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it’s telling you that I’m a mess (the hardest thing I’ve ever done)

Chapter Text

Being a Forger isn’t like most jobs, and not just because of the obvious. Being a Forger is a calling – you have it or you don’t, it’s either the most brilliant of jobs or it’s the most reprehensible, and there’s no sleepwalking through it, if you’ll pardon the pun. You know if you’re meant to be a Forger.

Eames is a Forger. He took to it like a duck to water and he never looked back. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a bad side, though. Doesn’t mean Eames can’t love and hate forging in equal measure.

His professional life couldn’t be better – he’s a second-to-none Forger, and that’s not just his ego talking. Mal and Cobb were the best around, before it went pear-shaped, and when they had a choice they always chose Eames. The problem arises because his professional life always bleeds into the personal, and he hasn’t yet found a way to shut it off.

Being a Forger means you get to see how shitty humans really are – or at least how easily they’re bent to your purposes. How you can make them love someone, hate someone, turn on someone. Every time Eames is with someone he can’t help but see how he could be better, what they want him to be, what they really want from him, all the things they barely realize they need. Even if he manages to catch himself before he gives it to them, how can you deal with never being yourself? Eames is tired of manipulation. He’s a master at it, but it’s not what he’s ever wanted for himself.

So he has his one night stands, his flings; he has first dates that never turn into seconds. He might be lonely, but he’s never alone, if he doesn’t want to be. He has dozens of friends all across the world – he plays mah jong with Enhao when he’s in Beijing, he goes bar-hopping with Kevin whenever he’s stateside. When in Paris he stays with Sinead, when in Mombasa he has dinner with Anupam thrice weekly. He’s got a doddering old uncle in Banburyshire that he pops in on for Christmas to drink terrible port with while they reminisce about boarding school house rivalries.

Eames doesn’t consider himself unhappy. He’s too frightfully amused by life to ever be unhappy. So it seems silly to say it, but Arthur changes all this. Arthur changes everything.

| |

Though the stakes are a little higher than most, much of the Fischer job is like any other. Training, planning, experimenting with architecture and forging, doing dry runs of their assignments, rummaging around in each other’s heads until there’s nothing left that even resembles privacy. There’s not too much to be shocked at any more – Cobb’s frankly psychotic obsession with keeping Mal’s memory leashed, Saito’s frankly disturbing use of his mistress’ carpet – because it all gets rather predictable, when you see it day in and day out. Terribly intimate and terribly mundane at the same time. It’s a bit of a thrill when Fischer Sr. finally kicks it, Eames admits.

The job itself is a shit show – partly Arthur’s fault for having crap intel, partly Cobb’s fault for neglecting to mention a few key details, but the second level goes well enough, and really, they’ve got no choice but to carry on. Eames does his best to settle himself on the floor. Always good to get as comfortable as possible before going under.

“Security’s going to run you down hard,” he says, helping Arthur hook up the PASIV device with one hand.

“And I will lead them on a merry chase,” Arthur retorts, with his particular brand of humor that isn’t humor, really.

Eames can’t help grinning. “Just be back before the kick.”

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says softly – softly, and so unexpectedly full of fondness that Eames smiles even as it hits him in his gut.

My God, he thinks. How absolutely terrible.

| |

Eames shelves his epiphany until the Fischer job is over because he is a professional, regardless of what some may think, but after that, he’ll admit, he’s in quite the quandary. In reality, he knows there’s only one thing to do – seduce Arthur and get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid, or pulling the bullet out of the wound. Once Eames is aware of his feelings he can’t ignore them, so he’ll just have to realize Arthur’s like everyone else – wanting better, wanting more, wanting not-Eames, just what Eames can be for him – and Eames can call him a tosser and move on.

The problem, the trick, the sticky little crux of the matter, is that Eames likes Arthur. Eames has always liked Arthur. Eames would do bloody anything for Arthur – like be better, and different, and more. Give him whatever he wanted, or needed, and Eames wouldn’t be able to help stop himself from doing it. Maybe wouldn’t want to. It might be all right, really, Eames tells himself. It’s what he does, it’s who he is. And my god, if not for Arthur, then who? There must be worse things. Hell, he knows there are; he’s been inside Cobb’s head.

