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Arthur is leaning over Ariadne's model, listening to her explanations, when his laptop lets out a muted "boodle-beep!" There's about a forty-per-cent chance that they are about to hear another story about the mini-Cobbs - Cobb has turned into quite the family man, much more so now than he ever was before all the unpleasantness - so Eames puts down his folder and watches Arthur check his email. That's the only reason he doesn't drop something (the way Ariadne does) when Arthur shouts, "FUCK!"
Arthur follows that up by dropping into his seat, muttering obscenities into his hands. Eames looks at Ariadne. Ariadne looks at Eames. Eames tips his head in Arthur's direction. Ariadne nods, encouragingly. Eames shakes his head and points at her. Ariadne shakes her head and points back. Eames looks at Arthur, who has progressed to some very determined typing, but is still muttering under his breath. Eames looks back at Ariadne and attempts to silently convey the message, "Do I look like a fucking idiot?" Ariadne looks confused.
One of them really ought to ask. One of them really ought to go over there and quietly ask what's happened to upset Arthur and if they can do anything to help. Failing that, a paper ball to the head and a raised eyebrow would probably do, but even that much risks transferring Arthur's ire from persons unknown to persons present. And Eames can totally hold out longer than Ariadne can; she's already taken a few steps away from her table.
As it turns out, neither of them has to ask. Arthur abruptly stands. "Change of plan," he says, "we do it this week."
"That only gives us three days," Ariadne says. They had been planning for ten, with the option of pushing it back another week if necessary.
"We can do it," Arthur tells her. "I need to be gone by Sunday."
Eames can see the tension in Arthur's frame, the uncertainty in Ariadne's. He speaks up. "It'll be quick and dirty, but it's doable." Arthur looks relieved until Eames opens his mouth again. "Of course, that's only if none of us are distracted." He glances significantly at Arthur's laptop.
"It won't be a problem," Arthur says, and Eames almost laughs, because he hadn't thought for a moment that Arthur would be off his game.
"Eames is curious," says Ariadne, as if she isn't. Arthur looks at her, and then at Eames, who looks as catlike as he knows how, and Arthur sighs.
"Fine," he says, and turns the laptop around. Ariadne may already be on her feet, but Eames is quick, and they reach Arthur's desk as one. Displayed on the screen is a job offer - extraction of certain passwords, slightly excessive-seeming fee, mark...
Ariadne whistles. "Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne?"
"Gotham Bruce Wayne," Arthur says glumly. The emotion is subtle but definitely there. He's sunk back into his chair, and is gazing blankly at the back of the screen.
Bruce Wayne, to the best of Eames' knowledge, is a very rich, somewhat eccentric dilettante, with an extraordinarily competent CEO. Eames would target the CEO if he wanted anything business-related, but what the client wants, the client gets. And the client wants someone on the job within the week.
Of course, Arthur is far from the only man out there capable of taking the job, and he doesn't usually commit himself to anything which will compromise a job in progress, which leaves only one question. "Why do you have to take this job?"
"Bruce Wayne is not..." Arthur frowns, steeples his fingers in front of his lips. He sighs. "It would be a very bad idea, on a number of levels, for anyone to invade Bruce's subconscious."
"Oh my god! You know Bruce Wayne!" accuses Ariadne, and Arthur's lips compress even further.
"It's complicated."
Complicated is an understatement. In fact, to say that complicated is an understatement, is really an understatement in and of itself. Bruce far outstrips complicated all by himself. Add to that Arthur, his former identity (identities), the deceptions necessary to preserve the separation between Arthur and said identities, the job he has no intention of actually completing, the con necessary to show that he has completed said job, and the whole thing where, when he left this city, he did his best to comprehensively burn as many bridges as possible... well, it's sufficiently byzantine that it seems like overkill to stir in a nosy parker of an architect and the inimitable Eames.
The plan, in one way, is very simple.
A) Tell Bruce about the contract.
B) Convince the client that the contract has been fulfilled.
C) Do something about Bruce's subconscious security in case of further attempts at extraction.
The devil, however, is always in the details.
He put it entirely out of his mind until the previous job was complete - he's well-trained in compartmentalization. Then, somehow, he found himself buying three tickets for the next flight to Gotham. Ariadne had simply assumed they would be going with him, and Eames had smirked and packed his bags. There are pros and cons, of course.
The three of them do make an effective team, and there may well be times when more than one person is required. If the client has people watching them, it would look decidedly odd for Arthur to have no colleagues; depending on the length of surveillance, it might look odd for him to contact other people (if they were even available) when he had such a good team literally at his fingertips. And in the very back of his mind, Arthur might perhaps admit that it's not unpleasant, when traveling to a place which holds a great deal of bad history for him, to have a person he trusts at either side.
However, he's traveling to a place which holds a great deal of bad history for him with Eames and Ariadne, who between them will see if, no, when he has trouble dealing and will eventually ask. He's taking two people he trusts into a hellhole that they are not prepared to deal with. He is exposing them to the scrutiny of the Bat (not that Arthur thinks they haven't already been extensively researched, but face-to-face is a little different). Also, he's risking The Secret, because Eames is an observant bastard and can't possibly miss that there is Weird simply surrounding Bruce Wayne.
