Inception 1. Chapter 1  Prologue

**Authors Note: **So... I know _everyone _says "oh no this is my first story!11 don't be mean!1" but really... This is my first creative story, like, ever. Not fishing but just a little heads up that the plot flow and dialogue might not be up to the caliber you guys are used to haha since I have no idea where this is going. I saw Inception the other day and it BLEW MY MIND! and it completely impregnated my brain with ideas, perhaps a better name for the movie would be CONception LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL old joke is old. M for language.

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It had been two months since Inception. Eames sat in a dingy bar off the side streets in Mombasa, slowly working his way through a box of Cuban cigars, courtesy of Saito's payment. It wouldn't long before he would find himself in debt to one or more of the casino sharks so he decided to splurge a little before it happened.

Taking another long drag from the smoking cigar, Eames eyed his surroundings with a small tinge of distaste. The patrons were the usual assortment of dirty, miserable business men, those wishing for a better life in the depth of a glass, and women who had given up on any such thoughts a long time ago. His kind of people, he thought to himself, but without the level of resentment one would expect from a person associated with such company.

It had been a very long time since Eames had judged a person solely on their company or surroundings. It wasn't because of some belief of the intrinsic goodness in people, if anything it was the opposite. Studying people was his job. When he was given his mark, there was not one dark, disgusting crevice of their personal life that left alone. He had since learned that even the best people only had farther to fall when their skeletons were found. And they _all _had a pile of bones kept somewhere in the deep storage of one's mind. There are some things you can never unlearn and forging, he had discovered through years of experience and then disappointment, should be the definition in the dictionary under 'unlearnable activities.'

Forging wasn't an occupation in the traditional sense of 9-5 work hours. It wasn't something Eames could just leave at the office and pick up the next day. No, it is much larger and much more complex than that. It's a lifestyle. If success is the ultimate goal, if you want to make any sort of real money, you need to be at the top, and the only way to reach that point is total immersion.

Cobb, Arthur, himself, anyone really, who had any sort of notoriety was so deeply involved in the business, all other paths of life were put on hold. If he were honest with himself, Eames would admit that any other life might as well be impossible after the experiences they had all gone through.

Reality, relationships, love, it all felt sort of… bland after witnessing the birth and destruction of entire civilizations in a few hours of sleep. It didn't help him much either that anyone who actually _knew_ him, obviously knew about his talents. While he was much appreciated for them in the field, that he could read a person and, within a relatively small amount of time be able to pinpoint their weaknesses and manipulate them, tended to set others on edge. To say the least.

Eames shifted his weight on the back legs of his chair, slowly lifting the dirty glass to his lips. He paused right as the amber liquid reached his mouth, the small ice cubes slid together. It had been awhile since he had thought of the old team. Eames was most comfortable working on his own, forging tended to be mostly solo work anyway. But… if he ever were to work with a set group of people for the rest of his career, it would be them.

Their dedication to completing the job was relentless almost to the point of stupidity. In retrospect it could be considered a little bit more severe than stupid. The stakes of what happened if they failed. The fact that one stray, or rather well aimed, bullet could have stranded him in limbo still caused a small shiver up his spine. Eames knew Cobb had children to get back to… but risking that much… That's probably why he wasn't a father, he chuckled to himself lightly.

Ah yes, Cobb. Interesting bloke, probably the single most talented and devoted extractor Eames had worked with. Shame about his family too, Mal had be an exquisite specimen of woman. How he had snagged a delightful little number like her with that gloomy personality of his was a wonder, but he supposed Cobb hadn't always been the delightful bucket of sunshine he was on the last mission.

The old Cobb was like a distant, faded memory. The only way he could remember him was with that look of raw pain and guilt etched across his face at all times. Except when he got through customs… The disbelief, the sheer astonishment of the situation was almost comical. Almost. He probably thought it was still a dream, poor man.

Eames remembered walking up to the concourse and collecting his luggage, still a little shell-shocked that it had actually worked. They had performed _Inception_, of all the bloody difficult things to do to someone's mind, he never thought he would have succeeded at Inception, let alone have the opportunity to try a second time.

Time seemed to go from intensely slow to hyper speed. People's faces blurred, his surroundings were barely noticed, and to be honest, it was disconcerting. In many instances, his life depended on noticing the details that were consciously being overlooked. He collected his luggage and pulled out his phone to call his contact in Los Angeles.

A shifting in his peripheral caught his attention. Arthur had heaved his suitcase a little too far off and had to compensate its weight causing him to stumble slightly. Eames couldn't help but smirk as Arthur righted himself, smoothing his vest, and casting a covert glance to see if anyone had witnessed the little mishap. It was at that point Eames would have made a snide comment but the whole pretend like we don't know each other thing kind of nipped that plan in the bud.

Arthur met his eyes for a moment and noticed the smirk. He answered with a slight scowl and a minute narrowing of his eyes to which Eames winked in reply. He could of sworn a vein was throbbing from the effort of not saying anything to criticize his clothing choice, work ethic, or general nature, as were all common points Arthur liked to nag him about, which delighted him all the more.

Arthur, darling Arthur. Now there was an entertaining fellow. Not because he was particularly witty or did outlandish things, quite the opposite in fact. Arthur could be described as possibly the most boring man alive. If it weren't for his job, which involved daring heists and making guns go bang, he would _definitely _be the most boring man ever.

Everything about him was immaculate. His clothing, his hair, his research, his personal life, being that there wasn't one, were all perfect, which was exactly why Eames liked teasing him as much as he could. Each chink in that armor, each feather that got ruffled, was another small victory in his eyes. Arthur _could _be interesting; in fact Eames was fairly sure he was deep, _deep_ down.

But that hostility that greeted him every time he interacted with Arthur kept him on the other side of the proverbial fence. Like that one time when Ariadne asked what a kick was. 'Heh,' that was a particular spot of genius that Eames continued to congratulate himself on apparently months after it happened. 'That wasn't sad was it? No, of course not' he reassured himself.

Smirking into the glass, the cold liquid jogged him back to reality. The bar had gotten slightly more crowded.

"Something I say is humorous to you, yes?" An accented voice slid into his ears. Eames slowly looked over to his right where a very tanned, very uh, clothing challenged woman was apparently having a conversation with him.

"Sorry, darling I wasn't paying attention," Eames said shortly, not in the mood to indulge, "Now if you don't mind, I'm a bit busy here."

"But there are no other persons here but us… Unless you are, how do you say, seeing the ghosts, Mr. Eames?" She flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder and slid her hand up his thigh.

"Listen love, I don't want to be rude here, but I really don't want company," Eames picked her hand up and moved it onto the table. "And would you care to inform me how a delightful young woman such as yourself happens to know my name? I know I've never seen you before and I'm sure I would remember…" His eyes narrowed eyes slid down her face to her chest, "those…"

She let out a throaty laugh, "Mr. Eames, you flatter me," She slid closer into his space, "A mutual friend has sent me with message." Reaching into the front of her dress she pulled out a small slip of paper and put it into the breast pocket of his coat. She slid forward until her lips were level with his ear, "Make sure you have the speedy response."

Eames sat there for a minute contemplating his guest. Reaching into his pocket for the note, he slid it out and unfolded it onto the table.

_Mr. Eames, _

_Time to wake up. _

Well shit.

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Critiques welcome! I won't do that whole "please tell me whats wrong!" and then bitch about it later. Seriously, if its constructive give me a shout! I'm always looking to improve! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: The plot unfolds! Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuun... Yeah forgot those disclaimer things people seem to do... I never really understood it cause like, obviously Mr. Nolan isn't me on this site making his characters flamboyantly homosexual... Or is he? :] Don't own Inception or any shit that belongs to other people. Obviously.

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It felt like Eames had been kicked back into reality, and not the 'good' kick either. This was not the 'oh ha-ha' kick in which Arthur went crashing to the floor with a small yelp. That one was bloody funny and most certainly not like running headfirst into a concrete wall then consequently being picked up and dropped several more times on said wall. His face pressed against a carpet, Eames winced as he slowly opened his eyes, his throbbing head ache somewhat limiting the details he could pick up within his surroundings.

Nice carpet. 1960's, wool, Turkish design. Medium lighting. Soft, more likely to be a residential room rather than an interrogation chamber. 'Well that's brilliant,' he thought to himself sarcastically, 'at least the place where you're probably going to die isn't an _interrogation chamber_. Big fucking load of difference that makes.'

There was a slight buzzing in his ears that he couldn't pinpoint resulting from damage or voices being blurred together due to the sudden, and very rude might he add, awakening from the dream.

Eames started to assess the possible damage he'd received so far. Several toes broken. Legs seemed okay. Two, maybe three broken ribs. Arms and hands fine, albeit sore from being bound with rough rope. Neck hurt from this bloody awkward position on the ground. Head was being a little bitch but then again they tended to do that every so often. His jaw was probably the worst pain wise. He let out a small groan as he tried to move it back and forth. 'Well… This sucks.'

The noise he made seemed to alert the men in his company of their captive's growing level of consciousness.

"Ah... Mr. Eames. I'm glad you've joined us at last. I have to admit," the mans voice lowered in mock conspiracy, "I was worried that you weren't going to wake up! Even with our little, what do you people call it? Oh yes, kick, that's right."

Eames could already tell two things. One: he hated this man. Two: he was most likely completely fucked.

"Sorry mate, must've dozed off there. Perhaps you should work on improving your arts of conversation so peop-" Eames was cut off with sharp boot to the stomach. He inhaled sharply through his teeth but he stopped speaking. Something told him they wouldn't appreciate his unique brand of humor.

"Much better," the man drawled as he moved into Eames' line of vision, what little of it that wasn't obstructed by carpet. "Now… As much as I would love to play this little game with you, I am a rather busy man, so I'll make this quick." Eames saw two men move to either side of him and loop their arms under his, lifting him up. He was thrown into a cold metal chair. Eames panted heavily and winced as his burning lungs strained against his shattered ribs.

"Do I have your full attention, Mr. Eames? I greatly agitates me to repeat myself and I don't think you want me any more aggravated than I am already. Are we clear?"

Eames forced his face into a cheeky smile, "Crystal, darling." He didn't even think about his reaction until it was a bit too late, but immediately regretted it. A fist swiftly made contact with his face, his lip splitting from the force.

Eames closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the pain. He felt a hand dig it's nails into his cheeks and force his face up. He made eye contact with his captor. The man looked about in his 60's, Australian, clean-shaven, gray, slicked back hair, and a black suit. Cold, coal colored eyes looked down a beaked nose at him, "I have no patience" he sneered," for any of your back talk. You will answer quickly and concisely or there will be repercussions."

It was at this point that Eames actually started to think that he missed Arthur. There had to have been hundreds of snarky comments towards the point man, _deliberately _intended to annoy and the most he got in return was a glare or some witty retort. Eames sighed and nodded his consent. "Very good," he replied, "let us begin then."

"Are you aware of the recent dissolution of the Fischer Corporation?"

