes, Eames leans over to spit into an empty champagne flute.

Arthur returns the favor, takes a moment to enjoy the weight and sensation of cock in his mouth. It's uncut, which Arthur has always found interesting, and doesn't smell like piss, which he is grateful for. Either Eames is a fastidious guy or he freshened up before their meeting. Arthur swallows, because what the hell.

They relax in the Jacuzzi after, side by side but not touching. He's feeling loose, considers going to bed.

"When we first met, you said, and I quote, I don't know how you run things around here, but I don't mix business and fucking, end quote," Eames says. "What's brought about this change of heart?"

"My appetite for risk has grown in the past few days," Arthur says. "Besides, we're still in negotiations, aren't we?"

Eames leans back to study Arthur's face, which he works to keep neutral. "I didn't think you'd be the type to think of sex as a bargaining chip. Not that I object, mind you. I'm an entirely willing and enthusiastic proponent of this mutually beneficial set of terms."

"Glad to hear it," Arthur says, and he is. Not that he thinks he could force Eames to do much that Eames doesn't want to do.

"Alright." Eames stands, wet and gorgeous. "I'll leave you in peace to decide. This suite is yours for the week and I'll be downstairs in 1201--"

"Or you could stay up here," Arthur blurts out, and doesn't know why he says it. "Plenty of room."

Eames halts in the middle of toweling himself down. "You want me to stay the night," he says, slowly. "With you?"

"I could be up for a few more rounds." Arthur gives Eames' naked body a deliberate once over. "Maybe try another option in the morning."

Eames is clearly thrown by all this and Arthur can't blame him; Arthur's feeling pretty baffled by the words coming out of his own mouth, too. "I suppose I could pick up a few things from my room and return."

"Good," Arthur says, inane because he doesn't know what else to say. "I'll be here."

While Eames heads downstairs in a terry bathrobe, Arthur showers, brushes his teeth, and unpacks. Arthur doesn't typically spend the night with hookups, and it's been years since his last relationship. Sleeping next to a colleague without a PASIV is unnecessary, bizarre. Part of Arthur wants to text Eames and tell him to forget it.

He's scrolling through emails on his laptop in bed when Eames returns, and it's--weird. They don't say anything as Eames climbs under the sheets wearing nothing besides a skimpy pair of briefs.

Arthur shuts the computer down and glances at the distance separating him from Eames on the king-size bed. It occurs to him they haven't kissed, despite having had sex less than an hour ago. For a crazy moment, he feels the urge to sling himself across Eames' body, to kiss until his lips feel bruised and raw.

The moment passes, and Arthur sticks to his side of the mattress.

Arthur wakes suddenly, disoriented and confused. He's in an unfamiliar room--a hotel room, upscale, in bed with a man. Shouldn't he be on the run? Moving every three hours, trying to escape--

The events of the previous week come back in a rush. The note, Vancouver, Eames' job offer. Right.

As the burst of adrenaline fades, more details begin to filter in: the darkness of the room, the sound of Eames' quiet breathing (asleep or sham sleep? Hard to tell), the fact that Arthur's cheek is resting in Eames' open palm. Other than Eames' outstretched arm, they aren't touching, and Arthur has no recollection of how this happened. There had been no cuddling, nothing that would have prompted this contact, and yet here it is: Eames cradling Arthur's face with one hand.

The last time anyone had touched Arthur's cheek with intent had been Faiza, who'd loved his dimples. She'd touch the spot where they appeared, trying to coax a smile out of him. That had been before she got fed up with the constant travel and lying. Before she decided a few sporadic dimples weren't worth the rest.

Arthur can remember the first time Conrad saw them, years--a decade ago. He'd done a double-take and grabbed Arthur by the shoulder. Said, "Holy shit, do that again," and, "I don't think I've seen you fucking smile once this past year, goddamn."

Arthur had responded, "Yeah, well, maybe if you weren't such a hardass, I'd smile more."

To which Conrad had replied, "It's my fucking job as your CO to be a hardass, you lazy hayseed."

Hayseed had been what Conrad called Arthur throughout their entire tour together. Arthur had to tried to protest in the beginning that he didn't know the first thing about farming, but the alternatives Conrad offered (Black Lung, Hard Hat and Canary) hadn't been that appealing, so Hayseed it was. The way Conrad had said it varied, though. When they were in public, Conrad barked it like an order, his full lips curving around the syllables with faint disdain. In private, he whispered it like an endearment with a touch of wonder, "Never thought I'd meet someone sweet like you in the middle of this bullshit, Hayseed."

Arthur doesn't know why he's thinking about all this. He hasn't seen Conrad since he left the military--last he heard, Conrad's still with his wife and kids--but there's something about the warmth of Eames' hand that reminds him of how Conrad used to make him feel. Like he wasn't just some hick who'd nearly flunked out of school and attracted pity or revulsion everywhere he went. Like he was a man with potential, with greatness locked inside, worth knowing. Loving.

Arthur rolls his head away and sits up, rests his elbows on his knees. It's three AM but he doesn't feel sleepy, wants to get up and move around. Usually he'd exercise, but with less than twenty hours left, there doesn't seem much point. Every hour counts.

He considers raiding the minibar, discards the idea quickly; he doesn't want to be drunk or hungover. Room service? Probably too early for them to be operating.

He gets out of bed and returns to the living room, opens the leather-bound menu. Service five in the morning to midnight, it says, and he flips idly through the pages as he eats crackers from the leftover cheese platter.

