Chapter 23: Palpitation

"Arthur."

"Mr. Saito."

"To what do I owe the pleasure? This is not a personal inquiry, I take it?" Arthur could hear murmuring in the background, low obedient voices, and he imagined Saito in his mind's eye, attendants on hand. Saito waved them all off imperiously in Arthur's brain, efficiently, his red tie a focal point in a sea of white and grey.

Arthur cleared his throat. "No, not a personal inquiry, Mr. Saito. A cashing in, you would say."

"A favor."

"A… mutually assured debt." After all we've gone through. "We've had our interests intertwined, Mr. Saito, there's no use denying it."

"That was awhile ago, Mr. Arthur." It was true, Arthur reflected, the Fischer inception seemed ages ago, a pyramid lost in the swirl of time. But sending in David -

"I - " Arthur stopped, absorbing Saito's words fully. Words felt thick on his tongue, and he very pointedly did not look towards Eames, who sat next to him in the warehouse - in fact, Arthur had succeeded in momentarily forgetting about the displeased forger until this very second. Just go bloody bleed out on someone else's doorstep, call someone else -

Once more, Arthur cleared his throat. "Correct, we haven't worked together directly in some time, Mr. Saito, but I think sending in David was welcome assistance. It's been awhile since I've been in such a… predicament."

Arthur resolutely avoided Eames' gaze, although he had a feeling the man was stewing in his own thoughts - I was stuck at your goddamn house in your goddamn childhood room with your goddamn mother -

Arthur resisted the urge to peek up at Eames, and it took him a second to realize the phone connection was quiet, Saito's presence only audible by the slight shifting of his suit. Does he not want to speak about the incident at Eddie's cafe? Arthur wondered. Has it been so long that I've fallen from his graces? After all, Eames and I haven't fixed this mess - I haven't fixed this mess, in fact, I'm wanted by the Brits and everyone else at the moment -

"David?" Saito's voice echoed over the line, questioning. Arthur's thoughts flashed back to David's entrance into his life, into the splintering of wood as he burst through Eddie's cafe, a last resort - throw another crackpot team together that will inevitably go sideways -

"Yes, David." Arthur didn't even know the man's last name. "He would have contacted you -" Arthur hesitated, mental days blending together in a rush, innate clock thrown out of circadian rhythm, out of any rhythm - I don't know how long has it been since I was shot - why can I not remember - " - some time ago." Arthur swallowed, sight skittering over Eames. "David told us - Eames and I - David had gotten your number from a business card, months ago. He said that you knew of the deal between himself and Eames - an SOS sort of thing." Arthur cut off abruptly, aware he had been rambling.

The line was hushed once more, and Arthur decided charged silence was not a good sign. Don't look at Eames, don't look at Eames -

"There was never such a deal I was aware of. I neither disseminated such information of mine, nor facilitated transportation for a British man - and decidedly not one named David." Saito's words were crisp as always, but his consonants felt heavy, like blows.

Arthur swallowed. "Thank you, Mr. Saito. That is all for now." Eames' foot tapped once, catching the edge of Arthur's pants as he passed. It broke Arthur out of his pacing. That was the point. A reminder. "I'll keep in touch," Arthur said quickly. "After Eames and I speak, we might require assistance with - logistics." With equipment. With a fucking bullet to blow my brains out and get rid of this mess.

Saito paused once more, absorbing the underlying context of Arthur's response. The businessman's answer was careful, smooth. "I would suggest getting to the source. Find where the deception has been kicked over instead of buried, and dig up the loose ends - until it's over. And, Arthur - "

"Yes?"

"I would be… content to lend my assistance. After our intertwined interests."

"That's much appreciated, Mr. Saito."

The line cut off.

Because all of your ideas have ended so well recently, Arthur.

Arthur felt disconnected. The warehouse around him was a pinpoint of reality in a sloshing sea of misinformation, deceit, confusion -

He barely registered slipping the phone back into his pants, the pair Eames had made fun of seconds earlier, days earlier, minutes earlier -

"I don't know."

