Work Text:
Eames chews on the end of a stolen pen, distracted from the unappealing pile of paperwork scattered about his makeshift desk by the distinctively musical pitter-patter of rain hammering against newspaper-covered windowpanes.
It is bucketing down outside: the sort of rain that is horizontal and painful, stinging at faces and rendering umbrellas more fucking useless than they already are, the sort of rain that leaks through cheap tin warehouse roofs and soaks down to bone in the few minutes it takes to run indoors from the car.
Earlier that morning whilst he buttered his burnt toast, the thick heavy smell of ozone had wafted into his sparse kitchen - heralding the approaching storm on the grey, misty horizon. It had brought back memories of sandals and train stations and rich, pealing laughter. He had wiped the crumbs from his mouth and driven past the local cemetery on his way to the warehouse, idly watching as pale sunlight blushed over paler gravestones.
A door clicks open and Eames blinks, instantly alert. Yusuf is pottering around his messy workbench; he isn't needed for this job but is content to work on his own. Olivier, their extractor, is asleep at his desk, face hidden in the crook of his arms. Ariadne is sketching the rough beginnings of a cathedral, the chosen stage for their latest heist. So that must mean –
“Good morning, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, cool and pleasant and a little wild around the eyes. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
Eames stares, a little. Arthur is sopping (dove-grey suit wrinkled and discoloured into a darker, blotchy shade), forty-five minutes late and carrying half a dozen disposable cups, three in each hand, neatly balanced atop one another.
If all these factors were not incongruous enough, there is the fact that Arthur usually loathes rain.
“Certainly,” he agrees carefully, reaching for a paper cup because Arthur is watching him expectantly, eagerly even. He sips at it tentatively. Hot, bitter liquid surges down his throat. “Oh. Uh. Thanks for the coffee?”
Arthur smiles at him.
No, that’s not quite right.
Arthur fucking beams at him, dimples and all.
There is a crisp yellow leaf caught in his windswept hair and a slight red flush, high up on his cheekbones. If Eames didn’t know better, if Eames wasn’t so good at what he did, if Eames wasn’t quite as observant, he would have made the amateur mistake of thinking this was Arthur being happy.
But the lines around Arthur’s eyes and mouth are tauter, the shadows under his eyes are deeper and Eames knows from previous experience that when he is this incandescent, this fake, this blissful, he is in fact furious.
Like anyone, Arthur gets angry – he swears and slams doors and cusses and bitches to anyone that will listen, a sight that is amusing but not necessarily fear-inducing. When angry, Arthur is not unlike a rumpled, indignant child. However that too is a tightly-controlled persona, a cultivated fabrication. Because even in anger, Arthur is calculating.
Only rarely, sporadically, does he allow himself the luxury of pure, unadulterated rage; ferocious in its intensity and beautiful in its entirety.
And when furious, Arthur is a conundrum – precarious and yet stupidly determined to pretend that nothing is in fact wrong, an indeterminable risk factor, chilling and methodical and liable to cause any amount of mindless destruction if pushed far enough. Eames has always been rather grotesquely fascinated by the unbridled chaos that lies untouched just beneath that calm, collected, professional veneer. He wonders what it would be like to strip that façade away, bit by bit, until only Arthur is left behind, raw and bleeding and vulnerable.
Quiet and considering, he sips musingly at his coffee and tries to suppress the apprehension that trickles down his spine when Arthur whistles on the way to his desk, soggy shoes squelching with each receding footstep. Yusuf, utterly oblivious, is making little noises of joy into his steaming cup and peering benevolently over his spectacles at the assorted selection of amber-tinted test tubes on his workbench. Olivier, shaken awake from slumber, accepts his coffee with a taciturn nod of thanks, dazed and mildly disgruntled.
It is Ariadne, unfairly clever for one so young, who follows his gaze.
“Is he all right?” she mumbles over the rim of her cup, forehead furrowed. “Something seems a bit off.”
Eames shrugs. “Probably having a bad hair day.”
