Each and every one of them had a past. Even Arthur. Especially Eames. The two men had barely anything in common beyond that and the thrill of adventure. But what they did share had bonded them instantly, and despite contradictory personalities.
Arthur, the point-man. Straitlaced, even keeled, never a loose thread on his suits or a hair out of place on his head. Eames had beaten it out of him once; where he came from, that is. "Baltimore," he had said, spitting blood onto the ground. Eames figured it explained the scars.
Eames, the forger. Smirks, leers, stolen poker chips. Arthur had been easier on him, and had gotten him drunk. "London, England," he laughed and downed the last of his fourth, or fifth (But who was counting? Arthur.) glass of whiskey. "I used to play polo and sip tea in the garden with "ladies" whose husbands I called "Sir.'" Arthur hadn't even raised an eyebrow. Details were his job.
As was lying, Eames'. As good as Arthur was at it, Eames was still the best; even Cobb knew that. Perhaps that was what had always bothered Arthur about the forger. The fact that after all of the careful practice, and out of all the people, Eames knew that it was all an act. Cobb ignored it, and Ariadne, though perceptive, had her talents and curiosity focused elsewhere. Arthur didn't know why his thoughts paused on her name. Eames did.
The point-man didn't lack creativity, he denied it. For a man so reliant on facts, creation and fantasy were a danger. It didn't do well for a man like him to be a dreamer. Arthur needed to know, not think. But when he watched her work, he felt. And Eames laughed. He had seen the kiss.
"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger darling." Arthur had seen their kiss too. He fingered his die while he watched. It held a different kind of urgency for her, he could tell. Reality was a bitch.
"You're mad darling." He was furious. Eames' smirk wasn't helping either of them. Arthur would never admit it him. Not right then. Not months later, after the job. He had wanted her, and the curiosity and wonder and creativity that came with her. But once again Eames had taken what he wanted and sullied it. In another life Eames would have been offended when Arthur had finally admitted how he felt about the whole situation. "She didn't want me Arthur, she wanted reality. Something warm, something real. I was just in an advantageous spot really." This didn't soothe Arthur's anger.
"William." Even Cobb didn't know. Eames winced, looking away for a distraction; ideally one with breasts.
"Arthur." His tone was only slightly apologetic. The point-man sighed and shook his head. He took a slow pull from his bottle and gave the forger a hard stare.
"Do you ever worry that we will one day get so good at lying that we'll be able to fool ourselves?" Eames flashed an ironic smile.
"My dear what did you think the goal was?"