Chapter Text
Arthur
Arthur wakes up the next morning warm, well-rested, and very much alone. He blearily notes that he’s not in his own bed, and more importantly, that the rumpled pace beside him is entirely empty. The previous night comes back in crystal clear detail.
Oh.
All of a sudden, the empty space to his left becomes much more concerning. What if Eames regrets everything? What if he thinks that he was acting completely out of line because Eames was drunk? What if he’s grumpy and hungover and never wants to have sex with Arthur ever again?
Given, Arthur’s never seen Eames display any signs of the last three, but still. Then Arthur’s inner narrator surlily reminds him why should he care if Eames doesn’t want to fuck with him anymore, it’s not like London is short on people.
Arthur worries about these items for several minutes before he realizes that his brain is hardly running at full capacity.
He needs coffee, dammit, or else he’ll be the one who’s grumpy and hungover.
He wanders out of Eames’s bedroom, pulling on some boxers and a shirt on his way, and goes off in search of Eames.
He's is nowhere to be found. The kitchen is untouched - everything just as he left it last night.
Arthur tries very hard not to start panicking. In a moment of genius, he remembers why he came to the kitchen in the first place. He starts the coffee machine, watches it gurgle away, and panics.
He panics until the coffee is done, at which he lifts his mug and panics some more as he takes his first sip of the day.
Okay , he thinks as the first few milligrams of caffeine absorb into his bloodstream. I can handle this. Maybe he’s just out early. For no particular reason. That’s just what hungover people do, isn’t it? Wander outdoors first thing in the morning.
By the time he’s a third of his way finished, he remembers that he can just text Eames. He goes back to his room, fishes out his phone, and returns to the kitchen as he composes the text.
Hey...
Hey...
Hey, where are you?
Too casual. He never asks Eames this kind of thing. Except sometimes. But not like this.
I’m going out to breakfast. See you later.
He’s going out for breakfast? No way. He does not want to face any type of humanity, save Eames right now.
I’m going out to breakfast. See you later.
I’m going out to breakfast. Se
I’m going out to breakf
I’m going out
I’m goi
I
...
ay b
ay bb wh
ay bb where r u
He snickers and deletes the text immediately.
Eventually, he settles on a passable combination of words. With a last fortifying sip of coffee, and presses send.
Two gunshots go off.
Right. Outside. His door.
He chokes and nearly falls over.
Arthur carefully lowers his mug to the table and creeps over to his front door. A clean hole is blown right through at eye-level.
Arthur hesitantly backs away a few steps before looking through the hole at an angle. Sure enough, there’s an unfamiliar man at the other side of the entrance. In front of him, holding the gunman’s wrists above his head, is the slightly more comforting sight of James.
Arthur isn’t stupid, he knows that James is somewhere very high up on the military ladder. He suspects MI6, and would have hacked into their databases earlier, well, if it weren’t so damn annoying. It’s not that he couldn’t, he reminds himself. It’s that it's too bothersome and boring, and he had better things to do than creep on his neighbors.
Anyhow, he figures it should at least be somewhat safe with James in the situation. He opens the door.
“Well, hello there,” the gunman rasps. His gaze scours Arthur from around the back of James's head. He’s blond, huge, and apparently not putting up much of a fight with his captor. James has got one arm across the man’s neck, and the other hand pinning his wrists up against the door. The back of his head looks as furious as the back of a head could look. He is also very, very still.“Hello,” says Arthur, gingerly toeing a gun out of his way as he steps out.
“Say, James,” the man says conversationally. “You never mentioned that you got a new neighbor. And an American, at that. Exotic”
“Well,” James says tightly, “if you had seen fit to stop by ...’
The man ignores him, instead focusing on Arthur. His eyes are brown and very intelligent, with a hint of amusement. His chin bobs against James’s forearm as he speaks.
“Sorry about the door, mate. James here tackled me and made the shot go wild. It’s Alec, by the way.”
“Uh,” Arthur says.
