Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

Author's Note: Officially graduated since Tuesday. It's strange, but I don't feel any different. It'll hit me at a stupid time, I know it. Like when I'm walking down the street or something.

So, this is an experiment while I'm in temporary writer's block for Tit for Tat. I was originally going to put all six pieces in a one-shot, but then the pieces got rather long and I decided to split them up. In case no one figured it out, AU's are present throughout this fic.

Title for this came because I got this idea, sort of and in a very weirdly connected way, from Necchan's Batman fics on this site The Lazarus Pit and its companion The Lazarus Pit Tim's side. I very highly reccomend them if you're a fan of Jason Todd.


Sometimes even the flight of an angel hits turbulence.
~Terri Guillemets


One—In Which 'Angel' is a Subjective Term

The human world is a dirty thing these days, Eames thinks. It used to be cleaner, easier to breathe, easier to see from one horizon to the other. Now there are skyscrapers and roads and factories whose smog clouds the sky.

He likes this world so long as he forgets about the machines. Machines are things that don't get along with him. But he likes the array of people, likes to see them making their choices—good or bad. They're so very different from angels—they'd been created with free will, Eames supposes, but they were all so full of adoration for Him (Something he guesses that He deserves) that it didn't even matter—and Eames revels in the differences.

It's part of why he's not really welcome among his brothers anymore, really. He's too free-thinking for them, although Father didn't seem to mind, even seemed to enjoy the break in monotony. So he spends his days down here, walking the streets and gambling what little money he has on him—not that it matters. Angels, even technically disowned ones, don't need money—and occasionally, he'll see one of his brothers accompanying a human in and he'll wonder what scheme He has for that human and wishes him the best.

So when he's walking through New York—not one of his favorite cities; too much metal, but he makes the occasional stops here if only for the strange meshing of cultures—and spots one of his brothers standing on a fire escape, leaning against the railing and looking entirely too sophisticated for the apartment, his interest is piqued.

"And who's your charge?" Eames asks when he reaches the fire escape. He isn't visible to people right now—a useful tool in their arsenal since humans were generally panicky when they saw winged beings—and it feels good to be able to stretch his wings. Keeping them confined to shirts and coats gets itchy and uncomfortable after a few hours.

The other angel flicks dark brown eyes at him. He's different from most angels—not lovely, blonde and golden, but rather black-haired and fairly pale, but still decently handsome—but it's more than looks. It's in the set of his shoulders and in the subtle fidgeting of his hands—long-fingered and deceptive in their veiling of his strength. He's a more common variety of angel, the kind who guards the humans and doesn't really get an official name as far as the world is concerned.

"Who are you to care?"

Eames smiles a little. It's been a while since he's had a good conversation with another angel (and it's so sad that this is the best conversation he's had in a good few months). "Come on now, darling. I'm not here to kill them, if that's what you're so paranoid about."

"You didn't answer my question. And don't call me that."

The smile widens. And he'd thought that other angels didn't have this much fight in them when it wasn't when of those 'end-of-the-world' scenarios. "Eames. My name is Eames."

The other's face changes, eyes studying and cataloging. "…You're Eames?"

"Does my reputation precede me?"

"Is that such a strange thing to hear?"

"Actually, it is." Eames isn't sure how much his brothers talk about him, but apparently, whatever they say is enough for this angel to know of him. "And your name?"

"…Arthur."

The pause makes Eames a little suspicious. "You wouldn't happen to be lying to me?"

"No, never." Arthur drawls and Eames knows a subtle rebel when he knows one.

"So who's in this apartment?" Eames leans down to look through the window. There are four people in there. A man, a little older, with a beautiful blonde girl who has his smile on his lap with a little boy, equally blonde, sitting on the floor and playing with blocks. A woman, dark-haired with tints of red, is curled on the floor beside the boy and absentmindedly building a tower. "You can't be guarding the four of them?" It would be a rare assignment for a single angel to guard so many people.

Arthur shook his head. "The man. Dominic Cobb."

"A fun job, I hope."

Arthur's brow furrows a little and his wings ruffle. "The man gets into far too much trouble for his own good."

Eames laughs. "Better than guarding someone boring."

Arthur doesn't disagree, just leans back against the rusty railing and doesn't say anything when Eames leans beside him. "…Come for a drink with me, if it's that stressful." Eames offers.

"I have a job to do."

"They're fine. Picturesque, even. Learn to live a little." Eames wonders what this will do to Arthur's reputation among their brothers—after all, he's hardly the perfect angel and Arthur looks like he's used to doing things by the book, even if he doesn't act like it.

"Just because you don't like doing your job, Mr. Eames, doesn't mean that the rest of us feel the same." Eames sees the difference now; Arthur is more sharp-edged than their brothers, a few shades closer to gray. And Eames likes that.