A/N: sorry this chapter took so long. and I can promise you, it's a lot better than the first chapter. I've wrestled with whether or not I should just delete this story all together, but after finishing up this chapter I've decided against it. I'm really enjoying writing this story, now. hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks for baring with me.

Eames reeled back from where Arthur had struck him. "Bloody hell, Arthur! I think you broke my fucking nose!"

"What are you doing here?" Arthur slurred, still feeling a bit fuzzy. "I already told Cobb; I can't dream right now. Get the hell away from me and go find yourself another point man." Arthur started to close the door but Eames had wedged his foot in. "Eames..." Arthur growled.

Hands covered in blood from where he had been trying to stop the gushing from his nose, Eames raised them in surrender. "Can I come in for a few minutes, just to get cleaned up? Spare me a towel, or something?" Arthur looked at the Forger's crooked nose, knowing that it would have to be set. And there's nothing like the bright sight of fresh blood to sober you up. Arthur let out a long sigh before answering.

"Get in here before I change my mind and punch you again."

Without hesitation Eames burst through the door. "Where's your bathroom, darling?"

"Second door to the left," Arthur said as Eames ducked into the room, "and don't call me-" Arthur had started to say, but Eames had already closed the door. "-darling..." The word hung in the silence as Arthur shut his apartment door. He looked around his apartment, wincing. It had been a while since he had remotely cleaned the place, and he hoped that Eames hadn't had gotten a good look at his uncleanliness. Arthur quickly started gathering dishes and food from around his kitchen and living room and dumping them in the trashcan; he can simply buy new dishes later.

Just as he was stowing away his flask he heard a sharp grunt come from the bathroom, followed by Eames letting out a stream of rugged profanities. The Point Man walked towards the bathroom and gently knocked on the door. "Everything alright in there, Mr. Eames?"

"Fine and fucking dandy, you stupid bastard." Eames answered sharply.

Arthur licked his lips before replying. "I'm sorry, it was instincts. You surprised me, and I wasn't in the mood for visitors..."

Eames opened the door, glaring at Arthur. His nose was straight again, but he held a towel against it to stop the bleeding. He brought the towel down before speaking. "Arthur, you haven't been 'in the mood for visitors' for a year now. Cobb's worried about you. Fuck, *I'm* worried about you. That's a year since you've been on a job," Eames quickly eyed the Point Man's arms where he had his sleeves rolled up, "but it seems you've been hooking up to the PASIV on a regular basis. Christ, Arthur, you look like a fucking junkie. In retrospect I guess that's what you are-"

"Did you come here to criticize me or brief me on a job? Cobb called a few nights ago saying you were lining one up." Arthur said crossly, not wanting to speak of his addiction to dreams anymore.

"I want you to get back in the game." Eames stated, bringing the towel back up to his nose. "It's not a hard job, just a simple extraction on an old man. No big corporations, just some family drama. Perfect starting job, seeing how you're a bit rusty." His words were muffled, but Arthur had understood perfectly. He knew that this was what he needed, to continue on. His loathing of the loss of an almost lover was incredibly out of character for him, and it had gone on too long. He knew he needed to become the stone-faced point man once again.

Eames eyed him. "So, you in or out?"

Arthur took a deep breath, and closed his eyes briefly. "I'm in, I'm in..."

Eames lowered the towel again and slopped it in Arthur's sink. "Fantastic. Pack your bags, old boy. We're going to Paris."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Paris? Why Paris?" Whenever he heard the word 'Paris' he automatically thought of one person. One person who could possibly end up accidentally throwing even the easiest job for him...

"That's where the mark lives..." Eames paused for a second. "Paris isn't going to be a problem, is it?"

"No, of course not," Arthur answered immediately. Without another word Arthur turned from Eames and headed to his bedroom to get himself packed.

000

Paris is a beautiful place. It holds beautiful food, beautiful sites, and beautiful people. Arthur and Eames walked along side each other, suitcases in tow, down the lovely streets. Their hotel wasn't too far from the airport, so rather than cram into a stuffy cab like sardines, they decided to simply walk the distance.

"I love Paris." Eames said out of nowhere. The Point Man looked over to him, raising his eyebrow so slightly. Eames continued. "So many fond memories and friends."

"Mmm.." Arthur said passively. "Let's just get to our hotel rooms."