It is at this point that he realizes it is the middle of November and he is standing outside in nothing but boxers and a t-shirt that isn’t his. Through his peripheral vision, he can tell that it’s a hideous shade of green and has some sort of graphic print on it. Now that he thinks of it, the boxers might not be his either.
He wears boxer briefs, dammit. He can’t see these, but he has a sinking feeling they have something horrible about them, too.
"You alright?" Alec wonders.
“Arthur," Arthur blurts. "I’m Arthur. Care to explain what you were aiming for?”
He winces internally.
Alec rolls his eyes. “That damn doorbell never works right. I wasn’t going to stand out here all day knocking, so I decided to shoot it.”
“The doorbell,” Arthur repeats.
“No, the lock, of course.”
“Shoot what?”
Eames is standing at the base of the steps, bearing several plastic bags. He looks up nonchalantly at the bizarre scene.
“Oh, hello Alec. Hello James. Morning, Arthur.”
"Hello, Eames," Alec says happily.
Eames cocks a brow at Arthur’s getup. “Nice outfit. That shirt's a bit too young for me, you can keep it.”
“God,” Arthur groans, burying his head in his hands. “It’s too early for this. I don't even want to ask who this guy is. Eames, where the hell were you?”
“Grocery,” Eames says innocently. “We’re out of eggs and milk. I needed to make breakfast.”
“Speaking of breakfast, I could use some,” Alec chimes in. “I haven’t had a decent in meal, in what, three weeks?”
From behind James, a head of shaggy black hair pokes out his door.
“I second that,” Taylor groggily declares. “But, Alec, get your ass in here first so I can yell at you.”
“Now that,” James says grimly, “Is something I can get behind.”
An expression that might be fear flickers very briefly over Alec’s face.
“Well, you’re all invited over for pancakes when you’re done,” Eames offers.
“Give us a few minutes,” Alec says apologetically as he is whisked into the opposing flat. The door slams shut a with a series of ominous clicks.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“I must admit,” Eames says, as he cracks eggs, “that you in my clothes was a nice surprise.”
Arthur examines the shirt as he leans against the kitchen counter. “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Seriously?”
“What can I say?” Eames says. “It was a good show.”
Arthur tugs at the boxers. They’re yellow, with red cherries stitched all over. How did he not notice ?
“You actually wear these?”
“Don’t give me that look, it’s not like anyone sees them. They weren’t even mine.” He begins vigorously whisking the batter.
“God, then I'm hoping you never spoke to him again.”
There’s a brief lapse in the whisking.
“Ex-boyfriend’s,” he says casually. “Asshole left them here a long time ago.”
“Wow,” Arthur mutters. “Heritage boxers. I feel honored.”
He goes to take a shower.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Q
Q knocks on the door, observing it’s brand-new peephole with a chuckle.
“It’s me,” he calls.
“Come in!” Eames shouts.
He enters the door and finds Eames bent intently over a sizzling pan, a condiment squeeze bottle in hand.
“Good morning, Taylor,” Eames says. “Are Alec and James coming?”
“Yeah, they’re showering right now.” He walks over, and then looks over his shoulder. “Wow, nice. Is that a gun?”
“Yeah,” says Eames as he carefully fills in the pistol-shaped pancake with batter.
“Impressive.”
Eames shrugs. “It’s fun to do when I’ve got time, and more people to show off to.” He straightens and grins at Q.
Q laughs. “I can’t even make toast if it’s not automated.” His phone buzzes several times in quick succession.
JAMES: BE OVER IN 3 MIN. YOU SHOULD REGRET NOT STAYING.
JAMES: IT WAS FUN ;)
JAMES: That was Alec
He tucks his phone away. “The other two will be over soon.”
“Great,” Eames says. “Do you know gun models?”
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Ten minutes later, James and Alec still aren’t there. Eames and Q have gone ahead and had breakfast without them. They chat, and inevitably, the conversation turns to “Michael.”
“Yeah,” Eames says. “He goes by Arthur now. I guess it’s his middle name or something.”
