Chapter 4

It was amazing what you could accomplish with the right access. Arthur arranged for Cobb to be transferred to the private wing Saito was in at the hospital and then he ordered a set of scrubs with the hospital's logo. Size small. Then he called Ari back.

"Come on, Ari, it won't take long, just come help your old team members out! No, you aren't, you are sick of him anyway. Because we need someone topside, that's why. I don't need an architect, I need someone to do the kick, god damn it. No, I'm absolutely not, I'm broke too. Fine, you can have Eames. I don't know, a personal slave or something. No, Ari, I haven't. No, I'm not going to. Forget it, ok? Just say you'll be there. Thank you. Yeah...I know. I miss him too. Hey. Thanks."

"What's this about me being a personal slave?"

"Hmm? Oh, Ari. She said she's broke since she didn't get paid and she's turning down a pretty flush job to come over here and, as she puts it, 'save our old fogey asses.'"

Eames snorted. "Shows what she knows. My arse is fantastic and your trousers don't leave much to the imagination."

Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Doesn't seem to stop you."

Eames pressed his hand to his chest. "Why Arthur! You'd better stop flirting back, I'm going to get the wrong idea. You know my roguish ways."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He seemed to be a permanent state of eye-roll around Eames. It was, admittedly, a pretty weak form of self-protection and Arthur could feel how the last few hours chipped away at his defences when it came to Eames. Arthur felt like a lightening rod, standing around waiting to get singed.

"Did you get a hold of Yusef? What did he say?"

"Yes, no trouble. He had some on hand actually, he's overnighting it to the address you gave me."

"Good. We'll pick it up tomorrow."

Arthur watched his fingers disassembling Eames's gun and cleaning it, the smell of gun oil strong in the room. He worked through each piece thoroughly, lining them up when he was done, the movements comforting and routine. You kept a gun in good working condition, it fired when you pulled the trigger. You multiplied 8 and 8, you get 64 every time. You called your mom on Mother's Day and she cries into the phone. These are things he can count on. But every second with Eames was one that he couldn't predict. He wanted him, oh, how he wanted him, and every tease, every flirtatious glance made him ache. But the things about Eames that terrified him were the times that he would bring in coffee for the team and always get Arthur's order exactly right, or the times he'd be in a meeting and say something brilliant and Arthur would feel a tumbling sensation in his chest. It terrified him because he knew Eames didn't do relationships, and Arthur had never done anything less. All the men he'd been with had been battles hard fought-hiding what he did for a living, where he'd been for two weeks, why he couldn't go to Christmas dinner or where that particular scar had come from. He'd concocted a pretty safe answer for all of them and hadn't really been surprised when the relationships never lasted. But he'd tried, damn it. That's what people do, right? That's how humans define happiness and contentment: a steady partner and someone to come home to. But Arthur had run away from home the first chance he'd gotten, and every steady partner he'd tried out had been...well, he'd tried.

Arthur thought of his last boyfriend, Paul, and cringed. Paul had been ex-military, a Marine he'd met at a shooting range in between jobs. Paul had approached him, which didn't usually happen, and said he'd always wanted to fire the Beretta Storm Arthur had been using. They talked guns for a while and Arthur suggested they switch and shoot a few rounds, and when Paul had handed over his HK USP 9mm without question, Arthur had fallen in love. With the gun, of course, although Paul wasn't bad either. Arthur had asked him out and bought his own USP, and it been good for about a year, but they'd broken up before the Fischer job. Arthur had promised that Cobol was the last one for a while, that he'd be around more after that and they'd have a chance to make it work. And the shit part was that Arthur had meant it. Paul had stood there with that muscle in his jaw flexing like it did when Arthur pissed him off and frowned when Arthur had told him that he'd be leaving the country again and could they get coffee when he got back and talk about this? "You don't know how I take my coffee, Arthur," was all he'd said before he brushed past him and let himself out of Arthur's apartment. And Arthur didn't know. He remembered Paul's stories, the ones he'd told him, and he kept them straight from the things he'd looked up about him, never getting them confused. And they'd had amazing sex and Arthur never tried to find a way to leave immediately afterwards, and he'd honestly thought they'd had a chance. But when the door had closed behind Paul for the last time, Arthur looked around his spartan apartment, packed his clothes, and hopped a plane to France because what the hell else could he do.

Eames took his coffee black, with two sugars, but he preferred tea. Earl Grey, if it was available. God, Arthur was so fucked.

Arthur looked at the gun in his hands, apparently reassembled by him, and reloaded it forcefully before setting it on the desk in front of him. He felt Eames's eyes on him and looked over. Eames had changed into a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips, his chest bare and his tattoos stark against his skin in the fluorescent light. He was watching Arthur in the mirror while he brushed his teeth. Eames held his gaze when he saw Arthur looking and licked a spot of toothpaste off his bottom lip. Heat pooled in Arthur's stomach and he felt his pulse quicken.