Of all the topics Eames didn't ever want to be associated with in the context of interrogation, it was the successful Inception. If anyone within the corporation found out that he, or any of the team really, was behind it, there would be hell to pay.

Eames responded as quickly as the initial shock would let him. "Of course, mate. It's been headlining the news even in such delightful little towns as Mombasa…" Eames paused, "not everyday that someone with so much money makes such a bloody stupid mistake." Gut feeling told him inject some offensive comment towards the act, after all these men didn't seem the type to congratulate him on this particular feat.

A grey eyebrow rose slightly. "Indeed… So it would be safe to say, especially to someone in your line of work, that such a sudden switch in reasoning could be the result of Inception." The man turned so he was facing away from Eames towards the back of the room.

"Listen, mate… I don't know how much you _think_ you know about dream sharing, but anyone even remotely familiar with the field will tell you Inception is impossible." Eames shifted slightly, trying to gauge the reaction of his captor. Inception was, as of now, obviously possible, but that didn't change the fact that no one else knew that they had for sure done it or even who was involved if the rumors were true. "The depth required for stealing from trained dreamers is pissing difficult enough. Now multiply that times, say, a thou-"

Smack.

Eames' neck snapped to the side from the sudden impact of another fist to his jaw. 'That fucking _hurts_,' he thought to himself, but repressed a visual response, not wanting to give them the satisfaction.

"Concise answers, Mr. Eames."

Spitting blood from his mouth onto the floor, Eames grimaced a red dripping smile. "Apologies," he bit out trying to sound indifferent to the sharp pain in the mouth but it probably sounded something more like 'apowogys.' 'Not very intimidating,' he thought disdainfully, 'not very intimidating at all…

His captor turned slowly on his heel, picking invisible dust off of his spotless suit, "I'm going to tell you something Mr. Eames. Something very important so listen carefully." The dark eyes looked down with certain distaste towards his captive. "I work for Mr. Browning, I'm sure you know who he is. Understandably, Mr. Browning is very concerned for the mental wellbeing of his former closest friend's son."

Eames almost, _almost_, snorted at this. After spending a good few weeks watching Browning, observing his mannerisms, his habits, his aspirations, his deepest most ugly secrets that even his family would be repulsed by, he found it tediously hard to believe that Mr. Browning had any concern for Robert Fischer apart from the money he was connected to. But pointing that out would be detrimental to, oh, living. In general.

"It was a very uncharacteristic move to put it lightly. _Especially_ since this little change of heart happened within roughly a twenty four hour period that involved only an isolated plane ride and sleeping in a hotel." The man pulled a cigar out of a silver tin, lighting it. He took a long pull, exhaling the smoke through his nose. "Which brings us to you, Mr. Eames. You must be awfully curious as to why you are here so I feel mildly obligated to enlighten you." He took another drag as he pulled two photos out of a small briefcase that rested on a nearby table.

Lifting the photos off the table and bring them close to Eames' face, he said: "We have reason to believe that these two are connected with the incident involving Mr. Fischer. Do you know the people in these photographs?" Eames focused on the figure in each picture. Cobb and Arthur stood frozen in each respective frame. His stomach sank. Cobb was well known in the business for being the best, so he wasn't as surprised at his captor's knowledge of him.

It was the photo of Arthur that disturbed him. It was the point man's job to arrange cover stories, to cover the tracks, to make sure none of them could be tied to the job. If there were anyone that he would have expected to get away with any job, it would be Arthur. Which did _not_ spell well for him. Absofuckinglutely excellent.

"Never seen either of 'em," he added with all the conviction only years of acting could provide, which was a damn lot if he did say so himself. There was a small pause in which the silence seeped in uncomfortably and he saw his captor give a small nod to one of the muscled thugs who had shoved him into his chair. Eames saw the large man move forward and start winding up his fist.

"Come now, darling, we really don't need to-"

Smack.

At least this time they had the decency to hit the less tender side of his already battered face.

"Don't lie, Mr. Eames. We know who both of them are and we have it on good authority that you have worked with each of these men in the past." The smoke had grown heavy around the man at this point, obscuring any facial expression. "If you make any more pathetic attempts to deceive me, the consequences will be much, much greater."

"Even if I did know them, it doesn't really help you a fat lot does it?" Eames couldn't help replying. He winced as he braced for another punch to connect. He saw the man hold up a hand to stop any movement.

Putting the small remainder of his cigar out on the black, plastic ashtray, his captor moved forward, bracing himself on each arm of Eames' chair until they were eye to eye.

"The _largest_ energy corporation in the _entire_ world has just dissolved its empire to indulge the fancy of a _boy_ who had some well known unfortunate daddy issues that just _happened_ to be reconciled _after_ the father's death within two days of the event happening." The man moved closer still forcing Eames to fight the urge to move back as far as he chair would allow. "Now, stop me if this becomes too complicated for you, but this event is a rather _large_ deal that is affecting many, _many_ extremely powerful men and not in a good way. If there was even a _hint_ of espionage, do you honestly think we wouldn't know about it?"

Eames saw the man's grip on the chair tighten until his knuckles shown white. "Billions of dollars are being thrown away because of this. A certain other Japanese company is being saved from total obliteration and benefitting a great _fucking_ deal, which is just a _little_ to convenient for my, and Mr. Browning's taste. All I need to un-fuck this colossal disaster is a little proof that Mr. Fischer was somehow mentally unfit to make the decision, which is where you come in Mr. Eames."

Eames started to get just a _bit_ nervous at this point. This man apparently knew a whole piss load more information regarding their job to leave him with any minute sense of comfort. 'Well it was a good run' he thought to himself, feeling just a _little _insane with the sudden wave of panic that hit him, 'I suppose now is as good a time as any to check the fuck out. Good-bye sweet world and so on… This is fucking pathetic.'

A hand roughly grabbed his face once more. "Am I _boring_ you, Mr. Eames?"

Not wanting to test any fleeting sentiment of luck he may have had left, Eames forsake his usual reply and settled on a swift shake of the head.

"Good, as I was saying. What I need you for is to, how to put this delicately, smoke out the rats. Unfortunately your type has become uncannily good at hiding yourselves over the years and I have neither the patience nor the time to lower myself to such activities as finding them. You, on the other hand, are the _best forger in the business_," he said the last line as if a not particularly bright two year old could have done the same thing. Blindfolded.

"And are very much in with the right people to find these two men. You will be the smoke that forces these filthy _rats_ out of hiding and right into my hand where I will _crush_ them. Do you understand what I am asking Mr. Eames? I need you to get me the proof that will save this entire company from ruin and I will _not _accept failure. Either you hand me their heads, along with anyone else who was involved, on a silver _fucking _platter, or I will be forced to make due with your own."

The man let go of the chair and backed away, collecting himself by straightening the lapels of his suit coat. "I expect positive result by the end of two months time. Do not disappoint me Mr. Eames." With a quick nod to his thugs, the man left Eames still tied to a chair, bleeding profusely from his mouth, and completely at a loss as how exactly this particular cluster fuck was going to un-fuck itself before he got himself or the entire team killed.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Soooo I'm out in California with my brother helping him move into his new apartment for college so I've been without internet for like... a week... I'm surprised I haven't had a mental breakdown or anything hahaha. Reviewers! Thank you and I really appreciate you all taking time to write a kind word for me! Anyways, this is the next installment, obviously... and its kinda different than the first two, as we have it in Arthur PoV. Since this is going to be a 'romance' if you will, that does generally take two people so I felt like I needed to establish where he is mentally. I think the rest of the story will switch back to Eames PoV, but as I have said before, I really have no idea where this is going to I guess we'll all find out together XD;; Oh yah, what really attracts me personally to stories is the emotional and character development, so this one might be a little sparse on the action, at least for now!

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He stood there silently, a small whisper of a wind winding through his open fingers and around face. Arthur looked forward at nothing and yet was entranced by how everything seemed to be encompassed by the sheer vacuity.

He wasn't wearing shoes, but it didn't worry him as he dug his toes into the sand. Arthur sighed as water lapped up the beach as if trying to climb towards land but was yanked back each time it almost achieved its goal. The sea met the sky at the horizon, but they were so similar in color it seemed that one careless smudge could blend them together irrevocably and no one would ever know the difference.

Arthur took a few steps forward into the surf, wading until his knees were submerged in the cool water. He closed his eyes enjoying the peace he felt deep within his chest. It was as if he was in complete and total control. Like he could change the very foundations of this world if he had any such inclination. And yet… he didn't want to. Arthur knew he could shatter the sky and marvel in the ruin as it poured down all around him but he wouldn't.

He wanted to give himself over to the nature of this world, to be at the mercy of the push and pull of the water. To feel the wind all around him and not have any say in the direction it chose. Because control was the one thing he strove for everyday. His entire life was centered on being in control of situations that he could not possibly ever be totally dominant over.

This was his path, his career, his life. His role was to plan for all the possible things that could go wrong and if those plans failed he had contingency plans for the contingency plans. But if he did it right, he would know what the mark would do from the beginning to the end of the job. This is the duty of the point man, to make sure everyone else was prepared for all possible outcomes. Essentially it was to be in complete, total control. It was trying to do something that was inherently unachievable by anything less than a god. He was trying to be god.

Arthur smiled at this, his eyes closed. Denying one of his senses always added to the feel of tranquil chaos that he sought to envelop his mind. If Eames could hear his thoughts right now… Arthur was sure he would roll his eyes and make a sarcastic comment about how he wasn't surprised 'darling' Arthur, 'darling stick-in-the-mud' Arthur fancied himself a god because he was anal retentive to the point of insanity.

As soon as his thoughts shifted to the forger, Arthur felt something very much solid under his feat. The wind stopped moving, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Opening his eyes, Arthur found himself in the hotel room they had used in the second level dream during Inception. Blinking several times, he finally looked down. Laying haphazardly all around him were the members of his team. Eames was sprawled directly in front of him near the toes of his impeccably shined shoes, breathing slowing.

Arthur bent down over the sleeping body, looking at the peaceful face. He felt like there was something he was supposed to be doing now, but he couldn't remember was it was.

"_Go to sleep, Mr. Eames"_

Yes, he had said that hadn't he… Right before the forger and the rest of the team had slipped deeper into Fischer's conscious. He leaned forward over the stationary body, reaching his hand over the rising chest to the coat that was pulled awkwardly across Eames' torso. Taking the lapel in one hand and clutching the bottom edge with the other, Arthur tugged it until it was straight and smooth, until it was perfect. He knew he should be doing something but the thought lingered just out of reach in the back of his mind, the closer he came to remembering, the farther the thought seemed to drift away.

_Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. _

The music sounded quiet and distant at first, but grew in a crescendo until it stopped. The que. 'No,' he thought 'it's too soon.' Panic seemed to curl in his chest and wrap around his heart, clenching it so hard it seemed painful to move. Training set in as Arthur suddenly remembered what he needed to do. 'I have set the charges and make the kick,' he shot up suddenly sprinting to the door 'They need me, they need _me_ and _I_ need to move quickly.' So much depended on him. If Arthur messed up the kick, they would be stuck in the second level for weeks and the plan would crash and burn.

