When they headed back into the house, Eames showed Arthur the fish he'd caught while he was out, and Arthur made a salad and cut up fruit while Eames went to prep the grill. The cabin was quiet and comfortable, the same space they'd occupied earlier even if everything seemed different now. Arthur reminded himself that he was the same man he'd been yesterday too.

While Eames came in to start scaling the fish, Arthur dumped their undrunk coffee and washed their few dishes. "Mariana asked who I was. I told her we were together," he admitted, his hands in the soapy water. "Sorry."

Eames just shrugged one shoulder. "Don't be. She'd have figured it out anyway. There's only one bed."

Arthur smiled at the water. "Yeah. She seems like a pretty smart kid."

"Yeah." Then he paused. "Does she?" He sounded cautiously hopeful.

Arthur shrugged because he'd been trying to find something nice to say, but that didn't necessarily mean it was a lie. "Sure. Maybe she'd make a good architect someday. Say, there's an idea. Can you have two more kids? Like a chemist kid and an extractor kid? I'm getting sick of trying to find trustworthy ones."

Eames laughed, like Arthur had hoped he would. "What makes you think my kids would be trustworthy?"

Arthur grinned at him and flicked soapy water his direction.

When the screen door banged open and Mariana wrestled her way inside, she was carrying several bags and a pillow. Eames offered a quick hello then took the fish to the grill. Arthur dried his hands and went to help, getting her set up on the couch.

Then he handed her a stack of plates and forks and asked her to get cups and napkins too because this was how he dealt with green architects: he pointed them toward the job they were supposed to do and then walked away. They would either do it, or they wouldn't, and he'd deal with the results either way, but this way he knew what he had to work with.

Mariana took the plates without comment or complaint and set the table without being asked. Arthur nodded to himself when she opened cupboards and drawers to find the requested items instead of asking him where they were. She was, as he'd assumed, a smart kid. And she liked to be able to figure it out on her own. Arthur could respect that.

When Eames brought the fish in, they were sitting and waiting, and it wasn't until they all got settled and ate a few bites that it got awkward.

"So! Mariana," Eames started, "tell me a little about yourself."

Mariana took a bite of food and considered him. "You first," she said around her mouthful.

"Fair enough," Eames answered. "Let's see. Well, I'm a computer programmer— "

Mariana's eyes brightened. "You are!? What do you code in?"

Arthur turned to Eames with one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Yeah, Eames, what do you code in?"

Eames had the decency to look abashed. "Okay, maybe let me rephrase that. I am not actually a computer programmer. I picked something I thought you'd find boring and not ask questions about because I am actually an international spy."

Mariana didn't appear to believe or disbelieve this proclamation, just looked disappointed he wasn't really a programmer.

"Do you like computers?" Arthur asked her as a way to stop Eames' inevitable stream of lies.

She shot him a look that said, "Duh," all by itself and Arthur didn't mind because he liked his architects a little cocky too.

So Eames asked her if she played sports or an instrument.

"Only the flute because I had to choose something for band," she said, "but I like to draw? A little? I mean, I'm not very good…"

Eames looked like he'd been handed a new toy. "Do you paint at all?"

She shrugged. "Just in art class; they give us the materials."

If she were looking for a sponsor, Arthur knew she'd come to the right place. She'd never want for art supplies again.

But Eames just hummed, then they talked about what she'd learned in art class, and it was nice. Easy. Arthur kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for Mariana to say something horrible, but mostly she talked about school and some friend of hers named Moby and listened to Eames' rambling, probably-mostly-true story about the time he went to Australia and they let him play a didgeridoo. This… this could be okay, right? She seemed mostly like a short adult with limited experience.

She helped Arthur clear the table while Eames went to clean the grill, so Leonore must have some rules at home that Mariana was at least vaguely aware of. As Arthur ran a new sink full of water to wash the dishes, she asked, "Can I borrow your phone?"

Arthur frowned because he mostly avoided people who asked questions like that: namely kids and homeless people. "Ah, sure, I guess so," he said, drying his hand and digging it out of his pocket. He saw her watching as he unlocked it and made a mental note to change the passcode when he got it back, just in case.

She didn't say thank you and Arthur wondered what the expectation was for teaching the kid of the guy you were sleeping with manners. He kept his mouth shut.

He was draining the water and drying his hands when Eames walked back in the kitchen. He was frowning to himself and Arthur wanted to kiss him, soothe him, smooth him, something, so that he stopped thinking about whatever it was he was thinking about. Except he couldn't really do that now. One, because Mariana was sitting on the couch a few feet away, and Arthur didn't know the etiquette, and two, because now Eames was required to think about things other than Arthur and ignoring everyone else.

