Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun.
Arthur opened his eyes. He couldn't help but groan with pain before covering his face with his hands. The vertigo may be gone, but the headache behind his ear wasn't. His mouth kept flooding with saliva even though he wasn't nauseous. At least that was something to be grateful for.
According to his watch, it was six o'clock. He'd slept through the entire day? His hand moved to the totem in his pocket. Propping himself up on an elbow, he rolled the die on the bedside table. Reality.
There was muffled talking down the hall. Arthur stowed the die in his pocket before he froze, listening intently to identify the second voice. But Eames was going on and on… would he ever stop to take a breath? He didn't sound panicked, so there was probably no need to grab the Glock 17.
Throwing back his covers, Arthur slid out of bed and knelt down. You could never be too careful. He grabbed the spare gun where it was holstered beneath the bed frame and stood, shoving it in the front waistband of his pants. After smoothly gliding to the door, he cracked it open and listened.
"I already told you, I don't know," Eames spoke. "You'll need to figure it out on your own."
Arthur crept down the hall, hand resting on the gun. Eames and whoever he was talking to must have been in the kitchen. He peered around the corner before sharply pulling his head back.
A phone. He sighed. The most obvious conclusion and he'd missed it. Pain must be getting the best of him. His hand dropped from the gun as he walked into view. Who could Eames be talking to?
Eames had his back to him, still wearing his jacket and looking tense in the shoulders.
"There was no way for us to follow him. I could have put a tracer on the car, but he's been trained to look for things like that. Thought we'd be working together longer than an hour. Right."
He turned and paused when he saw Arthur leaning against the wall. His eyes dropped to the gun.
"Uh, I need to go. But we'll talk soon." Arthur watched him hang up. "Is something wrong, love?"
"Not unless you count the pounding in my head."
"Ah, yes, let me take a look at that." He walked up to Arthur and motioned for him to turn his head. Gentle fingers pried away the bandage and prodded the skin around the wound. Arthur clenched his jaw in pain. "Sorry about that. I don't see any leaking fluid, so you should be in the clear." He snapped his fingers beside the ear. "Hear that all right?"
Arthur nodded, feeling a low anger building toward Yusuf. PIVAR Devices were still experimental and notorious for causing deafness. There were several choice words he wished to express when they tracked the asshole down.
Eames stepped back and strolled to the window. "We'll find him, Arthur. Afraid I can't let you use this, however." He held up the gun.
Damn. Checking the waistband of his pants, Arthur realized it was gone.
"Eames-"
"Hazard of dancing with a pickpocket, darling. Even if my employer didn't insist that Yusuf remain alive, I would've had to disarm you before morning. Apparently detoxing puts one in a rather nasty frame of mind."
"You already have my other gun, I take it?" He crossed his arms.
"The one in your jacket this morning? Yes, it felt a little heavy on one side."
"And the briefcase?"
"Retrieved it from the car after putting you to bed."
"Where is it?"
"With your other gun," Eames answered. He cocked his head, as if waiting for Arthur to demand to know the location. I'm not a bloody fool, his expression read.
Arthur walked into the kitchen and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. He refused to give Eames the satisfaction of viewing his inner struggle. Of course he wanted to know where the briefcase was. In fact, he'd already worked out that it wasn't in the apartment. Everything from the closets to the drawers were too organized to keep anything that large hidden for long. That meant it was somewhere else. What connections did Eames have in the city?
"Can I offer you a drink?" he asked over his shoulder.
"I already helped myself to one, but yes, another would be appreciated."
Perhaps a bank. Arthur uncapped the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept on the fridge. Or a safe house. He poured a generous amount of whiskey into each glass. Knowing Eames, it would be somewhere unexpected. He pushed the bottle against the wall and picked up the glasses.
When he entered the living room, Eames was sitting on the couch, thumbing through the latest edition of Newsweek.
"You know, I truly believe one could die of boredom here." He accepted a glass and tossed the magazine aside. "Hardwood floors, bare walls, a couch and table. Nothing to keep you entertained but a few editions of Newsweek and the Sunday paper. Not even a television. How can you stand it?"
Arthur shrugged as he took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "I work a lot. When I'm not traveling, I leave early and I'm home late."
"So you're boring."
Eames took a sip of whiskey, ignoring Arthur's glare.
"Except for the part about exploring other worlds and realities. Slipping into roles, fighting projections, extracting information… any of this sound familiar?"
"But all of that is really at the mercy of your ability to dream, you see." He took another sip. "What would you have if dreams no longer existed?"
Arthur downed his drink in two swallows.
"Easy. No need to be dramatic."
"I have plenty of people in my life, Eames."
"If you say so, darling." The man looked around as if to point out the lack of photos.
