Chapter 1: Zipper
There were times in Mombasa, Rome, Paris, Hong Kong, and Tokyo that Eames often thought of Arthur. He didn't think about him like the other boys (and sometimes girls) he'd occasionally think of. There was never (well, not never) sexual desire behind his thoughts, only genuine curiosity.
He'd become thoroughly convinced that there was a zipper on the back of Arthur's head, hidden beneath his hair, and if one were to pull the zipper down, it would travel down his neck, down his spine, and out would step a Not-Arthur with a Midwestern tongue and blue eyes.
Rethinking, Eames began to decide that he had not thought much of Arthur at all, but instead of Not-Arthur. This Not-Arthur was as complex and vague as Arthur, but while Eames had seen quite a lot of Arthur, Arthur had only allowed little fragments of Not-Arthur to slip out on occasion when he was angry or a little drunk or half-asleep. Eames had not clearly seen Not-Arthur, only visualized him inside his head, and even then it seemed he was distorted through clouds of smoke. Eames couldn't wipe away the image of Arthur and start fresh, no matter how hard he tried. From that realization, he began to realize that Arthur had a haunting visage, all sharp angles and straight lines. Robotic, asexual, unsmiling. When he'd first met him, he'd thought he was boring. Intelligent, crafty, skilled… but dull and plain as the suits he wore. Now, now he couldn't help but see a storm building behind his faux-brown eyes, and he began to wonder if Not-Arthur was fighting to get out of Mr. Mundane's skin.
It wasn't too much to say that Eames started obsessing over Not-Arthur, even going so far as to try to forge him in his dreams… but it was never him. It was always Arthur in his pressed, tailored suits and slicked back hair and stony visage. He'd even attempted to look up information on the man, like he did with the people he often impersonated (particularly if they were famous), but that had only made him realize that he didn't know Arthur's last name. He called Cobb… He resorted to calling Cobb… but he didn't answer.
A flight to Paris later, he had lunch with Ariadne. He told her nothing of Not-Arthur because this was his puzzle to solve, and he didn't want to hear a bunch of questions he couldn't answer, for fear of them inevitably plaguing him. He did bring up the subject of his last name, though, only to get a long stare from her, a slight laugh, and a "You know, I never realized it, but I have no idea."
Miles didn't know either.
Eames didn't bother asking anyone else, and for awhile, he managed to forget about it, except for the occasional nights where he'd lay alone in bed and come up with names, mostly to entertain himself.
As funny as Arthur Darling was, he was pretty sure that wasn't it.
It had been three months since Arthur and Eames had seen or heard from each other, so Eames was more than a little surprised when he received a phone call from him in the middle of the night.
"…'Ello?" Eames had grumbled into the phone, voice heavy with sleep and bewilderment.
"Hello, Mr. Eames."
Eames couldn't hold back the small smile, despite the fact that he'd only crawled into bed two hours ago after a night of barhopping. "Hello, Mr… You know, I don't believe I know your last name."
"Arthur's fine," he said curtly.
Of course it was. "Glad to see you want to be so familiar with me, darling."
He heard Arthur snort on the other side of the phone. "Where are you right now?"
"London."
There was a beat of silence where Eames could picture Arthur checking his watch. "I apologize for waking you, then."
"I hope you intend to make it up to me," Eames teased. "I'm sure I could think of something for you to-"
"The job I'm working on needs a forger. I told everyone that you were the best, so I was hoping you'd be interested."
Eames yawned. "What do I have to do?"
"We're meeting in New York City first thing tomorrow. I can email you all the information, if you like. You'll be imitating the mark's dead father."
"Fun."
"I had a feeling you'd enjoy that."
Eames laid back down, watching the ceiling fan spin above his head. "It'll take me a few days to get there. I've got to book a flight, and I promised I'd visit my mum."
"Anything you'll need to know will be in the files I send you. You can read them on the plane ride if you have to. Just be here as soon as you can. We only have a small window of time to accomplish this, and after the last couple of disasters…"
"My last job was successful."
"Good for you."
"I'll be there by Friday at the latest. Please don't write your files in such a small font that I need a magnifying glass."
