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I
When Arthur landed, Italy had only been brown fault lines from thirty thousand feet, his seat mate’s crumpled Coke cans covering his tray table, and a wrinkle in his burgundy suit. But as Mal insisted, in a way that made all things appear wondrous, because she was wondrous herself, outside the pressurized air was a land perfumed by salt, sex, and blood oranges, which made it second only to her native France in terms of contracted destinations. And Cobb agreed, in a way that was feckless and smitten evermore, that they ought to eat and share a bottle of sparkling red so that Arthur could stop his fussing and sheath his dagger-like stare toward the unknown man, who was clearly not their mark, who he was sure spent the back half of the flight sat on his jacket.
So Arthur obliged, throwing his leather duffel in the back of their town car, dropping them off at the Cobb’s safe house outside the city, and settling into a Venetian restaurant with sloping awnings, caught between a used bookseller Arthur planned on perusing after dinner, and a boutique that seemed to specialize in mother of pearl and other natural oddities, made beautiful. From where they sat, in their wrought iron chairs, brushing against the oxidizing balcony, the water lapping gingerly beneath them, Arthur began to see Mal’s reverence for such a soothing place.
He unbuttons his jacket and reaches forward for his wine, giving it a swirl around the glass for good measure, taking in the sliver of graying water in the distance, unsaturated and divine, feeling himself at ease. He studies the menu placed before him, a touch too prideful to ask Cobb to supplement his piecemeal Italian.
Mal, from across the table, gives a tap at his ankle with the cap of her heel, raising her head up, prompting Arthur to do the same, as though his relaxation were rude to the waiter in front of him.
Arthur looks up, and Mal, the wondrous thing she is, had a point in snapping for his attention. The waiter, with gaze trained directly on Arthur in a way he was trained to approach with nothing less than an interrogation and a concealed weapon, is dampened by his stark white shirt and sandy demeanor. The handsome waiter, as Arthur decides to call him because of his overwhelming charm and broad shoulders, his slight wrinkle above his left brow, how he seemed about as out of place as Arthur felt — a two inches to the left sort of feeling — makes for a wonderful ambiance. And when the handsome waiter opens his mouth, cracks a smile, bares crooked, crowded teeth that were endearing in an imperfect way, Arthur is taken again, finding Mal’s promises of salt, sex, and blood oranges to ring eerily true. At least that’s all he could think of as the waiter leans forward, letting Arthur catch his cologne, and opens another bottle of wine with a clean pop.
And an unclean pour, all over Arthur’s pants and the bottom of his shirt, which banished the jacket wrinkle to the recesses of his mind.
“Scusi,” the woman filtering past the handsome waiter mutters, placing an ill-advised hand on his shoulder.
Though before Arthur could think of scorning the woman who caused the staining of his suit, the handsome waiter says “pardon, terribly sorry, dear,” in a gentle British accent, and drops to his knees, dabbing carefully at the spot beginning to form on Arthur’s lap.
And the intimacy, the intimacy of this man, still broad shouldered, oranges and sex, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, on his knees before him, was all at once overwhelming. Arthur’s not sure if the rising heat in his chest was from the knowing stares of Mal and Cobb or the hand the waiter holds on his knee as he cleans, or the way he looks up at Arthur as he does it, as though cleaning were not his first intention and he knew, with all the quirks of his brow and thick bottom lip bundled between his teeth, that Arthur didn’t care if it was.
In a show of composure, Arthur offers, “You know, I never asked you to dab me off.” He takes his own napkin from the table, unfurls it, and begins dabbing at the lower half of his shirt, crooking his head back to pull the fabric taut.
“Dab you off, you said?” The waiter replies, crooking the letters in his, admittedly, gorgeous mouth. “Haven’t heard of that one.”
“It’s uh…” Arthur tries to volley but falls short. “It’s what you’re doing.”
The waiter spreads out his napkin once more, until he has a pristine, white edge to clean with, and begins working at Arthur’s thigh. And Arthur, aware of the game brewing between him and the waiter, plans his foot as firmly in the ground as he’s able to, unwilling and unyielding to the waiter’s advances, or at least unyielding enough to hold the waiter’s attention.
