A.N: And this became longer than I originally thought! Maybe it's because Destruction is one of my favorite characters? Or that I think that he and Eames would have a lot in common? Or that (according to my new outlines) the conversation Destruction has with Dream at the end of The Wake really is one reason that motivated Dream to become Arthur (for at least a little bit). And if Sandman is ever to be made into a movie, though it will lack JGL as Dream, I would totally watch it if Tom Hardy got the role of Destruction!

Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, or the Sandman, or any lines from Casablanca. This refers to Destruction's part in Endless Dreams and bits and pieces from the series in general- Brief Lives and The Wake. Any and all errors will be fixed later considering it took four tries to get this written and posted.

4.

Eames knew that it was better that they split up for this part- it was a job well done, the money would be put into their accounts (no names, nothing creating a trail, nothing that Arthur couldn't bury if he had a mind to), and they'd move on to live and dream another day; making buckets full of money, gaining even bigger reputations as the best point man and forger in the business, and remaining together, just how they liked it best.

But they both agreed that there was something off about the way their client behaved around them after their work was done- all smiles and hearty pats on the back which Arthur not-so-subtly frowned his way through making Eames wink at him to try and soften that look, to get him to smile for him. And Arthur briefly did after a second or two. Not that Eames was blind- he knew something was strange, he just couldn't put his finger on it...so he laughed at their client's jokes, accepted pats on the back and shook hands with the man like he didn't suspect a thing!

Their unspoken worries were confirmed when they were tailed soon after they drove off.

"If we were betting on this, I think that you'd have won," Arthur said calmly, keeping his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his tightening grip betraying his frustration.

"Pet, don't be silly," Eames said as he idly checked the side-mirror and spotted the car still following after them. "We wouldn't bet on something like this because it's too predictable. I'm sure you could work the statistics and come up with an interesting graph or a spreadsheet all about the likelihood of our being betrayed, double-crossed, and stalked after we complete a job! We're dream criminals and we don't exactly offer our services to the kindest of men or women. Or organizations, governments, and so on and so on."

"Ugh," Arthur said, though Eames was sure his point man was loosening up, not giving up his worry but at least relaxing enough to take a breath, count to ten, and figure out a way around this mess. "If you start talking about causation and correlation I might just have to crash the car. God knows you'd not stop bitching because that'd screw with the data."

"Did you know that there's a study that says eating ice cream causes drowning?"

"Yes," Arthur said, still keeping his eyes on the road, still checking the progress of the car following them, and deciding which of the alternate routes he'd use to get to the airport. "Because when you go to the beach in the summer when it's hot you sometimes enjoy an ice cream in that sort of weather, and when you swim anywhere you run the risk of drowning for multiple reasons that don't necessarily include what you had for lunch- but the last time I had an Eskimo Pie I didn't spontaneously drown. I'm calling cum hoc, ergo propter hoc and ending this session of bantering so we can talk about what's about to happen."

"I'm all for talk of questionable causes, darling," Eames replied, always enjoying a good bit of intellectual bantering."I agree that what's happening is definitely questionable but we can explore that topic later, I assume when we meet up at one of the safe houses?"

Arthur nodded, taking an exit that the one following them wasn't expecting, causing them to miss the turn and give Arthur and Eames a much needed head start.

"Which one am I shooting for?" Eames was all business now, ready to go wherever Arthur suggested, knowing the man was already thinking of pros and cons- each safe house was carefully tailored to suit their needs while they figured out their next moves. "Security is a must."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's a safe house I've stayed in so yes, security has been taken care of. You know the codes, you know where the gun safe is, and you'll be able to find enough money and supplies to last you till I arrive."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "You're sending me ahead so you can take care of them without me?"

"Not intentionally," the point man said, shrugging a little as he navigated his way to their first stop and the spot Eames was to be dropped off, even if they both knew that there was a bit of a protective attitude involved. Eames had made a study of Arthur's attitudes or behaviors- whether he was working a job, helping a friend, or distracting some ass who hadn't stopped following them after they'd successfully completed a job without complaints! It was human nature to want to protect yourself or the one's you loved, and based on where Arthur had just stopped with the engine idling, Eames was about to hop the next train out of here. Arthur even had a ticket ready, handing it over and not even giving Eames a second to argue with him.

Eames frowned as he examined what looked like a train ticket, dated for this day for what was presumably the next train.

"You had a contingency plan?"

"I have contingency plans for my contingency plans. I'm a point man, this is what I do. You're getting on that train."

Eames tried and failed to suppress his smile as Arthur resolutely looked out the windshield.

"Are you saying that I might-given an indeterminate amount of time, of course- be likely to regret it?"

