A/N: I'm so, so sorry for the delay in posting! Real life got very real but thank you for hanging with me. I'm posting the final two chapters together, I hope you enjoy! Thank you to everyone who commented, they are read and cherished, you don't even know. The Inception community on this site is so overwhelmingly supportive, and it's so nice to interact with a group of folks who feel the same way about these crazy boys that I do. Thanks for reading!
Arthur listened to the click of the front door, heavy with implication and loud in the stillness. But, he realized, it was nowhere near as loud as the silence that followed. He waited for it to open again, for Eames to come back and yell, take a swing at him, something, but the silence seemed to balloon. When the air conditioner switched off somewhere in the house, the silence crashed in on him and he lurched out of bed. He hadn't realized it was even running until it stopped, and Arthur couldn't sit there and listen to the oppressive nothing anymore. He escaped to the bathroom and turned the shower on too warm, stayed under the spray too long and told himself that the silence he heard on the other side of the door was his imagination. Eames just needed to cool off, he was probably back already and Arthur hadn't fucked this up forever because even though Eames was angry, he'd let Arthur apologize and then Arthur would drag him back to bed and make him understand how much he wanted him. No, he'd show him how much he wanted this, the closeness they'd developed in the last few days, even after years of knowing each other. He wanted Eames' deep voice in his ear, the soft whisper of his breath when he was sleeping against his skin, the sound of his chuckle when Arthur was being sarcastic. He wanted the furious yelling, and the wanton moaning and the exasperated sighing that came with a relationship and he wanted it with Eames. This Eames. The one he'd been pining over forever.
But the front door stayed closed and the house stayed silent.
A few hours later, Arthur was sick of moping. He furious with himself for sulking, and furious with Eames for not understanding to begin with. He pushed at the anger, like a finger on a bruise, and kept himself moving. He swam a few laps, checked the perimeter again, and borrowed Paul's gun kit and cleaned Rhonda. He attempted to read, but after flinging a few books across the room, he decided that working out was more productive. Paul had a treadmill tucked away, and while he ran, Arthur tried to figure out the magical combination of words to say to Eames. He wanted to make him realize that he hadn't meant to hurt him, but Arthur eventually gave up when every mental conversation devolved into him defending himself, loudly.
A few hours after that, Arthur was sick of being mad and just wanted Eames to come back. He was fidgety and nervous in the big empty house, and the roll of emotions in his gut wasn't going away. What the hell was taking Eames so long? Sure, fine, Arthur was the bad guy, whatever. He just wanted Eames to get his ass back so they could finish fighting, then finish fucking, and then move the fuck on.
Except he wasn't coming back. And neither, for that matter, was Paul.
When Arthur had restrained himself from putting his fist through a wall for the third time, he finally decided he couldn't take it anymore. He settled in front of the computer and stared at the black screen, trying to convince himself that he wasn't spying on his lover because it was different if you were just concerned for their wellbeing. Right? Or was this a slippery slope and if their roles were reversed-
"No, fuck it," Arthur thought. "Ask forgiveness later," and he set about expanding the CCTV area he could survey. Twenty minutes later, when he watched an unmarked van haul a twitching Eames away, he felt the cold, unmistakable calm of a fury that surpassed putting holes in walls. He wanted to put holes in people.
"Oh, you fuckers. That," he said with suppressed rage, "was a very bad idea."
A bright clank of metal pealed in the small space when Eames tried to lift his arms. The handcuffs scraped against the metal chair legs and the sound went straight to the sharp throb behind his eyes and he winced. He ached everywhere.
"Comfortable?" came the cruel sneer from across the table.
The craggy-faced man opposite him looked vaguely annoyed, greying hair at his temples and an attitude of taking zero bullshit from anyone, but especially not Eames. Eames flitted his eyes over the room, dragging details in as fast as he could before returning to the face in front of him. The badge on his hip was unnecessary. Eames has been in a few interrogation rooms in his time.
"Where am I?" he asked anyway. Get him talking, pick up clues, figure out what the hell was going on. Eames was good at this. Hell, he'd had years of experience. Limbo years, but they rang true enough. "Who are you?"
"I'm your worst nightmare. And you're about to have a very bad day."
