Chapter 8: A Gamblin' Man

"You can't be serious."

"Deadly, sweetheart."

"I saw Hans get shot in the head, Eames! In the skull. Point blank. With a Sig Sauer."

"A Sig Sauer? That's so passé of them. The least they could do was buy a Heckler & Koch. Everyone knows those are more accurate."

"You're just partial to them because of the inception job – Mr. Eames; don't change the subject on me… stop moving for a second, would you? Think. This is one of those rash decisions you were criticizing me about a day ago!"

Eames was in dressed in linen trousers and red silk button down, fresh and ready for travel. It looked as though he had just taken a shower, clothes sticking to his damp skin. His slicked-back hair left water falling in his wake as he paced around the cottage. Arthur watched Eames continue to rummage around, collecting various items from cabinets and countertops and drawers, and stuffing them into a leather bag at his side.

Arthur, for his part, wobbled around determinedly after him, in one of his Eames' white t-shirts and low-slung sweatpants. His hair was similarly wet, unruly locks sticking to his bruised but healing face.

As they moved into the living room, Arthur opted to lean heavily against the door jamb, continuing to reason futilely to Eames' turned back.

"This is idiotic. You can't just up and decide to meet a person you never met. Who, by the way, is masquerading as a dead man," Arthur huffed, crossing his arms.

Eames turned around. He was shoving a rather large utility knife into the pocket of his knapsack, and giving Arthur one of his signature stop-being-a-stick-in-the-mud looks. "And what do you suggest I do, Arthur, not go? If this is a trap, which it quite probably is, I need to see who we're facing here. I need to understand the playing field."

"By getting killed?" Arthur questioned dryly. "You don't even know what Hans looks like, Eames. And since he 'had to go' on the phone, I didn't get to talk to him. That's a little too convenient; even you have to admit that."

"What do you suggest? That you come with me?" Eames asked incredulously, buckling a closed a flap on his bag.

"Better than you dying without finding Colin Jansen!" Arthur yelled, agitated. He absentmindedly yanked his falling sweatpants up over his hip. Eames had removed the stitches in his hand after the phone call, probably to distract Arthur from dissuading him. Well, Arthur could not be redirected now. "Mr. Eames, my company would be better than you walking into a firefight alone!"

"Arthur," Eames said cuttingly, walking backwards to plop his bag onto the coffee table. "Darling," the bag let out an ominous thunk. "You just fainted in my shower."

Arthur felt his cheeks grow hot. That was a low blow.Arthur had conveniently been forgetting about the new bruise marring his forearm, evidence of the collision with the bathroom wall. Admittedly, Arthur would've been a lot worse off if not for Eames jumping in to catch his falling body.

"I didn't faint; I just… needed a rest," Arthur contended meekly, suddenly finding great interest in his bare feet.

"'Just needed a rest'," Eames mimicked. "What - you thought the bottom of my shower was an appropriate place for that? While the water was still running? I had to change my clothes after fishing you out Arthur – that was my favorite shirt."

"I'm much better than I was a few days ago, Mr. Eames," Arthur shot back. "If that was truly Hans on the phone, I would be interested in a conversation."

"And if it's not a conversation? If it turns into what you said, a firefight? Goddamn it Arthur, you passed out in my bloody bathroom!" Eames moved closer to Arthur, his leather bag abandoned behind him on the table. Weak sunlight streamed in through the windows, creating multi-faceted rainbows in the water droplets in his hair.

Arthur's shirt left a water mark on the wall as he pushed off. He strode toward Eames, his tone serious, his body language as threatening as he could make it. "I can't stand back and wait for Jansen to find me, Eames. I don't want to stay in the city with you; I know I'm not ready for that. But if someone in my team is alive Eames, I need to know. I have a responsibility." Arthur and Eames were now so close that their chests were almost touching. Arthur had shoved his hand onto Eames' breastbone; as though he could physically stop Eames' departure. Arthur could see the slash in his eyebrow from some long forgotten knife fight, his grey eyes looking at Arthur impassively, finally breaking contact to stare off at some point over his shoulder. Seeming to come to a decision, Eames' shoulders slumped.

"One day only," Eames grumbled finally, his hand clamping down on Arthur's shoulder, steadying him (in Arthur's defense, this had been a long day, and standing wasn't his forte at the moment). "But at the first sign of danger, and I don't care if it's a fender bender while in the cab, you're coming home. Here. And regardless of whether it's Hans or not, you should come back right after the meeting."

"Probably that night," Arthur said, standing his ground. "If it is Hans, we have a lot to talk about in regards to the plan. And if it isn't Hans, we will still have a lot to discuss."

