Chapter 1

Arthur left the plane feeling numb. He knew he should be moving, so he put his feet down, one in front of the other, self-preservation keeping him in motion. The weight of the PASIV case felt foreign in his hand, a friend turned stranger in a moment of betrayal. He made his way to the baggage carousel and realized he'd watched his line bag circle twice before reaching out to claim it.

He was supposed to get on another flight after this, supposed to meet up with...but he just couldn't face another plane ride right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing thoughts away, and decided to get a cab to the nearest hotel instead and destroy the mini bar.

As he turned, he heard a familiar British accent ask, "Need a lift, darling?"

Arthur knew his face was granite, he'd felt it harden that way. But at the sight of those familiar broad shoulders and understanding gaze, he felt something crumble inside himself. He couldn't deal with resisting Eames now too, on top of everything. He knew he shouldn't do this, they should be splitting up, and his point man sensibilities were screaming at him as he nodded dumbly and slid into the cab Eames held open. He let Eames direct the cabbie, pay the fare, and lead him to a hotel room without hearing a single word that was said. He placed his bag and the PASIV on the far side of the room, then sat, stiffly, on the bed. How often had he fantasized about Eames asking him back to his hotel room after a job? How many times had he longed for Eames's teasing voice to say, "Darling, you really must loosen up," and then reach for Arthur's tie? How many times had Dom warned him about not ending up an old man filled with regret?

It was the thought of Dom that did it. He felt himself sink his head into his hands and squeezed his eyes shut against the flood of hot tears threatening to escape. Distantly he heard the room door open and close, softly, and even though he knew he was alone, he still refused to let them fall. He lay back, grabbing a corner of the comforter and rolling, wrapping it around him the way he used to when he was a kid. Despite the tension in his body, and the trickle of ridiculous random thoughts that would not stop (I wonder if I have enough clean clothes for tomorrow if I stay the night, I need to call their families and tell them, I wonder if Eames would lay down next to me when he comes back), he sank, mercifully, into sleep.

When he woke, disoriented and bleary, it was dark and he could just make out Eames's bulk in the chair next to the bed. He'd removed his hideous paisley shirt and sat there in his undershirt, his Glock on his thigh and his hand wrapped around the neck of a mostly-full bottle of vodka. He offered it silently to Arthur and he accepted, sitting on the edge of the bed, their knees almost touching, passing the bottle back and forth. Eames was watching Arthur carefully, looking like he wanted to say something but not knowing what, and Arthur couldn't help him out. He felt like all the words in the English language had become trite and useless.

When his head was tolerantly insensate, he staggered to the bathroom to take a leak. He could hear Eames's rough baritone talking on the phone but couldn't make out what he was saying. He stood in the bathroom doorway drying his hands on the scratchy towel and watching Eames pace the small room. He was talking to Miles, Arthur guessed, explaining to him that his son-in-law wouldn't be landing in Toronto tomorrow, wouldn't be picking up the kids, wouldn't be doing anything anymore, ever. Arthur had been dreading the call, and gratitude toward Eames rushed him, making him feel lightheaded and dizzy. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Eames as he finished the call and removed the SIM card, snapping it in two and dropping the whole thing in the wastebasket before sitting next to Arthur. They sat, close but not touching, not looking at each other, for a long time. Then Arthur wet his lips and croaked out, "Thank you." It was the first thing he'd said to the forger, but Eames just nodded. In the morning, he would need to make plans, buy a new plane ticket, destroy his current alias. But tonight, the most he could do was reach for the burner phone in his own pocket, snap the SIM card and toss it next to Eames's in the trash. He wanted to sleep for a thousand years. His throat felt too small, his eyes too large, and he realized his eyelids had dropped only when they snapped open as Eames rose and moved to the chair.

"Get some more rest, Arthur. I'll keep an eye out."

