Arthur is an impeccable driver. Even in his current state, his muscle memory guides him along the winding highway, through the gates of his neighborhood. He is not aware of any time passing: one moment he is pulling out of the parking lot, on the phone with emergency services, the next he is sitting in his garage, his car idling as the garage door slides shut behind him. For one brief, terrible moment, he sees himself limp in the seat and longs for it. But as always, he shakes the thought away, turns the engine off, and enters his home.
It has taken three years for Arthur to get his house the way he wants it. The floors all had to be torn up, of course, and recovered in oak he'd stained himself. The walls were beautifully repainted, and the kitchen completely remodeled to accommodate Arthur's habit of fixing himself multi-course dinners and elegant desserts for no reason at all. Arthur loves to cook, loves to create something delicious and beautiful from raw meat and vegetables. He stands in the doorway for a moment, looking in at his gleaming kitchen where no one eats, the dining table with three ever-empty chairs.
Eames, Arthur suddenly remembers, has come over a few times, mostly for team dinners, and Arthur feels his face straining to smile at the memory of the big Brit hunkering under counters.
—-
"Yes, love, I know you hire someone to do it, but it's a waste of money, I'm a perfectly good knife sharpener."
"It's not that, dammit, Eames, they're good knives, I won't have you ruining them, they cost me too much money—"
"Ah! Found it!" Eames's head poked out from under the sink. "Why do you keep it back here with the sponges, darling?"
Arthur's teeth gritted. "I don't keep it anywhere, I don't use it. You can't sharpen my knives, Eames, all right? Just, go do something else."
"Oh, posh, I've nothing else to do while you cook that divine-looking rack of lamb and Ariadne and Yusuf run off to neck in a closet. What do you want me to do, go argue with Cobb about that last job? Let him tear my head off for his poor form? Not bloody likely." Eames had been standing and stretching as he spoke, arching his back in a way that Arthur tried desperately not to notice. "Now, let me at those knives."
—-
Suddenly Arthur is so tired, he can barely stagger down the hallway to his bedroom. He is asleep before he hits the pillow. His last thought before falling into the dream is a wisp of gratitude that no one is there to judge him for still wearing his three-piece suit, splattered with Eames's blood. At least no one can see me, he thinks as the darkness swallows him up.
