Eames is very good at Arthur. If Arthur was a school subject, Eames would get perfect marks every time. Of course, being good at Arthur isn't a reciprocal thing. Arthur's no good at him, or at emotions. Eames has sunk years into what he privately calls the Arthur Project: teaching Arthur to be a person, or to play one convincingly enough to fool everyone instead of just the stupid and the unobservant.
Most people buy into the persona Arthur gives off. They are convinced by his suits and dimples and efficiency and his loyalty to Dom. They call him unimaginative, or a workaholic, or cold. But they still think of him as a person, most of the time. Only Eames really sees through the facade to the near-emptiness beneath. Sometimes he thinks Dom might see it, too, but he can't ever be sure. People who have emotions, like he'd told Arthur before, often try to hide them. That makes the fakery Eames is teaching even more complicated: Arthur has to learn to have emotions but seem to be hiding them.
"Eames, I'm no good at this." Arthur's face is blank, as it always is when they are alone and he no longer has to project humanity for others. It gives Eames a shudder, seeing that beautiful face go slack and empty, but he tries to always take solace in the meaning of it: Arthur trusts him.
"Forging's a born gift, Arthur. You'll never be perfect, and you don't need to be." Eames presses his lips together, chooses his words carefully. "You just need to be close enough. Like, with Ari, right? You've done well with her. She likes you. So just…you know. You just need to get good enough to fool everyone like you've fooled her, and you'll be fine." He gives Arthur a smile that, to a person who could read emotions, would have looked strained and fake. But Arthur can't tell, of course.
"I did do well with her, right?" He almost sounds pleased.
"Ah, yes. Perhaps a bit too well. Think she's got a bit of a crush on you now."
Arthur's face quirks into a confused look, but when Eames winks, he relaxes into a smile. Eames can't stop himself when Arthur smiles, and presses them up against a wall, long slow aching kisses. He shouldn't do this, he really shouldn't, he knows that, but Arthur smiled and Eames can't stop.
—-
Eames massages his forehead, eyes scrunched closed in frustration. "Let's try a different one, pet, shall we?" Opens his eyes, leans forward. "So. Let's say you're going to Ari's birthday party."
"That's next week."
"Yes, so let's practice, all right? It's at a bar. The whole team will be there. What do you bring her for a present?"
Arthur's face is at its blank default. "Can I buy her a drink?"
"Yes, that's good! You should buy her a drink, maybe a round for everyone. But you have to bring a gift, too."
"Cash." Arthur says this with a decisive tone, confident he's figured it out.
Eames hangs his head. "No, Arthur. Not cash. Not for her birthday, not when you work together, not when it's Ari. You know this, you know she's not interested in money. You could get Yusuf cash, that'd be fine. But not Ari. Try again."
Arthur suddenly looks lost, like a little boy, and Eames is so, so sorry. "Um. I don't…something with architecture?"
Eames claps his hands as if Arthur just took his first steps. "Perfect! Yes! Anything with architecture. You could get her a new drafting set, or a book of photographs of that Swiss bloke she likes."
Arthur breaks in; it's in the personnel file he wrote, so of course he knows it, "Peter Zumthor."
"Exactly, pet. Brilliant. A book about him, that'd be nice, or—"
"I could do a big drawing of the Penrose steps, would that be all right?"
Eames's jaw drops. Arthur is rarely creative, almost never imagines things. To come up with a gift that involves creation, it's unprecedented.
This is the problem with Arthur: he's not devoid of emotions, not at all. He has them. He does feel, occasionally quite strongly. It's just the capacity to do so all the time, to comprehend how others are feeling, to maintain emotion over time; that's what he lacks. And so Eames can't just give up, leave him to his not-exactly-a-sociopath existence, because Arthur is human enough to do some things. He can tell a joke, sometimes, given adequate setup time. He can carry on conversations with most people. He can smile. He can blush. He can shoot exasperated looks in Eames's direction — that, he's always been able to do. He can kiss and fuck and say things that almost translate to "I love you."
And so when Arthur smiles, when he does things that show the human side of him, Eames can't walk away for long. It would be smarter, easier, better, but Eames is a gambler. Arthur isn't exactly a safe bet, but Eames will go broke for him.
—-
Ari's birthday is a rousing success. She squeals with delight over the drafting set from Cobb and the Zumthor book from Eames — Arthur glances at him for that, and Eames smiles sheepishly, whispers, "It was a good idea." Yusuf got her a big bag of some kind of disgusting candy, half of which she immediately stuffed in her mouth like it was the tastiest substance on earth. When she unrolls the sketch from Arthur, though, she gasps.
Eames has seen Arthur's sketches: clinical and perfect and detailed, just like him, and these are no different. But the Penrose steps Arthur's drawn are beautiful, and Ari's mouth drops open, and Eames nearly bursts with pride when Arthur returns her hug with only a moment's hesitation.
After he buys Ari a round of drinks, Eames whispers in Arthur's ear, "You did splendidly, pet. Come to bed?" He really, really shouldn't do this, but Arthur smiled and hugged and drew a picture and Eames isn't the type of man who does the smart thing.