He remembers when he'd first discovered room service; it'd been with Conrad, the night they spent together off-base. Conrad arranged a hotel room, one that must have been hard for him to afford even with his officer's salary. Looking back on it now, it occurs to Arthur that Conrad must have been trying to impress, might even have been as nervous as Arthur. Arthur'd been too distracted by the pounding of his own heart to notice, overwhelmed by the idea of spending a whole evening alone with the hottest guy he'd ever met.

Arthur tried to play it cool, not letting on that he'd never stayed in a hotel room before, never done anything beyond sweaty, hidden handjobs before. But he'd been unable to hide the fact that he had no idea what the phrase "room service" meant when asked if he wanted any. Arthur had stuttered in confusion that the room looked clean already so why did they need to call another maid? Conrad laughed then. Not at Arthur, but delightedly, like he was happy there was someone in the world he could surprise with something as mundane as room service. That there were still marvels in the world, and maybe Arthur was one of them.

Conrad fucked Arthur after a dinner of room service burgers, because Arthur hadn't known what else to order. Making love, Conrad had called it. Arthur had been too repressed, too closeted to agree out loud, but that's what it felt like. The memory of it stretches out like honey dripping down a spoon's edge: Conrad's whispered endearments in Korean, the way he pressed inside, he way he held Arthur open for more and more. It wasn't the best sex they'd ever had, but Arthur had never known, before, that sex could feel like something besides desperation and relief.

Arthur closes the menu and goes to the minibar. In addition to the tiny bottles of alcohol, there's a full complement of junk food: chocolate, pretzels, chips. Shit Arthur used to love eating but gave up long ago.

Conrad used to tease him about his sweet tooth, joke that Arthur wouldn't know what to do with a vegetable if it ended up on his plate. That was when Arthur's early twenties metabolism could give him a six-pack on a steady diet of military rations, candy, and Mountain Dew. Once Arthur hit twenty-seven, the abs fled and left a gut in its wake. That's when he cracked down on his diet and forced himself to start eating salads; nothing worse than a skinny man with a beer belly.

Arthur tears open a bag of peanut M&Ms and savors the hit of sugar on his tongue. It's saccharine at first, but his taste buds adjust after the first three. Funny how quick the body can get used to anything.

"Jet lag?" Eames says, leaning casually against the doorjamb. His hair has been combed and the way he stands flexes most of the muscles of his upper body appealingly.

"Guess so." Arthur holds up his bag. "M&M?"

Eames crosses the room, naked but for his underwear. He doesn't break eye contact as he leans in, lips brushing against Arthur's fingertips as he eats the proffered M&M. Arthur takes the invitation to run his free hand down Eames' chest, slide around his waist and down the small of his back. Eames smirks. "Are we still negotiating?"

"I haven't said yes yet, have I?" Arthur squeezes Eames' ass, and wonders if he could convince Eames to ride him.

Eames leans into the touch as he eyes Arthur speculatively. "Not the request I was predicting."

"Is that a no?"

Eames puts a hand on Arthur's dick. "How would you like me?"

Eames takes cock like a pro, eyes heavy-lidded as he rocks up and down in Arthur's lap. Arthur leans back, letting Eames do the work. Eames comes first, sighing as ejaculate spurts over his own fingers. He smears it across Arthur's pecs as he plants his hands down for greater leverage.

Arthur thrusts up as he orgasms, knocking Eames off-balance. Eames falls forward, the lower halves of their faces colliding in a half-kiss.

Eames lies panting on top of Arthur, a solid weight pinning him down. Normally, Arthur would find it suffocating, seek to escape immediately. But there's something strangely comforting about it now, like he's being anchored to this world, to this moment. Arthur turns his head, just a little bit, and kisses Eames fully. He tastes like chocolate and peanuts, like something Arthur hasn't allowed himself to have in a long, long time.

Eames kisses back, deep and lingering as he brings his hands up to cup Arthur's face. When Eames eventually pulls away, he's breathing heavily, forehead creased and the corners of his mouth turned downwards. Eames stumbles to his feet and says, "I should--I need to--"

He doesn't finish his sentence before he disappears into the bathroom.

Arthur stares up at the ceiling. No point trying to decipher Eames' actions. For all Arthur knows, the job offer could be fake and Eames was actually hired by the men after Arthur to keep him in one place, hold him by any means necessary.

Makes no difference if he was. They're coming for Arthur whether he's with Eames in a four diamond hotel or he's alone in a Siberian gulag. There's nothing he can do to stop it.

Maybe this is all a dream. Arthur's given the idea some serious consideration despite his totem saying no. After inception, he's keenly aware of how susceptible any mind is to outside influence, how easily anything in a dream can be warped.

The conclusion he came to is that it simply doesn't matter: either he's dreaming or he's not. If he's dreaming, he'll wake up to some reality he can't remember here and now.

If he's not, well. He won't.

In the morning, neither of them talk about happened. Arthur orders food, asks if Eames wants anything.

"I suppose I could do with a croissant and a cup of Earl Grey," Eames replies, cautious as he tries to sound casual.

Arthur gets himself a big, greasy platter: eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes, beans, mushrooms, toast. He probably won't finish it all. Doesn't need to.

After breakfast, Eames seems mostly recovered and slips into his charming salesman mode again. He asks if Arthur's been to Stanley Park before. No, he hasn't.

"It's quite remarkable after a dusting of fresh snow," Eames says. "Something to see before people tromp about and muddy it up."

