Mr. Eames is a forger. He is a mash up of characteristics he's found along the way.
The accent is fake, it was one of the first masks he'd donned; the cops had been looking for a Canadian. He'd been using it for a year before he'd ever gotten across the ocean.
The atrocious fashion sense is fake. He stopped trying to be fashionable when he realized people would remember the atrocious outfit more than the face behind it.
He wasn't as tall as most people assumed he was. He once heard a news bulletin describing him as 'early twenties, brown hair, 5'10'' '. He had been in his late twenties at the time, and only 5'5''. It was an illusion he'd built using posture and mannerisms.
Mr. Eames grew out of a scared twenty year old and mutated into criminal. Sometimes he wonders just who the hell Mr. Eames thinks he is, stealing his life like this? He then remembers that he is Mr. Eames.
He hates Mr. Eames.
He walked back to the hotel he was staying at (that Mr. Eames was staying at?). He allowed Mr. Eames to shine as he walked, smiling at the pretty women, and the pretty men, even though he didn't particularly have much interest in either. He kicked a stone idly in front of him and wondered whether he did it or Mr. Eames did. He missed the 4th kick. Fuck.
When he arrived at the room he quickly dragged his fingers through his hair, destroying Mr. Eames stupid part and stripped the jacket and glaringly patterned shirt. He looked in the mirror looking over the mishmash of tattoos covering scars. He was starting to look more like himself, whoever that was.
He shucked the pleated pants and briefs before putting on a pair of boxers. He dug through his bags looking for something even remotely un-Eames like. Eventually he found a pair of jeans and a plain button-up tee. He threw them on and fussed his hair into youthful looking mess of spikes. He scowled, 'too fucking old for that.' before, 'oh fuck it.' He doubled his socks over his ankles before slipping on his shoes and walking out the door.
As he walked down the hall he tried to erase all he could of Mr. Eames from his walk. He tried to walk as he had before Mr. Eames. The movement of his hips slightly feminine, his shoulders pushed forward slightly. It makes him feel submissive and he hates it, but not as much as he hates Mr. Eames.
He found the elevator and jabbed the lobby button, praying idly that the bar was open. He and Mr. Eames had opposing views on alcohol, though he assumed it was because Mr. Eames always got lost in the haze and all that's left is him.
He wandered the main floor before finding the bar and sat down. He ordered a rum and coke, knowing Mr. Eames would have preferred a daiquiri. He shook his head 'stop thinking about him'.
He was suddenly aware of someone sitting next to him. He looked. Arthur. Arthur met his eyes and smiled, "Hello."
He sneered, "Hi." He felt like a woman, and hated it. He finished his drink.
Arthur taped his empty glass, "Let me buy you another, what was it?"
He stared at Arthur before answering, "Rum and coke." He was surprised by the lowness of his voice, he forgot it could sound like that without the accent now.
Arthur called over to the barkeep and ordered two before introducing himself. "Arthur Greene, and you are?"
He paused, "John Smith."
They drank and talked for a few hours before Smith was thoroughly intoxicated.
"You know Mr. Greene." He said. His voice was slurred, a mishmash of accents now, "We should go to yours, eh, w-whaddya think?" He grinned drunkenly and pawed at Arthur's waistcoat.
Arthur must have been pretty drunk too, because he said yes.
He woke up naked. He grunted and removed his arm from between his legs and shifted his face from the wet spot before he even bothering to think.
He remembered everything except whether or not he got off. He guessed not, Arthur had ignored his genitals, and frankly he was glad. He didn't have to think about what wasn't there that way.
He heard a groan and looked beside him, and there was Arthur, stretched out with the sheets around his waist. He lifted a hand and brushed it across his back. "Ah, hello Mr. Smith." Arthur stretched and looked at the clock, "I have to get to work."
"As do I, Mr. Greene, as do I." He got dressed and left quickly.
Mr. Eames was his charmingly annoying self at the warehouse. He teased Arthur ("Of course darling, because that worked so well the last time.), he loomed over Ariadne ("Would you quit that?" "But your work it so fascinating!"), he fucked about in practice sessions, earning himself a punch in the face from Cobb. He didn't do much to Yusuf, he didn't want anything blowing up, that and the man annoyed him.
"Eames, this job is serious!"
"Of course it's serious! I've done my part, not my fault you lot are taking so long!" He was finding it hard to drop into the British lingo.
The next time he went down to the bar he wasn't John Smith. Today he was Shannon Frisk. Tight fitting feminine jeans, a light coloured sweater, a soft high voice and feminine saunter. She flirted with the men and bitch faced the women. She saw Arthur by the bar looking as though he was waiting for someone, and while she didn't have it in her to feel sorry, he did.
She went back to the room alone.
Mr. Eames was especially Eames-like the next day. He wore an extra hideous shirt and managed to piss off everyone by lunchtime.
He didn't go to the bar that night, just stood in front of the mirror and forged the people he worked with.
He started with Saito. Saito was a very closed off man and very distant. It made becoming him even easier. "I need to go, I am expecting a shipment of swans to my London house tomorrow." The voice was near flawless.
He then moved on to Ariadne. He made himself small, a little shy but also quite outspoken. She's who he tried to be in high school.
When he tried to do Arthur he found he couldn't. He always ended up with seventeen year old Arthur with his smiles and scowls and constant 'fuck you's.
He gave up and went to bed.
Mr. Eames was even worse the next day. He'd managed to get slapped Ariadne.
Mr. Smith went to bar again that night. He found Arthur pretty easily, "Hello Mr. Greene."
He jumped then smiled, "Hello Mr. Smith."
Mr. Smith ordered the drinks, whisky in coke this time.
They talked for awhile nursing their drinks when, in the middle of Arthur complaining about Mr. Eames, a song the both recognized came on.
'I got the number
But my reputation failed.
And fuck me again'
"An old friend loved this song." Arthur whispered.
Mr. Smith sang along.
'Pack my shit,
Leave this town.
Go to a place where no one knows who I am."
Arthur stared.
'And why,
Do I,
Get in these situations?'
Mr. Smith stared back.
'And why,
Do I,
Leave myself to blame'
He got up and walked out of the bar. When he got the hall he ran.
Mr. Eames did nothing the next day. Just sat there.
Ms. Frisk made an appearance at the bar that night. She didn't flirt, she just watched Arthur. From her place three seats down she could hear him singing - badly- he was quite drunk.
'Just like that,
You were gone.
You were the only friend that I needed.
That I needed.
But you ran away!
Where did you go?'
She ran out of the bar.
Mr. Eames didn't even show up.
Mr. Smith went to the bar that night and sat next to Arthur. Arthur gave him a sidelong glance.
"My names not John Smith." He said decidedly.
"Oh? What is it then?"
"Well it certainly isn't Mr. Eames."
Arthur choked on his drink.
"What?" The British accent was back. "Haven't figured that part out yet, darling?"
Arthur stared for a moment before grasping him by the hip and pulling him close. His breath was warm on his neck. "What is it then?" Arthur's voice was a rough whisper.
"It's James Anderson." A whisper in return.
"Yes," Lips brushed against his neck, "it is." Arthur pulled him up to his room.
When Mr. Anderson arrived at the warehouse he was met with a gun in his face. Arthur walked over and pushed Cobb's arm down, Cobb glared. Arthur sighed. "Don't shoot our forger."
"Oh, my knight in shining armour!" British again.
Both songs are Bleeker Ridge