"Oh you wet towel, can't we have a bit of fun before the work actually starts?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. Truth be told, he was actually aching to get back to work. Even though this was a very easy job, Arthur could feel the adrenaline running through him. He was ready to find out every single last thing out about their mark and his family. He was ready to pour over news paper articles and classified files. He was ready to throw himself into his work and not have any time for him to think properly about anything else. "Let's just get to our rooms." He repeated.

"Oh, fuck you. So you only drink when you're alone, then?" Eames huffed, turning away from Arthur. "Because if I recall correctly, you had quite a bit of some nice Russian Vodka tucked away in your cabinets in your apartment back in New York."

"I can't deny that, but I'm working now. I don't want to drink. Besides, I think I've drunk enough in the past year to last me till I'm in my forties." Arthur observed, and saying the fact out loud made him feel disgusted with himself. "No alcohol for me tonight, or any other nights." They stopped in front of the revolving doors of their grandiose hotel.

Eames laughed loudly. "You have fun practicing your sobriety, you stick in the mud. I'll meet you at the warehouse tomorrow morning then." But before taking off the Forger had one last thing to add. "Darling, do you think you can drop my luggage off in my room?" Eames didn't wait for Arthur to reject before he went off to hail a cab. Arthur awkwardly grabbed the handle of the suitcase and started into the hotel.

000

Arthur settled himself in the lush chair in his hotel room. He had dropped off Eames's luggage (as much as he wanted to simply leave it on the curbside, he didn't want a drunk and angry Eames interrupting him in the early hours of the night) and he had unpacked his suitcase, neatly hanging up each one of his suits in a color coordinated manner. He had to admit, it felt nice to be the OCD Point Man again, rather than the emotional drunk.

He pulled his laptop out of it's case and opened it. He quickly clicked on a program he had installed that police typically use as their data-base. He typed in the mark's name and clicked enter. What he wasn't expecting was the long list of different felonies that resulted.

Arthur squinted as he scrolled through the list. There were numerous accounts of breaking and entering, and he managed to find that there have been two restraining orders placed against the mark. "Jesus Christ, Nathan Wimble, what the hell is wrong with you?" Arthur sucked in a breath as he came across a charge against the mark for rape.

This was supposed to be an easy job. From what Eames had told him, they had been hired by the mark's son to extract information on where the mark's personal vault was located on the estate at which the mark lived. Seeing how your typically not supposed to ask for further details on such an easy job like this, Eames figured that they were probably estranged; not the perfect picture of a happy family, but whenever you did insider family jobs, obviously home life isn't the greatest.

For now Arthur put aside the shock factor of their mark and tried to focus on some of the more basic background info. Nathan Wimble and his wife (now deceased) moved to Paris to retire seven years ago. Wimble had worked as a very successful doctor back in California for thirty-four long years. He was now fifty-eight, living a comfortable life on his estate with many different french mistresses. He had two son's, Garret Wimble and Morton Wimble. Garret was the one who hired them, and he was happily married with one child himself. Morton Wimble was unaffiliated with any women, though he was the older of the two children.

After finishing up the background check Arthur clicked back on the list of charges against Nathan. He rubbed his eyes, getting a slight headache. This guy was an outstanding doctor, with many awards to back him up. It was almost illogical for him to be a criminal as well.

Arthur reached for his personal cell phone (he had three, ones for clients, one that is a decoy, and a personal phone for "friends"). Arthur quickly skipped past Ariadne's name and clicked on Eames. Of course, he didn't answer, but that didn't stop Arthur from leaving a message.

"Eames, what the fuck? Do you know who our mark is? He's a criminal. And from the looks of it, a lot of the charges have been made by family members, so I'm guessing Garret Wimble wants us to find more than just the location of his father's vault. We need to discuss this with Garret further, and we're going to need someone to get close to Nathan Wimble to find out more about how he acts when he's by himself..." Arthur looked over to the clock, which flashed that it was eleven thirty in big red letters. Not too late, but Arthur was feeling terribly jet-lagged. "Look, we'll talk about this tomorrow. Don't be late, this just got serious." With that he hung up and set his phone down.

In the back of his head he was feeling slightly worried that this might not be the best job to start him out on, but at this point he was in too deep.

000

Arthur sat in the bed staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. He was so incredibly tired, and yet he couldn't sleep. Arthur rolled onto his side and a glint of silver caught his eye.

The PASIV. He wanted to hook up so bad. He knew that after he had hooked up and got his daily fill of heartbreak he would be able to sleep. But he was on a job, and he couldn't indulge in his own use of the dream machine while he was working.

He got out of bed, picked up the PASIV, and set in carefully in an empty drawer so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore.