Arthur had finally gotten Cobb to a point where he didn't have to watch his back. He had finally gotten himself to a point where he could take a break. And he had finally finally finally, gotten Eames to a point where he'd pushed him just a little too far, one too many times, until Eames had slammed him up against a wall before kissing him breathless. Arthur had ruthlessly pulled out the cork he'd forced into the Eames-dam in his mind and let it happen. And god. It was glorious, and terrifying, and everything he'd dreamed of, late at night, when he was alone and unhooked. Real dreams. Hopes. Fears. Things he'd thought he'd outgrown but really had just shoved down so far they'd had no choice but to take a deeper root.

He'd let himself have this one thing. This one thing. Arthur was going to enjoy it. He'd earned it. He'd earned it with years of self-sacrifice and order and being a fucking martyr for the sake of The Job and The Team. He'd earned every blow job, every foot massage, every night with a warm body only inches away if he wanted it. He was not going to mess up his chance to squeeze every drop out of this opportunity. He didn't need to get so emotional about the way Eames' forehead creases erased when he was deep in a real sleep. He didn't need to feel a tug in his chest when he noticed the way Eames tucked one foot under the other whenever he slept on his stomach. He refused to make Eames pull away because he couldn't get enough of his smell, or the way he folded towels, or the fact that he always made Arthur coffee in the morning before he made himself any. He was not going to fuck this up. He had earned this. It was his.

He just wanted as much as possible before Eames realized how ridiculous Arthur was about him and fucked off to Cambodia or Estonia or wherever the hell he rolled the dice and wound up. Because he would. Arthur was sure of it. The way the summer faded to fall and the fall faded to winter, Eames would be the casual Eames he was and drift away from anything serious. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't even delay it. All he could do was what everyone did when the season was at its peak and the warm days were calling: grab a pair of trunks and some sunscreen and enjoy the summer while it lasted.

He was determined to live in the moment, keep his face to the sun, and ignore the shadows behind him, as well as everyone and everything else, for as long as humanly possible. He wanted more. He wanted all of it. He wanted every single Eames moment he could get his hands on. He would fight for them if he had to, tooth and nail, because when they were gone, when the well of Eames' affections had run dry, he would need something to keep him sane.

Eames had told Arthur he wanted to show him the only beauty on this earth that could rival Arthur's, and Arthur had rolled his eyes like he was supposed to. Eames got them passage to Fernando de Noronha off the coast of Brazil, and the cabin Arthur wanted to stay in forever, and Arthur shoved his watch in the bottom of his suitcase next to his hair gel.

Eames had jokingly carried him over the threshold of the tiny cabin directly on the beach, and he hadn't even minded. It was the kind of cabin with well-used outside furniture and lots and lots of permanently open window panes, just 360 degrees of sun and sea and sand everywhere. Arthur loved it immediately. He debated how practical it would be to live in this barely-a-house for the rest of his life. He didn't have a lot of possessions; most of his earthly belongings would fit into two suitcases and frequently did. He'd even be able to leave room in the closet for as long as Eames wanted to stay.

They slept in. They had fantastic sex. They ate so much seafood Arthur forgot the taste of beef. They went fishing, snorkeling, and dolphin-watching during the day. In the early evening, they'd walk the beaches, the language of the locals flowing over him like water. He kept meaning to take a look at the book of handy phrases in Portuguese, but for some reason he couldn't quite name, leaning on Eames' arm and watching his mouth form the unfamiliar words didn't bring him anxiety. Arthur was fluent in French and had a fair grasp of Spanish, and a better-than-fair grasp of Spanish cuss words. He could let Eames take care of the Portuguese for a while.

They bought fruit, grilled fish, brushed their teeth with bottled water, swam, and fucked. Arthur made weekly trips to buy lube and condoms and they both wrapped themselves in the newness of each other's bodies, and just when Arthur thought he knew all of Eames' tricks, he'd pull out a new one. And just when he thought he'd found all of Eames' favorites, Eames would make some new sound and Arthur would be thrown for a loop and have to recalibrate before he could exploit whatever spot had given Eames pleasure.

Arthur told himself it didn't matter that this wasn't forever. It was for now, and that was all he had or would ever have, and all he had to do was live in it. It was easy to believe. It was so easy.