"You look pretty serious. What are you thinking about?" Eames asked.

Shit. Arthur reached back to find remember what he'd been thinking about before Eames's mouth and hips and how he took his tea. "Paul." Shit again.

Something flashed over Eames's face before he smiled at Arthur in the mirror. "Ah, thinking happy thoughts. That's the way to do it."

"I'm loading a gun and thinking of my ex-boyfriend and you think I'm thinking happy thoughts?"

Eames's smile widened. "Well, I didn't realize you'd broken up, so...maybe? Are thoughts involving guns and your ex making you happy?"

Arthur felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe."

"Good Lord, pet, I bet you are terrifying to break up with."

"Apparently not terrifying enough. But it doesn't really matter, I wasn't actually thinking about Paul."

"No?"

"Nah. I was thinking about his gun."

"Huh. Pretty impressive, was it? Well. You know what I always say. You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling."

Arthur's chuckle rolled out, and he relaxed, just a bit, for the first time since he'd woken on the plane. He sat back in his chair, hands laced behind his head.

"It was beautiful, though. I bought one myself, and she's my favorite. Kind of wish I had it here."

Eames dropped himself onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard and crossing his arms over his naked torso. "I know the feeling. I've got one of those at home too."

"Yeah?" Arthur asked. "The Colt Combat Commander?"

Eames looked decidedly pleased. "Indeed! How did you know that?"

Arthur shrugged, embarrassed. "You always dream one, even if you don't use it."

Eames smiled at the ceiling. "Hmm. The real one is in London, actually."

"Really?" Arthur frowned. "I thought you didn't go to London anymore."

Eames appeared bemused. "Checking up on me, eh?"

Arthur's face heated and he shrugged again. He was giving away an awful lot today.

"No, you're right, I don't. I've never actually fired that one. It was my dad's. But I seem to own several now. Just drawn to it, I guess."

Arthur hesitated, then asked, "Do you still talk to them? Your parents, I mean?"

Eames drew his knees up and rested his forearms on them. He fixed Arthur with a look and said flatly, "No. You?"

Arthur shook his head. "Couple of calls, home for Hanukkah if I'm not on a job, that's about it. I didn't want to make them a target, at first, and then it just got to be..."

"...normal. Too strange to go back now," Eames supplied.

Arthur nodded, thoughtfully. "Is that why you don't talk to your parents?"

Eames didn't say anything for a while, and Arthur started kicking himself mentally. He didn't need to know that, why was he pushing this? He and Eames were having a perfectly nice conversation, and he had to ruin it by being himself. The truth was, this was something that Arthur didn't know about Eames. He had specifically tried not to dig too far into Eames's personal past, just because they were friends and he didn't need the information, but he'd always been curious, they way you can't stop staring at a piece of blank canvas in the middle of a painting. Arthur opened his mouth to take it back when Eames started talking.

"I don't talk to them anymore because they don't talk to me." Eames swallowed, his eyes on his clasped hands. "When I was 16, my dad walked in on me snogging Sarah Kastans in my room after school one day. I remember he laughed and tossed me a condom and told me not to get her pregnant. But the next week, when he walked in on me snogging Sarah's brother, he wasn't laughing. He called me every name you can think of and told me to get out and not come back. He handed me a twenty pound note and said he'd tell my mum that I joined the army and he didn't want to see me ever again."

"Jesus. What did you do?"

Eames looked at Arthur then. "I joined the army."

"When you were 16?!"

"Ah. Well, that's also where I got started forging too. Turns out a twenty pound note, an IOU, and an interest in art can get you not only a dodgy set of paperwork, but also a slew of connections to London's seedy underbelly. So I lied about my age, joined up, and eventually worked my way up from fake IDs to just about anything you might need a copy of." He tossed Arthur an easy grin and Arthur tried to return it.

"So you got into dreamshare in the military. Huh. I always wondered."

Eames gaped at him. "You mean you didn't know? Arthur! I'm just a bit disappointed in your sloppy methods. I always knew your imprecise nature would catch up to you someday, I just didn't figure I'd be there to see it."

"Ha. You are a hilarious and delightful roommate, you know that?"

"I do, indeed."

"I can't believe you made out with that poor girl and her brother. Wait. Yes, yes, I can."

"Hey, what can I say? Good genes in that family."

Arthur chuckled and shook his head. Eames yawned so wide his jaw cracked.