He had already failed in his duty to research the mark, effectively pitting them against the entirety of Fischer's subconscious without proper preparation. Cobb had been so furious. Arthur knew anything that came between him and his children would be lashed out against, old friend or no. Watching Cobb yell and violently shove his finger into his face, shouting that it was his fault over and over had rattled Arthur more than he would ever let anyone know. It was not just that he hadn't done his one job correctly, it was that he had failed a friend, a friend whom he had sworn to help and protect the best he could. The realization that his best just wasn't good enough rotted into a gnawing sense of guilt, corroding his ever-present armor of self-control. But he couldn't let that slow him down, not in a world where time was everything and he was swiftly running out of the precious minutes he had left.

Arthur ran to the door of the room, grasping the handle and shoving it down. He tried to yank it open so he could get to the room below where the charges had been set but it wouldn't budge. 'This isn't right,' he thought to himself, 'this can not, _will not_, be right.' Putting all his weight on one on his back leg, Arthur grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled with all his strength but the door remained immobile, mocking him with its stable stance.

Time was running out. His life, _all_ their lives depended on _him_, and him alone, yet here he was being stopped by a fucking _door_? Arthur's hands began to shake as the hysteria of the situation sank in. "No, no, no, no," he muttered, clenching his fists together to stop their involuntary movement, "control. Stay in control. You can do this. Just think. Remember your training."

Arthur glanced around the room frantically looking for something, _anything_ that would help him. But as he began to scan the area, all of the objects seemed to fade. Dissolving into the floor, pouring through the cracks in the cold, wooden panels. The room was now empty except for a panic-stricken Arthur and six unconscious bodies littered around the floor. 'Fine then,' he gritted his teeth, 'I'll just use the only thing you can't take away.' Arthur ran back several meters, turned on his heel, and then barreled shoulder first into the door.

A resounding _crack_ was echoed throughout the room. Arthur practically bounced off the door onto the floor, his shoulder snapping from the force of the contact. Gasping against the planks, he clutched his throbbing shoulder with the hand on his good arm. His faced pressed against the unforgiving cold, wet wood, he – 'wait… wet?' Arthur noticed water had started streaming through the crack between the ground and the door. 'This isn't right,' he assured himself again, 'this doesn't make any _sense_.'

"_Ah, darling, now there's your problem. This is a dream, remember? They don't need to make sense. Really, only _you_ would try and rationalize a_ _purely irrational experience. For fuck's sake, love, you really need to learn how to loosen up a bit."_

Arthur's gaze snapped up to the place where he knew Eames was lying but the man still looked like he was peacefully asleep. Water was pooling all around him now, rapidly pouring in the room, now over his arms. Arthur rather ungracefully clambered up to a standing position, slipping a few times in mounting volume of liquid.

Dripping wet, Arthur started to move towards his nearest team member. 'If I can't get out, I need to at least make sure they don't drown,' he thought quickly, 'and if the room is filling up, not drowning means higher ground until I can figure this shit out.' The water now up to his waist, Arthur waded as quickly as he could over to where Ariadne's body was barely floating. He grasped her forearm and pulled her over to where Eames was. Repeating this with all the team members until they were in roughly the same area,

Arthur realized he needed something to keep them together. 'Rope? No… why would that be here. String? Not helpful….' And then it hit him. Arthur practically swam over to the area on the wall where he knew the hotel kept the Ethernet cable. Arthur pulled it out of the socket until he reached the end. Yanking it with all the might only one good arm could provide, the cable finally came loose. Gathering it, he waded back to his team members, arranging them until they were in a rectangle like formation, he wound the cord around their immobile bodies until they were secure.

He felt around in the water for the edge of the bed. Finding it after several moments of frantic flailing, Arthur hauled himself onto the surface. Grabbing Saito's foot, he pulled the group over the bed. Water seemed to be violently crashing in all around them. The torrents tugged his body underneath the waves back and forth, upsetting his already precarious footing on the bed. Arthur knew he was fighting a losing battle. The water was filling up the room faster than he could react to, try as he might to move them all to higher and better areas.

Shifting the bodies so they were as compact as the cables would allow, Arthur dove back into the water already several meters high now, trying to swim over to the door using only one arm. When he got to the wall, he went under, trying to find the handle. The deeper he got, the more violently the water churned. One current slammed into his back, ramming him into the door. The force of the contact forced what little air he had left in his lungs out as he gasped with pain. But he had no time, no time to go back up for more oxygen or else the it wouldn't be only him that drowned. He frantically felt around the door, but all that seemed to be where a handle should have been was a smooth, blank surface.

His lungs burned. He needed it now or he was going to die. Kicking hard until he reached the surface, Arthur gulped in sweet air until he realized that there was only about six inches of space between his head and the ceiling of the room. Cold dread seemed to spread throughout his veins, pooling at the bottom of his stomach. He had no time left. He was going to fail and there was noting he could do about it.

Swimming back to his team, Arthur dove under again in order to push them as close to the ceiling as he could from underneath. But just as he had put his head below the water, a vice like grip closed around his arm, pulling up again. Arthur broke the surface, spluttering from the unexpected upheaval.

"Mate, what the _bloody hell_ is going on?" Eames shouted over the sound of the water crashing in, treading to stay afloat while being tied to five other people. "And why the _fuck_ is there water in a hotel room trying to kill us?"

"Eames!" Arthur shouted back, "why are you awake? Did the kick already happen?"

"Well of course the bloody kick already happened," Eames snapped, "how the hell else would I be here. Awake?"

Arthur looked at the forger dumbstruck, his mouth hanging open. He'd missed the _kick_. It was over. "Where are the others? Why is no one else awake?" It was becoming harder to talk, the sound of the water was drowning out everything else. Arthur grabbed Eames' arm with his uninjured one, trying to keep them close to each other against the buffeting of the waves.

"They went into limbo after Fischer. I had no idea they were out of their pissing minds but I told them, I damn well told them I was going to leave if they didn't get back in time!" Eames was now clenching onto both of Arthur's forearms for dear life.

"We need to get out of here!" Eames continued, "where the hell is the door?"

The water had now filled up almost the entire room save a few inches. "We can't get out," Arthur shouted, his faced pressed against the ceiling, "the door's gone. It's too late and it's my fault. I'm sorry Eames, I'm so, so sorr-"

The last thing Arthur saw before the water collapsed in all around them, tearing them apart, and sucking them both into the crushing void was Eames' face full of shock and anger. The cold liquid forced itself down Arthur's throat, filling his lungs with unrelenting fury.

Arthur shot up in bed. The cover pooling around his waist as he choked several times trying to get rid of the non-existent water in his lungs. Gasping for air, he clawed at his chest as if trying rip open the skin to allow oxygen back into his body. Flailing around, it took Arthur several more seconds to realize he had been dreaming. Again.

It was the same dream. Always the same dream. He was stuck in that god damn hotel room and was forced to drown over and over. He always got so close to getting them out but then Eames would wake up. Every time he saw that man's eyes open, he knew he had failed. That final look of pure hatred was forever seared onto his mind's eye even though he knew he had never seen that exact emotion on the real man's face. That was the funny thing about being in the dreaming business though, sometimes reality and fiction start to blur together even when you _know_ they're separate.

Arthur lay there panting. It always took him several minutes to calm himself after that particular dream. He closed his eyes, willing the sound of rushing water to be gone from his ears until he realized that it wasn't water at all, but the cars on the street below. He brought his hand through his hair again and again in a calming motion muttering to himself, "it was a dream, it was a dream," in a desperate mantra, pretending that the arms that wrapped around himself were not his own and that the words came from another's lips helped ease the biting loneliness that always permeated lingered after a job.

Reaching over to his nightstand, Arthur clasped the loaded red die. He rolled it on smooth surface. Six. He rolled it again; just to be sure it wasn't luck. Six. He sighed once more but didn't let go of the small plastic cube. The edges had been worn down from so much use. Arthur couldn't tell if this was a good thing because it meant he was getting a steady amount of work or a bad thing because it also signified his tenuous grip reality.

Rolling over onto his side, Arthur looked, but didn't really see anything. Even though there were cars moving and drunken people shouting down the street, he never felt more alone than he did after that dream. It was an odd sensation, to be completely surrounded by people in such a densely populated area like Los Angeles, but to feel like he was the only person truly alive. It was like all the other people were just shades, there only because his mind _told_ himself that cities should have people but never actually interacting with him because they had no true substance. Like projections. Arthur grimaced at his train of thought. He was starting to sound like a hyper paranoid Cobb, or even worse, like his projection of Mal.

Arthur sat up against his headboard, absentmindedly clenching and unclenching the hand that held the red die as he slipped once again into thoughts of the team. He hoped Cobb was happy, he really truly, sincerely with every portion of his being wanted that man to find some peace in his life, not only because they were friends but also because he had never seen a man look so _weary_, so world worn. Of course Arthur missed his partner and their missions together, he had, if he said so himself, never seen a pair work so well together as himself and Cobb. There was a small, minute portion of him that always wished Cobb were on the other end of the line when his phone rang to offer him another job, but it never was. There had been two months of silence but he had to remind himself that in the real world, two months wasn't really that much time at all.

Arthur missed the team. It had taken him a while to admit that to himself to the point where the newfound dependence on others didn't repulse him. He had always done things alone. Until he had met Cobb and Mal, Arthur had never been tied to anyone or anything, which, until he realized what benefits companionship offered, was how he preferred to live his life. He knew the risks of relationships in the dream sharing business. Not just romantic ones, although Cobb had given him enough first hand evidence towards why that should never be attempted, but social ones as well. If you worked too long with one group, or even one person, things tended to get complicated fast.

Arthur had long since been a practitioner of the idea that personal ties only made the job harder to accomplish. It seemed, however, that the world always went out of its way just to prove him wrong. The first few times he had worked with the pair were tentative. Cobb had been the best architect he had ever seen and Mal was one of the most skilled extractors he had ever worked with. Cobb was able to effortlessly design intricate, massive cities that defied logic. Mal was just plain persuasive, she used her looks to lure, her smile to trust, and her skill to annihilate. What was even more amazing to him than their natural abilities was their illogical desire to have him join their team.

Maybe they thought he was some lost, lonely boy who needed a bit of guidance. Maybe they pitied him. Maybe a lot of things he never had the chance to ask Mal while she was alive and Cobb while he wasn't broken. In a way they were right about him though, not that that surprised him with the way Mal could read people. He had never felt lost or like he needed pity for his situation in life, but they were right that he was lonely. And he loved and hated them for showing him what it felt like to belong somewhere, to have people who genuinely cared if you made it out okay, if you were happy. He hadn't even known the hollow numbness he had felt for so many years _was _loneliness, but once he knew what it was, Arthur never, _ever_ wanted to go back.

