The little problem – Eames used the word little because he wasn't scared of him, well not really – with Kologrivov, simmered down after two bullets were placed in the kneecaps of his most loyal henchman. Cobb managed to keep the peace, and coming from a man holding a CZ 50 in one hand and a Walther PS handgun in the other, this was quite remarkable. The spat wasn't over, Kologrivov had warned, but he was certain he wasn't going to let 'Mr Cobb out me as a criminal'. Eames had insisted he was not a damsel in distress that needed this sort of heroic help, but Cobb just smirked at him and said: 'You're not a damsel, no'. Eames scowled at him. 'You're funny. Can we carry on now?' Arthur had been sat four hundred metres away with a sniper rifle aimed at the window of the mansion. He had an earpiece, and was listening to everything, recording it. When Kologrivov threatened either one of them, a shot swished through the glass, smashing a vase on the other side of the room. Oh, and one of Kologrivov's men was still missing but Arthur claimed he had nothing to do with it.

That was roughly three weeks ago, and Eames knew he was reaching the beginning of a mid life crisis. Because frankly any men who like playing James Bond on a regular basis; ought to have more sense.

Cobb had been to London when he was fifteen, with Eames on a two-week holiday. He had never been back, and Eames was on a mission to change that. So he met Cobb at the airport (the kids were either on a trip or staying at grandparents, and Arthur had left town for a job), handing him a ticket to gate one.

'Flight sixteen hundred to Gatwick Airport, England?' He was beginning to think Cobb was slowing down in his age – not that Eames would ever say that aloud – because the extractor did not question it when Eames told him that he had booked at a flight for a week or two away.

'That's what it says on the ticket, yes'

'I haven't been to England-'

'Since you were fifteen, yes I remember. I doubt it missed you, don't worry'

Cobb smiled, and rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers.

'What's the time? I need a coffee'

'It's three thirty, so we got a bit of time'

Cobb walked off to get himself a cup of coffee at the Starbucks stand, leaving Eames sitting on the hard, utilitarian seats. He took out his blackberry and scrolled through the contacts. The phone vibrated and the clicked out, selecting the new bbm message. Huh. It was from his sister.

Hey, which part of the world are you? We need to catch up.

His sister, Charlotte, was a single mum working as a public relations executive for a branch of clothing. No one would ever think either one was related. They looked nothing alike, nor did they act it. It didn't stop them being close, and nobody at school ever made the connection. This was due to the fact that Charlotte was two years younger and their friends never mixed. She met Cobb, and Eames had a burden of proof that she formed a crush on him at one point. Then again she was only thirteen when they met, and he was fifteen.

He replied with I'm flying into London today. So if you want to catch up I'll be around :-)

Eames looked up and Cobb was walking back towards him. Things were still a bit weird between them. If they weren't, Eames wouldn't understand it. To be honest he didn't know what he wanted out of this relationship. God almighty… he couldn't even call it that. Whatever it was, Eames was just content with the idea that something was settled. And that little place in his – dare he say it – heart was clicked shut and secured with a feeling.

'Here you go' and he was handed a polystyrene cup of something. He looked up, and Cobb sat on the seat next to him, nudging the black travel bag with his foot.

'It's a double caramel latte' Cobb said before Eames could ask.

'Without cream?' he asked.

'Yes. I never figured out why you say no to cream, as if that won't hurt you in the long run anyway'

'It's a matter of principle. It's too sweet otherwise. Don't tell me that's a black coffee, with one sugar?' Eames asked, eyeing the white cup in distaste. The other man nodded. Eames made a face.

'Arthur and you can live on that stuff'

'That's what I did before my final, so why should I stop now?'

Eames' blackberry, which was balanced on his lap, vibrated. He looked at it, and then read the text to make that red flashing go away.

Good :-) Text me when you have a moment, okay?

And he clicked out of it. Cobb was reading over his shoulder, and to anyone else he would have told them to bugger off, but he was used to it. Besides, it wasn't as if it was anything really private.

'How is Charlotte?' he asked and Eames huffed, putting his phone in his jacket.

'She's fine. We might drop in and see her. She's got a little boy'

'Is she being supported?' Cobb asked.

To anyone else that question would have made no sense. But Charlotte had had a pregnancy scare at the age of seventeen and her boyfriend went silent. Cobb was there when she 'found out' and sat with Eames while she screamed down the phone line to the so called boyfriend.

'She's a single mum' Eames replied. He didn't let anyone else know, but when he did huge jobs (for instance the inception of Robert Fischer) he sent the money through an unmarked account to Charlotte. They never mention it, but it makes Eames smile when he gets a text with a picture of his nephew. Cobb didn't say anything, which meant he was probably outlining ways to track down whoever did this to Charlotte Eames.

The sixteen hundred flight to London, England, Gatwick Airport is now ready to board if you would please make your way…

Seven hours later, they touched down in London, Gatwick. Cobb had been troubled by a wine glass that appeared to move of its own accord across the table. Each time he fiddled with it, it slid again. Cobb just frowned at the glass, downing it so the stewardess would take it away.

'Remember it's a lift not an elevator and…'

'If you say one more thing like that I'll hit you'

The threat was added to by a Dominic Cobb shut-up-for-your-own-good look. Eames smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. Cobb smiled back, and Eames could see in his shoulders that he needed a proper sleep. So did Eames, the leather upholstered seats though comfortable, but meant your legs refused to work after the flight.

They stepped out into moderately sunny and considerably warmer London that Eames expected. Staying in too many steamy continents where the haze is heat, not fog, made Eames forget about the place he used to know. He would be lying if he said he didn't miss it.

Sorting out the car issue he been more interesting the he originally thought it would be. Cobb got partially distracted by a new series BMW, and Eames stupidly gave in. They set off out of Gatwick and the mass of holiday makers struggling with suitcases. Cobb put James on loudspeaker as he was asking where his Batman pyjamas were. To which Eames gave Cobb a questioning look and the man looked like he was close to laughing despite his son sounding rather petulant.

Pulling into the drive way after about an hour and a half of driving, Eames slumped in the seat and looked at the house before him. He let his hands slip from the wheel and onto his lap. The house stared back at him, irresolute and charming as always. Not a scratch or peel of paint anywhere. It was surreal.

'Eames, are you going to sit here?' it wasn't a question; really, Cobb just phrases imperatives like that. The imperative was get out of the car. So he did, slipping the car door shut. Eyes trained over the panelling of the white wood exterior.

'Do you remember it like this?' he asked, hating how his voice sounded so small.

'Yeah' since when did Cobb move to stand next to him? 'Are you going to go in?' and Eames walked briskly up to the door and unlocked it, letting it swing open. He stepped inside.

It was how he remembered it. Though minus the people that constantly were bustling in and out. Eames wasn't someone who talked all the time, and if he did he was either explaining something or trying to annoy someone, so he got lost in looking at the details of the house.

'Eames…' and he looked to Cobb who was standing on the first step of the stairs, one hand on the bannister. 'Let's go to your room' and Eames smirked.

'Well now, that's a bit forward' and Cobb rolled his eyes. Cobb apparently still remembered where his old room was because he naturally turned right at the top of the landing.

'You know, I still walk into the laundry cupboard instead of the bathroom at your house, and yet you know exactly where my old room is' and Cobb pushed at the pale blue painted door, unfolding Eames' room in a sweep. Like a camera angle.

His room was like any other teenager's room. It was a fair size, with a rickety desk that wobbled, and posters on the walls. Cobb circled the room, stopping when he did a three sixty and waited for Eames. Eames never knew why no one had bought the house, or more to the point why his parents never sold it. It just stood, idly there for somebody to come back and claim it as home. Eames sighed, and flicked through the pages of a book that he was pretty sure wasn't his, and picked it up in both hands.

'Think fast' he said, chucking the book at Cobb who caught it. He looked at it, frowning and then grinning.

'I wondered where it went. I spent weeks trying to find it for my essay and you had it all along'

'To be honest, I never noticed' and he huffed, 'I don't know about you, but I'm in need of a pint' and Cobb looked at him curiously.

'You sure you don't want to spend more time here?'

'I wish I did. It's a house… The people who made it home aren't here. I'm not an architect I don't really form attachments to buildings'

They drove into central London, near Soho and Eames spotted a place which he hadn't been in since he was about seventeen. Pulling the car over, and finding a parking space – something very difficult to do in London - and Cobb laughed at him when he swore bloody murder at a guy who nipped in a space before him.