After the Fischer job he follows Arthur to Boston. Eames is a transient sort of man; he’ll knock around the globe with just about anyone until he gets bored again. And Arthur, try as he might to be boring, never quite managed to bore Eames.

They spend the first week on cloud nine, euphoric, walking all parts of the city, grinning at each other like fools at random intervals. It glorious, and wonderful, and Eames can admit he’d probably become half in love with Arthur if he wasn’t already.

At the beginning of the second week Eames pushes Arthur against the wall, and kisses him under a stone archway. Arthur is caught splendidly, spectacularly off-guard.

“Oh,” Arthur gasps, “I didn’t–” and Eames laughs.

“Me either,” he says, “me either, darling.”

Sometimes the greatest novelty of real life is how damned inconvenient things are – they can’t just imagine a bed where they are, they have to rush back to the hotel and be damned proper doing it.

Well. Mostly proper. Eames makes sure to give the cabbie an extra tenner.

| |

If the first week is wonderful, the second is possibly even more so. Eames lets Arthur drag him out of the room only once, because he throws a rather magnificent strop over the state of the sheets.

Cobb calls not long after, and Arthur lets him natter on, full to the brim with inane stories about the children. He mentions a potential job at the end of the phone call like the smallest of afterthoughts, and sounds cautiously pleased to find Eames with Arthur. “Saves me the trouble of tracking you down this time,” he says wryly, and then scolds Phillipa for running inside the house.

Arthur promises to meet Cobb in Helsinki in two weeks. Eames wrinkles his nose – who wants to go to Finland at this time of year, there’s entirely too much sun – but he’s secretly pleased when Arthur books a flight for the two of them, without asking if Eames is coming.

So it’s going well, spectacularly, impossibly well, when Eames come back from picking up takeaway to find Arthur sitting in an armchair, silver briefcase open on the end table next to him. Arthur’s face is peaceful, blank. Serene and empty, for the moment.

Arthur’s been in the business so long he can’t dream naturally anymore, and either can Eames. Using the PASIV device even in their off-time is second-nature, a way of maintaining their sanity. People who don’t dream begin to doubt reality, and neither of them have a taste for that road. Cobb came back from that brink, but only barely, miraculously, and there are countless others who’ve checked out, in one way or another.

Eames touches the hollow underneath Arthur’s cheekbone before pulling the matching armchair up next to Arthur’s. It takes only a moment to push the needle into his arm.

| |

He’s in a restaurant now – art deco, rather lovely, with a view of some nameless, generic skyline. Arthur is sitting at the best seat in the house, alone.

There’s a certain amount of leeway in dreams, as far as attention goes. While it’s generally best to have the dreamer overlook you, particularly when stealing secrets, if you can convince the dreamer you belong there, front and center, you can take whatever liberties you wish. Throughout his various jaunts through Arthur’s subconscious, Eames has figured out, rather cunningly, that Arthur prefers blondes to brunettes, witty to giggly, svelte to curvy, but dark redheads most of all, particularly with well-placed freckles. Female, obviously. Arthur barely pings Eames gaydar, and Eames is always spot-on. Point being, if you fake it – fake it well – you’ll make it, that’s Eames’ motto.

For example: striding over to where Arthur is sitting, apologizing for being late to dinner, and pressing a kiss to his cheek before sliding into the seat opposite. Eames’ tone is casual but elegant, a little more than friendly. Exactly like a lover, or a would-be lover, and so Arthur allows it all with a smile. A waiter appears almost instantly with a bottle of red wine.

Another hallmark of getting through a dream undetected is to let the dreamer set the pace. During a job, this is more an illusion of control than anything, since the dream levels are designed to keep the dreamer going in circles, and any people they might meet, anything they might see – it’s all preplanned by the team to get the desired reaction. In this, however, Eames is perfectly willing to let Arthur take the lead, pick and choose - dinner, dancing, conversation, sex. Whatever he likes, whatever he wishes. Whatever he needs.

