Chapter Text
Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start
And I bet, and you exploded into my heart
And I forget, I forget the movie song
When you gonna realize it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet?
^~*~^
“It hurts to be beautiful,” his mum used to say, usually after burning her hand on a curling iron or while plucking the sensitive, stretchy skin just beneath her eye brow. She’d repeat it like a mantra while she grunted through her Jane Fonda tapes, two hours at a time. Eames caught himself thinking it doing suicides in gym class, or getting slammed face first into the grass during a rugby match. It probably wasn’t healthy, the way it wormed its way into his mind, the way it flitted across his thoughts whenever things got the slightest bit inconvenient. It probably didn’t help when “beautiful” started meaning “ready.” It hurt to drag himself from job to red eye flight to job. It hurt to spend seventy-two hours awake, alive on energy drinks, eyes burning through a magnifier over new passports for another nameless dream team. It hurt to spend whole nights hooked up to the PASIV, rehearsing forges for hours at a time— sometimes a businessman, sometimes a grandmother, sometimes a shellacked, blonde woman growing steadily thinner, grunting through hours of Jane Fonda Workout.
That afternoon, it specifically hurt in his lower back, but not as badly as it had that morning. It was stupid, really. He’d made it through ninety minutes of jogging, pull-ups, and dead lifts, only to strain his back doing cross sit-ups with a twenty pound medicine ball. Twenty fucking pounds. Eames was pretty sure his forearms each weighed more than that. Too many nights on airplanes, too many days in lounge chairs. Too many reasons to spend three hours at the gym each morning to keep himself in literal fighting shape.
They’d offered narcotics at the urgent care (American medicine was truly a hell of a thing), but he’d turned them down. Most opiates interacted poorly with Somnacin, and Eames liked having a functioning liver. He’d accepted Valium instead, taking the doctor’s word for it that the anti-anxiety medicine would help relax the tension in his spine. For now, it was mostly just making him light headed. He shifted painfully in his chair. Man, it fucking hurt to be beautiful.
“I think we can do better,” Arthur said, frowning. Eames dragged his eyes up to the point man’s face and tried to focus on the job at hand.
“What’s your plan, then?” Eames asked. Arthur began hurriedly drawing on the white board.
“We loop the maze back on itself at the bank,” he explained. “The projections should run into each other, and that ought to confuse them for a while. They shouldn’t be able to find the vault without finding the ductwork. If we do our jobs right, they won’t be able to find that either.” It was elegant, Eames thought. Simple and impressive. He didn’t feel like saying so. He never quite felt like telling Arthur when he was amazing; no “Arthur, your plan is truly genius,” or “you are a masterclass in assiduousness and ingenuity,” or “where do I donate to keep your tailor firmly focused on making sure your backside always looks exactly like it does at this moment?”
“And how do you propose we test that?” Yusuf asked.
“An easy field exercise,“ Arthur said, turning to Cobb.
The extractor smiled. “Hide and seek.“
^~*~^
Eames was standing in a room built of old marble blocks, and he couldn’t quite recall how he got there. That wasn’t great.
“You’re not gonna last long down here, Mr. Eames,” Arthur teased. Eames blinked at him. Right— Arthur was there too. That was fine. Probably normal. Instead of a suit, he was dressed in all black. Eames’ mouth went a little dry at the sight of Arthur in cashmere. His pants, Eames noticed, were still nearly unbearably tight.
“And why is that then, darling?“ Eames asked, straightening his jacket sleeve. He frowned a bit. The edges of his vision were a little blurry. They were in the bank for a reason— probably something for the job. Eames would just play along and pretend he had any clue what that reason was. Arthur would kill him if he knew Eames was under the influence at work. Cobb wouldn’t be far behind.
“You stand out,” Arthur said, simply. “You are what you are.“
“And that would be?“ Eames took in the the casual way Arthur leaned against the stone wall, the barely noticeable uptick in the corner of his mouth.
“In a word: ostentatious,” Arthur said.
