Chapter 9: Misconceptions

After the song, Arthur felt a quiet sort of contentment settle over the car. The companionable silence was only interrupted by the car's engine and the occasional shifting of gears. Even Arthur's head remained blessedly quiet.

But, slowly, Arthur's aches came back to him. The dull ache in his head and the fresh throbbing of his arm competed for attention. Arthur felt the ever present pain of his bullet wound and bruised ribs, not to mention the spreading exhaustion. It fell over him, a smothering blanket.

Arthur felt like a rubber band that had been stretched for too long – I can't seem to find my way back into shape. He couldn't wait to lay down, preferably with some heavy drugs in his system. Arthur was ready to sleep forever, to be done with this meeting. But wait – "Eames?" Arthur asked, breaking the quiet. "Where – where are we going for this meeting?" Arthur said ineloquently, stunned that it had slipped his mind to ask earlier. Arthur was forgetting to manage everything like he usually did; instead he was putting trust – unconsciously – in Eames. Maybe I have a concussion after all, Arthur thought worriedly.

"Good question darling," Eames said, taking one hand off the wheel. Arthur watched Eames rummage around in the pocket of his pants, his hands seemingly too large to maneuver well. Eventually, Eames successfully pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Smoothing it out on his thigh, Eames passed the scrap over to Arthur, eyes still on the bumpy road. Arthur reached out to take the note, tugging when Eames didn't release his grip. Finally, when Arthur got the paper, he squinted at it uncomprehendingly. Many seconds later, Arthur deciphered the blue scrawled ink that was Eames' handwriting.

"Eddie's Café," Arthur read aloud, incredulous.

"What?" Eames asked, glancing over. "Do you know it? I picked it out relatively quickly. There's no modern security, no cameras. But if there's a problem, I could -"

"No, no, it's fine, just sounds familiar," Arthur said in a rush. What are the odds? Arthur tried to school his face back into a passably neutral expression. He wasn't going to throw a fit over the tiny possibility it was the same coffee place. Eames already stated at the first sign of trouble Arthur was off the job; the possibility of having a past interaction with a barista was not going to be the deal breaker. No, they were going to get there early and scope out the café and be ready for 'Hans', whoever it was.

Everything was going to go smoothly.

Yeah, sure, that's what you said about the Jansen job.

Arthur's subconscious could be a bitch sometimes.

With a painful lurch, Eames maneuvered the Land Rover over to the side of the street.

Throwing the car in park, Eames flung open his door. "Ready, darling?" Eames asked, hopping to the ground with a flourish. He smoothed the wrinkles out of his red shirt, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur. "I can't wait to deliver some retribution," Eames said to him, slamming his door. Arthur got out languidly, pushing on the door handle as he tried to shake himself fully awake.

Eames began moving. "Come to the boot, Arthur!" Eames' voice said from somewhere behind the vehicle.

Opening the door fully, Arthur eased himself out at a much slower pace.

Arthur stood, straightening his slightly large jacket. Arthur heard a thunk from behind him, and turned to see their thermos bouncing out of the car. It skittered away from him, rolling across the uneven cobblestones. Arthur cursed under his breath, slamming the car's door. Turning and walking closer to the rolling object, Arthur mentally prepared himself to bend down.

Arthur felt a strike of déjà vu when a hand was held out in front of him, this time proffering the fallen container. Arthur reached out, making eye contact with the woman holding the thermos. Dark skin, freckles, and pretty brown eyes framed by curly hair. "Those bruises look painful," the woman said slowly, her cream pea coat creasing as she looked him up and down. She winced sympathetically as she took in Arthur's face once again. "Bad night at ze pub?"

Arthur slowly straightened back up, feeling a familiar fake smile grace his face. "Car crash, actually," Arthur responded, focusing on her black curls and not her eyes. He had always been good at lying, but being around Eames made him self-conscious about his poker face.

Darling!" Speaking of Eames, his voice sounded from behind the beat-up black car. "Did you get lost your way over? Is London too confusing for you?"

Arthur once again had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Got to go," Arthur said, probably less apologetically than he should've been. Arthur nodded once more before rushing away, glad to have an excuse to stop human interaction. Arthur wasn't exactly Mr. Charisma at the moment.