Arthur nodded, grateful yet again to the man he'd been secretly in love with for the past four years. He removed his shoes, his tie, and his belt, then crawled beneath the sheets and tried to shut off his brain. He lay there in the dark, watching the moonlight pour in through the gap in the curtains and glint off the shape of Eames shoulders, his cheekbones, the gun in his lap. He wished he knew how to ask for comfort from the other man. Eames's fingers twitched and his lips pressed together minutely, motions most people wouldn't have noticed. People who hadn't been paying way too much attention to Eames's every move for far too long, anyway. Arthur knew he wanted a cigarette and he watched the forger silently until, finally, his eyes creaked closed and he slept.

When Arthur woke, Eames was on edge from being awake all night, chewing gum and bouncing his knee. When he saw Arthur stir, though, he stilled immediately and watched him. Arthur looked like shit. Eames would be amazed at the sight of his normally fastidiously beautiful Arthur looking so disheveled if his heart wasn't busy breaking for him.

Arthur and Dom had been in the business together as long as he'd known them. Whenever you worked with one, you worked with the other. When Mal had been alive, they'd been the most efficient and ruthless dreamshare team in the business. Eames had joined them occasionally, jobs when they needed a forger and he'd been available, each one perfectly planned and usually perfectly executed. Shit happens, and there were no guarantees, especially in this business, but Eames had never turned down a chance to work with Arthur. Calm, cool, ruthless Arthur, utterly unflappable, gorgeous and aloof. He used his genius level IQ as a weapon, both in dreams and topside, but he was no slouch at actual weapons in either atmosphere either. Eames thought he was delightful.

The Arthur in front of him looked about ten years younger than he'd ever seen him, and about ten years older at the same time. He didn't make eye contact, just moved to the tiny coffee pot by the sink and started filling it. Eames realized he was staring and flipped on the telly to give his eyes something to do besides ogle someone who was so obviously in pain. He kept flipping channels, giving Arthur some space and looking for the news, when a steaming cup of tea was thrust under his nose. He looked up at Arthur in surprise.

"English breakfast," Arthur said with a small smile. "It's all they have."

He took it, softly. "Thank you, love."

Arthur nodded, then moved back to the sink, refilling the pot and starting coffee this time. He made to head to the bathroom, but Eames stopped him.

"Hey...look at this."

Arthur followed Eames's gaze riveted on the news and listened as he turned it up.

"...was internationally rocked today when business mogul Kensaku Saito was found unconscious aboard his privately owned commercial airline, along with an internationally wanted criminal. When Mr. Saito couldn't be roused, he was taken to the nearest hospital, where he is now reported to be in stable condition. Currently the police have not released a statement regarding whether this is tied to Dominic Cobb, a man wanted on charges of suspected murder of his wife in the United States, who was found in a similar state on the same flight. Mr. Saito's multi-million dollar energy conglomerate, Proclus Global, has been recently poised to take over competing company Fischer-Morrow, lead by CEO..."

Eames turned the volume down again. "Sounds like they're still putting it together. Better grab your bag, darling, that's our exit cue."

Arthur grunted. "Coffee first," then headed for the bathroom. Eames sighed, then sloshed the liquid into the cup for him, adding packets of cream and sugar and capping it before grabbing his shirt and slinging it on. Arthur emerged, hair re-slicked and clothing looking far less slept-in than any man in his state had a right to look. Eames took a moment to admire the view as they both quickly knotted their ties, his full Windsor in comparison to Arthur's half Windsor. Ever a model of efficiency, that was his Arthur.

He handed Arthur the PASIV and his coffee and hefted both their bags, Arthur pulling a phone from the pocket first. Eames handled checkout and securing a cab while Arthur spoke rapid-fire French into the phone. He guided Arthur into the cab and barked, "LAX," at the cab driver, but Arthur broke off his conversation.

"No, Van Nuys Airport."

Eames furrowed his brow at the younger man, but Arthur ignored him, turning back to his contact on the other end of the phone. About ten minutes into the drive, Arthur hung up the phone, looking flushed and frustrated.

"What did he say, darling?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't give me that, I know you can speak French, Eames."

"Not if I can help it. I'm English, Arthur. It's against the law where I'm from."

