drunk!Arthur. he is hilarious and has silly friends.

warnings: post-movie (slightly AU?). OCs: Tak Shibuya, Saja. taking liberties with how the characters met/how long they've known each other. blatant crossover LOL. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s*** and f***).

pairing: hints of Arthur/Eames.

timeline: several months post-movie; the night of the finished job in Tokyo.

disclaimer: Chris Nolan owns Inception and its characters.

notes: 1) MerianMoriarty asked for J-drama sub cons. 2) i don't think the Losers ever mention their unit's official designation. lima stands for L in several radio alphabets, so it seemed as good as anything. 3) Holly & Beth are Jensen's sister and niece in my Losers fics. 4) the Wonderland Watch, introduced in White Rabbit has a flamingo croquet mallet for a minute hand and a hedgehog for the hour hand, and the Cheshire Cat's grin on one of the visible gears.

A Favor for a Friend

Aside from the mark's strange, daytime-television sub cons, the job was as easy as they come. Sure, Arthur was practically accosted by an over-enthusiastic projection that seemed to think he was her childhood love…but other than the weird-factor, it was cut-and-dried. In her quaint little secret hiding place, the mark had stashed a veritable treasure trove of names and numbers, and Arthur's trained long enough that his photographic memory works in dreams, too.

Afterward, Eames offered (somewhat grudgingly, it seemed) to treat them all to drinks.

Saja and Ariadne started off with daiquiris, Eames called for a beer and a shot of tequila, Tak demanded top-shelf Scotch (Eames flinched, but didn't say anything…was this the price of her continued silence?). Arthur ordered bourbon on the rocks, and has had maybe another one or two since. Saja has moved on to margaritas, but Ariadne is drinking her share of the daiquiris to make up for it.

It's almost last call, and they've all agreed they should stop with this round. The receipt is sitting facedown between Eames and Arthur. It looks quite long, considering the fact that it's been just the five of them (Dom excused himself after the first drink).

"So th' mobius layer w's good?" Ariadne frets.

"Yes, yes, it was brilliant, I promise," Eames assures her for the fourth time. "We could've stayed there all day and had a picnic lunch."

"Mobius?" asks Saja.

"One-sided object," Tak tells her. "Take a strip of paper, twist it once and join the ends, then trace a pen down one side—you'll go around and around and meet the line where you started, because it only looks like it has two sides. It's a paradox, like the Penrose steps, or the self-filling aqueduct."

"She said th' P-word!" laughs Ariadne. "God, don't get Arthur started on optical 'lusions in dream-architecture."

"So what's a Pen-whatsit?" Saja presses, leaning toward Arthur.

"Um." He blinks, bullying his alcohol-slurred mind into action. He takes his pen from his pocket, grabs one of Eames' discarded drink napkins, and draws her an example. "The Penrose staircase is an infinite staircase illusion. Using skewed perspective, you make it appear that a square staircase is continuously ascending or descending…but you couldn't actually build it in reality, and if you could, it wouldn't be a square, and it would be tilted funny."

Arthur is aware he's rambling a little, and probably not explaining it properly. It's much easier to show than tell. When he casts a stealthy, self-conscious look around the table, Ariadne is digging her straw around the dregs of her last drink, Tak is folding one of Ariadne's drink napkins into some variety of origami animal, Saja looks attentive but confused, and Eames—well, Eames is staring with the kind of carefree grin people wear when they're watching kittens play. Once again, Arthur catches that familiar twinkle in his eye…a twinkle of 'you're so clever,' a twinkle of 'I'm crazy about you.'

His ears feel hot, so he looks away, clears his throat, and crumples the napkin. Beneath it, the receipt bears the indentations of his little sketch, and Eames swiftly pockets it.

Arthur doesn't know how to feel about that.

"We should…" he says. "It's late. We should all be getting to bed, so we can be rested for our flight tomorrow."

"I get first go at the shower," Eames announces as he stands from the table. "Unless you'd care to conserve water."