After Mal had killed herself, the world seemed to spin like her totem used to. It would turn and turn and turn, never letting him truly regain his balance. Arthur thought it was probably because he was still attached to Cobb. At first he assured himself that it was out of some sense of duty that he stuck by the man who had closed himself off to the point where he was no longer recognizable. But the longer he stayed, the longer he felt himself being dragged into job after job only to be shot at, stabbed, and occasional killed by his dearest friends projection of the only woman who had ever cared about him. Arthur could no longer deny that no sense of duty could ever support that violent relationship. It was love. He didn't love Cobb in the any sort of romantic sense, but it was a love nonetheless. The both of them had given him so much, _shown_ him so much about what life could be, _should _be, that no matter what Cobb did, no matter how many times he summoned Mal to brutally kill him, he would never leave until Cobb was whole again.

These thoughts, these _feelings_ were inherently terrifying for him. Arthur was a rational man and self-exploration was definitely something usually avoided if possible. So to admit that he truly, genuinely loved other individuals was horrifying. Arthur consoled himself of the fact that this was very likely never to happen again and so allowed himself this one weakness, this one voluntary crack in his armor. That was until he had met the team Cobb gathered to perform Inception.

The first of team he met was Ariadne. She was like a breath of fresh air to use a cliché phrase. After being around Cobb so long, Arthur had forgotten what it was like to witness the true beauty of dream sharing. He had been so caught up in the theft and the violence, he had lost what _could_ be achieved in a dream because what _needed_ to happen so often took priority. She had been so enthusiastic and so passionate about pure creation; it felt almost effortless to be around her. Arthur grew to enjoy those hours spent in his dreams, training her on the paradoxes of the unconscious mind. He remembered Ariadne's face would light up every time she understood some new trick, which was often before he had even finished explaining it to her.

"So what do you think?" Ariadne didn't look at him as she asked he question, a hand covered her mouth in contemplation. "I think the paradox stairs as the fire escape will give you an edge on any security members you could meet but…" She trailed off waiting for him to give his opinion.

To be honest Arhtur was a little dumb founded. "You said you hadn't even started working on this last night…" She met his eyes with a grin, "yeah well, I had the idea about implementing the stairs in the hotel. One thing lead to another and you know how ideas get," She waved her arms as if trying to convey some massive growth, "give them a little fuel and the just _expand_. Its like you don't even have to do anything!"

Arthur couldn't help but smile as he looked down into her open smile. Apparently enthusiasm was like a yawn or something, one person does it and then the next person and so on. "It looks amazing, Ariadne. You really do have a natural talent for this, I can't wait to test it out in-"

Arthur was interrupted by a firm hand clapping his shoulder and a boisterous greeting, "Morning, love! How goes your little session? You were looking mighty cozy over here with your little girlfriend and I couldn't just let you have _all _the fun!"

It was Eames. Of _course_ it was Eames. Who else could be that annoying this early in the morning, No one was the correct answer. Arthur closed his eyes, praying to some god he didn't believe in to grant him patience he knew he would never have. Ariadne turned a little red but couldn't help but smile as she shook her head saying,

"Good morning Eames. We were just discussing some possibilities for the second level of the dream."

"Well, my darling Ariadne," Eames kept his arm slung around Arthur's shoulders but leaned in closer to look at the design, "I must say you do have a knack for this. Are you sure you haven't been secretly involved in our little dream games before this?"

Arthur quickly shrugged Eames' arm off, "If you're quite done Eames, shouldn't you be playing dress up or something just as useless like you usually do? Or perhaps you would consider applying the same amount of effort you spend being abrasive towards getting clothes that belong in this decade so I don't need to literally blind myself as to never see that god awful paisley shirt again."

"Aw, don't be like that darling! I wore it just for you!" Eames whined, "I know you are having some sort of love affair with those bloody boring neutral tones you insist of having, but you _must _forgive those of us who like a little, oh, _personality_ in what we wear. Not that you would know _anything_ thing about that would you?"

Arthur was grinding his teeth. Again. If this kept up he was going to need dentures at the age of 30. That was if he didn't kill himself first. It was like Eames was _trying _to be literally the most annoying person _ever. _Which led him to two possible conclusions, one: Eames was genuinely the most obnoxious person he had ever had the misfortune of meeting, or two: Eames was observant enough to have been able to pinpoint _exactly_ the specific things that made him furious after only a few meetings. Something about the smirk Eames gave him as Arthur turned on his heel to walk back to his desk in a huff made him think it was option number two.

Arthur slammed himself into his chair with a little more force than was necessary and busied himself with the Fischer file. That was until pair of blue and gray plaid pants hauled themselves onto his desk right on top of the files. "Really love, here I am trying to have a nice little chat with my _favorite_ point man in the business and all you do is walk away, is that really the way to treat a friend?" Eames seemed to deflate a little and the pout would have worked on anyone else. Arthur knew his game. Eames was an actor and actors lie. Therefore Eames lied. Not that he needed to remind himself of that. One look into his eyes and Arthur knew that nothing that man said could be taken at face value.

Glaring at the offending object that prevented him from getting more work done, Arthur snapped, "You, Mr. Eames, are _not_ my friend. And what we do is not _chatting_. Chatting is polite conversation between _friends_, which, need I reiterate, is a crucial element lacking in our current relationship."

Arthur expected him to shrug and walk away, make another joke, or _ignore_ the comment at the least and continue to annoy him. What he never could have anticipated was Eames' actual response. Sliding off the desk, he grasped both arms of Arthur's chair, caging him in. Eames leaned forward until his mouth was level with his ear and whispered, "Well _Arthur_, I look forward to changing your mind on that particular subject. Perhaps you'll even learn to like me. What can I say?" He leaned in closer. Much _too _close for any personal boundaries to not have been severely violated, "I'm a hard man to resist." And just like that, Eames walked away towards his own desk, hands in his pockets, whistling an unfamiliar song.

Arthur rolled onto his side, gazing out the window at the rain-streaked glass. It had been quite a while since he had remembered of that incident. It wasn't like he never thought of Eames, in fact, aside from Cobb, he was the one he thought of most if only because every dream he had had since Inception always featured the man. Arthur didn't know why it was only Eames in his dream that woke up or why the look of pure hatred on his face in the final moments haunted him so. It was never like the real Eames had made a face remotely that, well, severe while they had spent all that time in the warehouse together.

They had fought since the first time they had met each other. Arthur had assumed it was just because they had clashing personalities. Eames was, pure and simple, an exhibitionist. He _loved_ the thrill of pretending to be someone else, to manipulate others into doing what he wanted, to just live life according to the rules _he_ chose, not necessarily what society deemed correct. Arthur was a straight shooter. He had no time for subterfuge, even though he recognized it as necessary to achieve a goal. Arthur was about suppressing his passions and being in constant control. Eames loved improvisation and chaos. They were different, too different.

Arthur had taken Eames' bait since day one and it aggravated him to no end that Eames knew _exactly_ which buttons to push. Arthur thought it was dislike towards the man that created the tension but months later, he recognized that it was not the fact that Eames was the ones doing it, but that he _allowed_ it to happen. Arthur was frustrated with his own lack of control and that reflected in his constant need to lash out at the nearest, easiest target: Eames. Arthur respected him. He respected Eames for being everything he was not, and though he would never admit it to his face, they really did compliment each other well. At least when they weren't verbally butting heads. But even then, Arthur enjoyed the teasing a little, _just_ a little.

It was useless, _sleep_ was useless. There was no way he could rest again after he had the dream. It always made him think too much. The thoughts would start churning just like the water and both would suffocate him with their violent nature. Arthur sat up in his bed and swung his legs off the side. Resting his feet on the cool floor, Arthur, gingerly put weight on them as he hauled himself up. If he got up too quickly after the dream, he sometimes was hit by the vertigo of standing. Arthur stood there for a minute, collecting himself.

He opened the door to his bedroom that led directly into the living room that shared a kitchen. The apartment itself was small, perhaps a little too small to offer most people comfort but he was living alone and the closer the walls were, the less lonely he liked to think he felt. That was a lie of course, but when the dark recesses of his conscious seeped through to his emotions, it gave him another wall to hide behind, however feeble. The furniture was sparse and modern in design, all sleek and neutral colors. There was a large window next to a glass door that slide onto a tiny patio that overlooked the street below. The building he resided in and the one next to it were cramped together in a line of residential apartments, as was common for this part of the city. Again, the closeness of everything that had deterred some potential buyers had been one of the things that attracted him.

But, when it came down to it, Arthur spent a month or two here every couple of years when a job forced him, so comfort didn't really matter as much. Of all the cities where he owned apartments, Los Angeles was one of them he preferred not to visit. The smog, the hustle, the sheer amount of people made him feel more… confined and yet more alone than ever. There was so _much_, and yet he had an impact on so _little_ of it. Arthur preferred the sprawling streets of Paris to the bustle of Los Angeles but moving now… so soon after the job, well that would only draw attention to himself, and he knew better than most that attention after a job, _especially_ a job involving so many large players was unwise.

Walking over to the sink, Arthur grabbed a nearby glass and put it under the faucet. Pulling the handle up, he watched the water gush into the glass in a controlled, steady stream. How easily it seemed to start and stop the liquid in real life, and yet in the dream world, where he actually had absolute control, it was the one thing that remained autonomous from him. Puzzling, but maybe Eames was right. Perhaps he was trying to hard to rationalize a purely irrational experience. Raising the glass to his lips, Arthur let the cool feeling slid down his throat. The memory of drowning was too soon recent in his mind to repress the small gag that was by now instinctual.

Arthur turned around and leaned against the rim of the sink, looking over the waist high divider into the living room. He closed his eyes, feeling calm for the first time since he woke up. Control. He was back in control_. _A sudden thumping on the door jerked him back into reality. Arthur immediately tensed, his training kicking in. Alert and now very awake, he padded silently towards the door. Making sure to be as silent as possible, he placed a steady hand on the door and checked that while the primary lock was undone, the chain was still in place. Arthur slowly twisted the knob; opening the door a fraction of an inch so he could see whom ever was outside the wooden door. When Arthur saw the battered and beaten figure leaning heavily against the wall, his mouth dropped open in the most un-Arthur like way possible.

"Hello, darling."

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**A/N Deux!**

Reviewers make me feel a little disgustingly warm and fuzzy inside.

Rosebud23! You are awesome with TWO reviews. As for Ariadne, I can honestly say that I don't have this story planned out, like, at all so I'm not sure if she'll make a permanent appearance :T As for stream of consciousness, I totally didn't even realize that I was doing that but I think it works to help focus on what the characters are thinking and _why_ they're reacting a certain way not necessarily on just _what_ they're doing, you know? That didn't make any sense hahaha diAzure-lupis! Tom Hardy is unbelievably attractive, its almost not fair hahaha If the grammar and stuff every become shit I will turn to you for beta-ing! Yes that is a verb. Garfin! I hope you like the new stuff, thank you! Hanajima-san, I'm glad you like it! I hope it stays that way XD;; no promises though. M. Maberry, I was nervous that he would be able to stay in character, so I am super relieved that you think I did it well, thanks! Twitchy-fingers, I love your name! Thanks for reading! ShadowWolfDagger, thanks for reading and I'm so excited you like it, hopefully it stays that way! A, I will try! Moving, brothers, and going to college will not stop me!