Arthur can't think of anything else he particularly wants to do, so he agrees to a walk. Eames turns out to be right: the park is huge and lovely, covered in a blanket of pristine white. There's water in the distance, a cloudless sky up above.

Arthur's never considered himself much of an outdoorsy type. This is despite growing up in the Asscrack of Shitsville, West Virginia, where there was literally nothing besides the outdoors. But he's reminded of something his mother said to him, one of the few things he remembers: whenever I look up on a clear day, it feels like there ain't nothing between me and that big blue sky.

Arthur hadn't known what she'd meant by that. Didn't get the chance to ask her, either, since she overdosed the next day in the bathroom of a McDonald's. That had been a fun morning, being pulled out of English class to identify the body at the morgue. For all he knew, she'd been tripping balls when she said that, spouting hokum about how the boundaries between people are imaginary, that we're all connected and the only thing in life that matters is treasuring that connection. She hadn't sounded high at the time. Sounded sad, maybe.

Arthur shoves his hands as deep into his pockets as they can go. It's cold out, cold enough for him to wish he had gloves and snow boots on. There hadn't been a chance to shop for weather appropriate clothing before he'd flown here.

Eames doesn't say much as they stroll through the park, and Arthur thinks about what it'd be like if it happened now. Wouldn't be a bad spot to get a bullet between the eyes. No anticipation or fear or worry, just: nothingness.

He wonders how they'll do it, when they do. Will it be quick and efficient or slow and torturous? They never seemed to go in for dramatics, but maybe that's wishful thinking on his part.

Arthur can't tell whether he wants Eames to be the one to find his body or not. On one hand, discovering a corpse is never fun, and he doesn't particularly wish that on Eames. On the other, it would let Eames know why Arthur is no longer available, and that he hasn't skipped out purposefully. Assuming Eames isn't in on it. If he is, well, maybe all this is the equivalent of a prisoner's last meal with a side of dessert from the executioner.

Arthur isn't sure what will be done with his body. He always assumed he'd end up in an unmarked grave, or wrapped in plastic sheeting at the bottom of a body of water. Would they leave it for the hotel staff to find? Unlikely, as that might lead to a possible murder investigation, but if they made it look like natural causes, maybe. Disposing of over a hundred pounds of dead weight is a hassle, after all.

The identity Arthur is traveling under has no living relatives. Even if they somehow find out his birth name, there's no one left to give a shit. Mother dead, sister dead, father who fucked off long ago. A distant cousin, might get dug up somewhere. Or maybe the US government will want him back; let eggheads autopsy him and study the physiological effects of long-term Somnacin usage.

He wonders if Cobb would notice he's gone. Probably not for a year at least. Since Cobb's reunion with his family, he's been more or less AWOL. They had one short burst of text messaging activity five months ago and nothing since.

He's taken care to keep Ariadne away from this mess, using temporary, untraceable emails to communicate and avoiding all in-person meetings. He sent her a warning yesterday that he has to lay low for a while. He's hoping she'll forget about him after a year has passed, and know better than to search.

As for what happens to the non-physical part of him after he's dead--well. No way to know that until the deed is done. When he was a kid, he got dragged to church a few Sundays just like everyone else in his hometown. It mostly seemed dull and hypocritical, the old man behind the lectern preaching purity while everyone knew he was fucking one of the married choir ladies. The people thumping the bible hardest were always the ones caught with their dicks out, sooner or later.

Anyway, none of that religion crap stuck. As far as he's concerned, once he's dead, it's over. That was one part of dreamshare that never phased him. After they were found out, Conrad's career in the military came to an involuntary end. Meanwhile, Arthur was transferred to the guinea pig unit for early trials of Somnacin. The trials consisted of them being hooked up and killed in dreams, repeatedly. Not everyone could hack it--most of the guys hated the prospect of dying, despite knowing they'd wake up. For Arthur, the worst part of the whole experience wasn't what took place in the dream; it was listening to some of the men scream uncontrollably when they woke up.

One of the researchers asked him how he stayed so calm. "I tell myself it's time to wake up, over and over," Arthur replied. "A mantra," the researcher said, and Arthur nodded like he understood. He'd had to look up what 'mantra' meant, later.

The mantra or whatever worked. He outlasted everyone else in the trials, got promoted in the division. Despite his colorful record, the army recognized he was the perfect lab rat, willing to get shot in the face over and over and over again.

Perfect at something, for the first time in his life.

"My toes have gone numb," Arthur says.

Eames pauses, glances over. "Let's head back. Wouldn't do to lose my future business partner to hypothermia."

"Would be a way to go," Arthur agrees. He'd considered that, too: suicide. Ending life on his own terms instead of waiting for some unknown to come and claim him. But he'd looked down the barrel of a gun and couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. He wasn't ready--not yet.

Back at the hotel, Eames suggests eating at a nearby farm to free range local whatever restaurant. It's easy to say yes, reminds Arthur of the countless meals they've had together on jobs.

A lot of people in dreamshare, American operatives especially, tended to work through lunch. They'd grab some shitty takeout or skip entirely, and subject the rest of the team to their hunger-induced crankiness later. Not Arthur, though. One of the few things the military instilled in him was the importance of proper nutrition and mealtimes. And not Eames, because he cared about nothing and no one enough to sacrifice meals. So they often ended up eating together in relative silence, or with some carefully coded discussion of the job.