“Osten—“ Eames laughed, “ostentatious, Arthur, really.”
“Don’t worry,” Arthur said with a grin, tightening the silencer on his pistol. “I’ll have your back.”
“You always do,” Eames replied. He circled the room, trying his hardest to look interested in the marble blocking of the bank vault. “We make a good team.”
“We do,” Arthur agreed.
(Teams? Were they on teams? There was something about teams, earlier. Some kind of capture the flag nonsense at the bank? Maybe some kind of promotion for opening a new savings account?)
Seriously, everything is weirder in America.
“So,” Eames breathed. “Where to?”
“We’re staying right here. We’re gonna let them come to us.”
Eames frowned in confusion. This was not how bankers worked. This was not how banking worked at all. “Let who come to us, love?”
Arthur smoothed the sides of his sweater. Eames pondered running his own hands down the cashmere instead. “Eames, your capacity to completely ignore everything going on around you never ceases to amaze me.”
Really though, none of this made any fucking sense. Eames had a number of questions:
How had they gotten to the bank?
Why were they at the bank?
Where was everyone else?
Why were they waiting for the banking staff to come to them?
There was a wall of security deposit boxes behind a wrought iron gate to Eames’ right. Arthur didn’t seem interested in the slightest. His eyes were flitting nervously between the heavy door at the end of the room, and the large cold air return above him. His right hand twitched toward the gun at his belt.
(Add to the list: What kind of idiot security guard let a Walther in? Was this bank open carry?)
“Twelve minutes,” Arthur muttered, staring at his watch.
Had it really been that long? “Not exactly stellar service then,” Eames noted.
“The goal is eighteen,” Arthur hummed. “I’d prefer even more.”
(Actually, boil that down to one question, for the sake of time: What the fuck?)
“Cobb, come in,” Arthur barked into a radio he seemed to materialize from thin air.
“Not going so well over here Arthur, I’ll call you back later!” A series of loud bangs punctuated Cobb’s response.
“Hang on, why is there screaming on his end?” Eames asked, moving towards Arthur. “Was that gunfire?” Arthur turned to Eames, his face a mask of confusion.
“Eames, are you feeling ok?”
The grate from the vent fell to the floor with a harsh clang, followed quickly by three men in khakis and forest green polo shirts.
Bank employees.
From the ceiling.
Eames blinked to clear his vision, which was growing steadily more blurry.
Hang on now— five men. Five men from the ceiling.
And one of them was attacking Arthur.
“Eames!” He called, expectantly. Eames was as surprised as anyone when he pulled a gun from his waistband and shot the fucker right between the eyes. “Took you long enough!” Arthur gasped, rounding on his heel to take out two others.
Number four came for Eames, pulling a knife from thin air. Eames grappled, somewhat sluggishly, furiously blinking haze from his vision. The knife grazed his shoulder and Eames yelped.
“Are you alright?!” Arthur yelled, his head turning briefly.
A gun shot.
Another.
Eames shanked the frenzied bank teller with his own knife and dropped him to the marble floor. His shoulders heaved with exertion, lungs burning. He wiped the red from his hands against his trousers.
“What the bloody hell was—“
“Eames,” Arthur whispered. He turned slightly, his hand pressed against the black cashmere of his sweater. “I—“ the hand drifted up, shaking, dripping with hot blood.
He stumbled. Eames’ arms were around him in a blink. “No—“ Eames gasped, lowering Arthur to the ground. Arthur clung to his jacket in pain. “No, no, no. It’s alright,” Eames whispered.
“Eames—“ Arthur started.
“Shh,” Eames whispered, his hand stroking Arthur’s face. “I’ll find help, you just hang on.” Arthur’s brow knit in confusion.
“Eames, what are you— aughh!” Arthur whimpered with pain, body contorting in the bigger man’s arms. Eames pressed Arthur’s hands tighter against the wound in his abdomen.