It provoked a curve of his lips, so Eames counted in a win. They rode in silence for a long while, Eames desperate not to push Arthur further than he could handle. Eames spent the time studying Arthur out of the corner of his eye. He was good at it by now. Arthur spent the time on his phone, doing point man things before finally sighing and shoving the phone into his pocket.

"If you have something to say, Eames, just say it." Arthur didn't sound mad, just resigned. His voice carried weariness and resolve at the same time, and Eames had never wanted to reach over and touch Arthur's face as much as he wanted to right now. He wanted to cup his jaw, press a kiss into his forehead and pull him into his arms, to let him know that he could lay it down for a little while. But he didn't. He knew Arthur wouldn't appreciate it, and Eames wanted...well, he just wanted. Always had when it came to Arthur. But he'd always kept it light, everything on the surface, too scared to push that barrier and have it slammed shut in his face. So he'd always relished every chance he'd had to tease Arthur, crowd his personal space, provoke reactions out of the tightly buttoned up point man.

Right now, though, Arthur needed light. He didn't need anything else on his plate, and if Eames could ease the pressure off him, God knows he would. "No, I don't have anything to say. Did you want me to say something?" he asked softly.

Arthur turned to look at him, his face unreadable. For several long moments, Eames held his breath, waiting. Then Arthur's phone buzzed in his pocket and the spell was broken. Eames bunched his jacket under his head and gave in to the exhaustion that was finally catching up to him and let Arthur get back to the tasks he'd assigned to himself. In about an hour, the airport coasted into view. Eames didn't ask questions, just grabbed their bags and the PASIV from the trunk, then headed toward the bank of lockers inside.

"Locker 28?" Eames verified.

Arthur nodded, then Eames stepped aside so he could spin the dial on the lock. He retrieved two sets of flawless papers, Eames himself couldn't have done better.

"Frank, Thomas," Eames said, dubiously. "You know how I feel about two first names, darling."

"I don't know what you're talking about Mr. Thomas," Arthur said calmly, transferring paperwork and stashing his old information in the locker.

"It's Mr. Frank to you. I think." Eames squinted at his new passport again doubtfully. "Wait, this was Pierre wasn't it? God, I hate him. You tell him something for me, the next time you see him ok? And I want you to use these exact words. "Eames hates you passionately, and he thinks you are a dick face. And by that, I mean of course that he thinks your face looks like a dick."

"I can't tell him that, Eames, you know he doesn't speak English," Arthur answered dryly.

The normalcy of the exchange made Eames's heart flip flop for a beat and he grinned, but then Arthur grew preternaturally still and stared at his wingtips.

"Eames," he started, not meeting his eyes, and then licked his lips. "Eames," he tried again, "you don't have to come with me. I owed you the paperwork for last night, and I...'m really grateful. But you don't owe me anything. And I'll be fine on my own."

Eames could feel the heat from their bodies in the space between them, and the desire to step closer to Arthur, force him to meet his eyes and acknowledge that he wasn't alone was almost overwhelming.

"Will you, darling?"

Arthur did look up then. He took a step back and placed his hands in his pockets and looked at Eames coolly. "Of course."

"Of course." What else could he say to that? "Well. Do you already have your tickets?"

"I'm...ah...I'm flying."

Now it was Eames's turn to step back and place his hands in his trouser pockets. "Of course."

Arthur…did Arthur blush?!

"No, I mean, I'm flying."

Eames blinked.

"I have an old Cessna that I store here, and I...well, I grew up in LA, so…"

"Darling!" Eames gushed. "Is there nothing you can't do?" He beamed at Arthur, and leaned forward to grab his bag. "Well, now you have to take me up. I will accept nothing less than the best pilot in California."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but turned and walked Eames to the gate.

A/N:

My first delve into the beauty that is the Inception fandom. Any and all comments welcome, and if you see any typos, please let me know!

The title is not related to the fantastic Kurt Vonnegut, but rather to the illimitable Billy Joel, although they are both near and dear to my heart.