Arthur went into the kitchen, shaking off the head rush that accompanied hard liquor on an empty stomach. If he'd known Eames was going to be this analytical, he would've stayed in the back room. There was nothing wrong with how he lived. There wasn't. He was happy. Satisfied, at least. Work stimulated his brain, filled the hours, and forced him to interact with people. It also provided the opportunity to explore the impossible.
He scoffed, refilling his glass. He didn't need anything else.
"You're a lightweight. I never would have guessed." Eames smiled. "Not with whiskey as your drink of choice, anyway."
Arthur struggled to focus on Eames while keeping his glass upright. The bottle of Jack on the table was considerably less full than it had been mere hours before.
"What can I say?" He sank into the couch. "I could never acquire a taste for beer or wine." His words were slurred. Eames, damn him, looked nearly sober.
"What, no red wine for a man of your class? Seems it would be the perfect drink for you."
"If my name were Ariadne," he replied, taking another drink. Then intelligently, "Which it's not."
Eames finished his drink and set the empty glass on the table. "Ariadne has a taste for red wine, does she? How do you know this?"
Arthur stared at the far wall, the corner of his mouth coming up in a smile. "We went to dinner once. Italian. Nothing too fancy. She ordered chicken pesto and Barolo."
"No second dinner?"
Arthur shrugged. "We were both working."
"You mean you were working."
Arthur lolled his head in Eames' direction, too tired to hold it up without the aid of the couch. "I'm no good for her, Eames. Or for anyone else. The work we do is too dangerous and unpredictable to develop stable relationships."
Eames got up and moved closer to Arthur, no doubt to hear him better. It was becoming difficult to speak. His body wanted to sink into oblivion, while his mind was still thriving behind an alcohol-induced fog.
"Be that as it may, Ariadne deserves more credit. Let her decide if she's willing to share a relationship with you."
Arthur's mouth hung open. "Wait a minute. Are you giving me dating advice?" His drink sloshed over the rim. Eames cleared his throat before taking the glass and putting it on the table.
"Too personal?"
"Well… yeah."
"Right then. Moving along." Eames took an object from his pocket and pressed a button. "Now that you're sufficiently pissed, perhaps you could tell me a bit more about Yusuf's compound." He slipped the object back into his pocket.
"Wha-" Arthur stopped, suddenly suspicious. "What are you doing? What was that?"
He made a clumsy grab for the object, but Eames grabbed his wrist with lightning speed. "I don't think so, love," he said softly. There was warning in his tone. "It's just a recorder, to decipher your answers more thoroughly later."
"Are you even drunk?"
Eames shrugged, releasing Arthur's wrist. "I've had a few drinks, but you drank most of the bottle yourself."
"I did?" He blinked.
"If it's any consolation, tomorrow would have been terrible for you anyway."
"No," Arthur replied after thinking a moment. "It's not."
Eames gave him an apologetic look and grasped his shoulder. "We'll get through it. Now, tell me everything you know about compound #1084." He shifted.
"Uh…" Arthur exhaled, blinking rapidly. "It has more elements than most, so it would need to be developed in a large facility. One that has access to an unlimited supply of chemicals."
"You mean like a pharmaceutical company?"
Arthur yawned. His eyes drifted shut. "I suppose so. Any sizeable lab."
"Would it need a front, then?"
"Of course."
"Did Yusuf ever tell you where the compound was being developed?"
"No," Arthur sighed. "But... I think it's somewhere in the city."
"What makes you think that?"
"He's had access... to a steady supply since we began working together." The room began to spin. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. It was kind of nice, actually. "And he would need to make adjustments to the compound... as I helped him perfect it..." His head slumped to the side.
"Arthur?" A hand lightly shook his shoulder. "Arthur, love. Stay with me, all right?"
The words sounded slow, as if they were being spoken underwater. This might have true, given that Arthur felt as though he was sinking. Darkness welcomed him like a warm blanket.
Somewhere beyond the oblivion surrounding him, he heard a defeated sigh and then a click. The cushion beside him shifted as Eames stood.
"We need to stop meeting like this," the man muttered.
Arthur felt arms force their way behind his back and under his legs. Then the couch fell away. In the back of his mind, he knew Eames was carrying him to bed and that he should be irritated. But he was too tired. And the man needed somewhere to sleep. The couch was small enough without two grown men sharing it.
There was breath on his face as he was lowered into bed. The sheets were slightly cool. Hands loosened his shirt, freeing the top buttons. Then a feather-light comforter fell over him.
He heard his closet door opening and distantly wondered why, but then it dawned on him that Eames was looking for a blanket. There was a thick one for winter nights on his safe. His safe. Damn. He should have known Eames would find it sooner or later. Sure enough, there was a soft exclamation. He could feel Eames staring at him.
It wasn't a large safe. And it wouldn't take an experienced thief long to break into.
As Arthur surrendered to the fog, he was disturbed every so often by strange sounds.
Metal tapping metal.
A spinning tumbler.
Soft cursing.
And the door of his safe opening.