What was hard was getting up to open the door that morning. He'd showered earlier in water pressure that felt like a dog pissing on him and was about as refreshing, but was overall probably better than not, and he'd been lazily flipping through random stupid shit on his phone, saying that he was going to stop in just a second for the past half hour. And yet when the knock had come, he'd groaned like he was being interrupted and staggered to the door.

She was petite, brunette, and beautiful, of course. She was also pissed off. She started screaming at him the second he cracked the door, and it was only after she'd crowded the opening, a finger in his face, that he realized he had no idea where his gun was. On the heels of that thought was that he wasn't exactly sure where Eames was either. Eames had kissed him on the top of the head in passing on his way outside, an oddly domestic gesture that Arthur tucked away, of course, because he was an Eames Moment miser, but he refused to let it lurk in the forefront of his mind. But Arthur hadn't noticed where he'd gone, or if he'd even come back. That didn't stop Arthur from hollering for him though.

"Eaaaames? Can you get your British ass out here and tell me what this woman is screaming at me?"

She had hair that wouldn't quit, waves of curls down her back, and flashing brown eyes that were spitting sparks at him. She was pushing him in the chest and stomping her foot and he wasn't 100% sure she'd breathed since he'd opened the door.

"Okay, do you speak English? Because I think it's fairly obvious I don't know what you're saying right now, so you could help me out?" Arthur said over the stream of words.

That's about the time that he noticed a young girl, possibly 11 or 12 or 13? maybe? leaning on his porch with her arms crossed. His eyes flickered between the two females, noting their similarities, but the tween just smacked a piece of gum and watched this exchange with bored blue eyes.

The woman was still yelling, still pointing her finger at him, and, although it hardly seemed possible, getting madder. Arthur's point man/impossible extractor skills came back to life.

He tried to listen to the cascade of words coming at him, but the only one that got repeated with and frequency sounded like "jarly", and Arthur knew zero about this language but he was fairly certain of two things. 1) This wasn't a random encounter; this woman knew exactly where she was and probably who she was talking to, and 2) the girl currently trying to act like she was bored out of her skull with a thousand better things to do was the reason.

He felt more than saw Eames' presence in his peripheral and even though every combat tactic he knew had taught him better, he still looked. Apparently, the Eames Moments Matter Most override in his brain trumped common sense as well as years of training.

He had time to see Eames sighting down his own gun before his face registered surprise and he lowered it.

"Leonore," he said, and the tirade of words swung in his direction with scarcely a breath.

"Now just minute," he said holding up his hands and passing the gun to Arthur, who checked the safety and slid it into the pocket of his shorts. The girl watched him. The woman did not.

Eames spoke to her in Portuguese, placating at first, then asking questions, his eyes flickering to the pre-teen uneasily. His voice raised too, but he kept his body language open, calm, non-threatening. Arthur watched everything.

"Leonore," he said at one point, patronizingly and the woman replied, "Jarly," in the same tone before taking off again.

"Wait," Arthur interrupted, "did she just call you 'Charlie?'"

They both stopped talking and Eames turned to look at him, his familiar, handsome face a riot of emotions where Arthur had expected a mask of calm.

Arthur was calm. He was deadly calm. "You told her your real name."

It wasn't a question and didn't need an answer, but that didn't mean Arthur didn't feel the sting of Eames' silence. He turned and left, closing the bedroom door behind him. He didn't slam it. There was no cause to. Just because Eames had never given his name to Arthur didn't mean anything. Arthur knew it already, of course, but so what? Just because it was a dreamshare mystery, and it had taken Arthur three days of work to find it. Eames knew he already knew it. Eames was allowed to give his name to anyone he wanted, fuck anyone he wanted, meet anyone he wanted in secluded Brazilian island paradises and whisper Portuguese sweet nothings all night long. Arthur didn't own him. Christ, they might have been in this very cabin.

It was that thought that broke him from the stasis he'd been locked in, staring at the door he'd closed so calmly, begging it to open. He couldn't stay here. He had to get out of here. Now.

He grabbed the neglected suitcase in the corner of the closet containing one precisely pressed suit and one sadly rumpled one in need of dry cleaning, and started tossing things in. He'd thrown that suit back in the case the night they'd landed and he'd lived in shorts and tanks, when they'd bothered to get dressed at all. Arthur looked at the bed his suitcase was currently spread out over, the wrecked bedding and crumpled pillow on Eames' side because he slept on his stomach with his arms wrapped around the pillow and one foot tucked under the other.

There was a lump in his throat that didn't need to be there, jagged and painful, and he jumped into action when the door finally opened, like he'd never been still.