Ariadne stifles a snicker, not entirely convinced, but Eames is no longer listening.
He thinks, inevitably, of Cape Town. It had been a fairly easy assignment: the same old tiresome rigmarole of corporate espionage, cutthroat businessmen with too much money, deception and theft. Nothing overly unpredictable or unfamiliar, especially not for a team of their calibre.
However.
Whilst under, in the midst of the dream, Arthur and Cobb had argued. Not an old-married-couple argument. Not a two-friends-squabbling argument. Not even the tried and tested you-failed-to-research-the-mark-properly-and-now-we’re-fucking-screwed argument. This argument had been monstrous – a heated, spiteful, scathing shouting match of accusation and lies and pent-up grievances, with Nash dithering on the sidelines and Eames doing his best to break them apart and the mark nowhere to be seen.
Because back then Arthur was more obvious about his hurt over Mal and seeing her again, flesh and blood and tangible, as a murderous projection didn’t help. Of course Cobb, being Cobb, had refused to discuss it, absently waving it away as a subconscious slip and repeating that ludicrous line, “I have it under control,” when even that walking disaster Nash could see that he clearly didn’t.
And then, intentional or otherwise, Arthur had simply snapped.
The dream had crumbled around them instantly, a nightmare of falling plaster and cracking glass and crushed bones.
They had woken up sweating and on the verge of screaming, instinctively reaching to rip the cannulas from their wrists, the sense-memory of their bloody and inevitable deaths fresh in their minds.
Cobb, too shaken to get pissy, had fled the room immediately, most likely to brood obsessively over his (Mal’s) totem. Arthur had left soon afterwards too in the opposite direction, lips pinched white, eyes shuttered, and clipped footsteps fading fast on pristine tile.
Eames and Nash were left behind, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck had just happened.
It was then that he had realised how much they all took Arthur’s unflappable stability for granted.
***
It is close to evening by the time Eames finishes annotating his colossal pile of paperwork, memorises the mark’s wife’s characteristics and drains his fifth cup of coffee. Ariadne and Yusuf have already left for (judging by their matching expressions of guilty nervousness when he had hazarded a sly guess) their dinner date.
Olivier had shuffled out not long after them, tinny music blaring from bulky headphones, yawning and bleary-eyed as he had muttered, “I’ll leave Mr. Arthur in your capable hands then, Mr. Eames.”
Too startled to even offer a weak protest, Eames had stared after him gormlessly, frantically wondering if there had been a double meaning to those seemingly innocuous words. No, surely not, he had ultimately decided. How on earth would anyone (especially somnolent Olivier) know that the only way to effectively mollify Arthur when he got this worked up was for Eames to –
Metal shrieks across concrete floor and Eames steals a glance at Arthur, who is dragging a lawn chair over to his desk. The silver case of the PASIV device glimmers in the mottled shadows. Making up his mind quickly he saunters over to Arthur, dragging along another lawn chair to set beside the first. For all his trouble, he is rewarded with an exasperated glower and stony silence. Unfazed, Eames flops down into his lawn chair.
“That was quite a show this morning,” he hums, lazily draping his limbs into a more comfortable position. “Ariadne saw through it, unfortunately. Quite perceptive, isn’t she?”
As expected Arthur is steadfastly attempting to ignore him, though they both know by now that it is a futile enterprise. Eames is exceptionally proficient in forcing his way under someone’s skin and Arthur, much to his chagrin and frustration, is not the exception to the rule.
That distinction will always belong to a woman with dusky curls, enigmatic eyes and a rich, pealing laugh.
He watches intently through lidded eyes as Arthur fastidiously rolls back his cuffs and swabs his wrist, ghostly in the gloom, with alcohol. It is apparent that, even hours later, his fury hasn’t diminished in the slightest. If anything, it has exacerbated: his breathing is shallow and rapid and his cuticles are ragged, bleeding from incessant nibbling.