"We leave in thirty minutes," said Eames.

"One hour," said Arthur. "I need to find one of your suit jackets that isn't outrageously hideous."

Eames let out a long-suffering sigh. "I can already tell I'm going to regret this, darling."

As it turned out, there could be no taxi crash to send Arthur home right away. Eames declared mysteriously that he 'had his own method of transportation', and wouldn't divulge anything else. Recognizing Eames' need for dramatic flair, Arthur followed Eames outside without further questioning. He had tried to take one of the four duffel bags that Eames had slung over his shoulder, but Eames was not having it. "Are you forgetting you were shot less than two weeks ago, darling?" Eames asked rhetorically.

And so they set off, Arthur carrying only the clothes on his back. Which aren't even mine, Arthur thought rather ruefully.

Arthur was unused to being outdoors, and the day was unusual for England - sunny and temperate, without a cloud in the sky. He squinted in the sunlight, stumbling behind Eames, warm in his slightly large suit jacket. It became quite the task for Arthur to follow, tiring quickly as they walked single file down a dusty path. Arthur didn't complain, though. Eames, for his part, was in a great mood. He had seemingly forgotten his misgivings about bringing Arthur, happily chatting with him the whole way. He remarked upon how "shite" London's various football clubs were performing, about money he still needed to collect from a bet, and even said good-naturedly that he "hadn't seen this much sun since the last trip to Mombasa".

Finally reaching the end of the dirt trail, Arthur and Eames came upon a patio of mossy rock. Here, ivy overran most of their surroundings, partially obscuring a decrepit wooden shed. Arthur walked over next to Eames, gratefully accepting a drink. While Arthur sipped, Eames tried to tug open the padlock to the dilapidated garage. "Mr. Eames, wouldn't a key be of some use?"

Eames sighed. "We lost the key a long time ago, Arthur."

Coming up next to Eames, still watching him struggle with the lock, Arthur handed him back the thermos. Fishing around in his suit jacket, first feeling his totem, Arthur palmed two familiar pieces of metal. He carefully sank into a squat next to the stubborn lock, wary of his left shoulder. Arthur waved Eames away impatiently.

"What are you doing, darling?" Eames questioned, quickly moving back, his form casting a shadow onto the padlock, and onto Arthur.

"Would you mind moving over, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asked. When Eames didn't budge, Arthur looked back at him, saying rather exasperatedly, "You know, Mr. Eames, I'm not always useless, I have some experience. I'm trying to pick this padlock - and you're in my light." Eames gave a disbelieving grunt but stepped aside. Arthur took his two lock picks and began to work. After a few minutes of Eames' impatient queries and the sliding of tumblers, the rusty lock gave a satisfying 'click'.

Arthur stepped back, removing the rusty padlock, and Eames stepped forward. Bracing his foot against the bottom of the ivy covered entrance, Eames heaved. With an unhealthy sounding crack! the door wrenched open. Dust particles puffed out of the shed's dark depths, and Eames coughed into his sleeve, looking back apologetically at Arthur. Eames waved him forward with the other arm, and Arthur reluctantly followed inside, pulling his suit jacket in tighter around him.

The shack was much larger than Arthur originally thought, its size obscured by the mass of the ivy. Inside the shadowy depths, Arthur saw all sorts of tools piled against the back wall, ranging from an old lawnmower, a worn rappelling harness, what looked like some medieval torture devices, a few crowbars, several sharp saws, and even a gleaming semi-automatic AR-15.

Next to the array of munitions, Arthur took in the vague outline of a car. Once his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Arthur resisted the urge to snort. Car would be a generous description. "Is that a Land Rover, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asked, rather resigned.

"It's a classic, dear Arthur," Eames replied in response to his tone, creaking open the dented driver's side door. Eames seemed decidedly unconcerned about the fact that the car was more rust than metal, and looked as though it could belong in a shoddy antique show. Instead, he began pulling various weapons from the pile seemingly at random, stacking them into one of the empty duffel bags. Once full, Eames' began to heave the bags into the back hatch.

Meanwhile, Arthur walked around to crack the door open to the passenger seat, noting the avalanche of black flecks of paint that floated to the ground. Placing a slim dress shoe onto the corroded runner, Arthur swung inside. Once in the bumpy seat, Arthur grimaced, wrapping a hand around his left shoulder.

"Alright there, Arthur?" Eames asked, hopping in and shoving the key into the ignition. "This won't be the most pleasant ride." Eames fastened his worn seat belt, checking to make sure Arthur was wearing his – lucky this bucket of rust has them – before turning over the engine a few times, coaxing the car to life.