It made him frown too. His hands felt empty, he felt out-of-sorts, and Eames wasn't looking at him. Had it just been that morning they'd woken up in bed together?

"You know," Mariana said from the couch, "this decryption would go faster if you block the UI scripts that are running in the background."

"What?" Eames and Arthur said in unison.

Eames turned his frown to Arthur. "I thought you said you weren't working."

Arthur scowled back. "I'm on vacation, I'm not dead."

"You could be if you keep this up," Mariana said dryly. "They're not that stupid. I give you...mmm… 16 hours before they notice and come looking."

Arthur did some quick calculations.

"How long would it take to find us?" he asked her, and Eames was still frowning.

She gave him a look. "Island's not that big."

Arthur sighed. "Fine, shut it down."

"Mmm hmm," Mariana hummed from the couch.

"Wait, wait a minute," Eames said to Arthur. "What exactly are you decrypting?"

"It was all baseline, I was just testing the waters," Arthur said because they'd told each other it was time for a break, and Eames had said, "I'm not doing anything but you for the next month," and Arthur had said, "God, yes, please," and he'd meant it. But there were untapped opportunities here! Who knew what he'd find if he started poking around? He'd never been to Brazil before!

"Testing whose waters?"

"Government," Mariana muttered, and Arthur glared at her.

Eames looked at Arthur sharply. "Darling," he said, "can I talk to you a moment?"

Arthur's stomach bunched a little, but he was a point man who'd had many such conversations. This was nothing he couldn't handle. He nodded and followed Eames to the bedroom, who still had the grill brush in his hand. He pointed it at Arthur.

"You decided to run a government hack job without telling me while we're holed up in this cabin with zero security and now a kid to protect?"

"Well," Arthur started, because when you put it that way…

"Are you on a job?"

"What? No! I told you I wasn't."

Eames just looked at him, sharp and dangerous, and Arthur would have been a little turned on if that look hadn't been aimed at him. Eames lowered the brush and took a step closer. "Who is it for?"

Arthur hesitated and covered it with a scowl. "I didn't take the job. I just wanted to see. So I poked around a little, tried to find some holes in the security. It wasn't anything serious."

Arthur crossed his arms and Eames' lips thinned into a tight line. "I'm not hearing an answer."

"That's because there isn't one!" Arthur shouted.

"And when did you decide to run this decryption program?" he shouted back, his voice hard and angry. "Was it before or after I got done shagging you into the mattress?"

"AAAUUUGHHH! THIN WALLS!" came the yell from the living room. "JUST THOUGHT I SHOULD LET YOU KNOW!"

Eames froze and his eyes widened, and Arthur didn't move but he could feel his face heat. His lips twitched, and before he could stop them, he started to grin. He knew Eames was pissed, and he had every right to be. He should have shut it down when they'd found out about Mariana. But he'd lessened the risk to minimal and despite Mariana's proclamation, he wasn't worried. Eames' face, though, was golden. He couldn't count how many times Eames had said the word 'shag' in Arthur's presence, and Arthur wasn't sure he had a sense of shame.

Arthur tried to bite down on his laugh, because Eames looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he couldn't help whispering, "Well, there's only one bed. She'd have figured it out."

Eames shut his eyes briefly and shook his head. "Look," he said, refocusing on Arthur, "you can't do this, right? You have to shut it down. I've got responsibilities now, I can't—"

"I know," Arthur interrupted, his laughter gone. "I know. It's done. Don't worry about it." He didn't want to hear what Eames couldn't do.

Eames snapped his mouth shut and looked at Arthur again. With a quick jerk of his head, he nodded and when he left the bedroom, Arthur told himself it wasn't intentional that Eames hadn't touched him.

Arthur stood and breathed for a few moments. Well. That was… Actually, it was unsurprising, that's what it was.

Arthur didn't really take vacations; he had no idea how. He had told himself that this cabin, this island, this golden slice of Eames-ness in his life was sacred and he threw himself into focusing on this time they had, pausing to memorize moments and take mental pictures. But it meant he had to ignore the question that had been beating at his brain ever since Eames had laughingly carried him over the threshold: did Eames want really Vacation Arthur? He'd only ever known Dreamshare Arthur. Arthur had been Dreamshare Arthur for so long he still wore suits in his natural dreams.