"Arthur— " Eames started, and Arthur had never hated the sound of his own name coming out of Eames' mouth more than he did right then. No 'darling', no 'pet', no 'love' like he'd been slinging for the past… years, really.

"Just exactly how long ago did you say you visited?" Arthur said, terse and efficient.

"I… " Eames sounded lost, scared, and overwhelmed. Arthur looked up from packing to see his face.

Which was precisely when Arthur registered the age of the girl on the porch.

"Oh, Jesus fuck."

Arthur's knees felt a bit slushy and he sat on the edge of the bed that still smelled like them. Eames looked like he might throw up.

"Are you sure?" he asked, even though he had no right, no call, no ownership. Eames just shrugged and nodded and Arthur remembered her blue eyes.

It was so screamingly unfair. He thought he'd get more time. He supposed he would have always said that no matter how long it had been. But Arthur felt like he wasn't even close to the stockpile of Eames Memories that he'd need in order to last him the rest of forever. The fucking universe had a sick sense of humor. He stood on shaky legs and grabbed objects to toss into his suitcase, beginning with the gun from his pocket.

"What are you doing?" Eames asked, angry and bewildered.

Arthur didn't answer, just kept moving things he'd registered were his own, hoping Eames would assume he had a plan thought out instead of just trying not to lose his collective shit.

"Come on, stop."

"Why?" Arthur asked, not slowing.

"Because you don't have to go. Because I don't want you to go."

"Eames. You can't just not deal with this. This is important."

"You're important."

Arthur froze.

"This? Whatever this is?" Eames said, gesturing between them and sweeping his hand to include the whole house, the whole experience. "I want this. I thought you did too."

Arthur looked at him, the forehead creases back, the set of his body strained and tired although it was not yet noon, and he nodded, curt and precise, feeling the mantle of the real world descend without his say-so and unable to stop it. They'd had a good run, pretending they were the only two people on the planet. It would have to do to sustain him. It wasn't going to be the same, but maybe it didn't have to be gone, either.

"I don't want to intrude," he said, but it was a selfish lie for selfish reasons. He really didn't want her to intrude, Leonore, the woman who'd brought the world with her to their doorstep. And Arthur had lied because he didn't want Eames to know how selfish he truly was.

"Please, darling," Eames said, and he sounded broken. "Please intrude."

Arthur came around the bed and into Eames' space, offering comfort if it was wanted and kicking himself for not thinking, for not seeing Eames in this moment and for feeling sorry for himself when Eames had just had the mother of all bombs dropped on him. If Arthur thought the bubble around his perfect world had just been popped, then Eames' whole actual world had been blown to smithereens.

He hugged Eames and Eames buried his face in Arthur's neck.

When they finally emerged, calmer, more collected, and somehow still together, he almost ran into the back of Eames when he jerked to a halt. He spoke one short, brusque sentence in Portuguese and fucking hell, Arthur was going to have to learn Portuguese, wasn't he.

He leaned around the bulk of the man in front of him to see the girl sitting on the couch. She shrugged in response to whatever Eames had said before glancing indifferently back to the magazine she'd been reading. Eames bristled and slammed out the front door. Arthur watched him go before looking at the girl.

"Uh, hi," he said, awkwardly remembering the gun in his pocket at exactly that moment. She didn't look at him. "Do you speak English?"

"Duh."

"O...kay," Arthur said, pretty sure that meant that she did speak English and yet still somewhat worried that "duh" was a Portuguese word that meant, "I have no idea what you're saying, dumbass, I only speak Portuguese."

Arthur walked to the kitchenette. "I'm going to have some coffee," he announced so she wouldn't be spooked by him as he opened the refrigerator. "Do you want some… milk? Or… I don't know, what? Milk?"

He turned around and she was a foot away from him and it was only through years of training that he didn't jump, let alone pull the gun.

"I'll have coffee," she announced, looking him full in the face.

Arthur was taken aback, but that answered the English question. Her voice was strong, with a lovely lilting accent and she was staring at him like there were years of rebellion just waiting to burst out of her. "Tell me no," they screamed. "Try it. Let's dance."

Well, Arthur, of all people, could respect that, but she was going to be disappointed. He wasn't going to tell someone else's kid they couldn't have a cup of fucking coffee. It wasn't meth. "How do you take it?"

She hesitated, then said, "The same as you," and crossed her arms.