"I'll be fine, Mr. Eames." Arthur said over the roar of the engine. He wished he had held his tongue until the car jolted into motion. Every bump and every dip in the road was amplified as they made their way into the sun, the lack of suspension very apparent. They bounced onto the road with the undignified sputtering of the engine, black smoke trailing in their wake. At least the engine calmed down so I can hear myself think, Arthur thought. Leaning back into his seat, Arthur tried to remain optimistic about their chances of reaching London in one piece. Tuning out Eames' idle chatter, he closed his eyes, exhaustion winning out over the nauseating movements of the vehicle. Trying to relax, Arthur drifted, listening to the turning of the wheels, the creaky shifting gears, the radio, Eames' singing… Wait, Eames' singing?

Arthur knew Eames was good with words; he was an excellent forger and a con man for a reason. But Arthur had never heard Eames' voice like this. Arthur was reminded that as much as Eames and Arthur had worked together, they never really developed a close personal relationship. Sure, they hung out after the inception job. But with confidence running high, Eames had told stories about his successes, about his family. It's not like Arthur ever said to him; "So do you have any other hobbies, Mr. Eames? Like singing?" But Arthur found himself intrigued, no, entranced by Eames' voice. Arthur suddenly knew, with a jolt of surprise, that he didn't want to stop learning about Eames' idiosyncrasies. Arthur had been trying to convince himself that nothing had changed between him and the forger these past few weeks. Maybe Arthur owed Eames a drink or ten because he saved his life, but it's not like they were blood brothers or anything. But something had changed.

It seemed Arthur couldn't remember the last time he let a friend drive him around in the waking world, injured or not.

Arthur's thoughts were interrupted with Eames' turning up the volume of the radio, melancholy guitar riffs echoing around the interior of the car. Arthur opened his eyes to Eames half-yelling, half singing the first stanza of "House of the Rising Sun". Eames grinned over to Arthur. His whole demeanor was relaxed, wind streaming in through his open window, rifling through Eames' hair and rippling over his unbuttoned shirt. "…they callll the rissiiinnng sun," Eames continued, letting go of the steering wheel to wave around his arms. "And it's been the ruinnn of manyyyy a poor boy," catching Arthur's eye, Eames winked suggestively, "Anddd God, I know, I'm one."

"My motherrr was a tailor," Eames continued, singing with gravel in his voice. "She sewed my new blue jeans." Eames' voice was infectious, and Arthur found himself unconsciously humming along under his breath. "My father was a gamblin' man," Arthur was struck with the image of Eames in the smoky taverns of Mombasa, fingering his poker chips. "Down, in New Orleans." The rolling of the dice flashed through Arthur's mind, his dice, and his scarlet blood on the slippery wooden floor. And then a horrendous paisley shirt… Oh, damn it all.

"Now the only thing a gambler needs-" Eames cut off abruptly when Arthur's voice joined him, but attacked the next line with ferocity after glancing over in shock. "- is a suitcase and a trunk. And the only time he's satisfied-" here Arthur' mind flashed back to the impromptu celebration they had held in that tavern. "- is when he's on a drunk."

The instruments warbled on, with Arthur and Eames singing their hearts out, one with hands drumming along on the steering wheel, the other with his gaze firmly on the former. Arthur had sunk back into his seat, the knot of tension ever-present in his stomach easing, just a bit. "Well, I got one foot on the platform, the other foot on the train…" Both men began the next stanza with passion, Eames' rolled up sleeves flapping in the gusts from the window. "I'm goin' back to New Orleans… To wear that ball and chain." Arthur's mind drifted to their destination ahead, to all the things they hoped to figure out – namely Colin Jansen.

Arthur caught Eames looking intently at something out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to follow Eames' direction of sight – only to realize Eames' gaze led back to himself. Arthur looked down at his attire – his stained black dress pants, the red tie borrowed from Eames, as well as the white dress shirt. Even one of Arthur's shoelaces was borrowed from the safe house, the other gone due to the bomb Arthur hastily constructed on the night of the action.

Arthur had felt naked that night Eames had stitched him back up. Moonlight had illuminated all of his flaws. But Arthur was alright being the subject of Eames' attention now. He felt healthier, stronger, and Arthur would be damned if he didn't sing this last lyric proudly. "Well there is a house in New Orleans - they call the Rising Sun…" Arthur looked up, meeting the spectral prism that was Eames' stare. "…and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy," Here Eames' voice pitched quieter, his eyes still holding Arthur's, his vibrato barely audible over the noise of the engine. "And God I know I'm one."