"What, Arthur?" Eames spoke from his position at the desk chair, next to his stolen radio. Arthur looked at him, really looked at him. He saw the five o'clock shadow, the slight bruises under his long eyelashes. Eames was out of sorts, flushed spots high on his cheekbones. The sparks flying in his mercurial irises hinted he was still coming off their fight. And yet Eames still looked more grounded than Arthur felt.

"What?" Eames repeated, standing. "You don't know what ?" He stepped forward. "The phone call didn't go well. You talked about David. What did Saito have to say, Arthur?"

Arthur exhaled. He slowly, deliberately forced himself to reach into Eames' jacket.

His dice clattered as they rolled across the desk, into the radio. Twin threes.

"It's David," Arthur acknowledged. In short, clipped tones Arthur relayed the phone call. It was only when he reached the part where Saito seemed to have no knowledge of David, of the Brit's ability to immerse himself into Arthur's predicament, into Eames' life -

Eames swore.

Arthur felt cold.

This was beyond a simple fuck up. This was beyond a complex fuck up. This oversight was a monumental rift in time, a gaping hole in the fucking tapestry of the universe, this was -

"This is dangerous," Arthur said, air rushing out of his lungs like a punch. David is the one who is helping Jansen. Who was helping Jansen all along. The information, the suggestions, the car rides, the radio signal - "We need - I need to - "

"Get my mum," Eames said grimly. He was motionless as Arthur explained the phone call, a statue. A betrayal. David was supposed to be Eames' friend. His military friend. "We'll need the weapons and the disguises from Saito as soon as possible." Eames exhaled sharply, processing. "You realize if we had no chance of sneaking in to find Jansen before, we have zero bloody chance of it now - " Eames dragged his hand across his face, a break in his cool façade. "Fuck," he muttered. "All that trust - " Eames broke off. "If he had David in his pocket - "

" - the radio signal could have been tapped - "

" - and who knows how much other information Jansen collected through David." Eames looked at Arthur, and Arthur looked back. There was nothing to say. They had no time to resolve their differences. Iris was in danger. Because of me.

"I'll get her." Arthur snatched his dice off the desk. His movements were choppy, quick - running into your mother was a fucking reckless and avoidable liability - "I'll get Iris," Arthur promised, stronger, hand wrapping around Eames' bicep. "It will be fine."

They both looked at Arthur's hand. Arthur backed off instantly, half-formed plans skittering across his mind, past interactions, the stars are beautiful tonight, Eames, Ray's head partially missing his skull, Eames is not my boyfriend, the twisted glow of the dented lamp across the hotel room floor, Your Guardian Angel3, "Fuck - "

"It will be fine," Eames echoed. His hand encircled Arthur's forearm and Arthur's whirling mind clicked back to this morning, to Eames' body heat, his warmth -

Arthur's hand clung to Eames' bicep. They stood there, locked in their embrace, emotions snapping around them like the cracking of whips -

Guilt crashed over Arthur like a flood - go bloody bleed out on someone else's doorstep, call someone else -

Arthur didn't know when his hands had slid down to grasp Eames' forearms, but suddenly he was tracing gentle circles on the underside of Eames' bare flesh. If Eames loses Iris because of the danger I brought upon her -

"I'll go, I need to go," Arthur said. But he didn't move. They didn't move. "I can get her, Eames, we'll figure it out, you can follow the source - "

"I'll look along the Thames." Eames was staring at Arthur's fingers on his skin. "It's bloody likely Andrea went to investigate along there before she was done in."

Eames' thumbs drew quiet halos through Arthur's jacket.

"Let's find you an auto," Eames said.

The noise of London - afternoon, is it? - jarred Arthur. He let Eames sniff out the perfect car, not even protesting as the forger proceeded to break into some ridiculous coupe. "It'll be fast," Eames said. "Fords are usually fast."

Well, I do need to reach your mother. "If I die because you had to pick the most ostentatious vehicle in a ten kilometer radius, I'm haunting you, Eames." Eames was silent, but a few seconds later, he leaned out of the open car door, engine rumbling.

"You'd be a terrible ghost, Arthur."

"I disagree Eames. I would be able to critique your horrendous wardrobe choices. All day."

"And what a joy that would be." Eames smoothed down his collar, heaving the door open wider. "Come along, Arthur."

"What, you're going to be the gentlemen?"

