Authors note: Sorry for the ambiguity! I may only be the diet coke of evil (just one calorie, not evil enough) but I still get sparks here and there. I'm going to try to update within the next two days so you guys aren't left hanging for too long. That being said, thank you all for your patience, time, and your lovely feedback. Thanks and take care!

PART VII

LONDON, ENGLAND

[ Now—7:03 PM]

"Bentley. Impala. Jaguar. One-nine-one-nine. One-nine-five-six. One-nine-two-two," Cobb holds the radio to his lips, and waits in silence for a reply that in three weeks has yet to come. He clears his throat, and speaks once again, automatic and toneless by now, "Bentley. Impala. Jaguar. One-nine-one-nine. One-nine-five—six…" he trails off, leaning forward in his seat and straining to see the faint movement in the distance.

In the failing light he can just barely make out a shadow in the outdoor hallway. The mail hall. The other few tenants generally tend to check their mail earlier in the day, and have not seemed so concerned as this one to keep their heads down. It does not take much to convince himself to set the radio down and step out of the car, moving slowly and unthreateningly toward the dark orange glow of the hall.

When he finally comes in sight of the other man he idles in front of a random post-box, pretending to fumble with a key that he doesn't own. A sidelong glance is not enough to reveal the face of the other man—but he can see that the man is hovering just over Eames' box, and when the figure bends to open it he begins to pull out letter after letter, junk mag after junk mag.

He clears his throat, and when the stranger turns his head his chest tightens—and immediately relaxes when Cobb realizes he is not looking at Eames, back from the dead. There is still a faint hope, one he dares not go beyond "faint", because Eames' mail has not stopped. Even without a body, at this point someone should have at least noticed him missing.

Cobb smiles, and any alarm that was on the other's face evaporates before it even began to betray any real panic.

"Lotta mail," he says, nonchalantly. "Pain in the ass, huh?"

"Yeah, well—" the stranger just shrugs, and some of the envelopes spill from his arms, and when he bends to collect them the rest follow. He laughs, nervously, and Cobb quickly moves over to help him. It is still possible that this man is a new tenant, who was simply assigned Eames' old box. "—been out, so… oh, thank you…"

Cobb fingers one of the envelopes and sees Eames' name on it. He drops all cover when he glances up at the stranger, and rises steadily to his feet. The stranger has also dropped his cover, and the alarm begins to spread like virus across his boyish features when Cobb moves toward him.

"Pay me the compliment of being very, very frank," he says. "And give me a damn good reason for you to be collecting the mail of a dead man."

THE NORDIC EMPRESS

June [ 2 Years, 6 Months ago ]

"Tipped off?" Arthur leans forward, notepad neglected on his thigh. "What do you mean, tipped off?"

"He knows we're coming, just not who we are, or what we intend to extract," Cobb enunciates each word slowly, so that it may sink into the team members that the job has only gotten a little more difficult, but is still absolutely possible. Arthur is enticed by the new challenge, but still cautious, as ever. From the corner of his eye he is vaguely aware of Eames in a chair some feet behind him, ankle crossed over his knee and his posture a little lazy. He stirs.

"Is it possible this is a set up," there is no panic in the smooth, accented voice. "A very organized hit or something—are we sure Price came up clean in the research?"

"Beyond a doubt, Eames," Arthur responds, deep, stiffly, and turns back to Cobb with a hard jaw, nodding. "Besides—he was the one who let you know, right?"

"Right, like I said," Cobb does not miss a beat. "Not enough details to stop us, but it is likely to hinder our getaway. The room will be guarded, but Price has paid off a few of his men—enough to possibly sway the others to follow our distraction long enough for us to get in and get out."

"That's cutting it a little close, don't you think," Eames puts in, and his posture has not changed. Arthur does not turn to look at him; instead his eyes fall back to his notepad, but he hates to hear the smarm in the Forger's words. It seems to have appeared a few years ago, where before there had been no sense of animosity towards the Extractor. Arthur hopes he is the only one to have picked up on it thus far, and fights the heat that creeps into his face. "If I forge the missus on the second level—"

"It won't be a forge, Eames. This distraction is going to need to be outside the dream, to lead the men we haven't bought away from the cabin. Arthur—" Cobb is suddenly making direct eye contact, and there is a significant look there generally only intended for his Point Man, his right hand. "You think you can give these guys the slip long enough for us to finish the extraction?"

