Chapter Text
There are few things in life that Eames considers immutable. Politicians, holiday traffic, pepperoni pizza—these things will go on, unchanged and unadulterated throughout the test of time.
Once was, he would have added Arthur Last-Name-Redacted to that list. When they first met, Arthur was an uptight, cold-blooded bastard whose only redeeming quality was the rather heart-stopping way he filled out a pair of trousers. Over the months they both spent in Bumfuck, USA learning to become government extractors, the stick up Arthur’s fine ass only ever nudged the teensiest bit. When Eames “retired” himself from the British military, he did so with the expectation that Arthur would continue on as the CIA’s stalwart and increasingly frigid pet assassin. A time or two, he even wondered if Arthur would be the one sent to punish him for abandoning the project. He once lost a whole week of sleep to that bit of paranoia.
In other words, Eames is not at all prepared for the next time he sees Arthur, two years after cutting loose. He just about has a heart attack, coming face to face with Arthur as he has only seen him before in dreams—pinstripe suit, hair slicked back, dark eyes gleaming with mockery. The déjà vu is not an entirely pleasant feeling.
Not entirely unpleasant, either.
This new Arthur is like a completely different person than the man Eames once knew. Still hard and elusive, but hotly hostile instead of coldly dangerous. Instead of an avalanche, this Arthur is more like a lightning storm. No less fatal, but far more selective in his victims despite the constant hum of violence riding the air around him.
Eames can’t say in full honesty that he welcomes the change because, although Eames is less afraid of becoming a casualty every time he breathes in Arthur’s direction, it’s so much harder to hold that old attraction at bay. While still far from approachable, Arthur is at least real now in a way he hadn’t been before. A person instead of an urban legend. Every time he gets that murderous scowl on his face, Eames just wants to lick him up and down in the messiest of ways.
Probably not the most rational response, but then Eames has always been a bit bent.
They flit in and out of each other’s lives that year. The number of skilled, freelance dreamsharers on the ground is still slight enough that they frequently find themselves on the same job. Eames discovers that working extractions with Arthur is a far more tolerable than training with him had been. This time around, they’re on level standing, and no one is keeping score. Things might not be all puppies and rainbows between them, even now, but their shared background ensures a certain level of respect and compatibility that makes them dangerously effective at their jobs.
Nevertheless, it’s only a matter of time before a job eventually goes south. The mark turns out to be militarized, a growing threat in their line of work. Someone in the business has been loose-lipped, making it harder for a dreamthief to earn a living these days. Fortunately, Eames and Arthur are not the average extraction team. Arthur figures out almost immediately what they’re up against and shoots them both out scant minutes ahead of the mark. Enough time to beat a hasty retreat—not enough time to avoid a shoot-out in a six-floor parking garage.
Yes, they could and will battle their way out, but that’s only going to get them so far. Their mark, a powerful and predictably corrupt businessman, controls the local police force like it’s his own personal cleaning service. By now the entire city will be on lock-down. The entire job had been hinged on stealth, and without it they don’t have a viable egress plan.
The bullet-ridden Mercedes they’re huddled behind barely provides cover for the two of them. Probably best, then, that they’re down a man. Their architect, a sadly unmemorable bloke named Tomoki, lies dead several meters back, leaving just Eames and Arthur to return fire against the miniature army that has them pinned down.
Eames adjusts his stance so he’s no longer kneeling on shards of glass and empties the last of his clip into a trio of guards that are attempting to flank their position.
As he ducks down to reload, Arthur leans over his shoulder to finish off the flankers before resuming fire into main force blocking their exit.
From his position at Arthur’s side, Eames has a front row view when Arthur switches his gun to his left hand and pulls his phone out of his right trouser pocket. Eames can see the phone lighting up with an incoming call, but the displayed number means nothing to him. Arthur glances at the display, tucks the phone away, and keeps firing.
Less than a minute later, Arthur pulls his phone out again. Eames can see it’s the same number as before. He’s about to make a brilliantly witty remark about admirers and fan clubs when, astonishingly, Arthur answers the damn phone.
“Not now,” he barks, before hanging up. Immediately the phone lights up again.
Eames observes this little drama from the corner of his eye while maintaining a steady wave of fire. To his chagrin, Arthur continues to match him shot for shot, hit for hit, even when he picks up the call.
“On second thought, I need an immediate evac out of Tangier. As in, fucking now…Track my coordinates… Kind of busy, Dave. Can it—Say again? Why?” Arthur pulls back behind cover, giving the conversation his full attention.