Arthur pointedly steps away. "There is more than enough water to go around, Mr. Eames."

Ariadne snickers.

It takes a few minutes for all five of them to stagger out to the elevators (Tak's the only one walking perfectly straight, and she works on steering Ariadne) and from the elevators to their suites.

Arthur doesn't mind letting Eames get the shower first; he needs to sit down for a bit before he can risk the hot water without passing out. He drops down onto a chair in the sitting room and turns the television on (some pretty pop idol is teaching the audience how to cook).

As he relaxes, he starts shedding layers. Shoes, socks, blazer, tie… Arthur is down to slacks and undershirt, still waiting for his turn in the shower, when his phone rings.

Arthur's phone has only numbers in it, no names—mostly for security. If someone—Blue Sun Enterprises, Cobol Engineering, Naya Ventures—gets his phone, they'll only have the numbers, not the names, and that'll give Arthur time to warn people. It doesn't inconvenience him one bit, since he knows all the numbers and has the corresponding names in his head.

The number is unfamiliar. Means one of three things: one, it's a wrong number; two, it's a new number for someone he knows; three, it's a new contact, passed his number by someone he knows.

He answers his phone with a neutral, "Yes?"

~"So this is your number! Sweet action. You know the CIA's still got you listed as a top-level intelligence-gathering asset?"~

He suppresses a sigh. It was really only a matter of time before that scatter-brained chatterbox needed another favor. "And they have this number?"

Over the line, he hears the clicking of a keyboard. ~"Not anymore. And your official asset code has been changed to General Query Management Facilitator. You're welcome."~

Arthur snorts. "You're hilarious. Why are you calling me, Jake? Not that it isn't absolutely wonderful to hear from you for the first time in three years, but being contacted by someone who's being hunted by just about every agency and bureau in the United States could be a real inconvenience for me."

~"Aw, that hurts. I see your point, but it still hurts. Besides, Lima Company is dedzors, how can people be hunting us?"~

"You know how persistent the CIA can get. How are Holly and Beth?"

~"They're super-duper. How's Shelley 'n Isaac? Still naming small furry critters after you?"~

"Ugh. Yes. I don't get it—is it a boy thing? Beth's never named a hamster 'Jake.'"

~"It's so creepy that you know that, Art."~

"I also know the Petunias went six and one last year, losing in the playoffs to a bunch of giant girls who look like they're on steroids. A very persistent man in glasses was dragged off the field after arguing with the ref. There's some great YouTube footage. Who's the scary-looking chick next to Clay?"

~"That's just Aisha. She's tame as a kitten."~

Arthur grunts and digs around for clean clothes to change into after his shower. He realizes he may have had more than enough bourbon when he lists to one side. "Didn't you once call Alvarez 'tame as a kitten'? The same Alvarez who was written up for grievous bodily harm something like eight times one year and has over three hundred confirmed kills?"

~"Okay, yes, there's that… But Aisha makes him look pretty tame."~

The very idea is laughable, so Arthur laughs. "God, Clay has possibly the world's worst taste in women."

~"Oh, no, she's awesome and very badass…she's just also fucking batshit crazy."~

"Well, that makes everything better. Returning to the point, Jake. You called me. Why?"

~"I was hoping that you, in all your Arthurly wisdom and leet intel-gathering ability, could maybe get your hot little hands on some info for us. Please be cool about this, Art, I told them you're a slice of deep-fried awesome wrapped in bacon and dipped in awesome sauce."~

Arthur doesn't suppress the sigh this time. "You told your unit about me. Jake, what part of 'my obscenely well-paying job is so illegal most countries don't even know it exists' didn't filter through your ears properly the first fifty times?"

There's what he imagines to be an embarrassed silence on the other end of the line. ~"Did you know that tigers are the only felines besides housecats that can purr on the inhale?"~

"I did know that, Jake; please concentrate. The first rule of being Arthur's friend without Arthur hunting you down and beating your skull in is you do not talk about Arthur. Just like Fight Club, the second rule is the same as the first."

