For the Writing Club [Book Club] on the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Forum.

i.

Arthur was in Australia, flat white in hand and looking over the Yarra, when he got the call. And he did try—he really tried—to ignore the call. But Eames' name was flashing on his screen, and before he could talk himself out of it, Arthur had hit the green button and pressed the phone against his ear.

"Eames."

"You're in Australia."

Arthur frowned. "I am. How did you—"

"Come to New Zealand."

"I'd really rather not."

"Arthur," Eames' voice was light and cheerful. "Come to New Zealand. It's a good job. Easy. It'll be quick. I'll take you to see some hobbits after."

And because Arthur wasn't doing anything anyway (and, not that he'd admit it, because it really had been a long time since he'd set eyes on the forger), he agreed. The flight was booked before he'd even finished his coffee.

ii.

Something was off with the job. Eames hadn't lied—the job was easy. At least, it seemed that way. It was the first job in a long time where Arthur only needed one binder and was actually managing to squeeze all the work in during daylight hours.

And that all made Arthur very suspicious. Dreamshare jobs—even the easy ones—weren't supposed to be this easy.

"Eames, is there something you aren't telling me?" Arthur asked. "This job..."

Eames looked at him, glassy eyes meeting his over a pint. "Don't tell me you're having trouble with it."

"Quite the opposite."

"It's an easy job, Arthur." Eames tipped his glass back and had several gulps of his beer. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Arthur held the stem of his wine glass between two fingers, rolling them experimentally and watching as the red liquid swayed from side to side. He wondered if perhaps Eames was right. Maybe he'd spent too many years working sideways jobs with Cobb that he just didn't know a good thing when he saw it.

He looked up when he heard Eames chortle. "What?"

"I can hear your gears turning, darling," Eames said, grinning. "I told you when I phoned didn't I? It's an easy job. Not everything has to be an inception."

"All right. If you say so."

And even though Eames sounded very convincing, Arthur still couldn't shake the feeling that he was onto something. Taking a sip of his wine, he decided that a little investigation was in order.

iii.

The next day, Arthur knew without a doubt that something was wrong. He hadn't even begun his investigation, but something was clearly wrong. For one, Eames was already there, sitting at his desk. It was the first time Eames had ever beaten the office on any job, let alone this one.

"You're here."

Arthur headed towards his desk. "Of course I'm here. Why are you here?"

"Just wait for a second, will you?" Eames said, standing. His voice sounded strained. "We need to have a chat."

"Can it wait? I have some work I need to—"

"You're off the job," Eames interrupted. "You're fired."

For a moment, Arthur thought he must have misheard him. But as Arthur, mouth agape, stared up Eames, he knew that there had been no mistake. Eames was actually firing him. Arthur was incensed.

"You can't fire me."

"It's my job. I can do what I want." Then, having the decency to look bashful, Eames said, "Look, you'll still get your cut. But you're off the job."

"I'll..." Arthur trailed off, incredulous. "I'll get my cut? What the fuck are you talking about, Eames? We're going under in two days. You can't fire me."

"Yes, I can."

"You called me. You asked me to take this job. And you're just... You're just kicking me out?"

But Eames, apparently, had run out of things to say.

"Fuck. You're actually serious." Arthur gathered himself quickly. "Well, I guess I'll just go get my things."

iv.

"You came back."

Eames was slumped against the office wall, one hand on his gun and one on the fresh bullet hole in his thigh. Things, it seemed, had gone terribly wrong. If Arthur wasn't so angry, he might have actually felt sorry for him.

"Of course I came back," Arthur snapped, already peeling off his shirt and pressing it against his wound. "What the fuck were you thinking? Easy job, my ass."

"Arthur, I—"

"Shut up. Just shut up." Arthur pressed down harder. "When did you know Miller set you up?" No answer. "Eames, when did you know?"

"Morning I fired you. You were supposed to leave."

Arthur frowned. "You should have told me. I could've gotten us both out of this."

"Just trying to protect you, darling."

And there was something in his tone—something pleading and gentle—that caused Arthur's breath to stutter.

"You're fucking idiot. Next time, you tell me."

"Next time, I tell you," Eames echoed.

To Arthur, it sounded like a promise. A promise Arthur hoped Eames meant to keep. Next time, he'd come to Arthur. Next time, they'd be in it together. It sounded, Arthur thought, exactly how it was meant to be.