“I imagine you’re always this difficult, aren’t you?” The waiter dabs carefully, aimlessly, aiming his gaze back up toward Arthur. He smiles, as though he’s found something magnificent in Arthur’s jaw, his sloping nose. Then he smirks, firming his touch.
“Difficult how?” Arthur grits out, frustrated at the stain, his nerves bundled, live wires, as the cloth presses deeper. He throws his napkin down on the table. “You’ve been at this a while. Cleaning on your knees.”
Through the cresting water and what has to be Dom’s bemused grunt, Arthur swears he hears the waiter chuckle. “Trying to finish, darling.” He crumples up the napkin, gives a couple dabs just below the belt that go right through to Arthur’s spine, and stands up, holding the stained napkin up like a spurned ceasefire. “Suppose we’re done. I’ll be back with a new bottle then.”
The waiter turns on his heel, giving Mal enough time to sneak into the conversation. “What a lovely man,” Mal says, as though she’s laying the words right out on the linen draped table. She picks up her own glass of white and curls her lips around the glass, adding, “charming, no, Arthur?”
Arthur knows he’s being taunted, for what’s likely a flush across his cheeks to rival the stain marring his light blue pinstriped button-down, but it’s never more than a well intentioned nudge when it’s from Mal. Like a cat resting a paw on the rim of a water glass for attention, there’s never any harm in Mal’s observations, especially when, and Arthur must admit, she’s usually correct.
However, Dom tends to swat the glass right over, leaving a mess to be cleaned up before he’s even thought through his words.
“He’s not our mark, so it doesn’t matter what he is. We find him, we research, we extract, and we leave without a trace.” He looks at Arthur as he says it, as though Arthur is the one who lets romantic pursuits interfere with the work, as though Arthur’s the one with said lifelong romantic pursuit sat across from him.
Though in that moment, the waiter returns, glass already poured, and sets it down in front of Arthur, giving a nod and letting his fingers trail along the linen for a moment before asking for the table’s orders.
II
Arthur starts his day with his head all fogged and two aspirin to clear it away. He blames the jet lag, but doesn’t spend too much thought on it, what with him and Dom making contact with the mark today, at the high-roller’s casino he frequents. With his mistress, of course. Arthur thinks he could have opened half their previous files, and flipped to the same description: middle aged man, exceptionally wealthy, cheating on his wife with no qualms. In that sense, the job was textbook, at least for him, Mal, and Dom. In another sense, it was different to work for the Government while targeting a civilian, much less a civilian who considered himself royalty.
The casino is dark and dank, cigar smoke curling through the velvet curtains that hang low, brushing the floor just as Arthur and Dom do as they enter. The din is understated and drab—wealthy men talking about their projects, inquisitions, the women with them but for a moment. Arthur figures while he’s mingling, before he heads purposefully to the poker table, which the mark frequents often, he might as well grab a drink. Best to have something in his hand, even if it’s just for feigning business, or an excuse to walk away from Dom later, when he’ll surely begin his soliloquy about being the best extractor in the business.
Arthur orders a gin and tonic, light on the ice, leaving cash on the mirrored bar without so much as a glance. He holds the straw back with his index finger, letting the glass sweat a bit in his hand, and glances over the rim toward the poker table, toward the mark, and toward—
Arthur sputters at the sight— the handsome waiter. Gone are his crisp white button down and apron. He, despite being a waiter, looks every bit the character at the poker table. Sure, the olive of his jacket against the salmon button down—rather unbuttoned, though Arthur reminds himself not to stare at the man’s chest—are eccentric choice, but so is the crushed velvet jacket of the man next to him, and the powder blue, silk top of the man next to The Mark.
The Mark, yes. Arthur takes another sip, letting the liquor settle on his tongue, looking out above the glass to observe the man and his free movements. Prince Aimone, Duke of Apulia, the son of one claimant of Duke of Savoy, the most boorish of this once noble family.