Not this lunch, though. This lunch, Eames stares at Arthur like he's never seen him before. Then he starts asking questions.

"I hope you won't consider this presumptuous of me," Eames starts. "I wanted to ask: is everything alright?"

Arthur considers lying, gaze wandering from Eames to the clock behind him. It seems pointless to lie. It's not like there are many ways for Eames to use Arthur's secrets against him. "I've been better."

Eames' brow furrows. "Is there something that can be done to allay or improve the situation?"

Arthur shakes his head. He's run through the scenarios, charted every possible escape route. There's no way out.

"Is there something I can do?"

Arthur looks up in surprise. Eames couldn't possibly know what he's offering, what's at stake or what it means. But Arthur feels a twinge somewhere inside his chest, unfamiliar, not unpleasant. "No. It's--thank you," he says. "It's a temporary situation anyway. Won't last long."

Eames sits back, relaxes a bit. "That's a rather philosophical way to approach it, I suppose. This too, shall pass."

"The past few days have given me some new perspective. Or philosophy, like you said."

The waitress arrives to take their orders. Arthur gets himself a steak and asks for Mountain Dew. He doesn't have to worry about rotting his teeth anymore, so why not? They don't have it, of course. Eames raises an eyebrow at the order but doesn't comment, gets himself a fish entree with white wine.

Once she's gone, Eames says, "You've been acting rather--differently. Lately. Is this a result of the new--perspective you've gained?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that." Arthur shrugs. "Why? Not feeling it?"

"Oh, no complaints on my end. I thought we'd never get around to shagging, so that turned out to be a most agreeable surprise, indeed," Eames says. "It's merely the business we work in, you see. Radical changes in personality rarely portend anything good."

"You can always check if we're dreaming." Arthur shrugs again. "I don't think I am, but I guess that's what a projection or intruder would say, too."

Eames chuckles. "You aren't calming my rampant paranoia."

"That's not what I'm here for." Arthur thinks about kissing Eames again. He'd liked it more than he thought he would. Wonders if Eames would let him do it again. Probably, since he's still trying to sell Arthur on the job.

"Determined to wring me dry before you say yes, hm?" Eames says, and he almost sounds--fond. "What else will it take to convince you?"

Arthur thinks. "Will you tell me why you're chasing me this hard?"

"Because you're the best," Eames replies promptly. "The fact that you fill out a bespoke suit rather dashingly doesn't hurt, either."

"The best," Arthur repeats with a small laugh. Doesn't sound like empty flattery. He supposes he's worked at it, earned it. For whatever that's worth now.

"You don't agree?"

"Wouldn't know. Haven't worked with many people on point."

"I suppose that is true." Eames studies Arthur. "No one can do what you can do. Your adaptability, calm under pressure, and meticulous preparation beforehand is an incredible combination. Most people struggle for one, never mind all three."

"Positive performance review, huh? Does that mean I'm getting a raise?"

Eames laughs, and it strikes Arthur that he's never made Eames laugh (intentionally) before. "I suppose walked right into that."

Arthur wonders if Eames is trying to butter him up by laughing at his jokes. It feels nice, regardless. "I don't know if I've told you before how much I respect your abilities," Arthur says, because what's the harm in being honest now. "I've been tough on some of your plans, but you're creative and you've always delivered. I wouldn't have agreed to work with you so many times if I didn't think you were a solid partner on a team."

Eames is staring at Arthur, mouth slightly agape. He recovers himself. "That's--thank you."

The waitress returns with the drinks. After she's gone, Eames restarts the conversation, "Have you been to Vancouver before?"

"Once. A layover."

"I do hope you're enjoying yourself."

"Clean, spacious. Seen some attractive people," Arthur says, thinking about the hotel clerk who'd given him the eye at check in earlier. Arthur had noted his name in case things with Eames went south. Things could still, he supposes.

Eames smiles as he lifts his wineglass. "As have I."

This isn't where Arthur thought he'd be at thirty-three, sitting in an expensive restaurant flirting. Where he was from, most people got married young and stayed put. A man like Eames--seductive, foreign, worldly--was like an alien, someone that belonged in a movie theater forty minutes' drive away, impossible to touch. But here he is, asking questions like he thinks Arthur is the interesting one

Eames says something. Arthur blinks. "What?"

"I asked where you were," Eames says. As Arthur opens his mouth to say Turkey, Eames continues, "Sometimes, when we speak, your gaze drifts." He demonstrates, eyes looking at some indistinct point over Arthur's shoulder. "And it makes me wonder what is running through your mind."

"Thinking about things. Memories." It occurs to Arthur he could vocalize his thoughts. Who cares what Eames thinks about it? It's not like Eames' disapproval matters now. "Was thinking about how my life hasn't shaped up like I thought it would."

"And what were you envisioning?"

Arthur picks up his glass of Sprite--the closest substitute they had. It's light in his grip. "Not much. Wasn't sure I'd ever get out of my hometown."

"It seems you've done rather well for yourself," Eames says, thoughtful, not mocking.

"I guess so." Arthur looks down at his cashmere sweater. The robin's egg blue that Faiza picked out for him three birthdays ago. "Nicer clothes, better haircuts."

"Exterior changes. But the interior remains the same?"

"I don't know." Arthur pauses. "You change all the way through when you forge, don't you? It's why you're so convincing."

"Sometimes. It depends on what the mark knows about who I'm playing, and more importantly, what they want from that person. The trick is to give someone what they wish to see, not necessarily what's there."