Perhaps the weight of his stare is disconcerting for Arthur eventually resorts to hissing, “I’m trying to work, Eames.”
“Not like this you aren’t. Unless you were aiming for a repeat of Cape Town, that is.”
Arthur flinches, fists clenching. It is a low blow, undoubtedly, but Eames is not feeling particularly considerate, tactful or patient today; he is fed up with all the infernal rain and associated memories that itch at his eyelids, clamouring for attention.
“It’s useless to ask what the fuck happened to have gotten your knickers in such a twist, isn’t it?”
He frowns, instantly on guard and unwavering in his obstinacy. “Obviously.”
Eames rolls his eyes but doesn’t push it. Arthur just sits there, stubborn and resolute, glaring across at him. He looks ridiculously young, with haphazard strands of hair (gel mostly washed out by rain) slipping into his eyes and that dangerous, petulant twist to his mouth.
Before he can think overthink it Eames leans over slightly and plucks the bright yellow leaf out of his hair, letting it slip through his fingers. Perhaps more out of instinct and ingrained training than any real intention, Arthur holds out his palm to capture it, bemused.
Finally he murmurs, uncharacteristically subdued. “Eames.”
“Arthur,” Eames replies, stretching till he hears joints pop, leaning back into his seat.
“This can’t become a habit. You know that, don’t you?”
Rain trickles down windowpanes, throwing shadowy after-images upon skin and fabric. Eames sighs, brushing his fingers against a thin wrist that is still somewhat damp from the disinfectant. Arthur practically bounds out of his lawn chair, breath hitching into a wheeze, hurriedly turning his back to Eames.
Eames frowns, suddenly uncertain.
“Arthur.”
He is now standing over the open silver briefcase, swiftly packing away the retractable cable and rechecking that the golden vials slotted into the storage compartments are all accounted for. His shoulders are shaking.
“Arthur.” Eames has all the time in the world. But Arthur doesn’t.
No answer.
“Arthur.”
“What?”
Ah, there it is. Fury. Hatred. Fatigue. Desperation. His cheekbones are suffused a shade of dull red, both from anger and the sheer struggle of breathing. The façade is disintegrating, slow but inexorable.
“Have you taken your Ventolin?”
A muscle in Arthur’s jaw twitches. Lips twist, curling into a wry and ugly mockery of a smile. “It didn’t help.”
For a brief, deluded moment, Eames actually feels sorry for the insufferable bastard.
So he thinks fuck this shit and reaches out impulsively, half-rising out of his seat to close the gap between them.
Halfway there, in the heartbeat between void and contact, he doubts his decision but by then it is too late. Blunt fingers curl around knobbly elbows and for a moment, even a fist in the face or gun to the temple would be worth it just for that expression of complete bewilderment and dawning rage on Arthur’s face. And then he is pulling down and Arthur loses his balance and clumsily tumbles onto his chest.
To his credit, Arthur has enough presence of mind to remain haughtily impassive and mutter through gritted teeth, “Kindly let me go, Mr. Eames.”
His voice is the only possible giveaway – somewhat inelegantly muffled by Eames’ twill shirt and ragged around the vowels with the sheer effort of control and self-restraint and boxing-in-whatever-it-is that has made him so unsettled.
“Lie still,” Eames grunts brusquely.
Naturally, that does not go down too well. There is a minor scuffle as Arthur struggles and kicks and wriggles, a vehement litany of curses and oaths spilling from his lips, all pretence of calm-and-composed completely abandoned. Eames simply readjusts his grip, winding his limbs around Arthur’s shins doggedly.
Bony elbows dig into a sternum. Hands winch around wrists, hard enough to bruise. Knees slam into a muscled abdomen, eliciting a particularly winded “bloody hell, just stop squirming,” and a rather immature “I hope that hurt, asshole.”
As the youngest of four unruly and accident-prone boys, Eames spent much of his rowdy, boisterous childhood learning to wrestle and tussle and rough-house. Arthur might be skinny and slippery, sharp angles and sharper tongue, but Eames makes up for it with a bulkier frame and, to be honest, plethora of dirty, underhanded tricks.