Arthur rolls the ice around his glass, rolling the information he knows along with it, making quick, yet sprawling mental notes of this man as he does. He’s in his mid-fifties, though childish in his face in demeanor, to the point where if he hadn’t had a beard, he’d look barely of age. He has gangly movements, from the circling of his mistress’s waist, how he grabs a stack of chips one too short and has to grab another, his fingers just barely reaching. He’s put his cards down and picked them back up enough times to let half the table know his hand, and as Arthur approaches, he sees the rest of the table is well aware of this fact as well.
Though the table was full, Arthur’s flash of a sleek revolver and gritty “care to have a problem?'' directed toward a man in a gold Versace print button-down frees up a spot where Arthur found himself at many advantages. He has a view of Aimone, his mistress, and his security. Dom is just behind him, and in a few moments, he’d join Arthur at the table behind Aimone, covering Arthur’s blind spot and watching Amoine’s dealings from behind, watching every shift of his navy blue suit. And the handsome waiter, who was becoming another subject of interest, which had to be ejected from Arthur’s mind so he could gather useful information, which was decidedly not that three buttons were undone or that his socks matched his shirt, stands right beside him, shedding his jacket and rolling up his salmon sleeves.
“Glad to see you looking dapper again,” the waiter practically breathed, fiddling with a poker chip between his index and middle finger. He glanced over toward Aimone as he picked up his cards again. “Peachy to see you at all, darling.”
Arthur continued situating his chips. “I’m not sure if I can say the same.” Arthur knows it’s a lie; if his brain is unaware, the warmth traveling up from his stomach surely isn’t. “Didn’t think a waiter at a street cafe could afford such a place. Or would want to find himself with men like this.”
The waiter raises. It’s a ballsy move to Arthur, who’s already seen at least two of his cards in the exchange. Then, a smile cracks across his face, a wrinkle above his brow. “I think I’m perfectly comfortable around men like yourself.”
And then Arthur feels the waiter hook a finger in his belt loop. Though he doesn’t tug, Arthur still feels closer to the man, feels their elbows brush together. He sets down his drink before it spills.
Face drained of color, Arthur asks “What are you doing?”
The waiter laughs brightly, like the clink of two champagne flutes. “Either I’m looking to cheat a bit, like mister blue suit obviously is, or I’m looking for something to do after this game.”
His hand slips further, resting for one wretched, gutted, lovely moment on Arthur’s backside before Arthur brushes it off as inconspicuously as he can.
“Eames!” A man in a disheveled brown suit calls, and the waiter turns toward him, lips mashed together. “Ah, here.” He places a neat whisky in front of him—Eames, now— and turns as Eames nods and slips out his thanks.
“A moment, love,” Eames says to Arthur and reaches again for the man, whispering something in broken Italian to him before patting his shoulder and giving him a light shove away.
Arthur, bullheaded as ever, stickler for his own rules, interrupts. “What I’m planning to do is either cut off your hand or take all your money, depending on if you grab my ass again. If you’d like to avoid either, I’d suggest you piss off.”
“I’ll hedge my bets,” Eames says, nodding to match the wager, as though he knows how full of shit Arthur really is. How he’d like to do something as bold with his hands, and likely would if he weren’t working, weren’t entrusted to collect information about Aimone and those around him, weren’t being watched inquisitively by Dom, who had to have a hand wrapped around his gun by this point. Arthur knows he should do the same, keep himself vigilant especially in a place like this with men like these , and if he didn’t have the discipline he does, he’d surely be in Eames’s car by now, headed up to his room and…
Arthur could speculate, but boils it down to beating this man at poker might replicate some sort of ecstasy, might wash the ever-cocky grin from his face.
So Arthur hums and plays and listens into Aimone and the woman—Benedetta—and their hushed talks about Conte’s gala, the insult of their attendance, the strength of the Italian monarchy, until Arthur becomes bored enough to play along. So he finishes his drink and places his hand on Eames’ forearm, for a moment, shifting his focus from the mark to upstaging Eames, who’s rolling a chip across his knuckles, at poker.