But like the other thoughts, hopes, and desires he'd buried, the Arthur-outside-of-work was still inside him and dying for the light of day. So it had been easy to wear cargo shorts and ratty t-shirts, or less, and lay around on the beach, or stay in bed with Eames. It felt right and good and appropriate to shuck Arthur-from-before off and start over in this cabin, permeated with sun and sand.

But even with the look on Eames' face when he'd seen Arthur in a speedo for the first time, or the mental snapshot of Eames napping in the boat as they fished, a hat pulled over his eyes and a small smile on his face, didn't mean that Eames was on board with Arthur-outside-of-work. It had been niggling in the back of his mind, a canker sore he couldn't stop biting.

So far, Eames had been content to lay around on beaches with him, making supper, and having sex. Lots of sex. But Arthur had been sure he was going to fuck this up somehow. Probably by being a little too needy. Or possibly by letting on that he really, really liked it when Eames was the big spoon. Or by letting on that he was so totally, completely, ass over heels, oh-god-I'm-so-fucked, this-is-such-a-bad-idea, no-it's-fine-I've-got-this-under-control, I-can-handle-this in love with Eames he sometimes felt sick. Basically, he was worried that as soon as Eames saw him as something other than "competent point man I'd like to fuck" he'd run for the hills.

So he'd started the trace. He'd heard someone was looking, he wasn't planning on taking the job, but he was the master of backup plans for his backup plans. He wasn't saying he'd lined up a job in case Eames decided he'd lost interest, honestly, he hadn't let himself think it out that far. Because Arthur was a criminal and a greedy bastard, but this was Eames, and he just wanted to make sure he wasn't going to fuck this up.

Arthur would never had predicted he'd fuck it up by being a competent point man instead of just the guy Eames wanted to fuck.

Arthur glanced at the suitcase on the bed, still open, yawning, waiting. Would his suit still fit him the way it had before? It had been tailored within an inch of its life when he got here, a constant and a comfort. It had hugged him, supported him, concealed him. Now it lay there, disheveled and betrayed by him, but he still glared at it like it was the one that had done the betraying.

He flipped the lid closed on the case and went back to the living room. Mariana was sitting on the couch lazily playing Bubble Spinner on his phone and Eames was at the sink, the tense line of his shoulders speaking volumes as he scrubbed something too hard.

Arthur sighed and motioned for Mariana to hand over the phone. She stared at him with an air of defiance and Arthur raised an eyebrow. He held out his hand and put on his best Point Man face, and she rolled her eyes before slapping it in his palm. She crossed her arms and glared out the window like he'd just demanded she give up her right arm or something.

"I'm going for a walk. You two should try bonding while I'm gone."

Eames turned from the sink with a slight air of panic, but it was gone in a flash as he clenched his jaw and nodded. Arthur gave Mariana a warning look, a silent "be good," even though he had no right, and headed out onto the beach.

He wandered for a bit, the heat soaking him thoroughly before he had a chance to find any kind of shade. Finally, he stepped into a small, open cafe with a great view. He ordered a drink and stayed out of the sun while he dug through everything he'd set up and made sure it was destroyed. He reset every password he could think of, checked in from various locations on the fake online aliases he'd set up for himself and Eames, and drank his drink. When the sun had dipped a bit lower, he paid and walked further up the beach. He forced himself to stop thinking about what Eames wanted and to think about what he really wanted.

Because yes, Arthur was both a Point Man and also Not-a-Point-Man, (he had layers, okay?) but now Eames was more than just the Eames he'd always known. He was a father, and someone with a family and ties to people and places. And as unlikely as it had seemed, Eames had apparently already processed and adjusted to the fact that Mariana was a now a permanent fixture in his life. She would be there when Arthur got back. Even if Eames didn't retain full custody, she would still be there, a constant presence in Eames' life and a new facet of this man whom he'd thought he'd recognized in any context. So, when it was just Arthur and his thoughts, without Eames there to influence him, without expectations or judging himself… did he want this?

Arthur tried to be objective and consider every possibility. Assuming Eames wanted him in his daughter's life, which was a big assumption right now, he'd never been around kids before. He'd been the kind of person who was fiercely in the "maybe later, maybe never" camp on having his own children, and he'd been just fine with that. But Eames…

There should be more of Eames. He was funny and brilliant and intimidating and true. He should have all the children. Having an Eames in your corner was… well, it was ideal. Everyone should have the opportunity.