A curt nod, then, "Does this change the length of the dream? How much time are you going to need?"

"An extra thirty."

"Right," Arthur feels the tension behind him, and from the corner of his eye can see Eames shift in his chair—the posture has changed, rigid now, and pensive. He is grateful when Eames says nothing after Cobb begins speaking again.

"Now the distraction—"

"You mean the bait," Eames snaps, finally, although his tone is cool, not icy—nothing to suggest anything beyond the fact that Eames' lack of faith in Cobb's plan is over doubting promises of payment. It could still be argued he was not being protective. "There are at least seven of them—that we're aware of. This was not part of the plan, he could miss the ride." Cobb levels Eames with a stare that lasts too long.

"He misses the ride, we're doubling back for him. Arthur," Cobb leaves Eames forgotten in the chair, to stew, and silently let his building frustration fume off of him. The Point Man and Extractor regard one another. "I'm asking a lot of you, I know that, but you are my best shot at keeping them away from us long enough. Do you understand?"

Arthur coughs—he prefers that, to clearing his throat.

"Nothing I can't handle," he says, and it sparks an immediate reaction out of Eames. Arthur does not look at him, however badly he wants to, and keeps his hard eyes glued to his notes.

"In dreams, it's nothing he can't handle in dreams. In the waking world Arthur's taken on the occasional assassin or two, but not seven, and not in the middle of the bloody Pacific Ocean for Christ's sake," the Forger leans forward, rebelliously. "His only out is going to be the water. What you are asking of him, Cobb, is potential suicide—"

"Eames," is all Arthur says, quiet, but still low in his throat—any lower and it may have been a growl. To his credit Eames does recognize the warning, and so he cuts himself off when Cobb rises to defend his actions.

"It is dangerous, yes, but we have dealt with worse before, and I have thought every new angle of this plan through. You act like I'm sending Arthur to his death," Cobb pauses after a moment, as if the thought has only just struck him. "You used to trust me, Mr. Eames."

Eames does trust Cobb. He has trusted him since before Arthur was ever part of the picture, and had Cobb requested he stay behind and risk himself he would have not only obliged, but trusted Cobb to not let it be the suicide mission he feared for Arthur. Even as he stews, and locks eyes with the Extractor, even though he knows he is about to cross a line,

"An extra thirty, that is a half hour, he'll be dead by the time you double back to get him—" he cannot fight the words that rise up out of him, like vomit, and all control leaves him as he shoots forward and his fist seizes Arthur's shoulder. "Do you REALIZE what he is asking of you, Arthur?"

Arthur reels from the touch like he has been burned, and does not even turn his head to look at the Forger when he repeats, firmly, darkly, "Eames."

Like a dog kicked for his loyalty, Eames slowly settles back into his chair.

He is quiet, because he has to be. Because he crossed a line Arthur has begged him not to cross, and he hates it, and yet he brought it upon himself. The meeting continues, the board is set, and the pieces are positioned. Eames remains silent, and all Arthur can think of is what the other members of their team have taken from this little spat. Cobb only continues on distractedly, but Keith shoots him the occasional sidelong glance—it is a puzzled look, pondering perhaps, as if trying to decide what to make of the Point Man. For just a moment, there is a fleeting, solemn pity for the Forger in his eyes.

[ 12:42 AM ]

Arthur knocks, instead of using Eames' room key. It is a white flag of sorts—an olive branch, the same one he has extended countless times over the years. Every time he offers it, he fears it will not be accepted. Arthur pulls in a deep breath, and leans against the door, closing his eyes and moving his lips wordlessly, counting the seconds until the knob turns, and it opens.

"Darling," Eames is seldom what Arthur can only describe as nasty—but the passive-aggressive, unfeeling smile on his face, and the glaze over his deadened eyes is just that. The Forger opens the door, and turns his back on the Point man, heading back over to the edge of the bed and tips his beer back, draining it. "If it's light conversation you're looking for, I'm only going to disappoint," Eames flicks a deadly glance his way. "And if you ask me to grant a condemned man's last request, I am going to get very, very angry."