It’s difficult, Arthur must say, especially with how Eames’s eyes seem to wonder, how they wonder toward Aimone as well. When Aimone had left the table, Arthur should have as well, at least that’s what Cobb’s pointed look had told him. But he ignored it, pressing forward with the game until all but the two of them had folded. Arthur raised sensibly, analyzing the strength of his own cards, the relative strength of the folded cards, trying to calculate what Eames likely had left and whether Eames’s wager of his whole stash had been reasonable or lunacy.
Eames’s wager, like the rest of him, like finding a waiter among mob lackeys and diplomats, was lunacy. Arthur decided to cash out, but not before a spirited pat from Eames and a promise to see him again, which Arthur replied to with an easy “if you ever see me again, sure,” fully knowing he wouldn’t. He left the table chasing a new high, the thrill of competition, and a wish that he would have offered more to Eames than just an easy goodbye, but he shoved that down where his lingering warmth lived and cashed out.
“We don’t accept this,” the clerk says absently, sliding one red chip under the cage again. He goes back to his newspaper, as though he’s unable to be bothered again. So Arthur studies the chip.
“Mombasa,” Cobb mutters beside him, head tilted but a few degrees. “You’ve got a Kenyan chip?”
Arthur scoffs. “Never heard of Mombassa with two s’s.”
“Suppose it’s the name of the casino?” Cobb tries, but Arthur shoots him down with a look.
“Just change really.” Arthur pockets the chip, deciding he’ll look further into it later, though he’s rather occupied now. Now, he’s got to get back to his room, record his findings about Aimore and Conte’s gala, Find a quick forge of invitations to the gala, and plan the team’s entrance.
Dom and Arthur head back to the car, Arthur bristling along with him, too stuck in thoughts to look up from the gravel.
“We could just kill that guy, you know,” Cobb offers, unprompted, as he usually is. “Cleanly, burn his body, scatter the ashes in the canal at dusk. Mal’s done it before.”
Of course she has, Arthur thinks. “He’s not a problem.” He knows he’s being stern, guarded, but he continues. “Just a fluke.”
Cobb nods like he couldn’t possibly understand, and Arthur thinks he frankly couldn’t, so he doesn’t press further. He folds himself into the coup, and heads back to the hotel.
III
In the less than fifteen minutes since they’ve arrived at the Gala, Arthur awkwardly smooths down his jacket four times, drinks one glass of champagne, sees Eames, who immediately comes over and gives him and all too knowing embrace, fixing his already straight bow tie, and immediately seeks out something stronger than champagne to drink.
So it’s not a fluke. Arthur files the thought in the back of his mind, deciding to investigate the thought further, later. But for now, he knows, and Mal’s strict demeanor reminds him that he’s here for the Aimone job, not to investigate some cocky Englishman in a somewhat tasteful plaid jacket with an immaculately folded pocket square. More specifically, Arthur’s supposed to be a diplomat from Monaco.
When Arthur and Mal reach Aimone, they fit themselves at the same table. Mal leaves with his mistress for a moment, chatting over cocktails before returning to the table. Then, for at least an hour, while plates are served and gathered and served again, they discuss trade and EU restrictions. Mal’s as charming and quick as ever, driving the conversation toward domestic policy, and eventually toward Minister Conte himself.
“Darling,” it’s a familiar drawl and god is it unnecessary and tantalizing at the moment.
Mal excuses her partner as Arthur gets up and practically drags Eames by the wrist—which he insists on wiggling out of to hold Arthur’s hand, and pulls him into a quiet corner. Yes he’s an endearing man, but he’s also a pet begging for attention while Arthur’s trying to work, and at this point, jeopardizing the research and the job overall.
And worse yet, Arthur couldn’t figure out why he was doing all this.
So when he gets Eames alone, checks for any bristling behind the two of them, he spares him a lecture on ruining his conversation or how rude interruptions are, spares him the physical violence he’d like to inflict—if only to relieve some tension.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Arthur asks instead. He grabs the man by his wrists again, encroaching on his space, practically breathing down his neck.