Arthur raised an eyebrow but managed not to smile. He just nodded and reached for three mugs. When the coffee was done, he added sugar to all three cups and milk to Eames'. The girl watched him out of the corner of her eye as she lounged against the counter.

"So," he said, eyeing her over the rim of his mug and nudging hers forward. "What's your name?"

"Mariana," she said. "And before you ask, I'm 14."

Arthur wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just took a drink. She copied him and grimaced as she choked down the bitter liquid.

"What about you?" she asked.

"Arthur," he replied. "And before you ask, I'm 31."

She rolled her eyes and, okay, he apparently wasn't on the receiving end of a lot of eye rolls because it was surprisingly annoying. He would have to keep that in mind the next time Eames forced one out of him. Speaking of, where was Eames?

"So," she said, putting the mug down, "I assume the other guy is my dad. Who are you?"

Okay, yeah, where was Eames?

"I'm… uh…" That was the real question, wasn't it; the one he hadn't let himself ask. Co-worker? Friend? Just the guy Eames was currently fucking? It seemed entitled of her to just ask it, apropos of nothing, and expect an immediate answer, as if there was an obvious reply and not something he literally would never ask Eames himself.

Arthur waited for the classic Hollywood perfectly timed interruption of Eames coming back in the cabin so he wouldn't have to answer her, but it didn't come. The silence stretched out while Mariana's eyebrows got higher and higher.

He cleared his throat. "We're sort of… together."

That got a reaction. For a second she wasn't the fourteen-year-old-trying-to-seem-so-much-older and was an unguarded kid. She blinked, then gaped, then gave a half-laugh. "Wait, like, together together? My dad's gay? I can't... like, are you serious?! I wait my whole life to meet him and it turns out he's gay?! Holy shit. My friends are never going to believe this."

Arthur frowned, because outing Eames to his daughter had not really been on his list of things to do today, and the fact that he'd just said 'Eames' and 'daughter' together in his head was strangely off putting. "I think he's more bisexual than anything, but I don't really see how that's anyone's business."

"Are you serious right now? Like, you're serious. You really think I'm not going to tell my friends that I finally meet my father and it turns out he's gay."

The incredulous way she was staring at him was starting to get under his skin and if she were literally anyone else in the world he'd have snapped at her to mind her fucking business and keep her damn mouth shut. He reminded himself she was a kid and also not working for him. And also, he was going to have to watch his fucking language now or something.

"Bisexual," he stressed, unclenching his teeth, "and no, I don't think anything. I'm sure you're going to do whatever you damn well please." Well, shit.

She didn't say anything to that, just blinked at him a little. She reached for her coffee and stared into it in silence until Arthur took pity on her. He took it from her, dumped in too much sugar, too much milk, and a sprinkle of cinnamon before he slid it over.

"He'll be back," Arthur said, certain, "and he'll want to talk to you. He just didn't know about you. You've at least had an idea he existed. Just give him a few minutes to adjust, okay?"

She stirred her coffee and muttered something to herself in Portuguese. Arthur watched her take a tentative sip, and then another.

"Is there… anything you want to know about him?" Arthur asked, trying to sound casual and then deciding it sounded deceptive instead. "I mean, you could just ask him, if you want, he'd tell you. But if there's something you don't want to ask…"

She shrugged and suddenly looked small. Arthur started to notice things that Eames would have probably already memorized, like the safety pin on her tank top strap and the studied nonchalance of her slouch.

"I don't know what I want to know," she finally said, and yeah, Arthur could see that. He shrugged back.

"Pretend he's just a new kid at school. What would you ask that kid?"

She frowned, then nodded. "Yeah, I can do that. Except…" she looked up at him, choked up suddenly. "Except can you just tell me… is he nice?"

Arthur hesitated, which was probably not very reassuring, but the truth was that Eames was a thief, and a forger, and Arthur had seen him get out of more than one scrape with pure physical violence. He was sly and conniving and an excellent liar. And that was topside. Dream Eames was… well, he was definitely a guy you wanted on your side. But she didn't need to know any of that, not least of which was because if he knew Eames, and he liked to think he did, he knew Eames would topple mountains for this kid. He would point every one of those hard-won, dubious skills at making her life better. He knew Eames had at least one account in the Cayman Islands that he hadn't touched in years, not because Arthur kept tabs on that kind of stuff, but because one of his point man procedures was making sure he knew the motivations of whoever was on the team. Eames might sell you for a nickel, but it wasn't because he needed the nickel.