Not that I really am in normal circumstances, Arthur thought rather ruefully. That is Eames' forte.

Arthur palmed the thermos in his tender left hand, joining Eames at the trunk of the car. The back was open and piled high with their assorted green duffel bags. Eames looked over at Arthur, raising an eyebrow as if to say what took you so long?

Arthur held out the thermos mutely, setting it in empty space next to the bags. Eames reached over him, unzipping the top bag. "So," Arthur said, eyeing the AR-15 piled on top. "What weapons are we bringing with us?"

"Not much, Arthur," Eames said with a smile that showed all of his teeth. He truly looks the con man today, Arthur thought distractedly, taking in Eames' predatory grin, silk button down, and gelled dark hair.

"Another reason I picked this café is because I got one of my mates to swing by yesterday," Eames continued, oblivious to Arthur's train of thought. "He stocked explosives, cameras, etcetera all over, along with a handgun by the toilets." Arthur nodded in appreciation, happy with the precaution. "The man on the phone was clear he would come unarmed," here Eames' smile became devious, "but I had no intention of returning the favor."

"I'll take the detonation device," Arthur stated, holding his hand out expectantly. A few years ago, Arthur had found out the hard way Eames was a little too explosion-happy. "I haven't recovered from the memories of Egypt just yet, Mr. Eames," Arthur said as he slipped out of his suit jacket. Holding the piece of clothing in front of him, he removed his token from the pocket.

Eames pouted, holding out the tiny black box to Arthur, as though he had expected this conversation. "Aw, darling, Cairo was a brilliant job. We rescued that dehydrated poodle and took down that mad religious cult!" He exclaimed brightly, conveniently overlooking the fact that they had also destroyed several ancient monuments in the process, and also may have redirected a part of the Nile River.

"I think you're forgetting about the part where we blew up a section of the Mogamma - a highly regarded government building," Arthur said dryly, inspecting the device. It had several buttons, each cataloguing a section of the café. Doorway. Counter. Toilets. Stock room. It seemed Eames' friend had prepared a bomb for every part of the store imaginable. Arthur could only guess how he had planted so many explosives without being caught.

Memorizing the positions of each labeled control, Arthur slipped the box into his pants pocket as Eames slipped on the traded jacket. Although Arthur felt bare without it, he knew Eames would need it more than him. Arthur was loath to admit weakness, but he acknowledged Eames would have to do most of the combat if they ran into trouble. As Eames so colorfully described, Arthur would lose in a fight "to the inebriated, blindfolded, flu-stricken Queen" at the moment.

And therefore Eames got the suit jacket, to hide the bulk of the weapons.

As Arthur helped Eames conceal weapons under his jacket, he nudged him surreptitiously every time a bystander passed. They would then take up a position of nonchalance. To the citizens of London, it looked as though Arthur and Eames were leaning casually against the beat up car, chatting intimately. Little did the passerby-ers know they were walking by enough munitions to rival the whole of London's police department.

And so they had to pause for the umpteenth time, this instance being for two teenagers - that eyed both Eames and Arthur appreciatively as they sauntered past. Eames gave them what Arthur mentally called the 'come hither' look. Arthur pushed up the sleeves of his white shirt, looking down to conceal the contusions on his face. He tried to be shy and demure, rather than a man who looked as though he belonged in jail, a hospital, or both.

Finally, Eames and Arthur finished preparing, beginning the short walk to the café. Even while smuggling the small arsenal under his suit jacket, Eames strode in a smooth, jaunty manner side by side with Arthur. Arthur, although not quite so flamboyant, felt much more confident than he had been in a while, armed once again with his familiar Glock – albeit barely concealed under the folds of his shirt. The detonation box lay heavy in his pants' pocket.

In the chaos of the planning, Arthur had forgotten about the impressive bruise currently marring his left forearm.

As Arthur's luck would have it, the meeting place was located at the very same café as before.

He eyed the familiar red brick front with trepidation, the same large hanging plants obscuring the doorway. Unlike Arthur's previous visit (where he had been half conscious) he noticed the hand-carved wooden sign hanging above the shop, proudly proclaiming Eddie's Café.