“Thought maybe I’d have a chat,” Eames says and Arthur boils. “Thought we wouldn’t get so lucky after we were cut off before, and yet here we are...alone”
Arthur drags in a breath, squaring his jaw. “We weren’t ‘cut off’ or whatever you’d like to call it. I left. I was finished with you.” Arthur pushes off of his wrists. “So I ask you again, what the fuck are you doing?”
Nothing Arthur says fazes Eames. “As a prominent businessman, CEO of a contracting firm inland, I’m attending a gala, just like you.” He says, fixing his floral printed tie as though it’s obvious.
“You’re a shitty businessman.” Arthur quips, digging his hands into his pockets. Though that would explain how he had the money to gamble a few nights ago. But then why would he be a waiter as well.
He grunts. “Obviously not if I’m a prominent businessman. ” Eames settles his grip on Arthur’s lapels, and for a moment he lets him. They’re practically secluded, after all. The cockiness is rather charming after all. Eames cuts through the fog, asking “so what are you going to do about it?”
So Arthur gives in and kisses him. He swears it’s chaste and short. Just long enough to know his chapped lips, feel the stubble as they’re pressed cheek to cheek, to be pulled by the hips until the pooling heat he remembers from when Eames cleaned the wine off of him returns with a vengeance. He swears he pulls away quickly, feels Mal’s gaze trailing his back, and remembers he’s not supposed to waste his time on pursuits like this when he needs to know more about Aimone’s mother and father.
But Eames is the one to break it, pressing a hand flat against Arthur’s chest. Before Arthur can speak, Eames has already mashed his lips together quickly, before saying, “Well, I have prominent business to get to, and I assume Monaco requires your representation, so I’ll see you next time—no luck required.”
He brushes past Arthur, guiding his hand up from Arthur’s chest, to his shoulder, and trailing away one finger at a time until he’s gone, lost in the throng headed back to their seats for dessert. Arthur composes himself, complete with proper scolding for letting his guard down so severely, for something as ineffective as kissing while on the job. He doesn’t even question how Eames knows his cover.
If Mal knew what Arthur had done—and she usually did, she didn’t show it. She hadn’t missed a beat at all in his absence, which allowed Arthur to reenter the conversation with ease.
The night continues. Arthur blames his flush on too much champagne. Him and Mal collect information. Mal steals him away for a dance. It’s all textbook, easy to remember for his records. That is until they pick up a cab four blocks down from the venue, pile on in, and are swiftly affronted by Arthur’s missing hotel room key.
“Well I wouldn’t just lose it.” Arthur argues. He knows he’s right, and Mal thinks so too.
“Perhaps the gentleman...” Mal twists the balls of her clutch open, retrieving her own key. “Had taken a shining to your key as well.”
“You…” Arthur shakes his head before he’s able to finish.
“Of course I did.” She places it back in and snaps her purse shut. “If I weren’t clever, I’d think ‘where had Arthur gone off to? The toilet? Ah that must be it.’ But since I am, I put you and him together.”
“I could kill Eames.” Arthur says, digging his hands further into his pockets.
“You always could have, but you never did.” Mal’s voice has a bit of a lilt to it, and if she weren’t so charming, he’s sure he’d snap at her as well.
Instead, he pouts the rest of the way to the hotel, trying to stave off the mortification of his mistake.
Sliding Mal’s card in with a flourish that assures himself that he’s just paranoid and suddenly forgetful, or that Mal is suddenly less right than she usually is, Arthur braces himself for a trashed room, broken safes, or a bare naked man strewn across his bed. At best, he thinks he’ll find everything in order, and for once, in all the years of knowing each other, he’ll have finally out-smarted Mal.
When he pulls the door open, it’s none of the above.
Eames is there, yes. And he’s on the bed. But he’s fully dressed, but for his floral tie draped loosely around his neck and a few buttons undone. He looks like an exhausted wedding singer, spread leg on the bed, hair pushed back. Arthur thinks for a moment about Eames on his bed, before he remembers himself and surveys the room.
“You stay right there,” Arthur commands. Mal already has her gun raised, aimed at Eames’s head.
Arthur crouches down in front of the open dresser drawer, and says into it, “She doesn’t miss.”
“Wouldn’t dream of accusing this lovely thing of being a poor shot.”