Arthur dimpled just a little. "It's killing you that you don't get to tell me to get on that plane, isn't it?"

"We both know that I do the better Bogart impression...and I'm getting on a train. Maybe this is just Casablanca in reverse from the moment Rick Blaine gets left on the train platform without Ilsa."

"Just give me a kiss before you go. We'll meet at the Paris safe house."

"Sounds good. I agree so long as you don't bother to stick around here any longer just to pretend you're the the main character in an action movie, dealing your own brand of justice without a devil-may-care attitude- because you'd be all about justice dealing but only take a systematic, careful approach to making sure it was done well without hurting yourself or others. Not anyone related to the completely necessary justice dealing, any way."

Eames had already grabbed his only bag, leaving Arthur the PASIV, and leaning in close to cup the man's cheek and give him a slow, sweet kiss because what Arthur was about to do (despite Eames's cautioning) could end badly.

He pulled away and said using the Mid-Atlantic accent he'd try on like a costume when he was younger, slipping into the carefully practiced lock-jaw enunciation typical of Bogart's non-rhotic delivery.

"Here's looking at you kid."

Arthur shook his head but he hadn't stopped smiling. "Terrible," he said, even though Eames was certain he was lying.

He then detailed the route Eames would be taking to the Paris safe house, reminding Eames about where the key was hidden, which code to use for the security system, and finally letting him go.

Eames found something kind of soothing about trains. When he was a child he'd fall asleep while taking a train ride with his family- the clacking sound of the wheels on the track didn't disturb his sleep in the past anymore than it did in the present; well, usually. Now he was wired from the tension and the worry. Eames had thought that he'd just watch the scenery go by from his spot next to a window. But as soon as he secured his bag by placing it beneath his seat and folded his coat on his lap, trying to look like any other person attempting to relax at the start of a journey, Eames realized that he'd not be able to look at the features of the land as the train passed, he'd not care about the vegetation or trees. A bloody unicorn could be racing alongside the train and keeping pace and Eames wouldn't see it.

His mind practically popped and buzzed with thoughts of Arthur- it was irrational. He knew that Arthur should be fine, but there was something strange about being separated that poked holes in his conviction, his confidence in his darling's daring. Give it too long and he'd trick himself into thinking that Arthur wasn't capable of fighting off a nameless goon; breaking their bones and criticizing their life choices without wrinkling his suit, without getting a stain on his tie or his shirt collar.

In his imagination Arthur could easily become less dangerous, less commanding, and suddenly instead of being trained in several forms of self-defense Arthur would only know how to insult his attacker's mother and maybe give an Indian Burn.

Completely irrational.

Eames did the equivalent of slouching in his seat as he tried to take his mind off of Arthur. He'd murder you if you said that, Eames thought. He'd tell you that you shouldn't worry- that it makes you jump to conclusions.

Because deep in his heart, Eames knew that Arthur would manage to be dangerous even when he became an older gentlemen- maybe one that complained bitterly about his diminished, ninja-like stealth as his joints snapped, crackled, and popped with every step, but Eames felt that it was a plausible future for the best point man in dreamshare.

There. That was all it took to stop worrying for a few minutes- the thought of an older Arthur, just as well dressed but maybe with a few age-lines on that baby face, with hair more salt than pepper. Because an older Arthur wasn't a dead Arthur, either. It was something he might tell Arthur once they met in Paris. He was already sure that Arthur would roll his eyes, but he was also pretty sure that he'd get one of those slow "I'm delighted but I'm not going to tell you" sort of smiles from Arthur. Because imagining what Arthur would be like when he was older, finding some form of comfort in that mental image, would indicate that Eames intended to stick around to see it happen.

It may be early in their relationship, but they'd known each other for years. Their remaining together was as close to a sure thing as possible. At least Eames felt that way. They worked well together, they loved each other, and that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

Relaxed just enough to enjoy his trip, Eames looked at his fellow passengers- the car wasn't too full, so he took a chance to people-watch. The first person he settled on was a man seated facing Eames's direction, so he could see more than just a pair of shoulders or the back of his head.

This man was well built and dressed as if he'd been hiking before he chose to buy a ticket for the train- the clothing was worn but clean. His hair was a pleasant shade of red and he wore it long enough to tie it back in a pony tail. Eames couldn't see much of the man's face as he was carefully reading a crumpled newspaper. But every time the man turned a page Eames got another detail, taking one or two at a time and coming up with a life or hobby or interest that he could attach to this person.

The man's fingers were blunt, but not exactly inelegant- there was something to be said for the hands of a workingman, an artist. Eames noticed paint stains on the man's fingertips. With sleeves rolled up to the elbow and displaying the man's muscled forearms, Eames thought he could spot maybe a little more paint and something like a burn long tanned over from time spent in the sun.