Q notes this with some surprise. He didn’t think that the reborn hacker liked to use his old name.
“Well,” Q says. “Some people don’t like going by their first names. You would know.”
“Touche,” Eames acknowledges.
“So,” Q continues, “it seems like you two have been getting on well.”
Eames sighs. “All he does is work. I don’t see him around much, really.”
“Yeah?” he replies. “What does he do?”
“Honestly,” Eames says, “I’m not that sure. Bitcoin mining, stocks, something on a laptop.”
Q holds back a snort. Bitcoin mining. If bitcoins were the fiercely protected systems of companies and governments, and mining was hacking.
“Nice,” Q says blandly.
The shower turns off.
“You still in tech support, right?” Eames asks.
“Yeah.”
“How’s that?”
“Same old, same old. A whole lot of telling clients to turn it off and on again.”
Eames laughs. He is loose and easy with his amusement. In Q’s business, it’s all tension and calculated moves. He notes to himself to spend more time with civilians. It’s refreshing.
“And how’s the bar doing?”
“I’ve had to pick up a lot of extra shifts because of people getting sick, but it’s not too much more than usual.”
They chat for a while about Eames’s bar. As Eames flips the last pancake, (an rose, with the inner petals darker than the outer ones) Arthur comes in. His hair looks recently-toweled, and despite what Q suspects to be his best attempts, still sticks out in fluffy tufts. He’s in chinos and an expensive-looking sweater.
“Hi,” Q says. “I hear you go by Arthur now?”
Arthur glances at Eames, whose back is still turned at the stovetop. “Yes.” His expression is inscrutable.
Q silently scrambles for a conversation topic, but thankfully, Eames rescues them both.
“Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard for plates. “Breakfast,” he says, setting them on the table, “is ready.”
He brings out juice and milk, offers them both. Q accepts water, and Arthur (unsurprising) starts the coffee. Eames pours himself a glass of juice, and breakfast commences.
Fifteen minutes minutes and six collective pancakes later, Q checks his watch. “Well, those two are certainly taking their time catching up . Honestly, if I was like that every time James was on a business trip...”
Eames furrows his brow.
“You and James are still...” he starts hesitantly.
“Together? Oh of course,” Q says. He’s never specifically spoken with Eames about his relationship with James, but there have definitely been enough incidences for Eames to get the hint. “Alec’s a good friend of ours. Just joins in on the fun sometimes.”
“Oh,” Eames says, expression clearing. “So is it an open - marriage? engagement… sort of thing?”
“Yeah,” Q says with a grin.
“Exactly that sort of thing,” James adds as he silently pads in. His hair is damp. Alec is nowhere to be seen.
“Alec’s resting up. He’s had a long commute,” he adds.
“Oh,” Eames says, getting to his feet. “I can wrap up the extra pancakes and send them over for you and him. Arthur and I are finished.”
“Thanks,” James says. “Arthur, your boyfriend’s a blessing. I’m the only one who can cook - Taylor and Alec are both hopeless.”
“I must say that James is right, darling” Eames says, stretching plastic wrap over a thick stack of circle-shaped pancakes. “You’re lucky to have me.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
As they make their way back to their own flat, James says “Engaged? Married? ”
“What else would it look like, after all these years?” Q retorts.
James just chuckles. “All that talk of business trips and tech support. Did I ever mention you’re not a bad liar?”
“They’re not completely lies,” Q points out.
In the living room, Q is greeted with the sight of Alec lying facedown and shirtless on the couch. His back is covered with a red, scabbing marks.
“Shit,” he murmurs, maneuvering to his side. “What did they do?”
“Chemicals, I think,” Alec says into the couch cushions. “And normal things too. It gets a little hard to tell the difference after a while. Can we hold the debriefing for tomorrow?”
The burns go around his sides and over his shoulders. They’re covered with what looks like a thin layer of ointment.
“Yeah, we can hold it,” Q says.
“Alright,” James says, rounding the table. “Time for bandages.”