"Like you're doing with me now." Arthur waves away Eames' objections. "It's okay. You have a job to do and I appreciate that. I'm not pissed. I'm kind of enjoying this."

"Perhaps you won't believe me when I tell you I'm enjoying myself as well." Eames presses his leg against Arthur's, underneath the table. "Although I must confess you've always been something of a mystery to me. Rather hurt my professional pride for quite a while that I couldn't discern more about you."

"I'm sure you guessed most of the basics."

"Some. I never could be certain, though, with all your infernal false trails and misdirection," Eames says, and leans forward. "I bet you grew up knowing you were special. Head and shoulders above everyone else."

"Sounds nice, but that wasn't me," Arthur says. The last person he told about all this was Conrad, and who knows if Conrad remembers any of it. Who knows if he even thinks about Arthur anymore. "I was in a car accident when I was eight. My sister died and I escaped the wreck without a scratch. Miracle kid, everyone used to call me."

Arthur waits for some platitude, some generic expression of sorrow in reply; he's heard them all. Instead, Eames asks, somber. "Did it feel like a miracle to you?"

"To be the only one left standing after a drunk driver plowed into our car? No," Arthur says. "My mother was in a coma for three days. Not that I understood what that meant--all the nurses told me she was taking a long nap. I hated being there, waiting. Whenever the nurses left the room, I'd shake her arm and say, it's time to wake up. It's time to wake up." Arthur pauses. "I got scolded whenever they caught me doing it. Didn't stop me for long."

"And your father?"

"He came to see us in the hospital when it happened. Walked out that same day, didn't bother to come back." The words feel distant, like they're describing events that happened to someone else. Arthur had been angry, scared. The memory is vague now.

"Ah, fathers. The multitude of ways in which they can serve as a bitter, lifelong disappointment." Eames take a long sip of his white wine. "I'm sure you're already aware of the sordid business with my own."

Arthur did know. Eames' records had required months of legwork to dig up, hidden behind a sea of aliases and shell companies. But once Arthur tracked down his surname, the one Eames was born with, the whole story unfurled itself neatly through a series of newspaper articles. A high profile banker and respected member of the peerage loses his fortune in a financial scandal. Rather than face prison, he kills himself, leaving nothing besides debt behind for his wife and young son.

When he'd pieced together Eames' history, Arthur hadn't thought much about what it meant to have a father like that--aside from it bolstering his long-held belief that rich people were cowardly scumbags. Sitting across from Eames now, though, Arthur thinks about Eames as a child of twelve. What would it have been like to be the only one in the house when it happened, to find a headless body, blood smeared across the wall.

"We both know how much the dreamshare world loves salacious gossip," Eames says. "And yet you've never told anyone about my past. Why?"

"People pay me to dig up secrets. I don't give them away for free."

Eames chuckles. "Fair enough. Though it does beg the question of why you're sharing some of yours."

"I guess I'm not scared of what you'll do with them anymore," Arthur says. "You ever get tired of pretending?"

Eames' smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm not sure I know how to do anything else."

They separate after lunch. Eames says something about work, and Arthur's got his own business to wrap up. They agree to meet for dinner.

Arthur returns to his penthouse suite, which has been cleaned and spruced up with a fresh vase of flowers. He never understood the concept of flowers: why would you want to stare at a bunch of plants that were already dead but didn't know it yet? Didn't make sense and it was a waste of money, in his opinion.

He turns on the TV, leaves it running in the background as he fills the enormous bathtub. He tosses in the bath salts, watches the bubbles form. The water is too hot to be comfortable but he sinks in anyway. He'll cope. He always has.

He considers his options for the next few hours. He wrapped up a lot of loose ends yesterday, dealt with formerly urgent business. Now would be the point to try some stuff, he supposes. Given the fantastical nature of his dreamshare career, the list of things left to try is pretty short. He has no interest in most of the typical vices: drugs, drinking, porn, prostitutes. There's nothing material he especially wants that he doesn't own already. And it's not like he can take any of it with him.

He's never tried gambling. After he finishes with his bath, he gets his laptop and plays a few games of online poker. Bets on a sporting event, a horse race--loses both money and interest in short order.

That being done, he opens his email out of habit. It's mostly spam, some notifications about people he'd been tracking, research results for a job in Oslo he'd been considering for next year. The only thing he bothers opening is from Ariadne, who acknowledged receipt of his previous email and asked him to be careful. Ariadne. Cobb.

Arthur considers, then opens up his bank's website. Saving a small portion for incidental expenses, he splits the contents of his accounts between Cobb and Ariadne. It can help pay for the kids' college tuition, while Ariadne can use her half to pay off student loans or whatever else she wants. He wires them the money with a note about delayed payout from Inception due to a banking mix-up. Hopefully they don't bother trying to contact Saito to confirm.

After it's done, Arthur looks at the tiny number in his bank account. It hasn't been that small since he'd first opened it, back when he was eighteen and had just joined the army. Conrad had helped him with it. Patiently sat down with Arthur to explain terms like compound interest and debit, rather than razzing him for being a rube. Arthur had been irritated and bored by the lesson, too ignorant to recognize his ignorance or feel any gratitude. Lucky beyond what he deserved and he didn't even know it.

Arthur googles Conrad, and the first thing that pops up is his Facebook page. There's not much on it, though he is listed as married. His profile photo is of his family. In it, he's looking down at two kids while his wife looks at him. A Korean girl his parents could approve of. He's handsome, barely aged. Arthur feels a strange, sharp pang.