Eames entered the building ahead of Arthur, his right hand inside his jacket. No doubt gripping one of the several tools in there that could kill someone, Arthur thought. Dimly, he heard the chime of a bell as he slipped in after Eames, the wooden door firmly closing behind them both.

Arthur scanned the café, noting the empty seats. Good. Arthur thought. We're here first.

"Good morning, lads!" Uttered a jovial voice to their right, interrupting Arthur's train of thought. Arthur's gaze snapped over to meet the source of the salutation, the bruises across his face protesting at the rapid movement. "What can I get -" The sunny voice broke off, familiar eyes meeting Arthur's own. "Eames?" Eddie asked dubiously, his green eyes widening behind his tortoiseshell glasses. The real Eames started, bumping back into Arthur's frozen form. Arthur flailed out from behind Eames, away from his reeling body.

Eddie had been focusing on Arthur, but at Eames' sudden movement, his attention was redirected. Arthur smiled sheepishly. "Hello, Eddie!" Arthur called awkwardly, waving his right hand high in greeting. Look over here, Arthur pleaded silently. He needed Eames to recover from the shock of hearing his own name without the scrutiny of Eddie added on.

Contrary to the pleased reception Arthur had been hoping for, Eddie's gaze darkened as it flitted back, his demeanor rapidly changing as he took in Arthur again.

Arthur was utterly confused. He could think of no other words for the emotion currently showing on Eddie's face – fury.

Arthur stared back uncomprehendingly, until he belatedly recalled the fresh discoloration on his arm – his raised arm. Shit, Arthur thought. He pulled his waving limb back down quickly, but the damage was done.

This does not look good. What other plausible explanation can I say? I can't go back on my story now, I can't be memorable, Eddie might let something slip to the wrong people… Why did I have to go with domestic abuse as my cover story? Arthur's thoughts raced, quickly creating and discarding ideas as they flew in his head. What if I claimed Eames' was my brother or something? But Eames' looked nothing like Arthur. And in the haze of the incident, Arthur remembered babbling about his 'abusive' boyfriend – his British, tall, imposing, boyfriend. Can't really mistake Eames as anything else but that. Fuck. I'm an idiot. Seriously, why can't I think intelligently lately? Arthur berated himself silently, although even he realized that no one could've predicted this. Back to the situation Arthur. Stop over-analyzing. Snap out of it.

Eddie, his eyes blazing, flung down his towel at the sight of Arthur's arm. He locked his gaze onto Eames, storming out from behind the glossy counter.

Eames sensed the danger, if not understanding the cause, his stance turning wary, ready. His new posture was too protective of Arthur to account for simple acquaintances, and Arthur grudgingly threw out the plausibility of 'work friends'.

Arthur tried to slide away from him, to make some space, but Eames moved closer instinctively. His hand was still firmly buried in his jacket. "Is this your boyfriend?" Eddie demanded at Eames, pointing at Arthur.

"None of your business, mate," Eames snapped instantly, domineeringly, his voice ominous. Eames drew nearer to Arthur, blocking his view of the situation with his body.

You don't understand! Arthur raged at Eames silently, trying to work out mentally how to inform Eames of the situation without compromising their identities. Arthur still had no ideas. I have to try something. He edged around into Eames' field of vision.

Eames placed an arm against Arthur's chest, pushing him back. Arthur knew Eames had switched to combat mode – assess the threat, protect the civilian – and right now Eddie was the threat, and Arthur was the civilian in the crossfire.

Arthur shook off the shove, irritated yet understanding, but Eddie's gaze locked on to the commanding motion. His expression grew even more incensed.

You deserve more than you have right now. Eddie's past words rang through Arthur's mind, now a warning, a promise.

"Wait!" Arthur exclaimed, stepping forward. Maybe if I reason with Eddie everything will work out.

Arthur was physically stopped by Eames again, with his hand this time.

"Doesn't seem to be the best moment, darling," Eames hissed, his eyes firmly locked onto 'the threat'.