And on that note, I bid thee adieu!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Fuck its late. And I'm tired. So this sort of sucks at the end but I really want to get to the part where they're actually, you know, in the same _room_ hahaha. The editing is shit because there is none, I'll probably fix it when I'm awake, apologies for grammar fuck ups! Thanks for reading :)

* * *

Eames sat back in the cold metal chair, panting slightly from the strain on his sore lungs and cracked ribs. Leaning on the frame, he let his head roll back and closed his eyes. 'How the fuck am I getting out of this bleeding mess,' he thought dejectedly. Panic seemed to have settled in the pit of his stomach since the middle of the uh, _interview_, and refused to leave despite the fact that the ones who had created it were long gone.

They could have at least untied him. If he weren't such a resourceful bloke, not to mention this wasn't the first time he had been tied up and left although the precursor to that event had been _much_ more pleasurable, Eames might've been worried as to how he was going to escape the hotel room, much less the chair. Well, _more_ worried in any matter.

Eames clenched his jaw in the anticipation of pain, 'this is going to hurt like bloody bitch… just breath. In and out. In and out.' He spotted a small night stand next to the bed. Perfect. Eames shifted his weight on to his left side and then hauled himself with all the momentum he could onto his right, making the chair scrape over a couple of inches. 'Blimey, at this rate its going to be next fucking week before I even make to the bed,' Eames thought as he panted at the small exertion, 'well you know what they say about patience…' He had no idea what the fuck anyone said about patience but whatever asshole it was obviously had never been beaten and tied to a chair. Pussy.

Repeating this process, Eames slowly but surely inched his way across the carpet and finally made it to the wooden floor. Every time he moved, the chair made the most unpleasant scratching noise. He could just see the deep grooves that were being permanently etched into wood. Eames couldn't help but smirk as he imagined Arthur's face ridged with barely controlled fury at the marking of any household object. It wasn't a face Eames had to create from scratch either, as an incident had happened on one of the less exciting days of planning.

"Stop."

Eames, who had been absentmindedly rocking back any forth on the heels of his chair with his feet on his desk, looked up to see none other than Arthur glaring at him from his own desk where he had been scribbling furiously.

"Pardon? I didn't quite catch that, love."

Arthur, looking anything _but_ amused at his apparent lack of comprehension, narrowed his eyes even further if that was possible.

"I said stop."

"Stop what darling?" Eames, the picture of pure relaxation, replied languidly, "I'm just sitting here, all by my lonesome self, doing absolutely _nothing_."

Huffing slightly, Arthur sat up straighter, probably trying to intimidate him or something. Ha, as if he could.

"You know exactly what. We've had this conversation at least _four_ times now. If you keep doing that you'll leave scratches on the floor. It's _annoying_." _Just like you_, was left unspoken but nonetheless implied.

Eames lifted his feet off the desk and onto the floor, standing up. "I offer you my deepest and most sincere apologies, your highness," Eames decided to add a mock bow for flourish. At least no one could say he wasn't theatrical. "In my limited, and very much inferior wisdom, I hadn't considered the importance of _scratches_ on a _concrete_ floor. My, how foolish I do feel now…"

Arthur was very, _very_ much aware that he was being teased now, as usual, be figured that this conversation was getting extremely annoy tediously fast, so he just grunted and hunched himself back over whatever papers he had been working on.

'The little bastard is ignoring me. Clever, clever fellow,' Eames lifted his mouth into his typical smirk, 'well if you want to play that way, I would be delighted to oblige.'

Sauntering over to the point man's desk, Eames stood uncomfortably close behind Arthur and bent down so their faces were nearly level, pretending to read what he was writing. Arthur closed his eyes trying to ignore this latest and very _close_ provocation, but continued to write although his scrawl grew more and more messy the longer Eames stood there.

"Darling, no one will be able to read this if you keep trying to murder the paper with your pen… Really now, what did it ever do to you, hm?"

Slamming his pen down onto the desk, ink splattering from the force, Arthur turned his head, mouth open ready to retort but severely underestimated the distance between Eames' face and his own. If Eames hadn't been gunning for this exact reaction from the get go, he would have probably pissed himself laughing rather than a look of polite confusion. Arthur seemed to shoot to the side, his wheeled chair smashing into the desk leg, banging his hand onto the flat surface to steady himself. A light stain seeped onto his cheeks as his scowl grew even larger.

"Mr. Eames, is it _really_ necessary to stand there?"

"Necessary? Of _course_ it's necessary, love. How else would I know if you were doing your job other than to check myself? I would think you would be encouraging my taking a more, hm, _proactive_ role in the planning. And you needn't bother with titles anymore Arthur, I thought we were friends now." Eames finished with a small pout, feigning offense, but moved closer still. 'This ought to remind him of our other conversation.' "I've been trying so _hard_ to change your mind."

Arthur seemed to choke as he spluttered for the right words. Instinct told him that Arthur was caught between thinking that Eames was being intentionally perverse or on the very off chance that it was sincerity for his previously expressed desire to become friends. Eames couldn't help but grin at his reaction and Arthur immediately noticed the change in the tone of their conversation.

Arthur let out a long sigh and turned away from him again. "Seriously Eames. If you have nothing else to do than bother me, I would greatly appreciate it if you left me alone until I finish my work."

Eames raised both his hands in a placating gesture, "See, mate?" Eames replied brightly, "I knew you would warm up to me eventually! What can I say, my devil may care attitude combined with my dashing good looks are mighty hard to resist, I knew you would come around."

Arthur glowered at him, "I think you have possibly the most selective hearing of anyone I have ever met. Seriously, you should win a prize or something. Its impressive."

Not wanting to test the point man's patience any longer, Eames began to straighten out but not before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. This was going to be _so _hilarious. "I can see you're positively _swamped_, so I'll leave you to it!" And with a wave Eames began to walk away with a small glance to see the other man's reaction.

He had expected Arthur's face to turn a delightful shade of red and possibly die from shock. This was probably his first kiss, the prude. But Arthur's eyes widened slightly, his face falling as his left hand rose slowly to his face. He looked as if he were thinking about something very intensely and this was certainly not what Eames had thought or wanted to happen. Odd. Eames generally considered himself a master at judging and predicting reactions, but this was so completely not how he had anticipated that he couldn't help a small frown to etch on his face as he sat back down at his desk. Maybe he was losing his touch… It _had_ been a while since he had gotten he chance to practice on someone else.

Wait. Eames was _never _out of practice. Shaking his head he shrugged it off like he did most of the things that bothered him. He was the _best_ and he had damn well earned that title. Arthur was just… _peculiar_. And that's probably why Eames found him so intriguing, because some of the things he did were just bloody unexpected.

'Well that was nice,' Eames scowled, 'now if you're quite sure you're done _talking _to yourself. Oh god, I'm talking to myself.' He probably got one too many hits to the head this fine evening. Hauling himself over again and again, Eames inched closer to the nightstand and his freedom. The pain was swelling in his chest, each breath causing a sharp stab. He finally made it to his destination, taking in short, small breaths. He was facing away from nightstand so that the rope that was binding his hands was level with the sharp corner. He rocked from the front to the back legs of the chair, rubbing the rope on the edge. The strings started to fray slowly, but fray nonetheless. Eames continued this until there were only a few of the smaller stands left and used all his strength to pull his hands apart. The snap that signified his freedom was the sweetest sound he had ever heard in his entire life. Ever.

Eames rubbed each of his wrists in turn, trying to ease the throbbing sensation that the angry red welts were causing. This would be one of those times where a normal person would take some time and reflect on their life and possibly a career change. Certainly some nameless desk job would not lead to one being shot at, beaten, and emotional tested constantly, but they were _so boring_. Eames knew he would never settle for a 'regular' job. He _couldn't_ settle. The thrill of becoming anything, of _doing_ anything was intoxicating. It was better than any drug and _much_ more addictive. The high was so deliciously exciting every time, the taste of absolute freedom was so _satisfying_ that he could never stop. He sincerely doubted if he would ever wanted to.

Eames stood up shakily and immediately regretted it. His knees buckled, an unexpected pain shot up his thigh. He looked down and saw red seeping into the fabric of his pants. Gray dots seemed to fill his vision as the world spun around him. Or maybe he was spinning. Did it even bloody matter? Dragging himself over to the bed he figured he might as well spend the night there, someone had obviously paid for it. His last thought before the darkness took him was that the bill was going to be a lot more expensive because of all the blood that he had trailed over the floor and now onto the bed. Ha. Serves them right the pansy ass bastards.

There was light. Way too much fucking light. Eames groaned as he pushed his face into the pillow. This was a bad idea as most of his face seemed to be bitching quite a lot right now. Every part of his body seemed to be either aching or throbbing. 'What the _fuck_ did I do last night… Either that was really fucking good or absolutely terrible.'

"_I expect positive result by the end of two months time. Do not disappoint me Mr. Eames."_

Shit.

Shit, shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, _shiiiiiiit._

'Get a hold of yourself man!' Eames mentally slapped himself several times, 'bleeding _fucking_ _hell_, what am I going to do? What am I going to _do?' _

Panic seemed to be a constant companion to him now. And it was very uncomfortable, _especially_ for someone who spent nearly all his time at least portraying the picture of calm. He needed a plan. He needed to make the most brilliant plan of his entire life or this was going to blow up in his face with a massive fucking bang. First though, he needed to assess the damages.

Sitting up and slowly pulling his legs over the side of the bed, the first thing Eames saw was blood crusted on his left pant leg. There was a large cut running down his upper thigh. He gently moved the two hardened pieces of cloth to the side and examined the wound. It was shallow but still stung. Running about five inches down, Eames knew that stitches were definitely in his future. That was a shame because he really fucking hated needles. And doctors. Especially therapists. They all seemed to think he was some sort of compulsive liar, which he _supposed _could be considered _kind of true._ If you were an _idiot. _He was an _artist_ damn it, not some pathetic con man who just tricked people out of their stuff. Granted that was a large part of what happened to go down in the work he was involved in but it took a lot of skill to do his job and a fuck load of talent. So all the damn doctors could piss off with their fancy degrees and their bullshit.

Eames flexed his hands, his fingers seemed to be alright but his wrists were still red and starting to scab in some places. He gently prodded his ribs, wincing every time his found a broken one, about four if he had to take a guess. Bruises ran all along his chest but they were nothing compared to his face. He could feel a large split in his lip and each of side of his face was extremely tender as well as swollen. Some of the toes on his left foot seemed to be broken too. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

He stood up favoring his right leg, which was thankfully injury-free. He limped over to the hotel room door and opened it slowly. There was most likely no one on the other side or even in the hallway but apparently the last time he had been unobservant he had been kidnapped and assaulted so there was no being too careful here. God, he was starting to sound like Arthur. _Arthur_. He needed to find Arthur. Cobb was involved with children now so he was out. Eames might be a cold bastard sometimes but he knew Cobb had earned time away from all the bullshit of this business even though it seemed that he would get swept up in this soon enough.