Arthur tries to think of a quip, but the sound of Mal taking it off safety works well enough.
“You do have lovely clothes, dear,” Eames adds, his coolness under Mal’s pressure further concerning Arthur. “Must get them custom, don’t you?”
Arthur pushes the dresser drawer closed and moves onto the closet, specifically the safe. The PASIV is in place, unaltered or disturbed. He thumbs through his notes. They’re all in order, again, undisturbed. Arthur locks them up again.
“Didn’t notice I had your key?” Eames continues, his taunting distracting enough that Arthur has to set the code one more time, completely unfocused the first time. “That’s a love, get it set.”
Arthur picks himself up and storms over to the edge of the bed. Practically slotted between Eames’s legs, he grips the man by his shoulders and shakes.
“What do you want?” He thunders, he shakes. He can feel the room moving underneath him, but Eames remains steady. Cloyingly, unnervingly steady. It infuriates Arthur to know that he can break any of the global elite, any mob boss, any range of high caliber drug lords, but some rich Englishman with a plebeian day job is unaffected. “You’ve been harassing me for days, getting in my way, and so cocky the whole time, and for what?”
Eames shrugs. “To see your tight ass in these pants of yours, or course.”
Arthur sees red, bloody, dripping, neon red.
“I could wrap my hands around your neck—”
“Uh huh. And what else love?”
“—Cut off your airways, and bring about your death,” Arthur continues, as though he weren’t interrupted at all.
Eames looks Arthur up and down, before looking him in the eye again. “How about a little death? Could you do that too, love?”
Mal, suddenly not helpful, lets out a chuckle.
Now, Arthur knows he should have killed him then, if not for the way he consistently jeopardized their mission, possibly had access to their materials, was able to tail Arthur throughout this godforsaken city, but for the absolute nerve with which he spoke. The cockiness, the flirtation, the unwanted advances, which made Arthur feel personally compromised and feckless and incompetent. It’d be best to remove the source of this incompetency.
But looking at the man again, making the dire mistake of glancing at those plump lips, the smile lines around his eyes, renders Arthur unable to do so.
Instead, he lowers one hand and stuffs the other into his pants pocket, fishing out his room key, deciding to have new keys made, or better yet, move to another room, another hotel all together.
“Cheeky,” Eames quips.
Arthur grips his shoulder tighter, digging his thumb between his neck and collar bone. “Shut up.”
He pockets the key once more and removes his hand, motioning for Eames to get up. “Take your jacket and get out. You should be so lucky to not see us again. I will not hesitate next time.”
Eames folds his jacket along his forearm, sloppily kisses Arthur’s cheek, and exits, calling out, “ta, love” before slamming the door behind him.
Arthur half hopes he means it.
IV
Arthur had seen a few episodes of the Real Housewives of New Jersey on down time between jobs, so when him, Mal, and Dom were at brunch the next day— a quick reprieve before extraction the following day—and Eames slid into the chair next to Arthur as though he were invited as well, Arthur had to push his bellini to the edge of the table to stop himself from acting against Eames’s infuriating appearance in a dramatic fashion.
Instead, he pulled his gun and pressed it against Eames’s side, the revolver hidden under Eames’s jacket.
“Give me one good reason why you’re here and I shouldn’t kill you for following me again.” Arthur practically breathed, pressing deeper. “Talk.”
“It’d be terribly suspicious and illegal to kill someone in public, with so many witnesses.” Eames gives a nod to Mal and Dom, but receives nothing from their stony faces. “Also, this should be helpful.” Eames digs into his pocket and produces a poker chip, sliding it discreetly toward Arthur.
His stomach drops right through him as he reads the red chip. Mombassa.
And Arthur was naive enough to stash the suspicious chip in his wallet rather than dispose of it on the spot.
“You had better get to explaining,” Cobb urges, setting his fork down.
“When Arthur beat me at poker, which I allowed him to do, he stashed one of my chips which wouldn’t cash, which had a tracker, which led me to you,” Eames pays Arthur a glance, which Arthur barely notices, gaze buried in his lap. “And oftentimes Malorie and Dom Cobb as well.”
