So, I felt exploring a more exotic background for Eames instead of the preferred British one. (Don't get me wrong, I love Brit-Eames. I assume he grew up there anyhow.) So yeah, cute fluffy story for you. Not really a lot of direct romance in here, but… it's undeniable anyhow. Anyway, do read – it's adorable, I promise.
Set… probably after the movie. Maybe AU a little 'cause Cobb goes back to extraction work. Ariadne's got a line too. Woo!
EGYPT
Squat dun buildings surrounded them, filled by people made entirely of memories. Eames lead his team through the narrow streets, his voice rolling over in a comfortable ramble. He explained the complex logic of the streets, the enigmas of the hidden courtyards and the sprawl of rooftops - a whole world out of sight over their heads. He pointed out alleys hardly big enough for a cat to squeeze through, circular routes that had you taking a long time to get literally nowhere – a dead end, a basement door. He helped them pick their way through a street half-buried by handspun rugs, rough wool coarse against their arms as they brushed past. They were surrounded by the smell of drying spices and the baking sun. They felt sweat trickle down past their collars, and watched dust settle on their polished shoes.
In peculiar dream-logic, they slowed down at times, watching the world speed by to catch up on strange details, to see patterns in the movement of the crowd. Then, when Eames willed it so, they sped up and traversed a great tangle of streets in a breath. From backwater slums to touristic epicenters they wandered, Eames never tired of speaking of his childhood home. The Egyptian dreamscape was malleable and smooth in his mind, familiar to the point that it took him next to no effort to exert his will against the laws of space and time. The whole of Cairo twisted itself to fit whatever form he desired.
No matter how whimsical the promenade seemed, this was serious work. Their next mark was a Egyptian, an ambitious middle-aged man who knew a secret the whole world itched to uncover. One of the itching parties were the Saudis – and they were offering a rather tidy sum for the extraction of this information. Their flight out to Egypt was tomorrow night, but Cobb wanted no time wasted. Seeing as Eames had a frighteningly accurate map of the city living on in his mind, he would give the rest of them a tour – get Ariadne acquainted with the architecture, show Arthur what it was like to grow up, to live in this sprawling city. Cobb simply walked with his hands in his pockets, studying the possibilities that hid within the shaded doorways.
They had been at this for hours. The tour was winding down. Eames followed the Nile to a small city park, a place where the great river's banks were still bordered by greenery and reeds. Here, a cool breeze picked up, the trees rustling dappled shadows over their heads.
"See everything you wanted?" Eames glanced at Ariadne, who had hardly said a word all day. She stared, blank-faced, for a moment – lips parting without any words to follow.
"Oh! Yes." She finally managed. "Sorry. There's… so much. I can't believe you keep track of all this! But this is great. Really, Eames. I'll probably have the whole thing done before we even step foot in the country!" She beamed at him, still easy to impress. Off to the side, Cobb nodded in a more restrained agreement, and Arthur… Arthur simply stared into the distance. Bored, maybe? They shared a few more words, him and the architect, but soon enough she figured out that he wanted to be left alone, to walk in his dream-city a little longer by himself. She walked off a wooden footbridge, fell calmly, and faded away before she hit the bottom. Cobb followed suit, and Arthur…
Was gone. Eames quirked an eyebrow. The man had probably found some less dramatic kick. Typical Arthur – always efficient, always practical. He probably wouldn't like Cairo very much, the chaotic sprawl and cluttered horizon. For some peculiar reason, this thought bothered Eames. Why? It was as if… he wanted to share something with Arthur, here. Arthur did not understand him, he thought. He knew. He was a caricature in the man's eyes, a man with no life and no history. Just a forger. Just another forger, perhaps a particularly annoying one.
And Eames wanted to show him more. Without saying anything, without dealing with some useless and needlessly awkward conversation, in which he would doubtlessly start to question his own motivations – why did he want Arthur to know him? – Just showing him. His childhood. His city. The only place that really felt like home, after all these years of wandering.
So much for that.
He strolled to the riverbank, leaning against a lazy-looking tree. Children played in the muddy sand by the water's edge, and birds wheeled in the poisonously blue sky overhead. He was about to turn around, to visit his old house or his school or one of his more secret hiding-places when… his eyes were drawn to a particular child, crouched in the grasses away from the others. This one did not fit in. He was pale-skinned, for one. White as you could get. Eames had stuck out himself growing up, being only half-Egyptian… but his skin tanned and he acted just like the others. This was not the case with the Caucasian boy by the river, who was dragging a stick through the water – watching the way the current moved around it, the little waves the disturbance created. Eames took a step closer, taking in the neatly combed black hair, the immaculate miniature sweatervest.
The boy couldn't have been any older than six or seven. But recognition hit hard and fast anyhow, the forger swearing loudly as it did.
Arthur. It was Arthur. Or, more accurately, Arthur's projection of himself as a child, superimposed onto a part of Eames' dream-landscape that must have reminded him of something from his own past.
And there was the man himself, sitting with his arms in his lap on a stone bench, watching his younger self release the branch, watching himself watch it bob away on the lazy current. Still here, in his dream. Eames felt compelled to approach him, to say something. To share a joke and make him laugh, watch the smile break over his firm face. Eames liked making Arthur smile. On the one hand, it was just an interesting challenge, for the man hardly did anything more than smirk. But on the other… it was just nice. Arthur looked good when he smiled.
But while Eames stood there and planned his approach, his subconscious was already racing ahead of him. Before he could even take a step forward, the reeds beside kid-Arthur moved and a second child stepped onto the mud beside him, a little older and only slightly bigger in build. His skin was tan, his hair reached down to the nape of his neck in messy black curls. He wore shorts and a t-shirt several sizes too big, and he walked barefoot. His eyes were trained on little Arthur, his expression a combination of childish uncertainty and determination.
Bravely, nine-year-old Eames crouched beside kid-Arthur, watching the floating branch for a moment before speaking, waving towards the interior of the park. "Si tu vas avec moi, Je vais te montrer quelque chose de secret. Mais il faut que tu ne dis rien de ca, ne dis a personne! C'est tres important."
In dream-logic, kid-Arthur understood the French easily, standing up to join kid-Eames with conspiratory looks on their faces, an instant friendship forged on secrets. They scrambled up the banks and into the park, leaving Arthur alone on the bench with a puzzled look on his face. Eames approached him from the back, trying not to smile at the thought of what he had just seen. He reached out – and placed a hand on the point-man's narrow shoulder. Arthur looked up, and Eames smiled easily, stepping around the bench to sit beside him, his hand still resting comfortably draped over the bench, practically around Arthur's shoulders.
"I think we just made friends." He said simply, and watched the smile creep up to Arthur's lips.