~"I am Jack's childlike after-the-fact contrition. Did I mention how awesome you are?"~

"You did, but it doesn't hurt to repeat it. I'm vulnerable to flattery after a glass of bourbon. Or three. Or four. I forget. No, if it'd been four, I wouldn't have been able to walk up to the room unaided. What kind of information are we talking about? Not electronic, or you'd've gotten it yourself. Something hardcopy? Or something—what was the phrase you used? Squishy-copy?"

~"Hardcopy. We can't afford your squishy-copy rates."~ Someone says something, and Jake's voice goes hollow and muted, like he's turned away from the phone. ~"I'm serious. You've gotta be a frigging financial institution to afford to hire Artie for what he does for a living. A little low-risk poking around I can whine out of him as a favor, but no way would he do an actual job for the kinda scratch we can send his way."~

"A reduced fee might be negotiable, depending on the mark," Arthur says. "We're breaking in a new girl, and she needs all the experience she can get."

~"Dude, no, I can't get you into this kinda shit, Art,"~ groans Jake. ~"We're after a jackass egomaniac super-spy from hell."~

"Ye of little faith," chides Arthur, wondering in his moderate inebriation what he did with his watch. "I'm a GQMF, says so right in my CIA file. I'm serious business, bitch."

~"You—wow, you're really drunk, man."~

Arthur snorts and goes over to the chair where he left his waistcoat. "I'm not that drunk. There you are, Bill…"

~"Who's Bill?"~

"Lizard. With a ladder. Alice in Wonderland?"

~"You're hallucinating literary characters?"~

"What? No. Jake, you're not making any sense. I was looking for my watch. I love this crazy-ass watch. Okay, so you're after a spy. What's this info you need me to get? His whereabouts? His movements? His spending habits? His girlfriend?" He checks the time—the flamingo weaves back and forth for a while. "Damn stupid flamingo…"

If he were sober, he might worry that Jake is on the verge of seriously doubting his sanity. Right now, he's in that fuzzy state of assuming everyone is following his train of thought (and it's not like Jake has any room to talk about anybody else's lack of sanity).

When the flamingo decides to behave, Arthur sees that Eames has been in the shower for an unfair amount of time.

~"Right. So. Yeah, the full file, or what you can get of it. Um, the only name we have on him is Max, but I can email you a pic."~

There's something wrong about that, something tickling in the back of Arthur's mind, and he'll figure it out in a moment, he's sure. Some connection between the name Max and the phrase 'jackass egomaniac super-spy.' "Yeah. Do that. I'll—"

"Shower's all yours, darling," Eames sings out. "Though why we couldn't just share, I'm sure I don't know."

He flies the finger without looking. He's not sure if he'd prefer Eames to be fully clothed or wearing just a towel, so he forgoes the possibility of disappointment by staring at the cat-grin edging its way into view behind the hedgehog.

~"Wow. New boyfriend? British accents are so hot."~

Arthur scowls. "Jake, go die in a fire. Eames, are you just physically incapable of not brazenly butting your way into other people's conversations?"

"My sense of humility was amputated when I had my sense of propriety removed, dear."

Arthur doesn't doubt that. "Jake, stop thinking your stupid thoughts. Mr. Eames is my coworker, and we're rooming together because it would be cruel and impolite to force him on any of our female coworkers. Send me that pic, I'll look up everything there is about your friend Max."

~"Roger-dodger. Talk more later."~

"Bye." And he hangs up.

Eames is already tucked safely under the blankets on his own bed by the time Arthur manages to stand up without falling back down.

"Who was that?" Eames yawns.

Arthur fetches his clean sleep things and saunters toward the bathroom. "A drop-dead gorgeous blond computer genius that I've known longer than I've known Cobb."

"Mm, anyone would think you're trying to make me jealous."

"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

.End.