Nolan, et al., own Inception, not me.

And seriously, I know people who are smart, funny, and a little jerky who are really brilliant family people. You can be awesome and not be a womanizer - just saying.


While punching the last of fourteen digits into a disposable cell phone, Eames thought that for a fastidious, uptight git, Arthur had good taste. If Eames weren't the father of a four-year-old and the husband of a quietly brilliant redhead with amazing eyes, he'd have happily overlooked an eight-year age difference and launched a serious attempt to pursue Ariadne. She was a bright, pretty young thing full of fierce determination with a sparkling laugh that got mixed up with nervous embarrassment when Eames ripped on Arthur.

Besides the family that kept Eames in check, the girl was utterly disinterested, and she laughed at every outrageous flirtation; Eames was just a bit huffy over the fact. Christ in heaven, she probably thought of him as a brother. Or worse, an uncle!

And, of course, as much as he teased Arthur – and good God, what an easy target! – Eames did respect him. They traded insults, but since they'd known each other for a decade and worked together at least once every year, it was hard for the pair to actively hate one another. Point was, Eames recognized territorial behavior when he saw it, and if he were right about all of that glaring Arthur had done during the Fischer job – and Eames was never wrong – then the Point Man was deeply interested in their little architect.

Eames snorted into the mouthpiece of the phone while waiting for the voicemail to pick up. The noise carried only to his ear through the phone; the crowded pub overlooking a particularly polluted stretch of the Thames wouldn't have let a bellow past the shrieks of laughter and roars of outrage, let alone a little snort.

And Arthur, in all his neurotic glory, is doing fuck-all about it, Eames thought. Worse, Arthur wasn't even actively pushing Ariadne away, because that would reveal too much emotion. The boy was merely setting her aside until he'd loftily decided that it was safe for her to come play … you know, if she wanted … and was still there.

The voicemail clicked on, a pre-recorded New York accent telling him he'd reached the phone number beginning with 212, and would he please leave a message, and Messrs. Johannes, Fields or Stone would return his call at the earliest possible moment?

"You're getting a call in the next two days," Eames drawled in his very best Irritate Arthur Tone (Version No. 4). "Return it, you great, neurotic knob."

After a moment's pause he added through a grin, "And I wouldn't object to trading a few barbs with you myself, if you feel equal to it. Don't make me come find you, hey?"