Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

Author's Note: So my surgery went well. I'm currently at home recovering and more than a little bored. Managed to get to the bookstore today though and got me enough to get through it. I've had a resurgence of enthusiasm for A Song of Ice and Fire, so I'm nearly finished with A Storm of Swords and I bought A Feast for Crows since I'm unable to wait.

I bought the LEGO DC Superheroes which is actually a lot of fun. Particularly if you're playing with someone else. I've found that I make a terrible Robin, if only because I'm too independent for the sidekick stuff.

"Friends you may be, if he trusts you, but you may never truly own a wild falcon, for they only stay with you as they please."
-Rhodri (The Telling Pool)

Arthur isn't a believer in faith, but he wishes he was.

Occasionally, every now and again, Eames will find it not tucked in the back of the sock drawer. Once, he found it lying on the dresser, no hiding, no illusions. The silver was dulled a little from time and lack of care, the chain long and thin and almost delicate. But its sightings were always just far enough apart that Eames had nearly forgotten about it up until it made its reappearance. Eames was grateful enough to see that the initials on the back weren't AJR but CR. The other pendant stayed in the sock drawer. There was no confusion in identity here.

Arthur never mentioned the cross with its engravings. Sometimes, Eames wasn't sure whether Arthur knew that Eames knew about it though, Eames' mind told him, Arthur must know because Arthur was much more observant and intuitive than he let on.

After a few months—no more than five, no less than three—the cross disappeared into its drawer again and to Eames knowledge, never taken out. Eames pretended he didn't know why it was taken out in the first place. (…through Christ…strengthens…)

The red die was another pawn in their ongoing game.

They're in Vegas again and they play up the image of bored rich men very easily. Or the roles of bumbling tourist. Or experienced gamblers. Whatever they need. It's a simple con, no dreamwork involved, but they need the money. Arthur, Eames finds, is good at distracting people and that's what he's doing.

(In truth, Eames is better at it than Arthur is, but Arthur isn't a good pickpocket. Not yet, so the job falls to Eames)

It's easy enough for Arthur to get the attention of the women—and some of the men. It varies sometimes when they're doing this con, but it generally starts with a bump—occasionally a spilled drink—a shy, apologetic smile that perfectly displays those dimples and he draws them into conversation with little effort. He's charming and clever and engaging and it doesn't take much at all for Eames to sneak in behind them and slip wallets from purses and pockets.

They count up the stolen cash in the men's room and Eames lets Arthur do the figures and budget it out because Eames and math don't do well together. If they have enough already, they divide the money—just in case. Arthur-and-Eames are all about contingency plans—and slip out, separating and meeting at a rendezvous point. If not, they return to the floor and it's all rinse and repeat from there.

Eames smirks at Arthur as they're exiting the restroom. "You should try and get an acting gig, darling. Leave the thief's work to me."

The younger man arches an eyebrow. "Are you saying I'm not good enough to do what you do?"

"Not as good as I do it, no."

Eames should have known that the expression to cross Arthur's face is little more than a challenge accepted.

They aren't caught this time—they aren't always so lucky—and Arthur's already driving out, Eames still strolling to his car like any other tourist. They meet at the little motel room they're sharing, Eames arriving a good half an hour later than the other man to throw off any potential tails. He's shedding his jacket and falling backwards onto his half of the bed when he notices it.

It's average-sized, translucently red with white dots. In gold lettering on the side is the name of the casino. He looks at Arthur, who is sitting on his side of the bed with a book in hand.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Eames?" It's said almost innocently and without looking.

"…you little thief." It's said with some small measure of pride because Eames had, after all, been the one to teach him everything about stealing.

Arthur smirks at him and this is the real one, not the face he puts on for the marks. There is no shyness and there are no apologies. "Well, you can't be the only one in town."

(Eames thinks of a poker chip sitting in his pocket—it's part of his usual routine when he leaves the room now. Keys, wallet, cell phone, chip—and thinks that this is some kind of strange irony because Arthur and Eames are always playing a constant game of one-up-manship)

Arthur is a good teacher.

Eames isn't surprised to find that, on the next job with her after inception, Arthur takes Ariadne aside for at least an hour every day to teach her self-defense.

At first, Ariadne teases him a little, calls him overprotective and jokes about how this is the first time she's seen him out of a suit. But when Arthur doesn't react to the teasing like he usually does, with dry wit and half-smiles, she knows he's serious. ("Look, Daddy!" "…walk, Will…sober…" "Mina…hide…")

He takes her through the basics first; how to throw a punch properly—"You have to twist your whole body into it."—how to keep an arm stiff when she blocks. Eames helps with the demonstrations sometimes, grabbing her from behind and compared to him, Ariadne is tiny, but Arthur teaches her how to use her size to her advantage, teaches her how to duck out, to pinpoint the places that'll hurt the most with the least force or movement.