Eames flinches as a bullet passes close enough to induce his pucker-factor. “This is hardly the time for a chat, darling.”
Arthur hands Eames his gun and waves him off absently, eyes focused inward. Eames rolls his eyes, even though Arthur isn’t watching to fully appreciate his vexation, and keeps shooting. The majority of his focus, however, is fixed on the one-sided conversation next to him.
“What happened? What do you mean, she lost it? How could she of all—goddamnit.” Eames looks over and sees that Arthur’s eyes have gone flat, like they used to be when they first met. “Never mind. What do you need? I’m not a fucking nursemaid, Dave. What am I supposed—fine. Fine. Take him to Madrid and sit on him until I get there… Depends on how long your evac takes. Two. Fresh IDs… Local law enforcement is a complication. Affirmative. Standby.” He mutes the phone. “Eames, what alias are you rolling?”
“Who’s asking?”
“CIA.”
“Fuck me,” Eames shakes his head, resigning himself to a very long day. “Thomas Winston.”
Arthur relays the info into the phone. “Put an expedite on that, will you?” He hangs up and takes his gun back. His eyes are expressionless, but the lines around his mouth are tight with tension. He starts shooting with extreme prejudice.
Eames wonders who died. Because, in his experience, only death puts that look on someone’s face.
They fire at every head that pops up, holding the enemy at bay but gaining no ground. Eames is loading his last clip when a series of explosions hit the exit to the garage, where the bulk of the opposition is—was clustered. There’s a telling silence following the blast.
Arthur shoves Eames in the direction of the blast, prodding him into a crouched jog. “Our ride’s here. Let’s go.”
Eames leads the way through crumpled bodies and concrete, gun held at the ready. “Care to share with the class, love?”
“I’m going to Madrid. You don’t have to come.” Arthur takes the lead once they clear the garage. He weaves through a barricade of smoldering police cars, striding purposefully towards an unremarkable sedan down the road. The neighborhood is devoid of life save for a few faces peeking down at them from windows of a hotel across the street. Eames jumps into the passenger seat when Arthur makes it clear he intends to drive, noticing that the keys are already in the ignition. They drive off, leaving the destruction behind them and losing themselves in the urban bustle after a few blocks.
Eames picks the conversation back up. “Nonsense. I love Spain. Beautiful women, culture, tapas…” He slouches down in his seat so he can watch their six without making a target of himself. “What’s in Madrid?”
“We’re meeting Cobb.”
Eames swivels his head around to eye Arthur with disbelief. “Cobb of the CIA? Old Chuckle-Nuts? That Cobb? Say it isn’t so, darling.”
Arthur calmly switches lanes, but the angle of his jaw is rigid with tension. “It’s so, I’m afraid.”
“Now why would we want to do a silly thing like that? And since when do you work for the CIA again?”
“I never stopped.”
“What the shit? Arthur, I’m deeply disappointed in you.” And, fuck him, Eames realizes he rather is disappointed for reasons he cares not at all to examine.
“Not really, anyway.” Arthur shrugs. “Consider me a freelance contractor for the agency.”
“Always did wonder how you of all people got out with your pieces intact. How exactly did you swing that arrangement?”
“Cobb.”
“Uh huh. Bringing us back to the matter at hand. Very tidy.”
Arthur ignores the leading edge to that statement, acting like it requires all of his concentration to steer them through an intersection.
“Arthur?”
“There should be an envelope in the glove compartment. Tell me where I’m going.”
Eames finds said envelope and rifles through maps and various forms of identification for Ben Goldstein and Thomas Winston. “Take a left, head for Rue Jamaa Mokraa.”
They drive in silence, making their way ever closer to the coast. Surprisingly, it’s Arthur who breaks the quiet. “Look, really, you don’t have to come.”
Eames considers that for all of two seconds. Knowing he’s making his getaway on the back of the CIA doesn’t sit well, but it’s quickly becoming second nature to throw in his chips purely on Arthur’s say-so. “Whatever you need, I’m there. You know that. ‘Sides… I rather owe you, don’t I? I just like to know what puddle I’m stepping in.”
Arthur goes silent again, long enough for Eames to think he isn’t going to answer. And then… “Cobb is on the run,” he says, voice flat. “Murder charge.”
There are literally a dozen things Eames was expecting to hear. Neither of those are on the list. They throw his world view into a slight lurch, but he recovers with aplomb. Expect everything and nothing, after all. “Always knew he had it in him, the old goat. And whom did he kill?”
The look Arthur throws him is unreadable. But, this time, he responds right away.
“His wife.”