"You can adjust the font size on your computer, Eames."
"So can you."
"I'll see you when you get here."
"I'm so looking forward to it."
"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."
Eames didn't question why he'd accepted the job without knowing the pay. Maybe curiosity liked to do some rather vile things to cats, but Eames was no cat. He couldn't resist the temptation of bringing out Not-Arthur again.
He was still Arthur when they met at the airport. His hair was just as slick, his suits just as pressed and tailored, and his handshake just as stiff. He did look thinner than he remembered though and much more exhausted.
The sunlight was harsh and bright out on the street while Arthur hailed a taxi. "You simply must take me out to lunch for this, Arthur," Eames told him, staring at the back of his head. No sign of that zipper. "I'm sure you're much more familiar with New York than I am. I'm more of a Vegas man."
"I haven't been to New York for longer than a layover in years," Arthur replied, and his gaze was faraway from him, from the city, from everything.
"Is that so?" Eames asked, crawling into the taxi behind the point man. "Not your favorite place?"
Arthur didn't look at him. His voice came out quiet and very, very low. "No."
The extractor was a French man named Barrett. He was friendly, though a bit strict, and hard to understand when he spoke English. Arthur had learned French somewhere in his travels, so he had no issues speaking with him.
Eames wasn't too fond of him. He was too tall (and his pants were too short), too old (and his style showed it), and he had absolutely no imagination. He did have some rather delightful Cuban cigars though, so Eames was willing to deal.
The architect for the dream was a mousy blonde who didn't seem to be interested in talking to anyone. She'd simply stare at people over the rims of her glasses and speak to them in short bursts of dialogue, preferring to spend her time listening to rather obnoxious music and chew gum.
Yusuf was working as the chemist on this one, which was one thing Eames was grateful for. There was too much 'nerd' in the room.
Work commenced. They worked from six in the morning to ten at night, doing all they could to be ready in the two week period they had.
It was only on the night before the job that Eames managed to drag Arthur out alone to the bar after work.
"So," Eames said, taking a bite out of the hot wings he ordered, "how are things?"
Arthur gave him a long stare over his glass of whiskey, as if he was trying to figure out the angle Eames was getting at. "Busy," he decided on.
"Seems that way. You look absolutely buggered."
Arthur shrugged, sipping at his drink the way he had done the night Not-Arthur had first come out. "I haven't had much sleep, no…"
Eames licked his fingers, and Arthur grimaced a little. "What's keeping you up at night? Bad dreams?" he teased.
"Not exactly."
He didn't elaborate any further.
Arthur drank heavily that night, to the point that Eames had to carry him on his back all the way to his apartment. He mumbled something like "Coach" but Eames couldn't be sure.
He definitely said "Brian" though.
Eames wondered if Brian was Not-Arthur's name.
The job went off without a hitch, even with Eames feeling slightly distracted and Arthur hung over.
Yusuf was gone as soon as the job was completed, rushing off to some other job, and Eames cared nothing about the other two. Arthur was heading out the next morning to "anywhere but here," so Eames decided to stick around him as long as he could to find more information about Not-Arthur.
"Let's get supper to celebrate," Eames suggested, throwing an arm around Arthur's bony shoulder as they stepped out into the icy air. "I'll buy."
"I'm really not all that hungry."
"It's our last night together for awhile. Don't you want to go out in style?"
"Not particularly."
"What's the matter?"
Arthur stared up at the tall skyscrapers piercing through the night sky, and he couldn't see the stars. "I hate this city."
"Well, then we'll go somewhere else," Eames said. "We can hop a plane and head out to the countryside. I hear the Midwest is nice here."
"Maybe if you like long expanses of dead nothing… especially in the winter."
"You hate the Midwest too?"
Arthur dug in his pocket and produced a cigarette that he lit and sucked on before responding. "It's boring."
"Should be perfect for you, then."
"Yeah, but you wouldn't have a good time."
"True."
They walked in silence for a little while, Arthur taking long drags on the cigarette with absolutely no shame.
"I had no idea you smoked."
Arthur glanced at Eames, as if not registering what he had said. "O-oh… No. I don't. I did. I quit… I started again."