Eames fought the urge to roll his eyes. Seriously? Did people actually say that in real life? Eames blinked his eyes instead, hard, willing away the headache that seemed to be intensifying and tried to focus. American accent, cheap suit, standard police-issued Beretta in his shoulder holster. Small window allowing a little sunlight in, either mid morning or late afternoon depending on which direction they were facing. Eames couldn't get a good look at Worst Nightmare's watch to know for sure. Eames took a longer, lazier glance around and allowed his fingers to explore the handcuffs. Solid, cool metal stretched his arms straight down, one pair on each side. The air smelled...almost antiseptic. Odd. A small camera in the upper corner of the room watched as he gave the cuffs an experimental tug. Clank.
"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Eames?" Worst Nightmare folded his hands neatly on top of the manila folder sitting in front of him.
"Don't-" Eames clenched his jaw, cutting off the words. "No idea," he said instead. "Care to enlighten me, mate?" He forced a tight smile and tried to listen for what wasn't being said.
"You have information that we want, Mr. Eames. Information that is very important to us. We've been reliably informed that you and other members of your organization have access to this information, and you're going to release it to us, whether you want to or not."
Eames blinked. Then he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "Huh."
Detective Nightmare paused and frowned, clearly thrown. "Do you have something to say?"
Eames raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Me? Oh, no, no. Please go on, you were saying something about information?"
Detective Nightmare frowned again, but eventually continued, "As I was saying, you have information that is very important to us, and we-"
"It's just that you look sort of familiar. Have you arrested me before?" Eames interrupted.
"That is irrelevant, Mr. Eames."
"Of course, of course. My apologies."
The frown was definitely a scowl now. "The information that we're looking for-"
"Do you have a bathroom?"
"MR. EAMES."
Eames shot him an easy grin. "Sorry, mate, I'd hold off, but you sound like you're gearing up for a long speech and I don't want to interrupt you later when you're right in the middle."
A loud rumble started underneath Eames's feet, a slight tremor shaking the building they were in, there for a split second, but gone just as quickly. The whole thing had lasted the space of a heartbeat. Eames met the officer's eyes with a smile. "Well, at least I know I'm still in California, eh? Earthquakes everywhere, am I right?"
Detective Nightmare shoved back his chair noisily and came around to uncuff Eames. He kept his gun side angled away from Eames, he unlocked only the cuff attached to the chair and reattached it to his other wrist before doing the same on the other side. Eames was effectively handcuffed twice, hands in front of him, no opportunity given to overwhelm the officer and steal his gun. So, the detective knew what he was doing at least.
"An armed guard will escort you to the restroom directly across the hall. Do not assume he won't shoot you."
Eames nodded gravely, just to give him the satisfaction of being in control and having the upper hand, and watched as he knocked on the door to signal the guard. True enough, the room was directly across the hall and the guard accompanied Eames all the way to the urinal. Eames got absolutely no response to his leered, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," and when he finished and went to wash his hands, the guard kept his hand on the butt of his gun. Eames stifled the sigh that was on his lips.
His headache was getting, impossibly, worse. He flipped on the cold water, splashing his face and let it run over his wrists, dripping off the metal cuffs. Christ, he hadn't had a headache this bad in years. Not since he was a kid in the service. In fact, it felt like an old-school...
"Somnacin headache," he whispered to his reflection, his eyes widening in recognition. It felt like the headaches he'd get when he was doing dream runs 15 years ago before the chemists got the blends perfected.
Then, instead of his own surprised blue eyes staring back at him, it was Arthur's beautiful brown ones. He blinked, and the Arthur in the mirror blinked back.
Relief, anger, and fear rushed through him at the same time. A dream. This was a fucking dream. He tried on a smile, just to see the familiar dimples flash out at him, and worked on being calm. Limbo reared its ugly head, and the idea of being in a dream space, something that used to bring him a thrill, now brought only dread. He pushed this thought aside, now was not the time to consider the long-term career effects being in limbo could have on him, and tried to get a handle on himself. He focused on Arthur, the face in front of him in the mirror, the familiar lines, creases, and textures of the point man were an exact replica. God, he adored this man. He'd always been impressed with Arthur's cool head in a crisis, and while more than a few times he'd cursed it, he admired his impeccable control also. He tried to decide what Arthur would do in this situation. He would stay in the dream as long as possible and try to get information: what they were after, who was behind it. He would be composed and in control and not have 30 years of limbo clawing its way up from his gut, threatening to choke him. He would never give in to the furious terror at the back of his throat and without stopping to think, turn and attack the guard with every ounce of anger and fear in him. But Eames wasn't Arthur, not even on a good day, and this was definitely not shaping up to be a good day.