The sun dipped lower and he stopped at a stall and bought a fish taco. He ate it standing on the sand, letting it drip down his forearm, not caring when a drop fell on his button-down. He washed his hands in the ocean, his lips tingling from the spices, and wandered back with his hands in his pockets. Cobb wouldn't recognize him if he saw him now.

That thought flitted around in the corners of his head as the sun sank below the horizon. He'd been a point man for so long. Was he still Arthur if he threw away his suits and moved to the beach with Eames and his teenage hacker daughter? Would Eames recognize him? Still want him? Because he wanted Eames. In all his variations, Arthur would always know him. He wanted to hold Eames up to the light, let the sun shine through him and display every hue, every unseen facet. He wanted them all. He wanted Eames as a thief and a forger and a dreamshare criminal on the run. He wanted him as a dad and a partner and a lover, he wanted him as a sparring partner and someone to balance the checkbook with, and he wanted him with a gun in one hand and a grill brush in the other. He wanted. And it was dangerous. Because Arthur, who had defined himself in neat and precise lines for so long, was reformed as a yawning open cavern of Eames Moments Matter Most, and if he was being honest with himself, he didn't think it would ever be filled.

So, short answer: yes, he wanted this.

It was full dark when he got back, and Mariana was asleep on the couch when Arthur walked in. He tiptoed past her, debating for a second about pulling the blanket higher or something, but she seemed fine? Probably? With a mental shrug, he headed for the bedroom.

It was dark, just a strip of moon showing between the curtains and Eames was sprawled on his back in the exact middle of the bed. He no doubt did it on purpose so if he fell asleep Arthur would wake him when he climbed in. But Eames wasn't asleep. He was watching Arthur as he came in, locking the door quietly behind him. Eames was bare-chested beneath the ceiling fan, the lazy swirl of air doing little to cool off the heat of the day. Arthur felt his mouth water.

With Point Man decision-making skills, he shucked his shirt, shorts, and underwear and twitched the sheet away from Eames' hips. If this had been just them in the cabin, and Eames had been pissed off but not talking, Arthur would have turned him over and fucked it out of him, then cleaned him up, curled up behind him, and said, "Talk." And he had a pretty good feeling Eames would have obeyed. As it was, Arthur looked Eames up and down, unmoving in the middle of the bed and wearing the same gray boxer briefs Arthur had watched him slide on that morning. Eames looked at him like he was issuing a challenge. Arthur accepted.

He kneeled over Eames, tossing the sheet somewhere on the floor, and ran his hands over every square inch of that beautiful chest. He thumbed Eames' nipples to hear the intake of breath, and whispered, "Shh. Thin walls, remember?"

Eames glared at him and when he opened his mouth to say something, Arthur swooped in. He kissed Eames, hot and hungry, and in a second, Eames was returning it. It was fierce and bitey and came with a flurry of hands over skin. Arthur ground his hips into Eames, flushing at his obvious need pressing back. He rocked against Eames, rolling and bucking in time with his tongue thrusts, until Eames was grabbing his ass and holding on. Except as soon as Eames started grinding back, the wooden framed bed made its presence known, clacking and groaning against the wall.

They froze, panting into each other's mouths, until Arthur took Eames' hands and wrapped them around the headboard to keep it from slamming. Then he pulled back and grinned at Eames, dimples on full display.

Eames looked a little stunned, pupils blown, and he tightened his grip on the wood. Arthur slid down his body, his tattoos stark in the silvery light, leaving a trail of nips and licks he could follow with his eyes closed. He nudged down Eames' underwear, sucking a bruise as a bookmark on his hip before discarding them somewhere with the sheet. Then he went to work.

Normally, Eames in bed was a beautiful, dramatic, flamboyant thing. He was an artist who had an entire wall on which to paint a mural, and he was going to use all of it. Like this, though, with his hands folded around the wooden headboard and his arm muscles bulging with his fight to keep still, his stomach clenched as he rocked in tiny movements into Arthur's mouth, his lips bitten raw to keep his sounds inside… god. Like this, he wasn't an artist. Like this, he was art.

When he finally shattered and came, tiny spasms wracking his body and a look on his face that was almost pained, Arthur had never felt more smug about a blowjob in his life. It took a few quick pulls before he was coming on Eames' hip, painting the bookmark he'd placed there earlier, his jaw locked around the groan that was racing to get out.

On shaky arms, he flopped on his stomach next to Eames, their sweat sticking them together as they both tried to get enough air.