"I'm always the perfect gentleman, darling." Eames' eyes followed Arthur's skinny-jean clad ass as the point man slipped around him to the driver's seat.

Eames' eyes trailed up to Arthur's face as he leaned against the driver's side, not entering. Logically, Arthur knew that he should get in, that every second he stood there with the Ford's engine running increased their probability getting caught. Yet something felt unresolved, untried. Eames' fingers rapped against the black car's shiny paint job.

"I'm sorry." The words fell from their lips and into the pause simultaneously, layers of meaning reverberating through the space between them - I'm sorry I involved my mum in this, I'm sorry I got fucking shot, I'm sorry I didn't ask you to work with me, I'm sorry I get nightmares and try to claw your arms out of your sockets, I'm sorry I didn't get properly drunk with you years ago, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm -

"Stop." Eames leaned in this time, silencing both of their thoughts. His hands trailed down Arthur's form, tracing over his biceps, his forearms, his waist. The space between them shrunk incrementally until Arthur's borrowed, scuffed Oxfords touched Eames' dark shoes.

Arthur laid his hands on Eames' shoulders.

"If you wanted to slow dance you only needed to ask, Arthur." Eames' voice was rough.

It wasn't the perfect moment. Eames' hands were too tense on Arthur's waist and his smirk didn't quite break the usual planes of his face.

It didn't matter.

Arthur scoffed, his eye-roll natural, practiced, a rhythm neither of them could shake. His hands rested on the hot skin bridging Eames' neck to his wide shoulders. "I don't think I'd want lessons from you," Arthur said, shuffling closer regardless. He was acutely aware of the noises of London surrounding them, their blatant intimacy against the bustling backdrop.

He barely startled when the forger's large palms curled over his hips, warm, possessive. "I'll have you know I'm quite the dancer, Arthur." Eames voice dipped low next to Arthur's ear, a brush of stubble on Arthur's neck.

"I've heard Brits are quite the stuffy lot, really." Arthur's terrible imitation of Eames' accent made them both relax a tiny bit more. Eames smiled at Arthur a real, genuine grin, nothing like the smirks he usually sent his way. Arthur returned the expression for just a second, lips pulling to show a hint of teeth - just for the echo of Saito's voice to electrify his nerves all over again. " David? "

"Fuck," Arthur spat, suddenly angry, angry at fucking everything - you can't fucking enjoy life for one minute. "Shit. I need to leave."

"You do," Eames said, quietly agreeing, his smile vanished.

But Eames' hands didn't fall from Arthur's sides. If anything, they tightened, reluctant to let the point man escape into the car, into the falling dusk, into the future. "Just, darling - " and the heat was gone from Arthur's hip; caressing, brushing along the barely-there stubble of Arthur's jawline, fingers dancing over the curve of his healed cheekbone, inspecting the mole that lingered just under Arthur's right eye. And they rested like that, Eames' palm a warm presence against Arthur's chilled flesh.

And Arthur thought - I've made so many mistakes already, I might as well make another - which was such an Eames way to think, really, that the notion made Arthur's face split into both a grin and a grimace - but he was touching Eames' hand, urging the man closer, closer -

Their lips collided at an aggressive angle, Arthur's semi-parted and dry, Eames' full and hot - and they were kissing chastely, at odds with the forcefulness in which they both pressed against each other, the car hard behind them, a warring of apologies and anger and passion smashed into one. Arthur could feel the attentiveness between them, the single-minded determination in which they were resisting the fact that there was no time -

Eames' fingers slid to tangle into the dark silk of Arthur's hair, and he capitalized on the slant in which Arthur originally attacked, accepting the unspoken invitation of Arthur's mouth, his ghosting exhales. The kiss was not chaste anymore, it was something in which Arthur couldn't define, wouldn't define. A dying man gasping for air.

It was eons before they broke apart, gasping, and Arthur reflexively touched his lips, searching for evidence of their kiss, their breach in the unspoken line of their relationship. Eames' pupils dilated as he followed the motion.

A car horn sounded close by, and they both blinked.

"Eames."

"Darling."

Arthur slid into the car.

Eames' palm hesitated a second too long on the door frame.

Arthur forced himself not to look back.