"Yeah," Arthur decided. "We should call it a night. We'll fly out early tomorrow, I've got a flight plan registered to leave at 6:30, so we should make it to LA before noon. Do you want a wake-up call?"

"When I've got you? Eames's blinks were getting longer and longer. "You're probably one of those blokes that wake up 5 minutes before the alarm goes off."

Arthur rolled his eyes, for lack of a better response, and ordered a wake-up call. By the time he hung up, Eames had made his way under the covers, lying on his back with one arm stretched above his head. He'd chosen the side next to the dresser, which was where Arthur deposited the gun. Eames glanced at it gratefully before pointedly closing his eyes. Arthur retreated to the bathroom to change into his standard basketball shorts and t-shirt, but stood in the small room for a full minute, feeling inexplicably exposed. He shrugged it off, exited and brushed his teeth before glancing nervously at Eames's prone form on the bed. He was in the same position, eyes closed and breathing heavy and steady. Arthur switched off lights and tried to feel nonchalant about moving to the opposite side of the bed and crawling in, while in actuality every nerve in his body was taut, every rustle of fabric and creak of bedspring loud to his heightened senses. He slid in, trying not to disturb Eames, and thought he'd accomplished it too when Eames's voice came out of the darkness and, frankly, scared the shit out of him.

"Are those bespoke Tom Ford pyjamas, darling? Because I expect nothing less."

Arthur could hear the smile in his voice and felt himself smile back, even as he tried to slow the ridiculous rate his heart had spiked to. "Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

"Mmm," Eames rolled over then, his back facing Arthur and within minutes, the heavy breathing that wasn't quite a snore Arthur recognized from work drifted over him. Arthur had been prepared to spend the longest night in existence strung tight as a bow, lying next to this beautiful, half-naked man, where he could look but not touch. But the combination of exhaustion, a warm bed, and Eames's comforting breathing had Arthur asleep before he could wonder what Sarah's brother's name had been.

Eames woke to the annoying jangle of the room phone, out of bed and his hand going for the gun next to him before he remembered where he was. He answered and thanked the woman on the other end before looking around the room for Arthur. He found him in the last place he expected, which was face-first in his pillow and dead to the world. When Arthur slept, he slept. His dark hair tumbled over his forehead, his arms wrapped around the pillow he was laying on and Eames's heart flip-flopped at the sight. He wanted to slide back in bed and smooth the hair away from Arthur's face, he wanted to kiss his eyelids and eyebrows and the tips of his ears and his cheekbones before Arthur grumbled and hid his face in Eames's neck and said five more minutes. Then he wanted to keep kissing him, and convince him that lazy morning sex was the best kind of sex, until it wasn't lazy anymore, it was fast, and hard, and hot, and heavy, and exactly what they both needed. Jesus Christ, he needed a cold shower.

Luckily, the high-end hotel they were in apparently provided only cold water in the mornings, so he started the day off right. When he was done, Arthur was still asleep, which wasn't really surprising seeing as how it was the fastest shower of Eames's life, so he got dressed and went to find sustenance. He filched a few doughnuts off the continental "breakfast" that was provided and grabbed coffee and tea while he was down there. Then he hauled the whole thing up to their room, juggling it while fumbling with the room key card and when he finally got the door open, a bleary-looking Arthur was standing on the other side, apparently just about to let him in.

"Ah, darling, you're up! And I had all these amazing ideas about how to wake you too." One of these days Arthur was going to realize that he wasn't actually kidding when he said these things, and then where would he be? Probably knocked on his arse with a gun in his face.

Arthur grunted and reached for the coffee automatically.

"You're welcome, pet, glad to do it," Eames said drily. Arthur didn't appear to hear him. Eames sighed and reminded himself that Arthur was actually lovely, if still rather formidable, and he really was glad to do it. In fact, he would trade any number of things, real or intangible, in exchange for being allowed to do it every day for the rest of his life, but that was neither here nor there. Eames sighed again.

"Water's cold, in case you are excited to wake up quickly!" Eames chirped as Arthur disappeared with his coffee into the bathroom. Eames listened to his movements through the thin walls while he re-packed the few things they'd pulled out of their bags and by the time Arthur stepped out, every line creased and every hair in place, they were ready. He really did not look like a man living out of a suitcase, having just had a cold shower and preparing to break into a hospital. Give him a pair of Foster Grants and he'd be at home on the cover of GQ. Eames shook his head, handed him a doughnut, and followed him out the door.

They spent the five-hour flight going over the knowns and unknowns and trying to mitigate risk wherever possible, but the truth was that they were flying blind. There were too many things they had no idea about, and they couldn't practice the way they would on any other job, running scenarios and testing out dreamscapes. They were going to have to rely on their experience, and their totems, and each other.