Without a pause, Eames threw himself at the guard, swinging both fists like a hammer. Come on, shoot me. Let him shoot me. Please. But Eames's body took over, and the guard barely got the gun out of the holster before Eames was beating him senseless.
Eames pounded the guard into the bathroom floor until sweat dripped into his eyes and his hands and arms were numb. He stopped only when a flood of projections broke down the door, with Detective Nightmare leading the charge. Eames pulled the gun out of the guard's grip and took in the confusion on the detective's face and grinned as he tucked it under his chin and pulled the trigger. At the last split-second, he realized he'd forgotten to drop the Arthur forge.
When Eames woke up, gasping and straining, he found himself strapped to a gurney, the PASIV still whirring gently as Detective Nightmare slumbered on peacefully next to him.
Eames tried to catch his breath and took a quick, panicky look around at the small room where he was being held. It looked and smelled vaguely like a hospital, although he highly doubted that's where he was.
"Eames," came the pointed whisper to his left and he tried to crane his neck around to see.
"Marjorie?" Eames asked. The tall woman came fully around into his line of sight, her unmistakable mane of curly blonde hair naming her even if it was pulled back out of her face. "It's Marjorie, right?"
"Shh," she whispered back, then moved around to unhook him from the IV line. "They want to know about forging. They've been after it for months. Pretend you don't know anything, this might go easier."
Eames grimaced. "Bit late for that, love."
Her hands stilled. "Shit."
Eames felt a frown settle onto his features, grim with determination. At least Arthur couldn't forge, he needed to make sure they knew that they already had the right guy, no need to keep looking. He cast his forger's eye on the woman next to him, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the calm, sure movements of her hands as she wound the PASIV line back up. "I heard you were dead. You look good," Eames said with a grin.
Marjorie shot him a confused look, but couldn't keep the small smile off her face that his teasing brought out. "How did they even find you? I was throwing out all the non-forging names I could think of, but I didn't think any of them would give you up."
Eames's grin dropped. "Arthur. Did you give them Arthur?"
Her eyes met his, the flash of guilt the only answer he needed. Eames clenched his jaw and let his head fall back against the gurney, his eyes slipping closed.
"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I'm trying to save my ass, here. I didn't think he'd rat you out," she hissed at him, making a perfunctory check on the man still sleeping on the cot next to him.
"He didn't," Eames said quietly. Marjorie shot him a sharp look but said nothing. "How much time is left?" Eames asked, trying to view the PASIV.
She checked. "Thirty seconds."
The door opened and in walked Paul, the fucking asshole, wearing fatigue pants and a t-shirt and standing at parade rest in the corner and pointedly not looking Eames in the face.
"Paul," Eames spit out, like it was a cuss word.
Marjorie looked between them quickly. "Well, since you boys know each other, I'll just-," she said, hedging toward the door.
"No," Paul said simply and she froze, then stood with her back to the wall, waiting out the last few seconds before the timer ran out.
Finally, the "Detective" woke up and Marjorie moved to help him take out the IV. Once he was sitting and rubbing at the spot where the needle had been, Marjorie busied herself winding up the line and fussing with the machine, very obviously trying to blend into the wall.
The Detective watched Eames carefully, his eyes cold and hard and disconcertingly shrewd. "Well, that was some pretty fancy trick you pulled down there."
Eames studied him right back. Definitely military, or at least ex-military. He wasn't wearing a uniform, but everything about him screamed "officer" to Eames. "Hmm? Trick? I'm not sure what you mean." Eames offered a pleasant, blank smile, his head pounding all the while. Whoever their chemist was had no idea what the fuck they were doing.
Officer Detective Nightmare finished rolling down his sleeve and levered himself off the cot. "Then I'll make it very clear." He braced his arms around Eames's prone form, getting in his face. "We want to know everything you can tell us about forging."
"Oh, forging!" Eames said, relief evident in his voice. "That's no problem, mate, I'll tell you anything you want to know. Happy to help. Except, of course, there're a few things that are inherently instinctive about it that I don't know that I could accurately describe, you understand." He offered an easy smile. "Like how to do it. And how to control it. And who else can do it. And, really, anything else about it."
"Is that right?" the man smirked. "You sure you don't feel like talking to us?"
"Whatever are you on about?" Eames asked. "I'll talk all you want! I'm talking right now. Come on, let's palaver. Let's discuss. Let's chin wag. I'll start. I'm Eames, and you are...?"