Arthur looked at Eames in the moonlight and grinned around his panting and Eames grinned back, his crooked teeth on display and doing things to Arthur's heart. When he looked at Eames, really looked, it was like everything he was feeling wouldn't fit all in his chest and he knew it was bubbling up in his eyes and out his fingers and pretty soon, out his mouth. He wanted Eames to talk, he wanted to hear why Eames was upset. But he also knew that the longer he stared, the more he was telling Eames.

So, soft and warm and fun and lighthearted, Arthur kissed Eames and tried to keep his whole heart out of it.


When Arthur woke, there was a mug of steaming coffee on the bedside table and the door to the bedroom stood wide open. Luckily, Eames had thrown the sheet back over him at some point, because sleeping in his underwear was one thing, but sleeping in his underwear in front of Eames' daughter was not something he was comfortable with. He slipped out of bed and into a pair of shorts and tee shirt and followed the sound of movement. Eames was standing at the front window cradling a matching mug of coffee.

"Morning, darling," he said without looking at Arthur. "Sleep well?"

"Uh, sure," he said.

"Mmm," Eames hummed taking a sip. "When did you order the hit team?"

"What?" Arthur said, practically scalding himself as he jerked alert. He put his coffee mug down.

Outside, a sleek black pickup sat idling at the end of their block. The man in sunglasses sitting in the front seat next to the driver with the toothpick in his mouth were both staring at their front door.

"Shit," Arthur breathed. "Who is that?" He was scanning madly through a mental spreadsheet of threats and was coming up blank on anything probable that had tracked them here.

Eames made an 'I don't know' noise and shrugged. "Let's find out, shall we?" With one hand, he set down his coffee mug and pulled his shirt off with the other.

"What are you doing?"

Eames looked at him, unconcerned. "Asking them who they are, darling. How else will we find out?"

Arthur glanced around. "Where's Mariana?" The last thing he needed was her deciding she wanted to go with him.

"I sent her out the back door to her mother's about a half hour before they showed up. She's fine," he said, waggling his phone at Arthur.

Arthur looked at the truck again. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just get ready to run if we need to, but I don't think we will. They're not here to kill us, or they would have already."

"Reassuring," Arthur muttered.

Eames hummed and brushed a kiss over Arthur's temple without really looking away from the front window. He was obviously thinking hard and Arthur worried his lip. When he walked out the front door, shirtless and obviously weaponless, he sauntered up to the truck with a slow, easy gait. Arthur had grabbed the gun and their passports, and he should be throwing their things in a bag right fucking now, but instead he couldn't stop staring at Eames, walking half-naked into the lion's den like he hadn't a care in the world.

The men in the truck were on high alert, laser focused on Eames as he came towards them. He called something to them when he was still a few yards away, a friendly wave which also showed how many guns he wasn't carrying.

Arthur stared around the edge of the window, readjusting his grip on the gun and trying to stay loose. The closer he got, the more high-strung Arthur got. When Eames finally slowed and stopped, one elbow propped on the edge of the truck's window as he chatted. His easy posture and slow smile did nothing to make Arthur relax. He talked for a little while, drawing the driver more and more into the conversation and then he laughed. Then he winked. Then before he knew it the two men were laughing and smiling back, and was Eames fucking flirting!?

The grip of the gun was pressing into his palm, and with a concentrated effort, he flipped the safety back on. He glared at the three men in the bright morning sunshine and he tried to flex his shoulders, arms, fingers, and knees in stages to stay alert and loose as he waited. When Eames finally deigned to return to the cabin, an easy roll up the front walk and in the front door, Arthur knew he was scowling but couldn't stop himself.

"Well? What's going on? Who are they? What do they want?" Arthur snapped, and Eames, who was shrugging into a shirt, stopped before he could button it with a look of surprise. Then he blinked at Arthur and a slow, smug smirk spread over his face.

He crowded Arthur up against the wall and kissed his jaw, running his lips over the skin there and up to Arthur's earlobe. Which was fucking unfair, because that was a favorite spot of Arthur's that made his knees go weak and Eames fucking knew it, the asshole. He tongued Arthur's earlobe and Arthur felt his eyes slip closed despite his annoyance.

"Eames," he said, trying to hang on to his ire.

"In a minute, darling, this is important," Eames mumbled into his skin, then kissed his neck, gathering him close and not letting him pull away. He kissed Arthur, long and sweet, until Arthur felt the tension that had settled on him slide away. Finally Eames pulled away, dropping short kisses to Arthur's lips and smiling at him.

"Better?" he asked Arthur, and Arthur rolled his eyes and tried to look irritated.