"No need to defend yourself, love," Eames said, taking the cigarette from between his fingers and placing it to his own lips. "Everyone has their vices and sins."
Morning was gray and snowy. Eames woke up on Arthur's couch. His back was slightly sore from carrying him home again.
Arthur was already packing when Eames leaned in the doorway. "You know, normally when I come back to someone's apartment, I don't do it to sleep on their couch."
Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin, falling backwards from his suitcase on the floor where he'd been balancing. "E-Eames."
Apparently he hadn't even known he was there. "I shouldn't be surprised. You were unconscious."
"Sorry… I can't hold my liquor well."
"No one handles that amount of liquor well. Something bothering you?"
"Why would you ask that?"
"No one drinks like that without a problem."
Arthur slammed his suitcase shut and latched it. "I'm fine."
Eames caught him by the arm as he tried to storm out. "I'm not asking out of concern if that's what's upsetting you. I'm just curious as to what's got your feathers ruffled."
"I… I am…" he averted his gaze, licked his teeth. "I'm fine. Everyone has their off days, y'know…I just wanna get outta this city."
Not-Arthur.
Eames shrugged, releasing him. "Well, you may not know where to find me, but you have my number. Let me see you off at least? I've got my own ticket to purchase."
Arthur reluctantly agreed.
Flight delay.
Because of snow.
"Fuck," Arthur whispered, staring at the screens as if he could mentally change them.
It was snowing heavily outside by the time they had reached the airport, and two hours didn't show it letting up any.
"Shame," Eames agreed, though he was much less agitated over the whole scenario. He'd spent enough nights in airport terminals to be used to it by now. "Not much we can do about it though. Want to ride back to your apartment and wait out the storm?"
Arthur wasn't listening, gaze locked on something far across the airport… no, someone.
A girl.
She was on her phone, not noticing him at all, and Eames thought that he would have liked her to notice him as well. She was pretty, almost devastatingly pretty, eyes lined with dark eye shadow and plump lips painted red. When she smiled at the person on the other end of the line, there was a flash of long white teeth, a perfect smile. Her hair was dyed a dark color, as evidenced by her slightly blonder roots, and tied back tight on her head. Her ears were pierced several times, as well as her nostril, and she had long black fingernails and three rings on her left hand (all but her ring finger as if out of defiance). There was a silver necklace gleaming around her neck, but she was too far away for him to make out what it was. Her clothes were all black, like she'd just come from a funeral, but far too casual for such a thing.
"Didn't know you were into punk girls," Eames mentioned to Arthur. Arthur had blanched. "She's quite fit though. Want me to chat her up for you?"
"No. What? I… wasn't even…" he stammered.
"Sure you were. I'm not blind, Arthur, love. You were looking at her."
"Well, I'm not interested. You can hook up with her if you want, but I'm out of here."
Eames turned to object, but Arthur was already making his way across the airport, disappearing into the crowd with ease.
"All right, I will!" Eames shouted after him, and he saw Arthur's shoulders tense up, saw him contemplating turning around to stop him.
After all, the way he had looked at her made it obvious that they knew one another, or that he at least knew her. Ex-lover? Perhaps. All Eames cared about was whether or not she knew who he was under his skin.
He could feel Arthur watching him from halfway across the airport as he approached the girl and casually bumped his shoulder against hers, causing her to drop her phone just as she was hanging it up.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, reaching down and picking it up for her. "I spent the night on a couch and…" He plastered on his most charming smile, feigning exhaustion. "I should have been paying attention."
"It's all right," she replied somewhat warily, and Eames picked up a distinct Midwestern accent. "This phone's a piece of shit anyways."
"I guess if I had caused you to break it I would have had to buy you a new one."
The left corner of her mouth quirked up. "I could still throw it and blame it on you… Wendy." She held her hand out to him. Eames never understood the point of fingerless gloves.
"Peter," Eames replied. "It's destiny! I thought you were supposed to be the Brit though."
She laughed. "Is that your real name?"
"It could be. Most people call me Eames though." Normally he wouldn't give out his real name, but he decided that there was no harm in it this time. He was pretty sure by the stitching in her clothes and the self dye job, that she was not someone he'd be hired to extract secrets from anytime soon.
"Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Eames. Where y' headed?"
"Nowhere, according to the flight delays."
"No kiddin'," she said, shifting her bag from one hand to the other. "I was headin' home for Christmas because for once my folks actually want me there, and I get stuck at the airport."
"I was headed home too. I'm sure your flight will still be remarkably shorter… that is, unless you'd rather hop a plane to jolly old England with me."
She plopped down on one of the many available benches. "As tempting as getting away from everything sounds, I'm not young enough to trust some guy I just met. You're cute though, I'll give you that."
"We Brits are known for our charm, my dear Wendy. Care to get to know me a bit better?"
"Sit down," she replied, smiling. "It's a hell of a lot better than sittin' here by myself."
He did and made a passing glance towards the place where he remembered Arthur had been, and he was stunned to see that he was still standing there as if rooted to the spot. He looked as though he was ready to maul Eames to death, but also envious of him (just a little)… and something else.
What that was, Eames could only guess at.
"Somethin' wrong?"
"No, no," Eames said, turning back to her with a smile. "I just thought I saw someone I knew, my friend Arthur."
He waited, hoping for the name to spark something in her memory, but nothing of the sort happened. "He travels like you do?"
"We work in the same business."
"What would that be?"
"I'm a photographer."
"That's cool. Do you like, photograph bands and stuff?"
"Sometimes." He tried to remain vague, since he truthfully knew next to nothing about photography.
"That's cool. Way more glamorous than anything I ever did," she said, fishing a cigarette out of her leather jacket. "Right now, I'm a manager at a restaurant, and I volunteer at a clinic, and in my free time I'm trying to become an author. It's not really happening. Are we allowed to smoke in here?"
Eames shrugged. "What do you want to write about?"
"That's the problem. I don't know, really… Every time I sit down to start on somethin', it turns into a story about Neil… Oh, sorry, you don't know who that is. Neil was a friend'a mine years ago. A real ass, but he had this power to influence everything you did."
"Well, why don't you just write about him then?"
"His secrets aren't for me to share with the world. There's a reason they're secrets."
"Well, you said he was your friend, so that means he's not anymore. Why would you care?"
"It's not that I don't consider him my friend anymore," Wendy said, digging out her lighter. "He disappeared a long time ago, an' I haven't heard from him since."
While she lit the cigarette, Eames looked back to Arthur, but he was gone.
"Still think you see 'im?" she asked with a hint of humor in her voice.
Eames grinned back at her. "I suppose so. He's hard to miss. He's generally so dapper and posh that he's easily noticed in a crowd. Slicked back hair, suits, and the like."
"Sounds like a real fucker," Wendy chuckled, smoke escaping from between her teeth.
"He is. Got a stick up his arse so far that he coughs up pieces of bark."
She burst out laughing.
"Yeah, Arthur's a bore. Tell me about Neil."
"Um.. If it's okay, I'd really… I'd rather not…" Her voice began to sound sad, laughter dying away quickly. "It makes me miss 'im too much… even if the big jerk doesn't deserve to be missed. Thinks he's so goddamned superior to everyone else and that everything should revolve around him…"
"Sounds like a real fucker," Eames repeated.
"No fuckin' kidding… but he sucks you in, you know, with that black hole heart of his. You can't help but worry about him, at least I can't… He was my best friend. I thought it was my job to take care of 'im. God knows he couldn't take care of himself…" She dug in her purse for a minute before pulling out her wallet. She handed Eames her cigarette while she opened it and pulled out a crinkled, faded, old photograph.
Eames coughed on the smoke, passed it off that he hadn't smoked in awhile.
"That's him," she told him, pointing to the man on the left. "That's Neil, and his best friend Eric, and me of course, way back in the old days. God, was I ever that young?"
"Could I get your number?"
She blinked. "Huh?"
"I like you," Eames replied, smiling in order to hopefully hide that all the blood had drained from his face. "I was wondering if I could get your number?"
"Um, sure, I guess," she said, beaming, charmed. It was probably the accent.