A few frenzied moments later he is breathless and wheezing, flushing an unbecoming shade of maroon and still firmly trapped in Eames’ arms.
“You’re such a child,” he sighs, breath wafting into rain-stiff hair. “Calm the fuck down or your asthma will just get worse. And I’m not driving you to the ED in this godforsaken weather.”
“Fuck off.”
“Well, well, Arthur,” Eames drawls languidly, very much aware that he is being an arse. “Eloquent today, aren’t we?”
Arthur scowls and turns his face away, cheek pressed to rib cage, breathing noisy and laboured. Intuitively, Eames’ hand curls around the nape of a warm neck, the callused pad of his thumb resting against the protruding knob of bone there. Arthur shudders but, at least, does not pull away. They stay like that, Eames unspeaking and Arthur suspiciously compliant, lost in time, anchored only by the incessant spatter of water upon tin and the agonised rattle of wind against glass.
And then, finally, finally, Arthur allows himself to relax completely, bones melting over Eames’ own, eyes opaque and drowsy. His breathing is calmer now and starting to fall back into the easy rhythm of inspiration and expiration.
This can’t become a habit.
Arthur snuffles against the ridge of Eames’ sternum, fingers grasping fitfully at the remnants of Eames’ favourite shirt which is by now reduced to a pitifully crumpled, spit-encrusted mess.
Hazily, he thinks of Phillipa.
In the bleak, endless days following Mal’s death, she had developed the same self-soothing mechanism. At the funeral she had burrowed her small shivering frame into his chest, as if trying to mould herself to him.
His memories of that godless day are minimal at best and even those are no more than a fistful of blurred, detached fragments. Honey-scented strains of Edith Piaf on the warm breeze. The iciness of Phillipa’s fingers, intertwined in his own. The awful, wretched helplessness etched into Miles’ craggy, exhausted face. Arthur, little more than a stranger, cradling a fretful, restless James. Echoes of Cobb, long gone, lingering on after the service.
At the time, Eames had honestly despised the man. Not because Cobb had run. Not even because he thought Cobb had killed her. Cobb had always been somewhat unhinged but he fucking loved Mal, the sort of love that cannot be quantified or explained, the sort of love that just is. No; what Eames had hated was that Cobb had let her die.
Amidst his grief and hurt and hate, he had been unable to avert his gaze from the immaculate man with the slicked-back hair and sombre charcoal suit and crow’s feet around his dark, dark eyes.
Was it then?
It had been raining, a transient summer drizzle that had coated everything in a light, glistening sheen. Only later when back at the Cobbs’ empty house, unknotting the ill-fitting tie from around his neck and pointedly not looking at the framed photographs on the wall, had Eames realised how oddly fitting that had been. Mal had always loved overcast, gloomy days – she would pull him along in the downpour as they ran to meet Cobb at the train station, sandals swinging from her fingers, laughing even as he grumbled that his shoes would be irreparably ruined.
Arthur, already notorious within their circles and younger than Eames had expected for someone of such expertise and qualifications, had been crooning a lullaby into James’ sunflower-hued hair.
Was it then?
He had been crying, openly and unashamed by it, tears indistinguishable from the rain.
Was it then that Eames had first lost to him?
Dusk crawls through droplet-speckled windows. Slivers of fading indigo light illuminate spiralling motes of dust and towers of neatly alphabetised paperwork.
This can’t become a habit.
“Don’t you see that it’s already far too late, you idiot,” he murmurs into the musty, oppressive silence.
Arthur stirs, brows fierce and drawn together; his features are harsh and irritable even in sleep. Eames huffs out a despairing laugh, fingertips lightly tracing the contours of his jaw. The lawn chair squeaks as he shifts his weight, tightening his hold around a stubborn, impossible, infuriating man.
Outside, the storm rages on, unremitting and unapologetic.