So he looked at the fourteen-year-old in front of him, who earlier had looked like she could care less about meeting the man who had helped bring her into this world and who now looked a little scared. And he told her the truth.

"Eames would move heaven and earth for you if you needed him to. He wouldn't ask questions. He wouldn't worry about consequences. And he wouldn't do it for just anybody. But if you called him up and explained your earth/heaven issue, I can guarantee he'd have it done by the next morning. Having an Eames in your corner is—"

And there was the classic Hollywood interruption. Because Eames was standing there, watching him.

His face was unreadable and Mariana looked up at Arthur's pause. Eames didn't say anything, just turned and walked down the hallway.

Mariana looked at Arthur, who knew he was frowning but gave her a small nod. "One second," is all he said before following Eames to the bedroom. He hoped Mariana had enough of an answer to chew over without realizing that Arthur hadn't said "yes" to her very simple question of whether Eames was "nice." He should have just said "yes." Why didn't he just say "yes?"

"Darling, is there any way we can organize a quiet murder? Or some kind of systematic torture? You've got contacts everywhere, yeah?"

Ah, yes. This was why.

"Sshh," Arthur scowled. "She speaks English, you know."

Eames scowled back. "Well, I've also got Portuguese and Russian, what have you got?"

"French and a little Spanish."

"How's your German?"

"Scheisse."

"Well, I guess that leaves us discussing murder in English."

Arthur couldn't help the twitch of his lips. "Why are we discussing murder, again?"

Eames blew out a breath in uncharacteristic frustration and plowed a hand through his hair. Arthur blinked in surprise.

"She's dumping the kid."

Arthur blinked again. "Beg pardon?"

"She's pissed off—"

"Yeah, no, I got that."

"— and she's apparently 'at the end of her rope' with her, so she said it's my turn. Arthur, I know fuck all about kids."

"Well," Arthur stalled, "maybe she's just bluffing. She can't actually want you to…"

He trailed off at the sharp look Eames gave him.

"I thought you just got done saying I could move planets around or some shite."

"I was trying to be positive. The girl is meeting her father for the first time, she's nervous. I told her she could ask me questions about you if she wanted."

"And she asked about my planet moving abilities?!"

"No, you asshole! She asked if you were nice!"

The silence that followed made them realize just exactly how loud they'd gotten. Arthur unclenched his fists. "You should probably go talk to her."

"Yeah," Eames said quietly, staring at the door. But he didn't move. "What if… Arthur, you're good with kids. What if you go talk to her?"

"I am absolutely not good with kids. Why would you even assume that?"

"Well, you were talking to her before!"

It was Arthur's turn to blow out an exasperated breath. But luckily, Eames was used to that. "Look, just… just pretend she's the new guy on the team. Just treat her the way you'd treat a green architect."

"I hate the new guy on the team."

Arthur gave him a look. "You got along with Ariadne just fine."

Eames returned the look. "So did you. I heard about that kiss."

"That was a tactic."

"I know."

Eames grinned at him and Arthur couldn't help smiling a little. "Dick. Just go talk to her. Daddy."

Eames grinned again. "You know, whenever I'd imagined you saying that, it was never in this context."

Arthur snorted and nudged him towards the door. "I'll go with you. Come on."

Eames nodded and right before his eyes, Eames changed into the forger Arthur always hired instead of the man he fucked on the kitchen counter. Arthur had no idea how he did that. Eames hadn't changed clothes or combed his hair, but in the space of a heartbeat, even though he was wearing sandals and a half-buttoned shirt, he became a professional. Arthur cursed his own need for suits and hair gel to even look like an adult and followed him out.

Mariana was sitting on the porch nursing the last of her coffee and they settled on the well-worn furniture next to her.

"So, it's Mariana, yeah?" Eames said, warm and open.

She nodded. "My friends call me Ana."

Eames smiled. "Well, I'll stick with Mariana then and work up to that. And you can call me Eames, until I've earned the right to anything else. Sound good?"

She nodded again, but this time with an air of relief. Arthur wondered if Eames had been as worried as Mariana seemed to have been about that denomination requirement. He'd handled it well, but then again, "Call me Eames," was one of the first things out of his mouth whenever he was introduced to anyone.

"Also, I assume you're more comfortable em português, and I'd be happy to speak it with you when it's just us; it'll help me stay fluent. But," he looked over at Arthur, "poor Arthur here doesn't speak a word, so let's stick to English if we can." He made an exaggerated sad face at Arthur.