But he couldn't take his eyes off of that picture. He held it while she dug in her purse for something to write on and something to write it with.
The boy in the picture may have been dressed casually, and his eyes may have been blue, and he may have had an earring, but there was no denying that face. He hadn't aged a day, it seemed, squinting into the camera with his arm around the neck of his friend. He hadn't appeared to notice the picture was being taken in enough time to smile, and part of him was hidden by Wendy's thumb where she had held the camera out to get all of them.
Eames mouthed the word "Arthur." But it wasn't Arthur, he reminded himself. What had she called him? Neil.
"Dammit, I don't think I have a pen. Do you?"
He looked up blearily. "What?"
"You got a pen?"
"Oh… Yes… I think so…" he padded his chest and pulled one out of his breast pocket. "Here."
He'd completely forgotten what she needed it for but accepted the phone number written on the back of an old receipt with a smile.
"You look like you saw a ghost or somethin'," she mentioned with a smirk as she took the picture back from him.
Eames swallowed and found his ability to lie suddenly betraying him. His whole life he'd been able to rattle off a falsehood without so much as a blink; with his job, he'd perfected the technique to the point that people could become convinced without any effort on his part. It was all about how he sold it in his eyes… but today, his eyes just weren't selling.
"Mr. Eames?" she questioned, eyebrows knitting together.
He swallowed again, mouth unbearably dry. "Your friend."
She looked at the picture and back at him. "Yeah?"
"I've seen him."
He was sure she heard him, but she still asked, "what?"
"Your friend. Neil. I've seen him. I know who he is."
Eames found Arthur in a Starbucks, staring into a drink that he had obviously not touched.
"There you are," Eames said, taking a seat across from him.
Arthur looked up, looking nearly hung over. "If I'd known you were looking, I would have been more inconspicuous."
Eames just laughed and drank out of Arthur's cup. He figured that since Arthur wasn't drinking it, he might as well. "Well, I got that dishy punk girl's number." He showed it to Arthur to prove it. "She has an apartment here in the city and everything, so I may have somewhere to stay tonight should we be stuck here."
"Congratulations," Arthur replied flatly. "Have fun with that."
"Her name's Wendy. Isn't that a sweet and innocent name, Wendy? Not what you'd expect from a girl like her."
Arthur shrugged, only halfway paying attention… or at least giving off the impression as such. Eames could tell by the stiffness of the fist he was leaning his cheek on that he had his full attention.
"She's a pistol, that's for sure… but… you already knew that."
"Why would you suggest such a thing?" Arthur asked, deadpan, but there was just the slightest tremble in his voice.
"Well, I got the inkling that you must have known her, the way you were staring at her earlier. Ex-girlfriend?"
"She certainly is not. She just… sort of looked like an ex-girlfriend of mine." Arthur was not as good a liar as Eames was.
"That's bizarre," Eames replied.
"How is that weird? That you and I would have even a remotely similar taste in women?"
Eames chuckled. "But of course, darling… but I was a bit more confused over the fact that she had a photo of you. Neil."
Arthur met his eyes, stared at him with an unreadable expression. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play daft with me," Eames replied, suddenly serious. It seemed to throw Arthur off slightly.
"I'm not playing daft with anyone. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. Who's Neil?"
"If you're going to lie, at least do a good job," Eames responded, growing frustrated. "She has a photo of you, and I know it was you. I would know your face any day of the week, regardless of your outfit."
Arthur paused, glaring at Eames, debating. Finally, he sighed, defeated. "You didn't tell her that I was here, did you?"
"No."
Arthur exhaled through his nose. "Don't."
"Why?"
"Because if I had wanted to be found, I would have talked to her myself."
"Yes, I understand that. What I don't understand is why you don't wish to be found. Care to enlighten me, Arthur? Or should I call you Neil?"
"Neil is dead," Arthur replied darkly.
Eames raised his eyebrows and took another swig on the coffee. It had no sugar or crème in it whatsoever, and it had started to get cold, but he needed to do something. "Care to elaborate?" he finally asked.
There was a voice echoing over the com system in the airport. Arthur looked at Eames. "No, I do not. Goodbye."
And he stood, straightened his jacket, and left.