"You're not into women at all?" Arthur had once asked him, incredulous.

"You're also into women?" Conrad replied, equally incredulous. He tried to come out to his parents and was nearly disowned. "Then what are you doing with me?"

"Well, it's not as if people are the same," Arthur stammered, unable to articulate what he meant. "I really--like you."

He hadn't been able to say 'love' then, no matter how many times Conrad said it to him. He'd been scared of what would happen, though not scared in the way that Conrad was. If Arthur was honest with himself, it probably had more to do with admitting out loud that he had something--someone--to lose. The thought of caring that much had sickened him, enough to put up a wall and ignore how the light behind Conrad's eyes dimmed in response. Arthur had told himself that he was doing the smart thing, protecting himself enough to survive when it finally ended between them. But now--he wonders.

He looks up Faiza, who is now married to an international financier. Things had been simple between Arthur and her, all surface and no drama. He'd thought they were in agreement on both wanting that, but he can still remember her saying through tears, "Do you know me? Because I feel like I've been waiting a year for you to tell me who you are."

She looks happier now. Arthur couldn't be that guy for her, but he hopes she's found someone that is.

Arthur tracks down other exes, notes their weddings and kids, a few deaths. Based on their social media images, they're mostly doing well. He doesn't want to dig up the other sides of their lives online--their arrest records, credit card debt, divorces. It's nicer to imagine they've all gotten what they want out of life, no matter what the whole truth might be.

Out of curiosity, Arthur does a search for Eames. He's a ghost, officially dead in government records. One of his aliases has a Linkedin account, another a defunct Twitter feed. No identifying information, no photos.

Eames. After all these years of working together, he's nothing like Arthur expected. If Arthur had to guess how their story would play out before Vancouver, he would have said: Eames invites him to celebratory drinks after a job. They get wasted in a shitty bar and have sloppy, inconsequential sex in an anonymous hotel room. The next morning, Eames is gone along with all the cash in Arthur's wallet. The end.

Instead, they'd fucked last night, gone on a date in the morning, talked about their worthless dads--and were coming back for more. Funny how things work out, now that Arthur doesn't have to worry about the future.

Eames has changed into a dark suit, closely fitted to his broad chest, and a green shirt underneath that brings out his eyes. Everyone in the restaurant is watching him, discreetly or not.

"Hey," Arthur says, greeting Eames with a brief kiss. "You look great."

Eames blinks, taken aback by the display of affection. "Thank you."

They're seated by a window overlooking over the English Bay. It's dark out, aside from the moonlight illuminating the surface of the water. The restaurant itself is dimly lit also, candles flickering on the tables next to freshly cut roses.

"If you're up for it, perhaps we could try the tasting menu. I hear it's divine," Eames says.

"Sure." Arthur's gotten his steak, his candy, his greasy breakfast food. Everything else is gravy.

"The tasting menu does come with suggested drink pairings, although if you're still interested..." Eames gestures to the waitress, who steps forward and presents a bottle of Mountain Dew, neon green a shock of color amid all the tasteful neutrals of the restaurant décor.

"Holy shit," Arthur says, slightly stunned as she pours it into a glass with ice. "You found some. That's--thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Eames murmurs, all self-effacing British manners.

Arthur takes a sip of Mountain Dew, the familiar burst of sweet spilling over his tongue. It tastes like being seven and playing on the swing set with his sister; like his mother teaching him how to drive; like sitting across from Conrad on their first date in a diner. He leans across the table to touch Eames' wrist. "I don't know how to say what this means to me. Thank you."

Eames looks down at Arthur's hand. "It's the least I could do."

The first course arrives, with a lengthy explanation by the waitress about the origins of every single ingredient. Arthur nods politely and pops the tiny bite in his mouth. It tastes good, especially when chased with Mountain Dew.

"When do you need an answer on that job?" Arthur asks.

"End of the week. You have, as I mentioned earlier, the penthouse suite for the duration. There's no rush." Eames eats his food neatly, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "This job is quite the commitment."

"You like it here?" Arthur asks, looking at the glimmering lights of Vancouver in the distance. "Enough to stick around for six months?"

"I do. The weather reminds me of the portions of London I actually enjoy, with fewer crowds."

"You know it's funny," Arthur says as someone comes to whisk their empty plates away. "I've never been to London. Never had a job or reason to go there before."

"I can't say it's my favorite city, but it does contain a lovely spot," Eames says. "A small garden, entirely out of the way and something you'll never find on any tourist map. I used to visit it at dawn and imagine I was somebody else. The window washer on the side of the skyscraper. The pregnant woman strolling through Hyde Park. Anyone."

The image of Stanley Park covered in a blanket of white drifts into Arthur's mind. The snow stripped away everything but the shapes, made the outline of the landscape distinct. Without colors and sounds to distract, it was like Arthur could see the world differently. Make sense of it in a new way.

Arthur's not sure why he's reminded of that now, looking into Eames' eyes. They're a remarkable color, shifting between hazel and blue and green in response to the ambient light. Arthur had been abstractly aware of them, but it's like he's never seen them before. Underneath his perpetually easy manner, Eames looks tired, uncertain.

"I should visit sometime," Arthur says, and feels a spike of yearning. Here he'd thought there was nothing left to want.

A smile glides across Eames' face once more. "We'll have to take a holiday there. I'll show you around once the job is concluded."

"You sure you won't be sick of me after six months?"