Arthur was the only other person they knew about and he couldn't risk them finding out about Ariadne or Yusef. If they didn't know about those two, he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to involve them in this shit storm. Eames was sure that they would find the point man eventually even if it took them years and Arthur had the to know what was coming for him. Or rather _who_. Getting to him without _them_ knowing about it was going to be the real problem. It made Eames slightly uncomfortable to know that if he fucked it up, he might as well be signing Arthur's death warrant.

Limping out into the bright hallway, Eames guessed it was roughly noon. He slowly made his way down the stairs and out the back exit. Something told him that the sight of his condition wouldn't be very inconspicuous and someone might force him into a hospital. Good thing Eames made it his business to know every back alley in whatever city he chose to inhabit. Mombasa was as busy as it ever was but once you got out of the tourist areas, the people knew better than to raise alarm at the sight of someone who had been obviously roughed up. Violence in the poorer districts was commonplace, especially near the gambling holes so he wouldn't draw too much attention. They would probably just think he was in a little debt or something. Which would be entirely accurate. He could pay it off of course, but why would he do that when he could just as easily disappear or become someone else entirely whenever he wanted.

The first thing Eames needed to do was go to his contact. That was he could figure where the fuck Arthur was and get out of this country undetected. His contact in Mombasa went simply by Bishop and was one of the few people that Eames trusted to keep their mouth shut with his information. They knew each other back in London when Eames had been part of a special brand of the British military. But while Eames had pursued dream sharing, Bishop had gone the information route. The only thing they had in common were the differences they later developed with the military and had since used each other for business purposes. What had started off as a reluctant acquaintance turned into an unstable friendship and then into mutual respect.

Eames made his way through the back alleys and streets to the hovel where Bishop resided. He finally made it to the rusted door. The sun couldn't even shine in this area because of the close crowded buildings and the stained clothes that draped over the space where the street lay. A dirty man was passed out against the wall. It was funny, thought Eames, that the places he felt most at home were the places where people often had none. There was something base and instinctual about the slums that appealed to him. People had no option but to act on their most animalistic instincts, the will to survive often overruled any flimsy sense of morality. And really, what was the point of such feeble human excuses when the people you spared would just as quickly throw you to the sharks as soon as you turned your back. There was no room for falsity in the slums in the sense that there was no pretense of compassion. Eames didn't have to do any work there because he already knew the worst that each and everyone of them had done, mainly because they never put any effort into hiding it.

Knocking four times in rapid succession with a slight pause between the first and second strike, Eames waited for an answer.

"Who the fuck is it?" came a cold voice with a familiar lilt to it.

"It's me you prat," Emaes replied waspishly, his patience dwindling as his pain grew, "Eames, now let me inside."

"Eames? _Eames? _ Seriously?" The door opened slightly and a hazel eye came into view, "bloody hell it _is _you! Jesus, mate, I thought you were off in fucking Paris or something."

The door swung open to reveal a man in his thirties, brown hair sticking up haphazardly, thin frame, and thick rimmed black glasses. His white oxford shit had its sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone. Bishop stood back to let him in. Eames limped up the several stairs it took to get inside and moved past him into the room. The outside of the building would lead one to believe that the inside would be just as much of a dump but the information trafficking business had clearly done Bishop well. There was the flair of the local culture in the color and design choices of the furniture but they were obviously well made and expensive. One corner of the room was dedicated to several large computer screens that had so many windows pulled up on them that Eames couldn't even begin to fathom how Bishop managed to not throw a punch through a monitor or two.

"Eames, you look bloody terrible! What the fuck happened to you?" Bishop had moved up beside him and was now examining the extent of the damage. As he took in the battered visage, Bishop's mouth slowly opened, "If you led anyone here, so help me god I will-"

"I wasn't followed, now calm the fuck down," Eames shot out quickly. "I need help."

"_Obviously_ you need help, I think you're still _bleeding_ for christ's sake. Here let me at least get you some bandages. Sit down over there." Bishop quickly made his way into a different part of the apartment.

Limping over to the couch, Eames sat down gingerly and rested his head against the back. Closing his eyes, Eames took a deep breath and considered his options. And by options he meant _option_. He needed to get the fuck out of Mombasa where Browning obviously knew where he was. 'Browning doesn't know where Arthur is, which means where ever Arthur is, is safe too.'

As long as Eames got there without Browning and his crew of goonies knowing, _he _would be safe, at least for a time. There was just a _slight_ problem in that Browning was filthy fucking rich and therefore had the means necessary for tracking him. Fuck. Eames' thoughts were interrupted by Bishop's arrival in the main room again.

Bishop tossed a roll of bandages and ointment onto his lap. "There you go, it's not much but there aren't usually people showing up on my doorstep half dead. So no complaining. Now, what did you need? You generally don't come for social visits…"

Eames took the ointment as placed it gently on his visible cuts. He took off his shirt to wrap his black and blue chest with the gauze. Wincing as he passed over the broken ribs, Eames explained as much of his predicament as he could without mentioning the specifics of the Inception job or about who his assailants were.

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ," Bishop let out a low whistle, "you have a talent for finding the worst possible shit out there, mate."

"Helpful as always, Bishop. I need you to find Arthur for me and then I need to get out of this shit hold without anyone knowing. Can you do it or is this a little out of your ability range?"

"Ha," Bishop snorted in derisive laughter, "I can get you anything you need but it's going to cost you. Friends or not, I have fees and there are a lot of them."

"Yeah, yeah," Eames rolled his eyes, "I got your money, I've got a piss load of it in fact, just get it done."

Bishop chuckled as he made his way over to the mountains of technology and sat down on the lone chair, his back hunched in preparation for work. Eames took the opportunity to finish wrapping his wounds and to rest. He closed his eyes and hadn't realized he had nodded off until he felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Hey mate, wake up. I've got you an identity, your plane leaves in two hours."

Eames blinked several times. "What?" Not very eloquent but whoever expected him to be so after no sleep and several punches to the head could fuck right off.

"I found Arthur, he's in Los Angeles at this address," Eames felt a piece of paper being shoved into his hand. "I've booked you a flight to LA, leaving soon. Get up; we need to go if you want to make it anytime soon. I got you a new identity and I'm putting out a false lead on you heading to London. That should throw who's ever following you off for a bit."

"Wait…" Eames' brain felt like it was moving at a sluggish pace, "if you found Arthur so easily, why the fuck haven't they?"

Bishop snorted again, "it was anything _but _easy, mate. He's the best I've seen at covering his tracks, other than myself of course. If I hadn't written the algorithm he used to override the systems, I would never have found him. You're in luck for once Eames, if anyone can help you out, it would be Arthur. Now we need to go."

"Alight, alright," Eames muttered as he hauled himself up, "half my fucking body has gone to the piss so _excuse_ me if I'm a little slow."

They went out the back to a rusty old car. "You're practically rolling in cash," Eames remarked sarcastically, "why the hell don't you have a car from this bloody century?"

"Have you _seen_ this neighborhood? Anything nicer and its jacked in five minutes flat. Trust me, I tried." Bishop climbed into the drivers seat as Eames awkwardly trying not to put weight on his left leg, clambered into the passengers. They drove in silence and Eames was thankful for it. His pounding head made thinking extremely precarious.

They pulled up to the airport and exited the car. Eames wasn't one for good byes, they were always messy and Bishop was thankfully the same way. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries but quickly separated. The less they were seen together the better. Eames made his way through customs quickly and onto the plane. He drew some stares with his ragged clothing, but at least he had gotten most of the bloodstains out. He just ignored them as he limped past as fast as he could. He got settled in his seat and gazed out the window.

This would be the first time he was going to see any of the team since they had parted ways at the airport. Eames couldn't help but imagine Arthur's face of shock at his arrival. Would he help him? Would he even let him in the door? 'Of course he will,' Eames thought determinedly, 'Arthur is if anything, too compassionate.' There was no way he would turn him away. 'It's not like he'll have any choice either. Once I'm there, there's a good chance they'll track me. We'll be effectively tying our own bloody nooses together.'

Eames would've felt bad, but seeing as how Browning already had Arthur as a prime suspect, it would only be a matter of time until Arthur was found, with or without him. They had a better chance of figuring this fucking mess out together anyway. At least that's what Eames told himself as the flight dragged on a pulled him into a fitful sleep.

_We'll be landing in twenty minutes at the Los Angeles airport. Immigration forms will be passed out._

Eames woke slowly. His chest and toes was aching. His leg felt like it was going to be infected soon. He hoped Arthur knew how to stitch and clean shit up, or else he was majorly fucked. Then again, Arthur was good at like, everything, so he wouldn't be surprised if a MD in medicine was part of his arsenal of random skills. The flight landed and he skipped baggage seeing as how he had absolutely nothing with him aside from the clothes on his back. And even those were frayed and stained. He limped out to where the taxi's lined up and signaled one, giving the man Arthur's address.

Night had fallen, but air was still pleasantly warm. It had been years since Eames had visited the United States, let alone Los Angeles. Eames preferred the areas of the world where the law was a little less stringently imposed. It gave him more freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted. Especially since his types of gambling entertainment happened to be on the more, well, _illegal_ side.

It seemed Arthur's place wasn't that far from the airport. All of the buildings in the area seemed to be shoved together, but the neighborhood still seemed to be fashionable. They were plain but modern. Typical Arthur, he snorted. They pulled up to an apartment complex with a brown exterior and he paid the cab driver. Eames pulled out the piece of paper and checked the apartment number.

_Floor 12, room 14_, was written in Bishops clean scrawl. Eames made his way slowly into the building, thanking some higher power that he didn't need to be buzzed in. He entered the elevator and punched the number 12. As the doors slid open again, Eames limped out and made his way down the row of doors.

12… 13... 14.'Well, this is it…'

Eames pressed his ear against the door, listening. There was water running. Was he awake? What the bloody hell was Arthur doing up this late? Ah well, the sooner he knows, the soon Eames figured he could finally get a proper sleep. Raising his hand, Eames knocked on the door several times. There was the sound of a glass being placed against the counter. There was several seconds of silence and then the door opened a fraction of an inch.

The face Arthur made was so ridiculous that Eames couldn't help but break into the first genuine smile he had had in a long time. The absurdity of the situation was so perfectly summed up in the gaping shock of Arthur's expression that he almost laughed. The silence threatened to overtake him, so Eames fell back on familiar territory.

"Hello, darling."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: I'm soooooooorrryyyyyyyyyy! I've been super busy with college and moving in shit and just the general chaos and floundering that is my life right now so I haven't had much time to write :T Thank you everyone who has reviewed and added the story to their watchy list thing! I love each and everyone of you and if I wasn't already late to my next class I would thank you individually, you guys are the 'awe' in my 'awesome.' Fuck that makes no sense. Just like this story! GAME CHANGERRRRRRRRRR!