“Christ,” Alec groans. “Are you trying to impress Medical? They’ll probably just rip it all off and do it again.”
“I’m trying,” James says, “To not get blood and pus all over my furniture. And don’t worry, I’m using the non-stick gauze. It’ll come right off tomorrow. Anyways, you know that if you come in then you’ll be spending the next twelve hours in debriefing.”
“Well, you’ll have Eames’s pancakes to look forward to afterwards,” Q says as he rises to get out of James’s way. “They’re shaped like guns. You two can point them at each other and say ‘pew pew’.”
_____________________
The next day, an appropriate shock ripples through MI6 when Alec walks in in one piece. Then again, resurrections aren’t all that infrequent, and he wasn’t even properly declared dead. Q is secretly glad that Alec went to James and him first, because if he just strolled into work under Q’s nose, Q might have had a class-A freakout.
He hasn’t had a class-A freakout for years.
Later that day, a technical malfunction from some factory shows up on his feed. It seems inconsequential, just a report involving sys admin passwords not working, and a requisition for new passwords, until he looks at the factory it came from.
BAE, the manufacturer of the new Successor programme, which happened to be the successor to the Trident programme.
Nukes.
_________________
Eames
The moment the door shuts behind Taylor and James, Arthur rounds on Eames.
“What was that about?”
“What?”
“ Boyfriend ?”
Oh shit. That conversation. Eames is still not ready for this.
“That was James’s term, not mine. What was I supposed to say? “Sorry, James, we’re actually just friends with benefits. Except without the “friends” part, and the only benefits are that I make him food and occasionally fuck him into the mattress.”
“And that spiel about me being lucky to have you ?” Arthur continues.
“Oh,” Eames says archly. “I’m supposed to be the one who’s grateful for someone who pays rent, eats my food, and occasionally has sex with me? I’m sorry, but you’re not exactly the only guy in the world who can do that.”
“No, you bloody idiot,” Arthur near-yells. “I don’t have people. I don’t get lucky . I don’t get boyfriends .”
He says the word “boyfriends” with such hatred that Eames immediately knows that the singular suitcase Arthur brought in that first day was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to baggage.
“You know, the front door isn’t exactly soundproof anymore,” Eames says.
Arthur resorts to breathing angrily, with direction.
“I’m not,” he grinds out quietly. “Your anything.”
“I never said you were!” Eames calls after him as he storms away.
Thirty minutes later, while Eames is washing the dishes, Arthur swiftly exits the flat, slinging a duffel bag Eames didn’t even know he owned over his shoulder.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Arthur
He kicks the man out of his hotel room. He considers it generous of himself to have allowed him the shower. Now there’s water all over the bathroom floor. The place smells faintly of cheap cologne. Fucking slobs. He supposes it’s what he deserves for picking up men in bars.
He throws a few towels on the ground to soak up the excess water. It’s nice that he won’t have to pick them up. He’ll leave to go clubbing or something the next night and when he comes back, the towels will be replaced by fluffy, dry ones, all folded and stacked neatly on the rack.
It’s been a while since Arthur has lived in a hotel. He doesn’t miss it as much as he thought he would. It’s also been a long time since he’s hooked up with someone he picked up in bar (Eames doesn’t count), and he doesn’t miss that as much as he thought either.
The luxury is nice, though.
He goes into the linked room that he booked, showers, changes into nightclothes, and gets in bed. It’s late, and the roar of traffic is louder here than it is in the flat. The comforter is warmer than his, so he cranks the temperature down before getting into the crisp bed.
He hasn’t had any coffee today, just a copious amount of alcohol, (two drinks and a shot) and some decent sex. Just as planned, he’s tired. He watches the grainy darkness of the ceiling swirl and eddy. He listens to his breathing, feels his chest rise and fall. Slowly but surely, he drifts off.
“You’re an idiot,” Robert says.
“No I’m not,” Arthur tells him.
Robert lays back on the pristine green, folding his arms behind his head. He unfolds one arm and pats the grass beside him.
“Come over here, have a seat. I promise I won’t touch you.”