"Who were those guys?" Arthur asked again, but there was no bite in it this time and Eames smiled at him.

"Oh, just a few guys from the Víbora Cartel. Apparently they've been sent to keep an eye on us, but their replacements haven't shown up because the driver's cousin got married last night and there was a big drunken brawl and one guy ended up—"

"The Víbora Cartel?!" Arthur tried not to squawk. "What the fuck are they doing here?" He paced back over to the window, taking a defensive stance against the wall and checked to see if the truck was still there. It was.

Eames frowned. "You know them?"

"Of," Arthur said, still looking out the window. "There was an extraction a few years back. I only heard about it because I was looking for a particular chemist and found out he'd been killed, along with his whole team, by the guys that hired them."

That made Eames look serious, at least. "Jesus."

"Yeah. So, basically, don't get hired by them, is what I'm saying." Arthur wiped his hand on his shorts and re-gripped the gun. "So what are they doing here?"

"Well, they didn't really know, but I'm guessing it has something to do with your online presence from last night."

Arthur looked at him, confused. "That can't be right. I didn't go anywhere near anything like that. And why would they look here? Nobody knows we're here. Literally no one in the—"

He broke off and he could see Eames realize it the same time he did. He grabbed his phone.

"Mariana," Arthur said, his voice tight. Damn. He thought he'd looked everywhere...

Eames frowned, the creases on his forehead wrinkling adorably. "What is she doing, messing around with a group like that?"

"Beats—" A knock on the front door interrupted Arthur. " —me."

Arthur exchanged a look with Eames, who walked to put his hand on the doorknob and nodded as Arthur hid the gun behind his back.

On the other side was a dark-haired man in a killer suit and an underhanded smile, and a thug in sunglasses standing behind him.

"Hello," he said in perfect English, "I apologize for interrupting your vacation, but I have a business proposition. May I come in?"

Eames made a 'huh' sound as he hooked a thumb into his waistband. "Who are you?"

The man flashed him another, tighter smile that quickly disappeared. "I'm here for Arthur."

Eames straightened, his eyes hardening. "Well, I'm Arthur's partner. You can talk to me first."

The man appeared annoyed and Arthur realized he had no idea who Eames was, dreamshare or otherwise. Arthur intended to keep it that way. He would place himself between Eames and the cartel without a second thought if it meant he didn't have to worry Eames was going to become a loose end which needed to be cleaned up. He would force Eames out of the way every time.

With a twang of reluctance, he tucked the gun into his waistband and tried to look more professional than he felt. "He means we're fucking. I'm Arthur. I'm a Point Man, occasional Architect, sometimes an Extractor if the need arises. What can I do for you?"

The man's oily smile returned. "You can invite me in, to begin."

Eames glanced at Arthur, who tried to convey probably too much in his look back, but Eames moved aside so the man could enter. He looked too big, too in-control in the laid back space. The room which had previously seemed indulgent and foolishly decadent now looked drab and prefabricated. Arthur offered him the armchair anyway. His thug stood unobtrusively against the wall.

"My name is Ruben Alkmin," he said, once he'd taken over the seat. Arthur caught Eames' small movement out of the corner of his eye at the name, but he said nothing, so Arthur focused on the man in front of him.

Alkmin looked like he'd be at home in a board room or a back room or a bedroom. "Do you know me, then?" he asked.

"Of," Arthur repeated. "I heard about a Víbora job in Milan through the grapevine. Nasty rumor, that one."

He waved his hand. "Hearsay. Not an ounce of truth."

"Hmm," Arthur hummed. "Still. What can I do for you?"

"I have a business proposal. A temporary partnership, if you will. One where your interests align with mine, to the benefit of us both."

Arthur contemplated him from his place on the couch and tried to figure out how to decline without getting killed.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Alkmin, I don't see how your interests might align with mine, and as you said, I am on vacation, so..."

Alkmin took out his phone and typed something into it, and seconds later Arthur felt his phone buzz against his thigh. At his expectant look, Arthur opened the text he'd received from a blocked number.

It was an internal memo from a Brazilian government worker about his worm from the night before. Arthur's eyebrows raised as he read it had been traced, apparently to a middle school student on the island. Arthur knew he'd gone back and made sure everything was deleted, but he had a pretty good idea whose fingers had fiddled in this particular pie. He re-pocketed the phone.

"I'm not sure what you're implying," he said. "It's been awhile since I was in middle school."