* * *

Eames stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. Normally he would have just pushed his way through the door and made himself very much at home, but in his injured state he didn't think he could muster enough force make Arthur move. He continued to smile of course, those usually helped disarm wariness and he was hoping for once that it might actually work on Arthur.

His face hurt. Arthur better let him in bloody soon or he was going to collapse on the floor. He didn't want to ruin his carefully crafted image of himself that he had so often presented Arthur, so he kept his jaw locked in a cocky smirk. Something told him that his bloody clothes and slight wobble even though he was standing in one place didn't exactly help his case. Arthur's mouth was still hanging open, his eyes widened in completely unexpected recognition.

"You're going to collect flies if you keep making that face for much longer. And, as much as I love watching you with your mouth open, I would be eternally grateful if you let me in."

Arthur almost jumped, Eames' voice had jogged him back to reality from whatever train of thought he had been absorbed in. "I – uh, of course, sorry Eames," Arthur moved back to let him in the door, "its just… _you're _here. At my _home._ How did you even find me? I made sure to cover all my tracks…"

"That, darling, is a story for tomorrow when I don't feel like throwing up on your fancy carpet. I promise to explain everything then, if I could just take a quick nap on your exquisite couch I would be very much obliged."

Eames limped forward into the small room, too tired to take in many of the details. "Eames!" He started at the sudden, very loud and very unwelcome noise, "you're – you're bleeding! And your face! Jesus Christ your leg looks terrible!"

"For someone who is paid to be observant, you really don't make much of a habit of it do you…" Eames slowly made his way over to the couch. It was too small to fit all of his frame laying down but he had slept in many worse places. Not that comfort was at all near the top of his list of concerns. Sitting down, Eames hauled his injured leg up, following it with he good one and seemed to just deflate. Closing his eyes, Eames enjoyed the small silence, sleep seemed to be vying very hard of his attention right now and he was not in the mood to deny her.

That was until he felt a pair of hands rest on the upper thigh of his left leg, prodding gently at the wound there. Eames hissed at the pain of the intrusion, "Bloody hell, love, could you wait a few hours before you jump me-" he gasped as Arthur ripped the cloth that had dried in the cut. Before he could finish, Arthur interrupted him with an exasperated gaze. "This is bordering on infection, Eames. I know you don't have any inclination towards your own health but this is just idiotic." Arthur finished his examination and padded into a nearby bathroom. Eames lay there panting and clutching his leg; the laceration seemed of have reopened more.

"Well you didn't have to fucking _manhandle_ me. I know you're woefully unrefined in the arts of seduction, but generally you start off _gentle_ before-" Arthur had come back in and quickly poured some alcohol on the open cut effectively stemming Eames' teasing. "I see you haven't change one bit, Eames. Not that I expected anything different."

Trying valiantly to force his grimace into some semblance of a grin, Eames replied as casually as he could, "well you know how I would hate to disappoint you, love."

"Charming," Arthur gave his own smirk back, but, armed with what appeared to be a needle and some sort of thread, Eames thought it looked nothing but evil.

"Arthur… What are you doing with that?"

"What do you think I'm doing? You need stitches obviously. Unless you would rather have the leg removed? Though I must admit I'm not as good with a saw as I am with a needle…"

Eames gaped, his gaze flashing between Arthur's innocent smile and the pointy object of misery in the hand. "Do you even know how to _use_ one of those?"

"Of course I do, I've done it on myself several times. Now, just hold still or it's going to be a lot more painful than it has to be."

"Arthur," Eames tried to shove himself as far away from the other man as he could, "Arthur, darling, lets think about this! We really don't have to-" Eames just couldn't get in one fucking sentence this evening could he? Groaning in pain, he clenched his teeth as one hand found the couch and the other clenched Arthur's arm in a vice-like grip.

"Eames," Arthur whispered quietly, "you need to relax, I'll be done in a minute."

"I know, I know," Eames ground out, "it just really bloody fuckin' _hurts_."

The next few minutes were silent apart from Eames' occasional hisses of pain as the needle entered his skin, pulling the flesh together. Arthur worked efficiently and quietly, much as how Eames had become accustomed to how he performed every task. Eames took the opportunity to really look at Arthur's face for the first time since they had entered the apartment.

The point man's brown hair was un-slicked which mildly surprised him. It probably shouldn't have considering that Eames wasn't stupid enough to think that Arthur _slept_ like that but he had never actually seen the man with his hair not tightly under control. It was longer than he expected, falling over his forehead as he worked on Eames' wound, but the forger found that he liked it that way. There was something about seeing a person who normally was completely stiff and ridged with their guard down. Arthur looked tired though. He had deep circles under his eyes that Eames' didn't think he had ever seen that severe before. 'Must not be sleeping well after Inception, poor bloke,' Eames considered to himself.

He, of course, had no trouble sleeping but perhaps that was because he had become so good at compartmentalizing experiences that had perhaps less than ideal effects on him. It wasn't that Eames suppressed his emotions, quite the opposite in fact, he absolutely _reveled _in them. Just the ones that were… difficult, Eames often tied them up in a neat little box and threw them way back into the dark, untouched parts of his mind.

Arthur finished the stitching with a quick, clean knot. Eames bent over to examine the other man's handy work, 'not bad, not bad at all.'

"I must say Arthur, I am impressed. Who knew you would be such a good hand at sewing?"

"Take off your pants."

Eames stared, looking into Arthur's face nonplussed. He couldn't even think of a witty response. Damn it.

"Come again, love? I thought you just told me to remove my pants…"

"Yes I did and don't be a child. We need to wrap up your stitches. I don't think you'll be as lucky a second time in avoiding infection."

"I see… So this isn't some clever ploy of yours to lure me out of my clothing?" Eames pretended to smile hopefully. "Unfortunately for you, Mr. Eames, it is not. Now hurry up before I kick you out."

Eames quickly unbuttoned his pants and, with some difficulty, slid them off over his newly mended left leg.

And there he was, standing in nothing but a shirt and his boxers in the middle of Arthur's apartment. _Arthur's _apartment. It seemed Eames' life had taken a definite turn for the completely implausible. Usually when he took off his pants in someone's room it ended very well for himself, and might he add, his partner too, but the way Arthur was now testing the strength of the white gauze indicated that this was going to be slightly more painful than he was used to. Kinky. 'No, bad Eames,' he chided himself mentally, 'bad thoughts. Remember this is _Arthur_. Stick-in-the-mud Arthur.'

Said dirt covered twig moved closer and knelt down beside Eames' injured leg.

"Alright, I'm going to have to wrap this tightly so it will hurt."

"You know Arthur, you're bedside manner leaves much to be desired. You could at least lie to me a little, love. Sugar coat it a tad."

"What's the point?" Arthur gazed up at him with his eyebrows drawn in mild contemplation, "you're going to feel the same amount of pain regardless of what I say…"

Eames couldn't help but roll his eyes, this was obviously a losing battle. "Just get it over with darling. That is unless you like the position you're in, in which case, there is something _else_ you could be doing."

Arthur's face tinged with pink as he realized what part of the forger's body his face was currently level with. Without warning, Arthur slipped the first part of the bandage across the wound and pulled it _extremely_ tight with every pass. Arthur finished with a quick knot and stood up.

He looked at Eames, evaluating the current damage and if it could wait until morning to be treated. Eames seemed to have passed Arthur's silent evaluation. "You take the bed," Arthur proposed, "you'll need all the rest you can get. Plus we can shut the curtains there so you can sleep later than in here."

"Really, darling, I don't need you to go out of your way any more than you have tonight. Sleep in your own bed, that couch of yours probably costs more than mine at home anyway," Eames chuckled.

"It wasn't a request, Eames. I'm just going to grab a pillow and we'll discuss whatever the hell is going on tomorrow."

Eames began to protest but Arthur placed his hand on the back of his shoulder and pushed him into the bedroom. Sighing, Eames gave up trying to convince Arthur to change his mind. Clambering into the bed, Eames was surprised at the softness. He always pegged Arthur as a firm mattress kind of guy, but it seemed the point man was full of surprises this evening.

Grabbing a pillow, Arthur walked to the door and looked over his shoulder, his hand on the light switch, "go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

"Clever," Eames managed to yawn out before he was hit by the metaphorical mallet of sleep and knocked completely out.

Eames woke to the sound of a something crashing to the floor, which to his violence addled brain sounded remarkably similar to a gunshot. Shooting upwards, Eames was in full on attack mode when the pain hit him. His leg hurt, his feet hurt, his chest hurt, and most of all, his face hurt. It felt like he had run head first into a brick and then decided that was jolly good fun and did it about thirty more times. 'Bloody _hellllllllll_' was about the only coherent thought he could manage. Collapsing back onto the soft covers Eames opened his eyes slowly. He was in an unfamiliar room… 'Arthur's' his mind supplied helpfully. Ah yes, now he remembered his spectacular entrance into his colleagues home, full of blood and witticism. He could venture a guess that Arthur was probably not the most pleased person in the world right now. Not that he blamed him or anything. Eames probably wasn't the ideal houseguest, especially when you didn't want to be found by anyone.

Pulling himself out of bed, Eames gingerly put weight on his feet. His toes were throbbing but that was probably a normal symptom given that they were, oh, _broken_ and all. He stood and, putting his weight on his heels, walked to the door like some sort of mentally handicapped penguin. Opening the portal quietly, Eames pushed his way in the next space of the apartment. Years of quickly having to move from a state of sleep to that of high level life-in-danger alertness often made it so grogginess was very seldom a symptom waking.

As he entered the room, Eames was met with the sight of Arthur standing next to the sink, a cup lay on the ground shattered. His visible hand was shaking and he looked dreadful. "Arthur…" Eames slowly approached him, "are you alright, love? You look bloody terrible…"

Arthur looked at him and seemed to register his presence for the first time since he had entered the kitchen space. "I… Yes, I'm fine. A, uh, noise startled me and I suppose I must've dropped it."

"You suppose, do you? It looks to me as if you _definitely_ dropped it. Are you _positive_ you're fine?"

"Of course I'm positive, you on the other hand, you look like you've run into a brick." Eames snorted; apparently they were on eerily similar wavelengths. "Do you want coffee or anything? Water? I was going to make breakfast soon if you're hungry."

Eames sat down at the small table that stood next to waist high divider. "A bit of coffee would be delightful, mate." Sighing as he sat down, Eames tried his hardest not to bend his injured leg. Arthur placed a steaming mug in front of him and looked down at the bandage. Blood seemed to have seeped through and dried in rust like manner. "We'll need to change that soon," Arthur remarked as he walked back to the fridge. "And it looks like your lip is going to need some work as well. We should probably go to a hospital as soon as you've eaten."

"No," Eames shot in quickly, "no, hospitals. You can do all the bandaging you like, love, but I am _not_ going to a hospital."

"Eames…" Arthur gave him a pointed glance, "don't be an idiot about this. You need help."