Arthur had never felt this embarrassed, in all his career. A minor slip up, sure, he could fix. It was practically his job to fix slip ups, to make it all work seamlessly, or rather to smooth out the seams in the plan. But for the oversight to be his, well…
“I just can’t believe...I would just toss it in an undisclosed location or put it in a lock box until I could investigate it. I just…”
“That’s exactly what should have happened,” Cobb adds, his voice raising.
“Another tidbit, that second glass of wine, bit tampered. Side effects should have only lasted a day or so,” Eames interjects easily. A waiter appears and Eames orders a caffé latte. It appears despite the threat of imminent death—though arguably diminished by his own reasoning, Eames was planning on staying a while.
“So why do it?” Mal asks, getting to the root of the issue. “Surely there’s much better for you to do here than follow our Arthur here.”
“Oh it’s not about Arthur,” Eames says, before pressing a hand to his forearm. “Sorry love.”
Arthur bristles at the touch. “No offense taken,” he grits out.
“It’s about Aimone, just as it is for you. See, Arthur here, he’s the best is he not?” Eames doesn’t wait for an answer. “He gathers all the information you need to run a proper extraction, Mal builds and extracts where she must, Dom, main extractor of course, Arthur holds the whole job together. So the solution is two fold.”
Dom is on the edge of his seat, as though his man has any right to this information, let alone the gall to splay it here, out in the open. Nonetheless, he seems taken by him, like he’s charming. It would almost amuse Arthur. Dom, charmed by this man when he’s been well exposed to enough charm for a lifetime from Mal.
And Mal, she seems nonplussed. Unfazed. Like she’s heard it all before and has nothing better to do than sip her wine carefully.
The waiter returns with Eames’s drink. He mutters a thank you and offers a tip before continuing.
“First, target Arthur to bypass all the information collection on Aimone. Call it a forger’s brain if you will, but it makes much more sense to steal than commit to the grueling work myself. If Aimone’s your mark, then Arthur’s mine.” He punctuates the thought with an infuriating grunt. “Second, if given the information gathered, my partner and I are unable to complete the job, we can simply turn it into the Italian government. Get a pay out either way. Going through Arthur allows us to form the plan that allows for our success, at whatever the cost.”
“That’s insane,” Dom finally replies, without the edge Arthur expected. He’s almost, dare he say, impressed, slack jawed in an unusual way. “That…”
“It’s rather inventive,” Mal offers.
Arthur throws his napkin down on the table, struggling to keep his voice down, he says,“That’s a major breach of all our privacy, especially mine. I don’t know why we’re all acting like this is reasonable. He targeted me the whole time. He drugged me. And we’re considering this tactically when it’s extremely personal.”
“We’re aware you made it personal, Arthur.” Mal dabs at the corners of her mouth, too cheeky for Arthur’s liking.
“We’re really going to act like my reactions to him in the moment are equivalent to him trying to put me under and extract from me?”
“My apologies, Arthur. You did seem to both be genuinely interested.” Mal pauses, just as she’s about to grasp her wine again. She turns again to Eames. “You still haven’t answered the question. I’d suppose your plan was going swimmingly if you’d found us again. Why bother divulging in the middle of it?”
Dom finally pulls his head up and adds some heat, cocking his revolver under the table. “We need an answer.”
Eames raises a finger, taking his time to blow at his coffee before taking a sip. He takes another, occupying as much time as he can, Arthur thinks, before placing the cup back on the saucer.
“I do occasionally do research. And extract. And run point. And build, yes. Mainly, I forge.” He takes another sip, still cool as ever. “Quite a whiz at it, really. But when I saw the artifacts from your research, I couldn’t steal them. What would I do with a dream that would have to be so complex? My partner and I couldn’t possibly sustain it on our own. And in fairness, Arthur has a brilliant, roundabout way of collecting information that makes it useless outside of dreamshare. So I’d have to construct a team to use the information I found, to do the Aimone job at all. And then I thought it would be much cleaner for me to find a team to join, to add myself in as a forger.”