The man's eyes were a pale sort of brown, not quite tawny or olive. Eames was busy coming up with a color to describe them when the man stopped reading the paper and looked his way, letting the streaky ink and crumpled newsprint droop a few more inches so he could look back at Eames. As if he'd known all along that he was being studied.

At first Eames felt embarrassed for being caught staring. Then, curiously, the man smiled and winked at him, returning to his paper without saying a word. Eames turned his attention to the window, watching the passing scenery for a moment or two, before turning his attention back to the man he'd been studying. The paper was gone now and as if that had been enough of a distraction, Eames noticed the man's luggage.

Close enough to speak without raising his voice, Eames cleared his throat and asked, "Mate, is there a reason why you've got a bindle?"

The man nudged the stick pressing against the side of his leg, pressed between it and the window he sat next to, making the striped kerchief tied to the top sway- how had he not noticed that?

"I'm just passing through," the man said conversationally. "Tickets are going to be checked fairly soon, you know."

Eames narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I'm familiar with that. Do you even have a ticket?"

The man smiled. "No. You see, I'm not riding for very long anyway!"

Eames would have said something, maybe. It's not like he had much of a place to argue from- he was a thief, he stole stuff from dreamer's, he created forgeries in the real, waking world. He had no moral high ground and wasn't particularly bothered about that except for the extra attention it could send in his direction.

And he still had his ticket waiting to be punched. It was in his shirt pocket.

Sparing a moment to look at it as he'd given it less than a passing glance after Arthur had given it to him, Eames pulled it from his pocket and stared.

It was blank. The perfect size for a train ticket but completely blank...and he could have sworn that he'd seen typeface and ink and his destination with a time on the front of it!

Bewildered, Eames looked up at the man sitting not too far away from him on the train, noticing the way that he was looking at the ticket in Eames's hand, like he'd known.

"Doesn't look like you'll be riding long either. Care to make a dash to the emergency exit?"

It was true that Eames could see the conductor already coming down the aisle, ready to check the tickets.

"This isn't an emergency," Eames said evenly, putting his bizarrely blank ticket back into his pocket. "It's- look, I don't know what to call this but it isn't an emergency."

The man nodded and reached for his bindle, standing up and putting one hand on the back of his seat for balance- Eames had noticed the the ride had suddenly gotten a bit rough.

"I want you to remember that you said that. And I want you to get ready to run when I say, okay?"

"What?"

Then there was the sound of screeching metal, of a boom like an explosion that rocked the train car, and Eames was on his feet, bag in hand as he ran for the nearby side door emergency exit with the man with the bindle right behind him.

Eames jumped from the still moving train, clutching his bag to his chest and trying not to think about what he was going to break. Because it wasn't the jump that was going to hurt him- it was the landing. And after he hit the ground hard, rolling down the dirt incline leading up to the tracks, Eames had a moment where he blinked up that the wide blue sky and swore due to the pain he was feeling; a steady thump-thump-thump in time with his heart beat.

Already knowing what he'd find when he looked down at his leg, Eames lifted his upper body up and examined his left leg- thankfully the broken bone hadn't pierced the skin, but he still felt a twist of nausea at the pit of his stomach. He carefully turned just far enough on his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit.

"That doesn't look pretty," a voice said. "Let's work on a splint."

Eames used his sleeve to wipe at his mouth, feeling disgusting but needing to focus on becoming as mobile as possible. He had to get to Arthur. He had to complete the trip, one way or the other.

He looked around to see if there were any branches long enough to immobilize his lower leg and spotted that man. Having landed without a scratch, he was untying the striped kerchief from the stick he'd carried with him off the train, shaking it out and tossing it over one broad shoulder as he began to break the stick apart into decently sized pieces that would fit around Eames's lower leg.

Eames didn't see how he was doing it, the man's hands couldn't be that strong, or, at least that was what Eames thought.

And then he didn't have much room for thoughts as the man knelt in the dirt with Eames and aligned the broken sticks, carefully securing this field dressing to the broken limb with the kerchief- Eames bit his lip and couldn't fit a pleasant thought into his head while he was internally cursing, using one hand to unknot his tie and hand it over to the man.

"Better use this too. I wouldn't want it to slip once we start moving."

The man nodded and took Eames's tie and set to work. "I'm going to get you off the ground now. I'm going to take you to a hospital."

"...I'm a bit of a black sheep in my family," the man was explaining as he carried Eames over his shoulder, carrying him like he weighed nothing more than the bindle had.