Arthur smiled tightly at him. "Va te faire foutre."

Mariana brightened. "Ooh, I took French last semester!"

Arthur's face heated. "Perfect."

Eames laughed. "So! Your mother tells me you're having some trouble in school."

If their life had a soundtrack, there would have been a record scratch and silence at the way Mariana's face darkened at Eames' words. Arthur winced inwardly.

"Yeah? So?"

Eames shrugged, unconcerned. "She said you got suspended. And she doesn't know what to do with you. And this is clearly my genes influencing you. Etc, etc."

Mariana wasn't appeased. She crossed her arms and glared at Eames. "Is this the part where we have a 'serious talk' and you fix me?"

Eames studied her. "She wants you to come live with me."

Mariana stiffened, but she didn't look surprised. She glared at her empty mug and stayed silent.

Eames looked at Arthur, who tried to look supportive.

"How long is the suspension?" Arthur asked.

Mariana didn't answer, so Eames said, "A week, as I understand it."

"A week!? What did you do?" Arthur exclaimed. A week-long suspension was a long time, at least in the States. Mariana just glared at him instead of her mug. Arthur decided it wasn't any of his business and shrugged.

"Well, a week gives us a little bit of time," Eames said. "We'll have a chance to decide what to do. For now, you can stay here if you want, although your mother must not have planned this very far ahead because she buggered off and left you empty handed."

She still didn't say anything and Eames just looked at her thoughtfully and hummed. "Why don't we do that? Go pack an overnight bag and then be back here by lunchtime and we'll eat. Need me to walk you back?"

"No, I know where my own house is, thanks," she muttered as she shoved herself out of the chair and stomped away.

They both watched her until she was out of sight, then Arthur stood and retrieved their cooling coffee. He handed Eames his mug and resettled himself in the chair. "Alright, talk."

Eames sighed, turning the cup in his hands. "I met Leonore when I was just out of RAF, I hadn't even gotten into dreamshare at the time. We messed around for a few weeks or so, and then I left. I didn't know she'd gotten pregnant, but I also went off the grid not long after that, so she wouldn't have been able to find me to tell me anyway."

A few weeks meant he'd been with her longer than he'd been with Arthur so far. He felt a pang of jealousy that he shoved out of the way.

"And now?" Arthur prompted.

Eames looked at him. "Now I've managed to come back to what turns out to be a very small island community, have someone recognize me and point me out to her, and have her show up squawking on my doorstep. She wants me to 'take the next 14 years', as she put it, because she's tired and fed-up and, if my assumptions are correct, with a new guy who doesn't want kids."

"Jesus," Arthur breathed.

"Yeah," Eames said, watching the horizon. It was hot already, the gaggles of tourists wandering around had thinned as people headed to the water or air conditioning. Arthur felt a bead of sweat drip down the small of his back.

"What are you going to do?" Arthur asked.

A loud, semi-hysterical laugh burst out of Eames' mouth and made Arthur, embarrassingly, jump. "No idea, Arthur. I have no idea."

Eames dragged a hand down his face and Arthur's heart tugged at him. He wished there was something he could do.

"Well," he said slowly, thinking, "you can stay here or you can not stay here. That's one decision. If you stay, you don't have to stay forever, but you could buy a house, make a space to come back to if you needed. And if you decide to leave, you can still bring her back to visit, call, skype, all that, so it's not forever. You can also talk to her about it, once you've figured out how you— what?"

He looked up to see Eames looking at him oddly, an expression he couldn't unpack.

"You seem awfully sure I won't just run."

Arthur blinked, because he hadn't even considered it.

He looked out at the ocean. "You won't."

Eames wasn't "nice" and he wasn't even honest, but he was true. There was a core of steel that ran down the center of Eames that stayed the same no matter which face he was wearing, and he had never let Arthur down, not once. He knew what he'd told Mariana was accurate; Eames wouldn't let his own kid down now that he knew he had one. He was exactly the same man as he'd been yesterday. He always would be.

Eames was silent for a long while and when Arthur let his arm drop, he made sure his hand brushed Eames' on the way down and rested close by. After a second, Eames' single finger nudged the edge of Arthur's hand and Arthur curled his pinky around it.

They sat, side by side in the ancient patio furniture, almost holding hands and watching the few boats bob on the impossibly blue water.