Eames glances around the table. “None of you forge, do you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “The way I see it, the only way into his subconscious is through a forgery of his mother, and lucky for you, I’m versatile.”
Arthur doesn’t realize his gun lowers slightly as he’s listening, though he snaps it back up at the smarmy tone Eames uses to say versatile.
“Can’t believe you’d think you’d be lucky for us,” Arthur mutters into the rim of his drink before taking a sip.
“You want to run this job and make it out of Italy, you need a forger.” Eames puts it plainly, and Dom and Mal seem to have an understanding that Arthur doesn’t share.
“We could use the services of a forger.” Dom considers this, slotting his gun back into his holster. “If, of course, he’s as good of a forger as he claims to be.”
“You’re kidding me.” Arthur feels himself bubbling over. He grips his napkin instead, drawing attention away from himself, lowering his voice. “You want to work with the man who targeted me the whole time, is what you’re saying?”
“I don’t expect thieves to be upstanding people.” Dom shrugs.
“Here, then I’ll solve it for you,” Arthur says quickly. “He’s not good enough. He found himself in my hotel room, access to my files, the PASIV, any amount of confidential information. He chooses to leave it all alone, unbuttons his shirt, and flirts with me instead.”
“Guilty,” Eames interjects.
Mal looks charmed.
“How can you trust that man’s instincts in the field?” Arthur takes a swig, waiting for an answer.
Though he doesn’t expect Eames to reach into a briefcase and produce what looks to be his documents.
Arthur snatches the documents out of his hand and shoves his plate to the side, so he can spread them out. They’re every bit as crisp and neat as his own. The notes in the margins had to be done with the same Montblanc, with just as tight of a grip as Arthur wrote with. The spacing was the same on the typed documents, with the diagrams just as he placed them. The family tree was earmarked, right to the fourth grid dot in from the corner.
“So you’ve forged them.” Arthur passes them along to Mal. “They’re quite good forges, I must admit. You must have some memory.”
“Arthur,” Eames draws out, trailing off into a chuckle. “You falter me so. They’re not forgeries. These are the originals.”
Arthur’s dumbfounded, though glancing up, he finds comfort that Cobb looks about the same. The wrought iron table feels to be spinning, and all the passersby tourists seem to have their eyes on him.
“What’s been in your files, reviewed frequently by such a meticulous being as Arthur, are forgeries, completed in the approximately thirty-five minutes I had after opening the safes, before Arthur and Mal arrived.”
Eames looks smug, like his ego strains his mustard button down instead of his broad chest. Arthur finally lowers his gun, admitting, in fact, that Eames deserves his smugness. The only time he’s deserved it, he thinks with a scoff.
He finishes his coffee and leans back in his chair, all spread out and arrogant. “Consider this an interview. You’ve seen my forges. You’ve learned my history. You need a forger to complete the job and It’d be my pleasure to be it.”
Cobb chews at his cheek, and Arthur’s appalled that he’s considering the proposal.
“What he should say is that he’s stolen from us, forged our materials, and lied when he said he simply couldn’t steal my research.” Arthur shoots a glare Cobb’s way, and a pleading look toward Mal's for good measure, knowing she’s the one with final say when it comes to Cobb’s decisions.
Eames shrugs. “I’m quite the actor, darling.”
“You’re hired.”
The next thing Arthur hears sounds eerily like a congratulations, and plans for Eames to find Aimone’s mother in person, so he can practice his forge. The last thing he hears is the scrape of his metal chair and a muttered pet name as he leaves the table, filtering into the throng of people headed east toward the flower market and further along toward a row of bars.
Eames finds him hours later. Not drinking, but rather contemplating. And Eames, against all that is sensible on a senseless day, doesn’t touch Arthur, or try to talk to him. He accepts his poker chip from Arthur and sits beside him for a while. He lets Arthur’s silence on simmer, lets it fill the galley bar, hole itself in the knotty wood and cracked leather stools. And when he’s done with his scotch, he leaves two twenty euro notes on the counter, a bouquet of white geraniums and dahlias from the market just up a few blocks, and Arthur tossing his die over and over, rolling a four each time.