"I..." Eames' smile falters. He's spared from having to continue by the waitress arriving with their next course, some kind of translucent soup. After she leaves, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

Eames is gone a while. Arthur finishes his bowl of soup along with the soda. The waitress comes to clear their plates and ask if he wants a second bottle. He does.

When Eames returns, he's tense, serious. He takes a seat and leans across the table, voice low and urgent. "Arthur, there's something I have to tell you. It's about the client--"

"Don't worry about it," Arthur interrupts, because there's no point. Whatever Eames wants to say will probably ruin the mood. It won't change anything. Better to enjoy this--the food, the drink, the company--while he still can. "It doesn't matter."

"You asked me earlier, why you." Desperation bleeds through Eames' words as his brow furrows. "Don't you want to know why me?"

"It's too late for that," Arthur wants to say. The wheels are in motion and nothing can stop them. Not Eames, not Arthur. All that's left is to wait for the drop.

"We all have our reasons," Arthur says. "You don't need to justify yourself to me."

Eames' jaw works, but he nods as the waitress comes with their third course, poached salmon. Arthur doesn't usually like seafood, but this tastes okay. Meanwhile, Eames is picking at his, which is weird, because he loves fish.

"I suspect you think me rather a bastard," Eames says. "Willing to do virtually anything for money."

Arthur glances across the restaurant. It's full of wealthy couples, chatting or flirting or eating in silence. He's never felt comfortable in this type of place, with the unwritten rules and polite bullshitting. But if Eames grew up this way, Arthur can't blame him for wanting to come back to it. "If you're a bastard, then we're all bastards in our business."

Eames huffs a low laugh. "I've always appreciated your lack of sentimentality and self-righteousness. It made working with you far more pleasant than most. But I never thought..."

Arthur looks up. "What?"

"I'd be entirely wrong about someone." Eames pauses. "That laziness and complacency blinded me all these years."

Arthur looks at the soda in his glass, electric and delicious and entirely unexpected. "It wasn't only you. I liked the distance. I liked it that way."

"And now?"

"Now--" Over Eames' shoulder, the clock ticks. Only a few hours left. "I like this better."

Eames smiles as he picks up his wineglass. "A toast, then. To moving forward in a better direction."

Arthur holds up his own glass. "To the future."

"Hey," Arthur says, gently, after dinner is over. "Come up with me."

Arthur takes Eames by the hand and leads him to the elevator. He's never held a man's hand in public before. Never kissed a man in public before. It feels nice, in a way Arthur didn't think he'd care about.

When they get to the suite, Arthur kisses Eames' soft mouth again, savors it. Eames chases Arthur's lips with his own, thumbs coming up to stroke Arthur's jaw.

Arthur undresses him slowly, folding every article of clothing before setting it down. Eames waits, docile, while he does.

Arthur traces a tattoo on Eames' sternum, another circling his bicep, and the last on the curve of his hip. "What do they mean?"

"This one means I've done things I shouldn't have," Eames says, pointing first at his bicep. His finger moves to his sternum. "This one reminds me that illusions can be more powerful than reality. And the last commemorates the fact that I'm alive while someone else is dead, but it could have easily been the other way round."

"Will you get more?"

"I don't know, " Eames says. "Do you think I should?"

Arthur strokes the clean, unblemished skin over Eames' heart. Yes, he thinks. I don't want you to forget me once I'm gone. He says, "I've thought about getting one, but I couldn't come up with anything I wanted permanently etched into my body."

"It doesn't hurt as much as you might think," Eames says. "The pain fades. Quicker than you'd expect."

"Where do you think I should put it?"

Eames lifts Arthur's hand and drops a kiss to his palm, the inside of his wrist. "You could start with a small one here."

"Maybe when we go to London," Arthur says. "You can take me to a good tattoo parlor. Pick out something."

"I might choose a dreadful design."

"That would make it more memorable," Arthur says, allowing Eames to unbutton his shirt.

Eames chuckles. "A token to remember me by?"

"Something like that." Eames helps Arthur out of his jacket, his shirt. "And then I can take over your garden spot."

"I'll never have any peace again." Eames spreads his fingers over Arthur's chest, tracing the lines of muscle. "I'll never be rid of you."

"Lucky you," Arthur says softly, submitting to Eames' scrutiny.

"Yes." Eames kisses Arthur's shoulder, his collarbone, his neck. "Lucky me."

Arthur tugs Eames into the bedroom, encourages him to lay back on the bed.

"You're still wearing--"

"I want to lick you," Arthur says, hushing Eames. "Inside and out."

Eames sucks in a breath and spreads his legs. He's flushed and beautiful enough to make something ache inside Arthur's chest. It reminds him of what being with Conrad had been like, what it's like to want to be close to someone.

Arthur starts with the tip of Eames' cock, sucking at a tender pace until the foreskin eases back. He moves down the shaft, taking in the details he hadn't paid attention to earlier. Eames is warm, his skin softer than it appears. His hair is a tickle against Arthur's cheek.

Arthur teases Eames' balls, suckling each into his mouth while Eames' hips shift beneath him. He gives them a last nuzzle with his nose before ducking down to lick behind them. Eames gasps as Arthur opens him up, first with his tongue and then his fingers.

The gasp becomes a full-throated moan as Arthur swallows his cock down, three fingers still inside. "I'm going to come." Eames' hands dig into the sheets on either side of his body. Arthur looks up at him, meets his glassy eyes. He wants to make Eames shiver, and grin, and laugh. He wants another hour, another day, another year, because this isn't enough, this can't be--

Eames trembles as he climaxes, eyes slipping shut. Arthur swallows, eases him through it.