"Hmm, yes," Alkmin hummed humorlessly. "And we will punish her for that, make no mistake. But Mariana also told me where I could find you and that really evens things out in my book."

Eames stood, angry in a way Arthur had never seen and practically vibrating in his desire to do harm to the besuited man on his armchair.

"What did you do to her? Where is she, where did you take her?"

Ruben Alkmin, for his part, looked genuinely confused, an air that most people probably didn't get to experience out of him very often. He blinked at Eames. "I didn't take her anywhere. She's at home."

Eames simmered with mistrust and his fists were clenched at his sides.

Arthur kept his voice steady. "Why don't you take a walk," he said, "Charlie."

The name jolted Eames out of his anger and made him blink at Arthur. Unfortunately, it also made realization dawn on Alkmin's face. Thankfully, if not surprisingly, Eames seemed to calm down. He nodded and walked out the front door, and the thug watched him out the window until he was out of sight.

"So, that is Mariana's father," Alkmin said after Eames was gone. And Arthur really didn't want to talk about either of them with this man. He wanted to get out of doing a job for the cartel and get the hell out of town as fast as possible. Except now…

Now running wouldn't be so easy.

Arthur had known, in an abstract way, that this was a side effect of having children. Children needed roots, stability, and less dodging of bullets than Arthur himself was used to. Not that Arthur was opposed to those things, but it had always been a part of the job— be able to get out, fast.

He leveled a Point Man look at Ruben Alkmin. "I thought you were here to talk business."

And Alkmin smiled, slow and cold.


When Arthur found Eames on the beach later he was sitting in the sand, watching the water, his shirt still unbuttoned and his arms resting on his knees. His phone was in his hand.

"Hey."

Eames looked up at him, squinting against the sun.

"Well?"

"Is she okay?" Arthur said instead, settling himself on the sand next to Eames.

He nodded. "Leonore confirmed. She said Mariana didn't want to give you up, but…" he drifted off. "Well, Leonore says a lot of things."

They sat for a moment watching the waves.

"He wants me to do an extraction. Apparently he thinks we have similar political opinions about the current Brazilian government, so he's determined to recruit me. It's easy, a one-man job; they'll pull all the research."

"Which you'll double check anyway."

"Naturally."

Eames was quiet. He turned his phone over and over in his hands. "There's a flight out tomorrow morning. Early."

"You should take it," Arthur said, easily. "You and Mariana."

"And leave you here to run a job alone?" Eames turned to glare at him, angry now. "Why don't you take it?"

Arthur knew he had been staring, because his chest felt tight, and everything he felt was spilling out. He looked away.

"You need to get Mariana to someplace safe. Someplace she can get away from him and his reach. I'll look after Leonore."

Eames made a sound of disbelief. "Leonore? She wanted this; she chose this! Over Mariana! Who cares about Leonore?!"

Arthur dared to look at him again. "Mariana."

Eames frowned and turned back to the sea, and Arthur felt his heart groan and shudder around the extra strain.

"Besides," Arthur said, "I could use the time here to try and convince Leonore to be militarized."

"What good would that do?" Eames asked, petulant.

Arthur studied Eames' casually capable hands. They were good hands. Strong, clever, wide and a little rough. Those hands knew his body, knew an IV line, knew a knife and a gun. They knew fights and fucks and, god, Arthur would miss them. Because he was going to take his own hands, slender, and efficient, and push Eames as far away as he could, as fast as he could. And then he was going to bury any trace.

"If I'm here anyway," he shrugged, "might as well. What would they find out about you if someone extracted from her?"

Eames turned and regarded him. "You're serious. You think I'm going to leave, let you do this ridiculousness alone, and all because otherwise they might get something on me if they extract from my ex from over a decade ago. No. Darling. No, no, no, no."

Arthur just gave him a sad smile and leaned his shoulder against Eames'. "Keep her safe. I'll keep you both safe," he promised, staring at the safety of Eames' hands. "It's the best I can do. You have to let me do it."

Eames' arm flexed as he clenched his hand into a fist, but then he swore softly and moved to wrap his arm around Arthur. Arthur let himself be dragged into the hug, leaning close and hugging back with one arm, breathing in Eames' sun-warmed skin as his overfull chest ached. He wrapped a fist in Eames' shirt and took, and took, and took, because he would never get enough, and yet somehow knowing it was now limited made it almost painfully too much.

The phone in Eames' hand rang, and rang again before either of them moved. Finally, Eames sighed and took his arm back to answer it.