"Get your hand off him." Eddie growled heatedly, stepping closer.

Eames and Eddie were less than two meters apart now, their postures aggressive.

I never thought I would be the person of interest in the middle of a love triangle. The thought sprung unbidden into Arthur's mind. Focus! Arthur commanded to himself. But what can I do?

"Or what?" Eames taunted, lashing back at Eddie. "Who are you to tell me what to do, mate? What Eames and I do is our business, and I don't know who you think you are."

"Wait, wait," Arthur began again, trying to stem the rising tension. Eames' hadn't seen the bruise, only the unexplained reaction from Eddie. Forget about the cover. Arthur thought impulsively. "There's been a misunderstanding-"

"Oh no," said Eddie, cutting Arthur off with a sympathetic yet firm look. "I don't think there's been any misunderstanding. This fucking excuse of a human being, this wanker has the audacity to step in here, with his recently injured boyfriend, obviously by someone's -"

"Who are you calling a wanker?" Eames said threateningly, closing the gap between him and Eddie. He grabbed a fistful of Eddie's red apron, ignoring delayed punch to the jaw from Eddie. Eames shoved Eddie against the counter, Eddie pushing at the front of his chest, nails digging into Eames' silk collar, and Arthur shoved himself in between the two to separate them from actually fighting, injury be damned –

Then the bell by the door tinkled, signaling another customer.

Eames', Eddie's, and Arthur's heads snapped around in unison. Eames unconsciously loosened his hold on Eddie's apron, and Eddie took the opportunity to roughly jerk himself out of his grip. Eddie self-consciously ran his fingers through his blonde undercut, and Arthur stood staring beside Eames, calculating.

An imposing man stood in the entryway. He was wearing tan pants and an olive green shirt.

Eames muttered something that Arthur didn't catch, and turned to face the newcomer.

The bearded man, obviously sensing the tension in the room, stopped in his tracks. "Hello," he said pleasantly, the bob of his head accenting his buzz cut. "If this is a bad time, I will leave. But I am looking for someone, and I think you may be able to help." The bulky man's tone was clipped, as though he was trying very hard to accent every word correctly.

Eames tensed up visibly. He made a subtle gesture to attract Arthur's attention, moving his joined forefinger and middle finger, forward and back.Column formation. Arthur's subconscious recognized the military signal immediately, falling in slightly behind Eames even before his conscious brain caught up. Eames then, slowly, as he asked the man, "And why would you think that?" stretched his thumb and pointer finger perpendicular, creating a universal sign. Pistol. Arthur instantly zeroed in on the man's lower torso, noting the subtle outline of the gun near the hem of his shirt. His military-issued shirt.

Unarmed, my ass.

"I know you can help, because we have talked previously. I am Hans." The tall man stated.

"I don't know what is going on," said Eddie, his gaze flickering over to Arthur and back, "but I don't think this is a really good time, mate."

"It's fine, Eddie," Arthur said to him, the calm professional. "We were just leaving. Obviously this man is confused," Arthur said pointedly, the scorn evident in his tone. Arthur slipped one hand in his pocket that held the detonation remote, fingering the specific button that would explode the doorway bomb. They might get injured, but this 'Hans' would be dead.

"Yes," Eames chimed in. Arthur could feel the daggers in his gaze just by listening to the tone of his voice. "This is not the Hans we know."

"Wait, wait, no, just - " The man lost his cool façade, his arm careening dangerously close to the firearm by his side –

And Arthur whipped his Glock out, Eames a second faster with his Heckler & Koch. They pointed the guns at Hans, one aimed for his torso, the other his head.

Hans looked supremely calm for being the sole target of two expert killers.

"Oh my god." Eddie stuttered into the tense silence. "Oh my god. What is happening. I don't understand. Bloody hell. Are those real guns?"

The bell by the door chimed again, and Arthur's gun switched to the entry way as yet another person entered the coffee shop.

But this time, it wasn't a stranger who entered Eddie's Café.

Wild black curls, a light pea coat, and slick black heels.

It was the woman from the street, the woman who had helped Arthur with his fallen drink.

She doesn't seem to be helping now, Arthur thought grimly.