The man backed up, moving across the room to Marjorie and holding out a hand. She placed a clipboard in it and he flipped through it, ignoring Eames. "You're awfully cocky for someone who is tied down."
"Well," Eames said modestly, "it's not the first time I've been tied down, speaking of cocks."
The man narrowed his eyes slightly, still focused on the papers in front of him. "What about this 'Arthur' we've heard so much about? Would he talk?"
Eames snorted derisively. "Arthur? He's a low-level grunt. Who gave you that name?"
Detective Nightmare looked at Marjorie, who did a fairly good job of remaining impassive, then Paul.
"Oh, our girl Marjorie here assures me that he knows a few things. Isn't that right, Marjorie? Anything you'd like to contribute to that statement?"
Her eyes flickered apprehensively between the two of them, unconsciously wiping her hands on her pants. "Honestly? I was just trying to save my own ass, I was throwing out any name I could think of."
Paul stepped forward slightly, addressing the wall somewhere over the Detective's left shoulder. "It seems his assessment is fairly accurate, sir. From my observations, Arthur runs research prior to a project, gets the target's financials, family tree, that kind of thing. I don't think he'll have a lot of information about the process we can strip from him."
"Hmm." The Detective dismissed the information with a nod of his head and Eames felt the knot in his chest loosen a bit. Neither of them was mentioning the files Arthur was rumored to keep on every member of the dreamshare community, years worth of compiled data ranging from affiliations and known aliases to preferred kinds of takeout. He'd never seen the files, but knowing Arthur, Eames had no doubt they existed.
"And what about Cobb?"
Eames grinned at him, cold and humorless. "Cobb is not currently one of my favorite people, and definitely, someone I'd enjoy throwing under the bus. And he is definitely someone I'd peg as a talker. Unfortunately for me, he doesn't know anything about anything, the useless git."
"Interesting. Not one of your friends knows anything useful. I guess there's just no point in us bringing any of them in and questioning them, then, is that what you're telling me?"
Eames glared. "I don't have friends, I have business contacts. And I don't know why you're hung up on those two, they don't forge, do they." He had reached the end of his patience and he was done playing. He needed the Detective's attention focused on him, and him alone. "Who are you people anyway?"
The man regarded him for a moment, then said, "My name is Brent McCarthy, I'm sure you know Marjorie, and this here is Paul."
"Yeah, we've met," Eames said shortly.
"Have you? And where did you two run across one another?" McCarthy asked with the air of a man who already knew the answer.
"Oh, we bumped into one another when he was investigating Arthur." Eames tried to keep himself from sneering as he said it.
McCarthy blinked in mock surprise. "But didn't you hear? Once we heard we had a genuine forger on hand, well, we weren't investigating Arthur anymore."
It was Eames's turn to blink.
"No, we weren't going to pass up a chance to learn from...what did Pierre call him? The worst, but the best at what he does? Something like that."
"Ugh, you got my name from Pierre? What a wanker, I knew I didn't like that ugly mother fucker for a reason. Hey, I've been trying to get him a message, can you help me with that? If you see him again, I want to you to tell him that "Eames thinks you're a dick face." Can you do that for me? And by that, of course, I mean-"
Paul cut in with a sigh. "Sir, you're wasting your time. Eames isn't going to give us what we're looking for, he's a criminal and has no redeeming moral qualities. We could tell him there were ten thousand lives at stake and he still wouldn't volunteer information."
"Well, yeah, but are there ten thousand lives at stake?" Eames asked dryly.
"Besides, he has no motivation to give us good information, so we won't be able to trust anything he says." Paul continued. Eames acknowledged the validity of the statement with an inclination of his head.
McCarthy calmly turned another page on the clipboard and continued reading. "And what are you suggesting, Paul?"
"I recommend you take him out of the equation and save yourself the headache," Paul reported calmly. "It's the best tactical decision." Eames hated him with the fire of a thousand suns.
"Hmm," McCarthy said again, finally flipping the papers closed and handing it back to Marjorie. "Set it up again. Same amount of time." She hesitated, then nodded.
Eames felt a small stab of panic but squelched it immediately. The increase in his heart rate, though, sent another lance of pain surging through his head and his vision turned pink around the edges. If he was feeling the effects of the Somnacin blend, he couldn't imagine what Detective Nightmare was experiencing. Maybe it was a bluff.
"Oh, are we going under again? Brilliant, I'll get a chance to show off." Eames laid back with a sigh and closed his eyes, making a show of shifting to get comfortable.