“Arthur!” Eames barked. “You stay awake, you hear me?” But Arthur was growing more and more pale, his breathing ragged. Beneath him, blood pooled freely. “Please,” Eames begged, desperately. He held Arthur tighter. Arthur gurgled something quietly, his shoulders falling slack. His dark eyes slid closed.
Eames didn’t try to stop the tears welling in his eyes as his blood-covered hands shook beneath the point man’s shoulders. He pressed his mouth to Arthur’s and blew. He slammed his fist against his chest, but all it did was force more blood out of his abdomen. Eames grasped for the radio and pressed the button. “Cobb,” his voice broke. “Cobb where the fuck are you?”
“I’m on the outside of the bank,” he replied. The radio beeped happily. “Did they reach the vault?”
“Arthur—“ Eames began. He broke off with a startled sob. The radio clattered to the floor.
“Eames?” the radio chirped. “Eames, you there?”
Eames had absolutely no idea how this happened. He had no idea why. It didn’t matter. Fuck, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. There was Arthur, lying cold and broken in Eames lap. He was unable to restrain a distraught wail as he gathered Arthur closer, laying gentle kisses against the face of the only person in the world he actually trusted.
And fuck, when did that happen? When did Arthur become so important? Why hadn’t he ever told him just how important he was? Arthur would have scoffed. He would have rolled his eyes, said something harsh, like, “Charm someone who cares, Mr. Eames.” It didn’t matter. Someone should have told Arthur every day how absolutely wonderful he was. Someone should have kissed him awake each morning, and made love to him until he couldn’t stay awake each night. Someone should have held doors open for him, and bought him frou frou coffee each morning, and picked up his dry cleaning, and manhandled him onto high surfaces every once in a while, just to remind him he was lovely, and kissable, and housed in too many layers in those blasted suits.
There was music playing softly over the banks speaker system. It sounded like a French song Arthur used to like. He’d hear all the French music he wanted to now— maybe with Mal beside him.
Untethered, Eames openly wept.
^~*~^
“What the fuck is your problem?” Eames snapped his eyes open to find a literal ghost standing over him. “Why didn’t you just shoot me out?” Cobb caught him heavily as Eames fully tumbled out of the lawn chair. Eames gaped up at Arthur, skin pale, eyes wild.
“You— I saw you—“ Eames broke off, panting heavily.
Arthur knelt in front of him with a frown. He gently pressed the back of his hand against Eames forehead, then both cheeks. Cobb watched with concern. “Does he have a fever?” He asked.
“What are you on, Eames?” Arthur asked flatly. Behind him, Yusuf took his glasses off.
“What’s all this then?”
“Eames lost his grip on reality,” Arthur answered, his eyes never leaving Eames’ panicked ones. “ it was like he completely forgot it was a dream— like he didn’t realize he even could be dreaming.”
“Eames,” Yusuf began, crouching next to Arthur. “What have you taken today?”
Eames glanced rapidly between them, eyes wide. He groaned, scrunching then tightly. It was a fucking dream. Why hadn’t he noticed? “Valium,” he ground out. Arthur’s frown deepened. “Where’s my fucking totem?” He muttered. He patted his pockets for his chip, and rolled it carefully between his fingers. A deep sigh escaped him.
“There you have it,” Yusuf muttered. “Your back again?” He asked, less than gently.
“Yeah,” Eames winced.
“Listen to me: you are old, my friend. I want you to learn this phrase in every language you know. I would like some naproxen. Please repeat.”
“I’m not going to bloody—“
“I would like... some naproxen.”
“I would like some fucking naproxen, alright, I get it.”
Yusuf straightened up, fiddling with a pen. “Next time tell them you take Ambien.”
Arthur blinked up at the chemist. “What?”
“Somnacin’s about 60% Ambien,” Yusuf shrugged.
Arthur’s face remained a mixture of concerned and annoyed. Eames couldn’t bear to look at him. “Right then,” he murdered, slapping his knees. “I think I need the afternoon.” He stood too quickly, back seizing immediately. He struggled to remain fully upright, unable to stand the indignity of being caught by Dominic Cobb a second time. No one tried to stop him as he left.