Conversation is light, pleasant, with only a little banter – the very flirty kind, with much less sarcasm than usual. Less harsh edges. Eames is wittier too, more sophisticated, more cultured; at least more than he’d usually let on. A woman out to dinner with Arthur, she’d want to prove she was smart. She’d be a little like Ariadne, Eames decides, an older Ariadne, less of an ingénue and more urbane, more confident. Not quite as overtly sexually aware as Mal. That’s exactly what Arthur would like.

They finish dinner and skip dessert, and as they head towards the elevator Eames shivers a bit in anticipation. What’s Arthur in the mood for, tonight? Is Arthur going to go slow and try to be a gentleman, seductive and terribly sexy? Or something hot and quick, leaving Eames’s heels on and just pushing the dress out of the way? Eames turns to look, to try and gauge Arthur’s response.

There’s the faintest of furrows in Arthur’s brow. Eames knows that look, knows it like the back of his hand. Arthur’s picked up on something. He’s backtracking his steps, going over the evening, picking out all the flaws, the tell-tale signs. Eames is good, but there are always certain flaws in dream logistics that won’t hold up under Arthur’s trained scrutiny.

“Let’s not make this unpleasant,” he says, just as Arthur reaches for the gun tucked into the back of his suit.

“Who are you?” Arthur asks, pistol level with Eames’ forehead, “and what do you want?”

Eames sighs. “There are no excuses for domestic violence, darling,” he says, and Arthur goes completely and utterly still.

“Eames?” he asks, after a moment, after everything has sunk back in, and Eames smiles.

“Right now I would seem more of a… oh, Lauren, don’t you think?” he asks. “You’re not really the type to date Tiffanys, or Britneys, or what have you.” He shimmies a little. “Claire, perhaps, don’t I look like a Claire?”

Arthur’s face goes a little purple, and then suddenly white. “What the hell,” he hisses, and shoots Eames in the head.

| |

Eames' whole waking process is rather unpleasant. Arthur jerks awake a fraction of a second later.

“What the hell was that?” he snaps, and yanks the needles from both their arms before Eames can say even a word. Eames, for all his rationalizations, doesn’t have a simple answer ready.

“I don’t want your games!” Arthur shouts, well on his way to being truly angry, and Eames is momentarily taken aback.

He recovers quickly. “Everyone wants games,” he snaps, and reaches for where he threw his coat over the back of the chair. “I just thought you and I could be a bit more honest about it.”

He’s out of the flat before Arthur can say anything else, because Eames has heard it all. And he’s damned tired of it.

| |

He comes back the next day because there’s no avoiding it. His things are still there, and he’ll end up working with Arthur again anyway, guaranteed. The Fischer job launched them into the stratosphere, professionally, and Eames has worked too damn hard at being the best to throw it away because Arthur – because Eames was right about being alone in the first place.

“We’re going to talk about it,” Arthur says, the minute Eames walks through the door.

Eames sighs. “Of course we are.” Arthur couldn’t let bloody anything go, not if his life depended on it. And he’s got the gall to look as perfectly put together as ever. The bastard.

“The game,” Arthur says, and he sounds so incredibly tired that Eames has to meet his gaze. Can’t stand the shame stuck in his chest. “The game you seemed to think we were playing. I wasn’t in on the rules, Eames. I wasn’t in on the joke.”

“Arthur, darling, no,” Eames says, like it’s been wrenched out of him, ripped straight from his heart. “I’m a Forger.”

“I’m aware of your skill set,” Arthur says, and from the look on his face, it’s apparent that’s really cleared nothing up.

Eames tries. His very best, he tries. But for all his mannerisms, he’s never done well with words. “Other people – I see what they want. I can always see it. It’s what I do, you know that. The difference with you is… I want to give you what you want. Even if it’s not me, not always me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur says, and Eames feels every weary consonant like a blow. “Jesus Christ, Eames.”

“I don’t do this for just anybody, you know,” he says, rather petulantly, and then feels silly, completely naked in way he hasn’t for years.