'Honestly, it's like a game of PAC man' he grumbled, but they went into the archaic looking, slightly smokey (Smoking laws?) bar, which was battered with noise. It smelled the same, looked the same and probably the alcohol was the same too. Eames and Cobb took seats at the bar and he watched Cobb map out the place with his eyes. 'Stop working'

'I'm not, merely admiring someone else's' and Eames looked along the bar to the bartenders, perhaps seeing anyone familiar?...

'You all right fellas? What can I do for you?' the voice asked, Eames looked up at the face that stood in front of him. 'Bloody hell! It's Danny Eames'

'Katie' he murmured, 'Hello dolly, how are you?' Katie was a friend of Charlotte, and they had been quite close at one stage. She was dressed in purple checked shirt and skinny jeans, and from what Eames could calculate from when he last saw her, four inch heels too.

'I'm fine, fine. You're still as handsome as ever' she grinned and then her eyes flicked to Cobb who offered her a smile. 'No, can't be, Dominic Cobb?' she asked absently wiping the counter.

'Hello, again Katie'

'Gosh, did you graduate. Art and Design was it?'

'Architecture' he corrected her and she nodded.

'Wow, my word, it's been years. You look great-'

'Boss, what did you say about chatting up the customers?' yelled one of the bar girls.

'Oi! You can shut your trap. I'm being friendly, get on with your work' she said with a playful smile. She rolled her eyes. 'They know love them'

'Boss?' Eames asked and Katie grinned with all her straight teeth.

'Yup, I own the place now. Charlotte still works here on occasion. Have you seen her lately?'

'No. Why?'

'Oh just wondering, she sometimes mentions you'

The sound of a snooker match that was being played behind them and elevated into raised voices. 'Hey! If you don't shut up, I'll make sure you start singing soprano!' Katie shouted over their shoulders and then turned back, 'I'm sorry, do you guys actually want anything to drink or are you just enjoying the lovely ambience?' Eames chuckled.

'I don't know about him but I'll have a pint of San Miguel' and Cobb repeated his order.

'Nice choice' and she fixed their drinks.

'It's your birthday in a few weeks' Cobb mused and Eames frowned.

'Oh god, I'm going to be thirty eight, oh joy'

'You're only as old as you feel. So you're what, fifty odd?' and Eames thinned his lips at the man.

'You are a funny man. Say's you; you turned thirty seven not that long ago!'

'But I'm not as shallow as you Eames'

'Oh piss off' he mumbled.

Back at the hotel - which only had a twin left when Eames booked – he took off his watch to get into the shower.

'Eames, what happened to the watch I gave you?' and Eames could barely hear him past the rushing water of the sink. He turned it off.

'It's in a pawn shop in Camden Town' he lied, waiting for the response. He didn't get one. 'It's in my luggage' he called out and got into the shower. The watch was Cartier, and Cobb had bought it for him on his eighteenth. He still had it, out of stupid sentiment he guessed. One drunken mistake he almost sold it, but didn't. His brain kicked into gear in time. On the back of it were engraved the words 'Dream bigger'. And when he opened the present with his family he had turned the watch over in his hand and smiled. No one noticed.

He was out of the shower and dressed in slacks and a dark blue shirt, Cobb was on his bed, his feet crossed at the ankles, and in a button down shirt and dark chinos.

'Do you want me tell Phillipa it's your birthday soon?' Cobb asked and Eames shook his head vigorously.

'No. Arthur is one thing, but I'm not walking around with a pink paper hat on my head. As much as I care about Phillipa, no'

'Who said anything about a pink paper hat?' and Eames scrunched up the notepad paper and threw it at him. It bounced off his shoulder. 'Do you still wear it?'

'The hat? No I think I lost it…' and Cobb huffed, scowling at him.

'The watch, Eames' and Eames knew what he meant, he wasn't stupid.

'Yes I do. Sometimes. You know, it's more of a totem than anything'

Nothing more was said about it, they went to dinner at the hotel bar and mocked the bad singing night which was going on next door.

The next day Cobb met him in the coffee shop across from the hotel. He wore a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Not just any Rolling Stones t-shirt, but the one Eames' had got for him for his birthday.

'You're lucky – how does that even fit you?' he asked, and thanked the waiter for his mocha. The shirt was nicely fitted on him, which was very odd because it was bought years ago. But it hugged at his hips where his jeans were, and over his upper arms.

'It was baggy at the time' and that would be why, Eames's reasoned in his head. All band t-shirts came one size or two up from what you wanted.

In this case it was a rather good thing.