McCarthy rounded on Eames, getting in his face again. "Mr. Eames," he began, his voice low and cold, "you can joke all you want, but I am going to extract the information I want from you and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
Eames bit back the laugh that immediately bubbled to the surface and let the anger he felt at the whole situation overpower him. "Mr. McCarthy. I will joke all I want because you have no idea what you're getting yourself into here." Eames's eyes burned intently into his. "I have outlived people that were twice the man you are, so you just go ahead and take a run at me, especially now that I can see you coming. I guarantee that by the time we're done, that headache you're sporting will be the least of your worries."
McCarthy gritted his teeth, but before he got a chance to reply, the entire compound was plunged into darkness. The room they were in blinked into blackness so thick Eames thought he might be inhaling it and he had a choking urge to giggle or cough, anything to break the stillness they were all shocked into.
Four very heavy seconds later, the yellow emergency power lights flickered to life and started blinking, a long, steady strobing. McCarthy's haggard face flashed in and out and Eames couldn't stop the laughing grin he bared at him.
"See? You've got much bigger things to worry about, mate."
McCarthy glared and spun around as the building's sirens began to blare their warning.
A recorded female voice calmly informed them,"Attention. There has been a report of an emergency on the premises. Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit." Then there was a series of five piercing siren wails and the voice started over. "Attention. There has been a report of an emergency..."
McCarthy was shouting something in Paul's ear over the noise, but Paul was frowning and shaking his head. McCarthy looked like he was going to explode, but Paul shook his head again, drew his gun from the holster on his hip and stood next to Eames, pointing it at the floor. When the siren voice was on its third repeat, the door to the room burst open and half a dozen men swarmed the room, taking up tactical defense positions and closing and locking the door behind them.
Eames watched the proceedings with interest, all the while wiggling to try and reach the gurney straps while the sirens covered the noise. Marjorie made herself as small as possible in the corner with the cot, her eyes wide and her face pale, but far from being terrified. She could have been plotting, for all Eames could tell.
In the middle of the fifth repeat, the siren stopped abruptly. The lights continued to strobe, and then the siren started again.
"Attention. There has been a report of a fire in the building. Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."
The siren cut into Eames's skull and made his teeth ache. His fingers stretched uncomfortably, trying in vain to reach the straps, and his vision started to pulse. He wondered if he was going to be sick.
"Attention. There has been a report of a fire in the building. Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."
McCarthy looked like he might be feeling similarly. After a moment of indecision, he tapped two of the men on the shoulder and directed them with hand gestures to split up and investigate the "fire".
Paul didn't look pleased, but the men went without question. Eames gave up on the straps, closed his eyes and focused on not vomiting. He wasn't getting anywhere anyway. He tried instead to picture Arthur. At first, all his feeble brain could come up with was the forge he'd done, but eventually, it managed to conjure up a perfect replica of Arthur's beautiful scowl. After that, the images came easily, scrolling behind his eyelids like a heart-wrenchingly sweet and, at times, slightly pornographic slideshow. There was Arthur leaning across a desk to examine a maze, there he was with his head thrown back in laughter, there he was sleeping with his hair flopped in his face, there he was shirtless and moaning in ecstasy, there he was strafing down a hallway and taking out projections with chilling accuracy. Eames could picture him as he'd first seen him, impossibly young, and as he'd seen him when he walked off the plane carrying Dom's PASIV, impossibly old. He could see him bleeding on a table in front of him, and confidently flying a plane, and writing endless notes in his messy sprawling handwriting. He could see Arthur bringing him tea and teasing him in French and being infuriatingly sexy without trying.
It made his chest ache, but the blaring siren and droning warning were suddenly bearable.
"Attention. There has been a report of-" Silence. Then, "Attention. There has been a report of an intruder in the building. Please proceed calmly to the nearest exit."
Eames's eyebrows climbed and a smile that felt distinctly like a smirk stretched across his face. McCarthy frowned determinedly and directed two more men to investigate. Eames tried to catch Paul's eye, but Paul had raised his gun slightly and was focused on the door. McCarthy crossed his arms and watched the door also, and the emergency notice wailed on. All at once, Eames was feeling much better.
After ten repeats of an intruder in the building, the siren cut out again abruptly. Each of them froze, waiting. The silence stretched, and Eames wondered if they were all holding their breath or if it was just him.
"Attention. There has been a report of a weather event in the area. Please proceed to an internal room on the lowest level of the building."
"Oh, bravo Arthur," Eames chuckled to himself. "Controlling the weather now, are we?" He waited to see if McCarthy would send anyone else out of the room, but apparently McCarthy was done sacrificing grunts on the altar.
"Attention. There has been a report of a weather event in the area. Please proceed to an internal-" the rest of the announcement was drowned out by what sounded like an explosion. It wasn't particularly close, must have been at the opposite end of the compound. Still, it caused several people to swear softly and eyes to scan the ceiling. Approximately 45 seconds passed before a second, much louder, much closer explosion sounded, making the walls rattle. This time, Eames could hear McCarthy cursing, then directing the final two guards to "figure out what the fuck was going on and stop it from coming this way." But Eames already knew what was coming this way. Eames could picture it, and Arthur's anger would be cold, and vicious, and delicious.
The room was empty again except for the four of them, and the tension was high as they all watched the door. A third explosion ripped through the air and Eames wondered if Arthur knew where he was being held or if he needed to worry about being caught in the crossfire. McCarthy looked at Paul, frowning, but Paul shook his head vehemently and took another step closer to Eames.
He needn't have worried. Moments later, the door handle rattled, then shook violently before tumbling to the ground as it was broken off from the other side.
"Darling!"
Arthur strode purposefully into the room, directly to McCarthy and shot him in the knee. McCarthy crumpled to the ground howling. Arthur knelt calmly next to the fallen man and pointed the gun at his head. Arthur had an AK slung across his back that Eames recognized from Paul's stash, and a bulletproof vest strapped over his Oxford. He looked good enough to eat.
"Is there anyone else that's looking for this information?" Arthur asked forcefully. McCarthy grimaced and moaned, but managed to shake his head. Arthur turned to look up at Paul. "Is there anyone else that's looking for this information?"
"No," Paul confirmed very calmly, his own gun pointed somewhere around Arthur's ankles, but Eames could see the safety was still on.
"Military?" Arthur asked, his voice hard.
"No," Paul said again. "They're military, but it's not sanctioned."
Arthur nodded once, then turned and shot McCarthy in the head. Eames felt an alarmed shock course through him. "Arthur!"
"Sending a message," Arthur said flatly. He raised the gun at Paul and stared at him, breathing labored, but eyes hard and glittering as diamonds. Paul lowered his gun all the way and looked passively back at him.
"Paul, get the fuck out of here," Eames practically shouted. Arthur said nothing but didn't move as Paul holstered his gun, turned and headed out the door, not looking back. When the door rattled shut behind him, Arthur turned to Marjorie. "Marjorie, right?" He waited for her to nod before he continued. "I assume you were not a willing participant, correct?" She nodded frantically. "Good answer. Are there any other PASIVs in the building?" She hesitated, then nodded again. "Yours?"
"Yes," she confirmed.
Arthur gestured with the gun. "Go get it, then leave by the east entrance. Know where it is?" Another nod. "We are better off splitting up from here."
"I agree," she stated, a tiny thread of relief in her words. "Thank you, Arthur."
Arthur didn't acknowledge her thanks, just checked his watch, which Eames was thrilled to see was actually his watch, and reported, "You've got five minutes. You can make it in two if you run."
She nodded, then hightailed it out the door. Arthur moved immediately to Eames, tucking Rhonda in his waistband and raising shaky hands to Eames's cheeks. He pressed a hard, bruising kiss to Eames's lips. "After we get out of here, I am considering myself forgiven."
"Darling," Eames said fondly while Arthur worked on removing the straps. "Oh, are we not going to take advantage of me being tied up?"
Arthur looked up at him from where he worked loosening the ankle straps, the corner of his mouth curving up. "We're a bit pressed for time, Mr. Eames."
"But we've got five minutes, darling! Plenty of time!" Eames launched himself off the gurney and moved to pack up the PASIV Eames recognized as Dom's.
Arthur had already moved to the door and was checking sight lines down the hallway. "I'm not sure that's something to brag about, Eames." He grabbed a black backpack from where he'd left it outside the door. "Besides," he hauled Eames in for one more kiss before handing him a gun from the bag, "I'm planning on taking a lot longer than five minutes."
"Hmph," Eames mock-grumbled as he checked the clip. "Fine, but I expect the world's best "I-can't-believe-we-survived-that" sex in exchange for my sacrifice here today."
"Gladly." Arthur shouldered the bag and hoisted the AK. "Let's survive, first."
"Lead on."