Arthur stands there and watches Eames push everything down, the insult, the anger, the distant longing he has kept at bay for years. He has been doing this for so long—doing this to him for years, and Eames has always given him what he wants. Despite the retaliation, the ripping, and the roaring, and the knock-down-drag-out desperate fighting they often find themselves caught up in, Eames has always given Arthur what he wanted and never betrayed their relationship.

As impatient as he gets, Eames still waits for Arthur to come out into the light with him. Arthur is sorry. He has been, many times, but even now will not utter an apology. All Eames ever gets from him is an explanation. Half the time, it isn't even a good one, and yet Eames accepts it, in the end.

"I didn't come here for that," Arthur begins, slowly. There is the tiniest inclination of Eames' head—the only sign the Forger is even listening. "This job is dangerous. It has its risks, and its payoffs… and we have always done it, to the best of our abilities, side by side. When did you start feeling the need to… protect me, Eames?" He mouths the words as if they leave a disgusting taste in his mouth—because really, they do. "I've never needed your protection. Not like that. I don't need it now, so please don't try to protect me."

Eames' eyes are back on the silent television, and he snorts, once. "Not even from yourself?" Arthur shakes his head, and bends slightly to run his palm down his cheek, weary. He knows he is now going to pay for the fight they managed to avoid last night. "You forget sometimes, what I am capable of. You forget sometimes that I am every bit as dangerous as you, if not more. You forget that I am the best in my line of work. You forget that I am not a pining young woman, left scorned, passed-over, no matter how much you would love me to be," his eyes begin to darken, storms brewing dark grey.

"I do not care how you treat me in front of Cobb. I do not care that, when you're around him, you can't stand the bloody sight of me. Arthur, what gets me so positively, frighteningly angry is how blindly you follow him. How eager you are to please him, and how that desire completely blots out your usual, impeccable logic. And so that logic is nowhere to be found when it needs to let you know that you will follow him anywhere," Eames jerks to his feet again, and stabs his hand into his pocket for a cigarette. "Even to your own death."

"I follow him because I trust him," Arthur says quietly, after a moment of heavy silence. The air is thick, and Arthur feels his voice tremor, and a bizarre sort of rapture stirs within him, mingling with the ugliness of his anger, and slowly threatening to rise and overtake him. "I have always trusted him with my life, and it is not your place to question that. It was never your place—"

"I've fought for you," Eames snaps through smoke, curling from either side of his mouth with every word. "I have killed for you, just as many times, and if that hasn't earned me the same trust, the trust to lead you then trust me to know when you are in over your head. Trust me—"

"No," Arthur all but bellows, and in an instant he has closed the distance between them and his forefinger is rigid at Eames' face. "NO, Eames. I trust you to be our Forger, and to deceive the Mark. I trust you to keep control when it's your dream we're working in, and I trust you to watch my back when it's mine. Beyond that you have no more say in what Cobb asks of me than the man who cuts my hair in back in fucking San Diego! We fuck. We fuck Eames, you are the—Don't walk away from me, look at me!—" Arthur seizes the other by the sleeve of his black cotton t-shirt, and violently yanks him back before Eames can fully turn away. "—the person I fuck in the world outside of the dream! You are not in my dreams, not my real dreams, because what we are is nothing beyond that! You are the person that I fuck."

The words leave him and on the inside he is sinking with regret, because he only lies to cover a deep fear; one that lost its meaning a long time ago. Eames does not try to break away from the hold, and instead he moves closer into it. His hard eyes have lost their hostility, and his fingers close around Arthur's forearm, unthreatening. Arthur feels helpless, caged in by his own anger, and humiliation, and he searches Eames' unchanging expression, desperately. He wonders if the Forger can see the wordless apology set deep in his own eyes, hidden somewhere in their dark cover.

"I am the man you fuck," Eames says, evenly, quietly. "In San Diego. In London. In Paris. In St. Petersburg. Wherever you may find me." Arthur says nothing in return, and the nasty sneer ghosts across the full lips. "Right. I was worried, after all of this… after everything… that it might actually change you. Make you clingy, and a little weak for me. I'm relieved I was wrong," The sneer shows itself in the form of a smile, and Eames releases his lover.