He listened and then replied in Portuguese, and Arthur could tell by his tone that it was Mariana. Eames was a little softer with her, a little more patient, even when his tone sharpened. Arthur stood and gave him a smile and shook his head when Eames looked up at him.

"Talk to her," Arthur said, then brushed himself off and headed back to the cabin. He had some research to pull down and a suit to get pressed.


Eames was different when he came back in the house. Not that he looked any different, save a slight red tint to his face and chest, but Arthur could tell he'd pulled on his work persona and the vacation was over. The door they'd shut on the world in favor of each other had been kicked open. Arthur accepted it with as much grace as he could muster and brought Eames a plate of food and some aloe.

He settled on the armchair instead of the couch so he could see Eames' face.

"So," he said, taking a bite and pushing his laptop aside. "How's Mariana?"

Eames sighed. "Quiet," he said, "although she puts on a good show. She's not like her mom. Her mother is… well." He waved a dismissive hand. "She loves computers. You can hear it in her voice when she talks about them. There's a little hiccup in the 'd' when she says computador, like she gets excited." Arthur warmed at the way he unwittingly described her— like he would describe a potential forge.

"And she is a tiny, fierce little feminist," Eames continued, probably unaware of the pride that was seeping through in his voice even as he sounded exasperated about this fact. "Apparently she was suspended for hacking the Senate's social media pages and posting pictures of angry half-naked feminists marching in protest," Eames said with a cheeky grin.

Arthur couldn't help the laugh that rolled out of him and Eames laughed with him. Eames would have his hands full.

The thought was a sobering one, but Arthur tried not to let it drown him. He had Eames for now. He had known this was coming after all, one way or another. Except how lucky had he gotten to have Eames smiling and looking at him like that on his last day?

"So. What did she say?"

Eames' smile dimmed and he looked at his phone. "She's… she said she's excited. But I don't think she's really considered…" Eames trailed off and shrugged.

"Where will you go?" Arthur asked, because he needed to know if he was going to keep them as safe as possible. It wasn't because he needed to be able to picture them there. It wasn't because he was expecting anything, afterward.

"Hmm. I was thinking that safe house in Santa Fe. What do you think?"

"My safe house?" Arthur blurted without thinking.

Eames' brow furrowed. "Is that alright?" he asked, suddenly unsure. "I just thought Mariana would like the house. And the heat. And that one teal-coloured room—"

"No," Arthur hastened, "I mean, that's fine!" He could absolutely picture them there. "Whatever you need."

Eames looked at him then and Arthur told himself to stop projecting that he saw fondness in Eames' gaze.

"Ah, darling. Thank you."

Arthur nodded around the tightness in his throat. They ate and talked logistics, and Arthur tried not to focus on how tomorrow morning he would drop him off at the airport and help Eames start a new life without him. They would meet Leonore and Mariana there, and he would wear his suit. But tonight… tonight wasn't tomorrow, yet.

Arthur helped Eames plan and helped him pack. They ran errands and watched something brainless on TV and Arthur told Eames to put aloe on his face because Eames wouldn't and Arthur knew that, had known it even as he threw him the bottle. They talked. He tried to make Eames laugh. They bickered about the best Bond. Eames took a shower and Arthur lasted about ten minutes before he dragged him out and pressed him onto the clean sheets.

"Fuck me," Eames said, not quite a plea, not quite a demand. It had been on the tip of Arthur's tongue to say the same thing, because he wanted the Eames shaped bruises, the twinge the next day, the tangible proof. But he said okay, because he could lie to himself that Eames wanted those things too, and he gave them to him.

Arthur took Eames apart. He touched and tasted until sweat gathered in Eames' collarbones and Arthur could lick it off. He teased and stroked, until Eames could only whimper when he brushed a thumb over his rim. He eased him open, turned him inside out, whispered in his ear, and left bruises. So many bruises. He made Eames come twice before he let himself go—a wild, panic-spurred thrusting for which Eames got very quiet and the bed creaked very loud. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Eames let him clean up, check him over, bring a glass of water. But he wouldn't let Arthur scoot away afterward, just pulled him close and wrapped his too big, too warm arms around him. Arthur couldn't compartmentalize with Eames so close. He couldn't sort through the mess in his head surrounded by Eames' scent and his lips on Arthur's ear and he definitely couldn't devolve into a puddle of self-absorbed angst with Eames' good, wide, a-little-bit-rough hands stroking over his body. So, instead, he closed his eyes, and took, and took, and took. Because tonight wasn't tomorrow. Yet.