Arthur considers it. He goes in and under the shade of the big pecan tree, and sits down beside Robert. Then he lies down. The grass is cool and stiff, and too long for golf course standards. It feels surprisingly good through his t-shirt. The breeze is gentle and pleasant.
He turns his head and looks at Robert. It’s funny how relaxed he feels. He can’t remember ever feeling this calm around Robert. He’s glad they’re alright now.
“You know,” Robert says. “You’ve quite ruined my life.”
“Well,” Arthur points out, “You ruined mine.”
Robert shrugs horizontally. “An eye for an eye, then.”
The wind rustles through the branches. No leaves dislodge. Arthur turns his head away from Robert, presses his hands into the overgrown grass. As he runs his fingers through the blades, they turn yellow and brittle.
“I’m sorry,” Robert says.
“Are you.” Arthur turns to look at him.
“I am. I really am.” Robert meets his eyes. His eyes are as blue as ever, his features just as striking as Arthur remembers.
“You’d never believe me, and I can’t take any of it back. But Artie,” he sighs, “I’m so very sorry.”
“I’ve grown up now, you see. I wasn’t a child, but not an adult either. I was pretending to know what I wanted, and pretending to know how to get it. I was playing a game that I was never going to win, and I’m sorry I dragged-”
“It’s alright,” Arthur says, and is surprised to realize that he means it. “I’ve moved on.”
“No, you haven’t,” Robert insists, pushing up to one elbow. “Don’t be stupid. You may have chosen to do what you’ve done, but I know that I was the one who started it.”
“Well, I can thank you, then. My life is far more interesting than it would’ve been.”
Robert looks pained. “Don’t thank me.”
Arthur stays silent.
“I just wanted you to know that it’s taken me years to realize there’s more. There’s more than this.” He gestures to the peaceful landscape around them.
“Obviously,” Arthur says. He feels sleepy and warm. He lets his eyelids drift shut.
“There are good ways to ruin your life, too.”
“Are there?”
Arthur slowly notices that the grass he is lying on is prickly and uncomfortable. He opens his eyes to see that the it has turned yellow and dead around him. The dead patch spreads and spreads until it hits Robert, and Robert lies there peacefully as his hair thins and turns gray. His muscles waste away, his skin sags, his prominent cheekbones become even more prominent.
Only his eyes remain as piercingly blue as they once were.
He turns his head to look at Arthur.
“I’ll always be sorry, Arthur. But you shouldn’t be.”
Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but at that moment, a gust of wind starts up. The tree branches above them rattle raucously, and a hurricane of dried leaves rains down on them. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
As leaves cover him, Arthur loses sight of Robert. The leaves keep accumulating, until they have formed a sea above him. Yet, somehow, there is still light. A gentle gold light glows through the crisp leaves, which tumble and flow over his body, light as feathers.
The storm gathers.
Arthur wakes up to rain beating down at windows of the suite. He gets up, washes up, and then brings out his laptop. He left some of the more powerful external components in the flat, but he’s definitely got enough to do some decent work. He noodles around, messes with a few sites that piss him off, and then orders room service.
When it arrives and he goes to open the door, he realizes that it’s unlocked. He must have forgotten the night before - it’s been a while since he’s had to lock his bedroom door.
He tips the maid generously and settles at the desk with his breakfast. For the sake of it, he’s ordered cold cereal and fruit. It’s always amused him how boxed cereals were provided at even some of the swankiest hotels - and always at an exorbitant price. But to someone wealthy enough, he supposed it didn’t matter. If they wanted cereal, they got cereal.
He stays at the hotel for another week, but he has no more dreams. He spends his time rotating between working, picking up people in a variety of places, bringing the back to his suite, and convincing himself that he’s not lonely.
But he knows that truth is, he’s been lonely for a long time.
“I’m not your anything!”
“I never said you were.”
He blames his eidetic memory.
The words mock him, laugh at his cowardice. He hates them, hates Eames, hates everything.
At the end of the week, he goes back.