"No, no—the fire is still there, pet," He walks to the window of his cabin, slow, decisive, and not even angry anymore. He leaves Arthur behind to stand there, and take breaths so shallow they cannot be heard even in the silence, but Eames does not turn to look at him again. Finally, "Are we finished, then?"

LONDON, ENGLAND

[ Now—7:38 PM]

Cobb is getting very impatient. He hopes that his hostage is sensing that, and will be willing to talk soon, because at some point one of the night watchmen are going to need to use the restroom between the laundry and the post boxes. So far he has managed to half-way convince the younger man that he is not afraid to blow a kneecap off in order to get information, and has gathered that the man—Harold—probably never knew Eames personally. Really, though, that is all he has managed to learn in the last half-hour, as the young man cannot stop alternating begging for his life and threatening to scream loud enough to get the night watch's attention.

"You're fucking with me, Harold," Cobb warns quietly, leaning all of his weight into the forearm he has pressed into Harold's collarbone. "I don't like to be fucked with. Don't fuck with me."

"I'm not, I'm not! I swear, please—I don't even know who this Jonathan guy is, it's my friend—my friend Dave. Davey Peterson, he gave me this gig! He can tell you everything you want to know!" Harold's already pinched features are scrunching up in undignified fear, and Cobb makes sure to give the mouth of the gun, now wedged hard into the man's ribs, a very convincing shove. "He's here! He's on watch tonight, just let me get him—"

"Oh, so "Davey Peterson, the Night Guard" is gonna solve all my problems?" Harold nods, and Cobb jerks his arm into the soft throat, choking. "You sure this isn't some ploy to get me to turn myself into security?" Harold can't speak, but he shakes his head desperately, mouth moving, but he can only wheeze his protests.

"Listen, Harold—I'm not a hit man, I'm not an assassin. Someone has been in my dead friend's place, drinking his coffee, moving shit around, and now you are collecting his mail. What I need to know is why, because if he isn't dead, or if someone has him, and he ends up dead because you won't open your goddamned mouth!—" Cobb releases the choke hold, and Harold struggles to talk and breathe heavily at the same time. "WHAT, Harold, what?"

"D-Dave, he ah, he's being paid by s-some bird to keep this place up. I don't know why, he didn't tell me—only told me she's paying him good, real good to take care of this place. To take care of it, but to make it look like this Eames guy isn't coming back, all right? That's all I know, I swear!"

"What, a woman?" Cobb tries to sound more interrogative and less surprised. A woman? "What's her name?" Harold shakes his head and attempts a shrug, which gets him a gun beneath his chin. "Where are the checks coming from?"

"Jesus, I don't—" A soft click, and Harold's eyes fly open even wider. "—Mexico, I think!"

Days later, Cobb finally goes home. He quietly closes the front door behind him, and his steps in the foyer are slow, and uncertain. The house is dark and silent, save for the glow of the television from the family room. Cobb leans against the wall, and takes in the scene; there is an episode of Mash playing, muted, and it lights up Miles' sleeping face. His father-in-law had tried his damndest to be awake when Cobb finally arrived, probably having promised the children as much.

He had already broken down and let Miles know why he has been away so long, and the disapproval he had very much not been looking forward to has come and gone from the older man.

Cobb runs both hands through his dark sandy hair, and for the hundredth time in two days his mind touches on the question that has stolen any hope for sleep. He does his best to ignore it, to tell himself that a decent night's rest will make the decision easier, and he moves forward, gently touching Miles' shoulder with the tips of his fingers. The old man stirs, and squints, before he sits up on the couch. Cobb wearily comes to sit beside him, and leans over, elbows on his knees and chin on both hands.

"Dom," comes Miles' voice from his right. It always reminds him of being home. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Cobb does not let his mind whirl this time. Cobb does not allow for another debate, between truth and morality, and the steep price of another's peace. He does not think of Ariadne, barely able to put her phone down for two seconds in hopes he will call her with news. He does not think of Arthur, and how what little progress the Point Man has made in dealing with his grief in the last few weeks would all fall apart if he were to know the truth. He begins to wonder the value of truth, and if truth is worth a purgatory of grief for his team members.

To Miles, his answer is no.