After a few days, Eames meets up with them at a shooting range, leaning back on the wall as Arthur sometimes correcting her grip or her stance, showing her small tricks to better her aim. She's not particularly good at it—she hasn't shot a gun since limbo and that had been adrenaline and dream-urgency( Which was a strange thing because that urgency can either make the dream warp the shot into your favor or the shot would go wild, exploding into motion. Literally).

Eames watches her as she tries. Arthur doesn't require perfection out of others—he prefers it, but he knows that things don't always happen that way (In truth, Eames was part of the reason for that influence. So many years of…them…have managed to lower his standards somewhat)

She becomes passably good at shooting—nothing on Arthur's automatic pinpoint accuracy or Eames' precision, but it's good enough to defend herself and it puts both of their minds more at ease when she comes on a job.

Spend enough time with him and Arthur can almost make you forget that he's dangerous.

"Sheral?"

"Allen? Is everything okay?" He usually called about once a month, roughly, sometimes more, sometimes less. He'd called just last week.

Eames breathed a sigh of relief and sank down to the ground. He'd known she wasn't in any danger—Arthur didn't hurt women, after all. Not unless they started it—but he'd needed to hear her voice. "Fine. Everything's fine."

"Why do I feel like that's not the whole truth?" He could picture her, curled onto the old wicker chair that she'd made fun of him for sitting outside her house or sitting on the counter in the kitchen—her go-to spot for phone conversations when it was too rainy—likely wearing shorts and an old T-shirt.

Sheral always did know him too well. "It is."

"Uh-huh."

"Would I lie to you, darling?"

"Lies of omission are still lies." She was the one girl who never went for his charm.

"Humor me, won't you?"

She made a sound of agreement. "…A friend of yours came by the other day for you. The one that came to Anne's wedding. Arthur?"

Eames leaned his head back against the wall. He knew about the visit, of course. The file was still strewn on his kitchen table where he'd thrown it after what had transpired less than an hour ago. ("Dig into my past all you want...consequences...) "And what did he tell you?"

"That you were overloaded with work and that the bank was having issues with its wire transfers which was why he was dropping the check off."

"How very original." And knowing Arthur, the check was likely real.

"What's originality to a lonely housewife like me?"

"Entertainment?'

Sheral snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I have the telly for that."

Eames chuckled a little, grateful for this conversation, for the sound of her voice. He missed more than his wife; he missed her as one of his closest friends as well. "Don't act like you actually watch it all that often. You're probably just putting DVDs in."

"So I don't like waiting for commercials; sue me."

Eames stretched out his legs. He could hear the bustling sounds of Nairobi outside and the constant press of the sun had enveloped his apartment in a comfortable warmth, though he kept the fan on the ceiling spinning constantly. "…How's our girl?"

"It's a long weekend, so she said she'd come home." A pause. "Should be on her way now, actually."

A fond smile tilted Eames' lips. "How's she liking the university?"

"It's too easy, if you'll believe that. She's looking for a challenge, but she likes her major, her classes. Her roommate, not so much, but." He can see her shrugging. She hesitated before saying, "She wants to find you. I don't know why—she won't say—but she does."

A fierce wave of longing swept over him to reconnect with his daughter. "…She won't find me." He knew his own skills at hiding and with Arthur to help banish all connections, Amara would find nothing.

"Because you won't let her." There wasn't anything angry in her voice, just a quiet reminder. "Would it kill you, Allen? To talk with her? To have lunch every now and again when you're in the area?"

In truth, Eames avoided England fairly often to not give himself the temptation. If he had a layover, he stayed in the airport, much as he hated doing that. Arthur never commented on it, but Eames was sure he knew of the habit.

(This is his daughter though, his mind reminds him and he opens the locket to her smiling face)

"…I could try," Eames said carefully. "No promises though."

A soft snort of laughter. "Yeah, you're not very good at those."

(Sherallyn is a forgiving woman—too forgiving really, even if she does have a hard center that rears its head sometimes. She never mentions the fact that Eames is never there and she isn't good at losing her temper. She is incredibly good at making Eames feel guilty though, and he's never sure if she's doing it on purpose)

"Sheral—"

"It's fine, Allen," She interrupted. "If you're going to apologize, don't. I knew what I was getting into when I married you."

"Why can't you be normal and get pissed like all the other women?"

"So there have been other women," She's teasing now; he'd never known if she figured out him and Arthur at the wedding. "And if I were normal, you'd never have even dated me, let alone marry me."

And wasn't that what it all boiled down to? Eames' love of odd things, things that ticked differently than others (Of lovely dark-eyed women whose voices were accented with French, of hollow-sharp eyes on an ex-military man that isn't good at following orders)