Eames made a hmmn noise as he looked on ahead of them, feeling like he'd replaced the bindle and whatever it was holding as luggage- he was a literal carry-on at the moment. He was hanging onto his bag with his free left hand; the man was holding onto Eames's right wrist and held onto Eames's right leg below the knee to keep him balanced on his shoulders, to keep Eames's splinted left leg from touching the ground.

Getting into this position had been tough, but Eames grit his way through the pain of briefly standing on the broken leg, leaning heavily against this black sheep, fare-dodging artist. Or conman, maybe.

"Funny, so am I," Eames answered, wondering what happened to whatever the man had been carrying. He hadn't seen anything when the man shook out that kerchief yet when they were on the train it looked like whatever it held had some weight to it. Like he'd been traveling with it- a transient or hobo, maybe. Or he was truly a conman who wanted people to believe he was any of those things, dodging a fare just to avoid spending money spent elsewhere. But he didn't look like the sort who gambled.

"I love them dearly," the man said, "But there was a reason why I left and didn't speak to them- one brother had a problem with the way I gave up my responsibilities, but another must have known it was going to happen anyway. I hurt them, I confused them." The big man shrugged, shifting the weight of Eames ever so slightly.

"But I'm back in contact, my youngest sister was having a problem and needed tending and I sort of half fell back into my place with the family. I wasn't just the Prodigal or simply brother."

Eames noticed the omission of an actual name but couldn't blame the man- Eames didn't tell people his first name, either.

"You've got, what? How many siblings?"

"Six. I was the fourth."

"What're your parents like?"

"Our father was Time, our mother was Night- but mostly I think that all of it, all of us, spring from the minds of men."

Eames blinked hard and frowned over that. "You're awfully philosophical."

"Says the man who robs people of things in their dreams?" The man laughed. "Oh, you dreamsharers are a funny bunch. I've no idea how he deals with the lot of you! Roaming around his realm, hurting the dreamers! But he's got a soft spot for you, that's for sure. That's why I tried to get you off that train."

"What would have happened to me if I stayed on?"

The man shrugged. "Nothing good. But how could he have known that? He just wanted to get you out of the way, to protect you from something else."

Eames had a moment where he thought that they were talking about Arthur. Nothing else matched except for the bit about the train, about protecting him from other things.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because despite being a criminal you're really not that bad. You're artistic and clever, you've got thoughts and feelings and live your life to the fullest. I feel responsible for drawing you into this- see, there was a wake and I visited my brother when he was alone and tried to talk him around to the idea of doing as I did- that he could just get up and leave if he wanted to. When I left it didn't stop destruction or creation from occurring. It was freeing. But even though he said no it must have planted the idea in his head- he didn't abandon his position or let go of his realm. From what I can tell he's enjoying it. And that's why I'm helping you, even if I'm not operating in my official capacity, officially returning to my place in the family. As of yet, at least."

Throughout this speech, half of which Eames wasn't understanding between the otherworldly explanations and the pain of his broken leg, Eames began to notice that they weren't walking through a largely undeveloped area next to a set of train tracks, but that they were in a city, then walking through the cold, air-conditioned and florescent lit setting of a hospital ER.

The man who hadn't given Eames his name transferred him into the care of nurses and doctors who were willing to set him up on a gurney and leave the necessary but annoying paperwork till later.

By the time this flock of health care professionals parted in preparation to whisk him away, the man who had carried Eames to safety (in a remarkably short amount of time) already made it to the double doors and left the ER without doing more than waving goodbye.

"So he carried you to a hospital."

"Yes."

"And he didn't ask you for anything in return?"

"No, Arthur. To be honest I didn't understand half of what he was saying! It was strange, he kept talking about a brother of his."

These words were met with silence laced with static. After a second, Eames pulled his cell phone away from his ear and looked at the screen to make sure that the call hadn't been disconnected. From what he could tell, it hadn't been dropped.

"Are you mad at me, darling? I'm sorry. I know that you put me on that train to avoid problems, but there was an accident. I think it was an accident. To be honest, I'm not sure. I think the train may have hit something, or something exploded. But that man got me to jump off the train and helped me after I broke my leg. I'd think that you'd be grateful, I certainly am!"

Arthur sighed. "I am. I'm coming to get you and then we'll find another place to go- I want you to get off that leg and rest!"

Sitting in his hospital bed, the makeshift splint long since replaced with an actual cast, the limb was elevated by a pillow at the insistence of his nurse. His tie and the stranger's kerchief had been cut off and binned, so he didn't even have that to show to the point man. As if he needed the proof.

"Probably not Paris, right?"

Arthur laughed a little, just like Eames had hoped he would. "We'll always have Paris, Eames."