"While I respect your opinion on many accounts, darling, I really must _insist_ that we don't go."

Arthur didn't look at all convinced with this attempted placation so Eames looked down, the picture of uncertainty, "…please."

Huffing as he opened the refrigerator door, Arthur turned seemed to have resigned, "alright, but you're going to have to deal with me. And I can assure you, I'm not nearly qualified enough to be a physician."

"You really don't give yourself enough credit, love. My leg feels just peachy! And all thanks to your remarkably feminine sewing skills, which I am eternally grateful for."

Arthur ignored him as he rummaged around the kitchen, setting eggs on the stove to cook. Eames slipped off into thought as he absentmindedly watched Arthur busy himself with breakfast, an easy silence slipped between them. Leaning back in his chair, Eames closed his eyes. All the excitement of last night, of getting to Arthur unscathed, well, _relatively_ unscathed considering the amount of shit that _could_ have gone wrong, had distracted him from exactly _why _he was here. In Los Angeles. In Arthur's apartment. With no pants on.

Everything wrong seemed to hit Eames like a tidal wave of anxiety. He was sure they didn't have much time here, Bishop's distraction or no, Browning had plenty of people and a mountain of cash to work with while he had… Well pretty much all he had right now was Arthur, and that may only be until he retold the tale of his capture.

Eames knew all he had to do was mention the name 'Cobb' and Arthur would probably do whatever outlandish thing he suggested. The point man seemed to have an unnaturally strong attachment to the extractor. Eames knew they had been working together for a long time but he couldn't imagine having such a deep bond with _any_ person great enough to risk his physical or mental well-being.

But still… it seemed like a cheap move. 'Why do you care?' he questioned himself indignantly, 'his neck is just as exposed on the chopping block as yours is right now, he just doesn't know it yet.' This was, of course, something to consider. Eames couldn't fathom why the thought of adding a whole new pile of stress to Arthur's already sagging shoulder's perturbed him so. It's just… Arthur looked so… _tired_. His eyes were not as bright, the black bags seemed to have grown, and he had apparently been so spooked by something that he had dropped his mug, something Eames had never seen him come even remotely close to in all the time they worked together.

Yes, something was definitely wrong with Arthur and it was going to get a whole lot worse once he told him who was out for both of their skins. A plate of scrambled eggs was placed in front of him, which tugged him back into reality. "I hope you like them like that… It's the only way I know how to cook them." Arthur sat across from him with his own breakfast steaming on the table.

"Its perfect, darling," Eames mumbled through a mouth full of food. It must've been at least a few days since he had anything to eat and it did nothing but make it taste all the more exemplary. "Where did you even learn to cook like this? I fell slightly miffed that I have never been treated to one of your apparently exquisite home cooked meals."

Arthur set his fork down and seemed to gaze into the distance. "Mal… Mal taught me how to cook." He looked down and, if it was possible, looked even wearier than he had before.

Eames halted the steady stream of eggs from the plate to his mouth. "Sorry mate, I didn't mean to bring up any unpleasant memories."

Arthur placed a strained but still genuine small smile on his face, "it's alright Eames. It's feels nice to talk about her in a positive light. She always used to talk about how she never knew how I survived on my own not being able to cook so she taught me."

Eames couldn't help but smile back even though his cheeks felt like they might bleed from the action. They looked at each other for a second and it hit Eames that he had not tried to provoke Arthur nor had Arthur glared at him. It felt… good. Good but uncomfortable, unknown. It was clear that their dynamic was one of antagonism and Eames wasn't quite sure he was ready or even knew how to change it. "Did I just hear dear old Arthur mention the word 'feelings' without 'doesn't have any' preceding it?"

"Hilarious," Arthur shot back, the moment gone, "if you're well enough to make fun of me, you're well enough to tell me why exactly you showed up at my door _extremely_ early in the morning looking like you got in a fight with a meat tenderizer."

Eames leaned back in his chair, 'well here goes nothing…'

"You see, love, we have a _slight_ problem."

"We? What do you mean we…"

"We," Eames leaned forward on his elbows, "as in you, me, dear Coob, and bloody well anyone else involved with Inception."

Arthur's eyes narrowed. If they had a problem _post_ operation, it meant that it lay in his area of duty to have prevented it, but Arthur was _sure_. He had double, even tripled checked everything was in order before they went their separate ways. He had created alibis, false money trails, the works… And yet… Here was Eames leaning close to him in his kitchen with more bruises than Arthur was sure he could count.

"Explain."

"Talkative as always, hm?" Eames sighed and then launched into an explanation that he hoped to god Arthur would deem acceptable. If he didn't… Let's just say 'fucked' would be a welcome adjective describing his well being in comparison to what would happen.

"So I wake up, tied to this bloody uncomfortable chair and this Australian bloke starts beating the shit out of me, punching my face and all," Eames tried his best to mime the actions as he described them but the strain put on his broken ribs was a little more than painful. So much for theatricality.

"Did you antagonize him?"

"And these two big fuckers both start-," Eames halted when he heard Arthur's question. "Ex_cuse_ me, Arthur, I am mortally offended that you think I could be offensive in such a situation…"

Arthur's face was so disbelieving that Eames couldn't help but chuckle. He _supposed_ he could see why Arthur would hold that opinion of him as that was the exaggeration of his personality that Eames often presented to the point man.

"Alright, so _maybe _I had a bit more cheek than advisable, but really, darling, would you expect any different? What can I say, when I'm threatened I rely on witty retorts as a defense mechanism. That a sufficient dose a self introspection for you?"

Arthur gave him an un-amused glare, "just get on with it, Eames."

Despite his light tone, as if he were describing a funny office story, the sense of dread in Eames' stomach was growing to into a remarkably uncomfortable feeling. So much could go wrong, so much could cause Arthur to kick him out, to leave him to deal with this on his own. Arthur was sitting in his chair as stiff as Eames had ever seen him. His posture was like a medical feat, he should be in case studies for people with excess stiff-back syndrome or something. Really intelligent. He was going to have to get a good night sleep soon or else these internal monologues were in danger of progressing from 'not funny' to just plain stupid.

Arthur's gaze was locked on Eames, who could see the evidence of the point man's training in his observations. Every movement was catalogued, every intonation was analyzed, and, in any other situation, it would have thrilled Eames. Arthur was the most worthy opponent he had encountered in this business. Whenever Eames met someone new, he would always adopt an aspect of his personality and exaggerate it to get whatever specific reaction he wanted. He was a master of manipulation, but not just because it got him the things he wanted, although that was a very good benefit, it was because he loved control. Not necessarily control of everyday life situations, he _did_ value spontaneity, but he relished in the control of people. They were often so changeable, so insecure, so malleable in their opinions and personalities that exploitation often didn't present much of a challenge.

Arthur, on the other hand, was very difficult not only to read, but also to get him to react how he wanted. Since Eames had met him on their first job together, he had tried nearly every aspect of his personality to find the most effective way of getting under his skin. Eames found that Arthur's ever present self-control was both one of his greatest strengths and weaknesses. It was challenging to get him to drop his cold, polite exterior, but once you did, Eames discovered, that was where the irritable, _human_ side of him resided. Breaking Arthur's concept of himself was the easiest way to irritate him and the most effective way of doing that, Eames learned to his delight, was to invade his personal space. Eames wasn't sure if it was because of Arthur's lack of physical contact in his life or due to some past experience that dictated the wide berth he gave people, but once you shoved your way in there, Arthur often had no idea how to react, cue to ensuing hilarity.

Eames knew he had a way of aggravating people when he met them. It wasn't because he was naturally a hyper confrontational person, or at least he _liked_ to think that he wasn't, it was just causing anger was usually the best way to see what a person was really like underneath all that fake politically correct bull shit. Perhaps it was hypocritical of him to try and unearth the 'real' person by using a 'fake' one, but he had come to think of it as a type of public service, if you will. He did indecent things to expose indecent fraud and he enjoyed it.

Arthur, dear Arthur, was his pièce de résistance, the one who took him more than five minutes to crack, and the one, much to his delight, that kept surprising him even after he learned his ticks. Maybe that's why he cared so much. Maybe that's why Eames actually gave a fuck if Arthur was in danger or if he wanted to throw him out. Maybe that's why he was floundering desperately to make sure that he didn't fuck everything up right now.

"So he whips out these two photographs, right, and, you have to believe me on this one, mate, they had a picture of you and Cobb. Told me that I needed to find you and somehow link you to Inception or else they would kindly introduce my face to the nearest curb."

Arthur's mouth had slipped open slightly as Eames continued his tale. It wasn't as dramatic or as humorous as the expression that he had made last night when Eames had shown up on his doorstep, but it was still highly unusual to see.

"So let me get this straight," Arthur said through clenched teeth, "they tell you to find me in order literally crucify me and the first thing you think to do it come to me _directly_, effectively leading them here where they will not only kill me but you as well? And this was the _best_ plan you could come up with?"

Sweat dripped down Eames' neck, _Shit_, Arthur was _pissed_. Not good, not good at all…

"Now, darling, before you jump the old gun here, I did take precautions," Eames raised his hands in a placating gesture, "see this mate of mine, Bishop he goes by, also happens to make camp in Mombasa. Real smart, right, quick as a whip. I got him to find you –"

"Bishop? You mean _the_ Bishop? The hacker who pretty much wrote the book on government evasion?"

"That's the one! I knew you'd have heard of him, love. He said you used his algorithm or something, very impressed and all that."

Arthur leaned back in his chair slightly, looking marginally more relaxed, though Eames wasn't sure he would necessarily qualify _anything_ the point man did as relaxed. "I guess that does explain how you of all people found me… Are you sure Bishop is to be trusted? Browning has a lot of income at his disposal…" Arthur trailed off but the implication was not lost on Eames who, in turn, waved it off.

"Bishop is alright, we go way back together in the military. He's probably the only one outside of the team that I _do _trust. Anyway, he let out a lead that I was heading across the pond to London so that should buy us a little time to figure out a plan."

"But not much," Arthur leaned his chin on his clasped hands. "They might've already figured it out even. We need to leave soon. I don't think we should notify Cobb unless this blows up even more. I don't want him to have to leave his kids so soon after getting back, he deserves time. We'll only contact him as a last resort. If we're lucky, and I mean we'd need a miracle for this, we should take the fight to them. They're not going to let this go as long as we live so the only outcome is either we die or we find some way to get them to stop."

"Well that does sound _extremely _pleasant and not at all bloody difficult."

Arthur glared again, "I don't think you're in any position to be complaining at the moment, I _am _helping you after all."

"Yeah, yeah," Eames muttered, "and I am grateful, you do know that, right?"

Pausing a moment, struck by what couldn't possibly be _Eames_ using _sincerity_, Arthur let the moment hang. "You're welcome," he replied with a small, unsure smile.

For some reason unbeknownst to Eames, the weight that had settled on his stomach lifted and was replaced by a small warmth. It was nice, Arthur's smile, he should do it more often.

"So about this plan of ours…"


End file.