He's panting when Arthur pulls off, staring at Arthur once more with wide eyes. He beckons Arthur forward for a kiss, rolls them both over. His sprawling body pins Arthur as they make out, open-mouthed and eager. He shoves Arthur's pants and underwear off.

"Fuck me," Eames murmurs, harsh and low. "I want you inside me, making me hard, making me come--"

Arthur blindly grabs a condom off the nightstand, tries to reach for the lube but Eames writhes against him, impatient. Arthur's barely got the condom on before Eames is sinking down, head thrown back with a satisfied sigh.

Arthur takes the opportunity to tip Eames onto his back again, holding Eames' ankles open for better access. Eames hums contentedly as Arthur begins to thrust, arms snaking out to pull Arthur in.

Arthur rests his forehead against Eames' as he thrusts, making adjustments to the angle and speed in response to Eames' muttered, "Deeper, yes," and "left, oh, precisely there." It's overwhelming like this, Eames' raspy encouragement pushing Arthur to the edge and then reining him in. Arthur doesn't know how long they stay like that, doesn't know how he manages to stave off orgasm.

"Don't stop," Eames whispers, cheeks flushed. They're near enough to share breaths, gasping like there's not enough air between them. Eames feels amazing, tight and warm and solid, a reminder that Arthur's not alone. He's connected, bodily, physically, to someone. Eames shudders when Arthur puts a hand on his cock, comes in three strokes.

Arthur thrusts wildly, surrounded by Eames: legs around his waist, hands in his hair, holding onto Arthur's cock so fully and so sweetly. He's not ready for this to end.

"It's alright," Eames says. "You can let go now."

Arthur buries himself inside Eames, as deeply as he can. He shakes apart, vaguely conscious of Eames stroking his hair, murmuring soothing words interspersed with kisses. Orgasm feels wonderful and terrible, like being torn apart.

Arthur collapses on top of Eames. He wants to close his eyes and sleep. But there's less than an hour left.

"Bloody fantastic," Eames says, sounding dazed. "God. I can see you turning into a bad habit rather quickly."

Arthur forces himself up, off Eames, and rolls onto the mattress. "An improvement over earlier?"

"Considerable, yes." Eames stretches contentedly. "Full marks."

Arthur stares at the ceiling. There's a sleek, contemporary crown molding where the edges meet the wall. His breathing slows, evens out. "Eames, I've had a nice day."

"Vancouver is really quite lovely, isn't it?" Eames says. "Cold as anything now, but it'll thaw in a month or so. Then there's sailing and golf and other outdoor divertissements."

"I've never played golf." Arthur sits up on the edge of the bed. The air feels chilly and sharp against his sweaty skin.

"I can teach you how. The rules are quite simple," Eames says, breezy. "And it does make for a most relaxing afternoon."

"I'd like that." Arthur goes into the bathroom, cleans himself with a damp towel, and brings a fresh one out for Eames. Eames' smile when Arthur returns is broad and happy, enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes and reveal his crooked teeth.

Eames continues to fill the air with light chatter as Arthur wipes him down, proposing future plans and describing activities he's sure Arthur would enjoy. Arthur nods and tells himself not to linger, not to listen too closely. It'll only make the tightness in his throat worse.

A cellphone rings in the other room. The sound carries, sharp, through the walls. Eames sits up.

"The client is the only person who has that number," he says, frowning. "What on earth could he be calling about this late in the evening?"

Arthur looks up at the clock. Almost forty-eight hours have passed. "You should take it."

"I--" Eames hesitates, uneasy as the phone continues to ring. "Are you certain? I could--stay."

Stay? Arthur had never considered the idea that someone could, or would want to. His sister died alone. His mother died alone. And now, Arthur; he'd never imagined it any other way.

Once again, Eames doesn't know what he's offering--or does he? But Arthur doesn't want Eames to have to watch his brains splatter across the wall. Or worse, for Eames to get caught in the crossfire.

He wants Eames to be safe. To be okay. Regardless of what he's done.

"You should go." Arthur retrieves Eames' pile of folded clothing, presents it to him. "Let's get dinner tomorrow."

Eames dresses. He's no longer smiling.

Arthur never thought he'd live long. Nobody in his family had, so why him? But a part of him had thought--well, he hadn't expected it'd end like this. If he'd known this is how it would go, maybe he would have fought for Conrad harder. Maybe he would have told Faiza more.

Maybe he would have flirted back, all those years ago when Eames first flirted with him. Maybe they could have been something, in another life.

"Arthur--"

"I'm in," Arthur interrupts as he holds out Eames' cellphone, which has ceased ringing. "You can tell the client. You won me over."

Eames takes the phone. His throat works as he nods, once. "Right. I'm--they'll be pleased to hear it."

The door shuts. Eames leaves.

Arthur walks to the window, Vancouver glittering beneath him, lit up with millions of people going about their lives. Working and playing and loving and dreaming. Arthur did the work and even dreamed, in his own literal fashion.

He tries to remember his sister's face and can't. His mother is a voice, little more.

It could have been worse, as so many have pointed out over the course of his life. He was the miracle, the lucky one. But maybe--maybe it could have been better, too. If he could do it over--

Enough now.

Arthur takes a deep breath.

"It's time to wake up," he says.

It's time to wake up.

It's time to--