“The ironic thing,” Arthur says after a moment, “is that if you’d showed up as yourself in that dream, I would never have questioned it. Not far enough. Because if it was really you, I know you’ve got my back. Always. And if it wasn’t you… I wouldn’t have wanted it to be a dream. Maybe I wouldn’t have cared.”

It’s a dangerous confession. In some ways much more revealing than Eames’ – of course Eames is a Forger, of course he’s emotionally fucked, did anyone expect any different? But for Arthur to admit to being compromised, in any way –

“Oh,” Eames says, “you’re a bit obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Arthur’s smile is a slow, peculiar thing. “Only you,” he admits, and Eames’ smile is a secret in kind.

Chapter Text

There’s a certain amount of leeway in dreams, as far as attention goes. While it’s generally best to have the dreamer overlook you, particularly when stealing secrets, if you can convince the dreamer you belong there, front and center, you can take whatever liberties you wish. Throughout his various jaunts through Arthur’s subconscious, Eames has figured out, rather cunningly, that Arthur prefers blondes to brunettes, witty to giggly, svelte to curvy, but dark redheads most of all, particularly with well-placed freckles. Female, obviously. Arthur barely pings Eames gaydar, and Eames is always spot-on. Point being, if you fake it – fake it well – you’ll make it, that’s Eames’ motto.

So he strides over in three-inch heels, a gently clinging dress, and asks Arthur if he can buy him a drink.

Is utterly, completely floored when Arthur demurs.

“I’m flattered,” Arthur says, “but I’m waiting for someone.”

Someone turns out to be Eames. Dream-Eames, in a blue linen suit with a terrible paisley shirt Eames belatedly realizes as one of his favorites. It’s surreal, watching yourself cross the room. It’s worse when a projection of you kisses your ...person. Of some significance.

Eames is irrationally jealous. He shouldn’t be jealous of himself, of course. Arthur’s asleep, he’s dreaming – that his subconscious came up with Eames at all is flattering. Eames shouldn’t feel slighted, that his tailor-made perfect woman is being dumped for his own representation in Arthur’s mind.

Still. Eames pulls the handgun out of his purse, and shoots fake-Eames in the head before shooting Arthur in the heart. It’s terrifically satisfying.

| |

“Well,” Eames says breezily, after shooting himself in the head and waking up surprisingly happy with it, “that was unpleasant.”

Arthur is staring at him.

“Don’t give me that look,” Eames continues. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, darling. You shouldn’t try to complicate things so needlessly.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “It’s pretty simple, actually,” he says. “Someone had to shoot me. Someone who wasn’t my subconscious. And since no one else is in the room, that someone had to be you.”

Belatedly, Eames realizes the whole “shooting them both” thing might have been a bit short-sighted.

“I don’t know,” he insists, “if I was the redhead, then who was me?”

Arthur’s mouth closes with a satisfactory click. His nostrils flare. “Are we really going to play this game?”

Eames rests his chin on his hand. “You know me, darling, I love games.”

“Well I don’t,” Arthur says firmly, and Eames smile slips, a little. Eames doesn’t quite know how to say that he’s not keen on games either, but it’s the only thing he’s used to, the only thing he’s come to expect. It’s… a terrible trick, admitting your own shortcomings. They’re supposed to bring someone closer to you, but whenever Eames tries it feels as though his secrets have been sandpapered away from him; it leaves him raw, uncomfortable, snappish. This is no different.

“I – fine, I was the redhead. And I’m sorry for shooting you. I suppose.”

“You suppose. You suppose you’re sorry for shooting me.”

“Well, it was for cheating on me.”

“With you.”

“Yes.” Eames crosses his arms. “Exactly.”

They stare at each other.

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. Doesn’t bother to tap his foot. He’ll stay here all night, blast him.

Eames caves like the proverbial flan in a cupboard. “Oh fine, I was jealous.”

“Of… yourself.”

“I made her for you. The redhead, I mean.”

Arthur’s gaze softens. “Like a gift.”

Eames groans. “Don’t make that face, please, calves’ eyes are unattractive on everyone.”

“Tell that to your redhead friend,” Arthur murmurs, ever closer, and Eames allows his hurt feelings to be assuaged.