Arthur's life would be a lot easier if he could believe he really was Arthur. If he could ignore the loyalties that still hold him. If he could have replied to that email with a simple "Unavailable" and let someone else try to dig secrets out of Bruce Wayne's brain.
As far as he knows, Bruce has never trained with the PASIV. But Bruce is good with secrets, and it's been years, and Bruce must know about the dream-sharing business; so in fact, Arthur would be very surprised if Bruce's subconscious hadn't been militarized. That is, actually, part of the problem.
Arthur's own subconscious is fairly vicious, compared to most people he's dreamed with. And Arthur always thought of himself as one of the more level-headed of the Bat-clan. He fully anticipates that Bruce's subconscious, with no training whatsoever, would be (or was) capable of laying the smackdown on anyone who went in there unprepared, and most who prepared as well. With training, it will be utterly lethal. Which is great, for the Batman. For Bruce Wayne, playboy, not so much. It's the sort of thing that would inspire everyone involved - probably everyone who heard about it - to look a little more closely. And that would be unfortunate. It's why he had to take the job. The only secret he was worried about anyone extracting was the big one.
With a little spin, it might actually make sense for Bruce's subconscious to defend itself in the form of Batman, since they are both intimately linked with Gotham, and Batman is a scary motherfucker who is known to have saved Bruce's life. Still, that's irrelevant right now, as is the whole security question. He has to focus on the con.
Actually, having Eames along should be useful for that - he has the most experience in real-life cons, if Arthur's teenage years are discounted. With that in mind, Arthur turns to his right (Ariadne is softly snoring in her seat to his left, and it is not at all adorable) and waits for Eames to look up from his book.
"Still not telling," says Arthur, "but let's make a plan."
When Arthur steps off the plane, he can almost feel the cape draping itself around his shoulders. It isn't Gotham proper, but clearly it's close enough.
Purely out of habit, he scans the group of chauffeurs waiting just inside the Arrivals area, and for a moment he thinks he's hallucinating. There in the center, given a respectful amount of space by the rest, is Alfred. Arthur's step falters minutely, and Eames drops a hand on his shoulder. "Who is he?" asks Eames quietly. If they'd really been planning to do the Wayne job, Eames would already know, might have already tried forging him.
Arthur shrugs him off - Ariadne hasn't noticed - and the three of them walk on by. As they do, Alfred's fingers flicker at his side. "Four-three-nine-three," his fingers say. "Left cat left rear."
Cat? Hm.
He could still get a rental car. He should get a rental, for reasons of professionality, but Bruce would probably read that as a personal rejection, and if Arthur was still who he used to be, Bruce might be right about that. He isn't, of course, and he's taking the car because it will be much nicer than a rental and leave less of a paper trail, and only a little to appease Bruce, and that little for Alfred's sake, who has put up with more assorted grievances from this quasi-family than any one man should be forced to.
"Um, aren't we getting a car?" Ariadne pipes up as they head straight for the parking deck. "Did you arrange something already?"
"Arranging things is what he does," Eames comments, "but I think this time something was arranged for him, am I right?"
Arthur keeps walking.
"You're going to have to tell us eventually, you know," says Ariadne, jogging a little to catch up with him. Now in a slightly less crowded area, they're walking three abreast, with Eames just half-a-step behind to watch their backs. It's more comforting than it should be.
It won't be everything, naturally, but: "I'll tell you before we meet him." Ariadne stumbles, and he catches her automatically - he can feel Eames stretch out an arm behind him at the same time - and they come to a halt.
"We're meeting Bruce Wayne?" she whispers. "We're meeting multi-billionaire supermodel-fucking suspected-pedophile Bruce Wayne?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "He's not a pedophile."
"OK, if you say so, but he's still a multi-billionaire who fucks supermodels." Ariadne is wide-eyed and shocked-looking, so Arthur takes her by the arm and moves her along.
"How did I not know this guy's a pedo?" asks Eames, loudly enough to draw a few looks.
"He's not, shut up." Arthur quickens his step, pulling Ariadne with him.
"If he's not, then..."
"Shut up."
"I'm only saying." If Arthur turned his head right now, he knows he would see on Eames a ridiculously aggrieved pout, an exaggerated expression of innocence, and he would be hard-pressed not to laugh. That's why Arthur isn't turning his head.
Finally they reach the bank of elevators and wait for the arrival of the rightmost one. They go all the way to the top level, and then Arthur flips open a small panel and types in the code Alfred gave him, 4393. The doors close again and the elevator takes them to the private VIP area.
Eames lets out a low whistle as they step out, and Ariadne echoes him. There are only eight cars, but they are all very nice. In the far corner is a very familiar Bentley. Directly to the left is a gleaming black Jaguar, last year's model. That must be the cat. Arthur ducks down and finds a key nestled discreetly in the left rear wheel-well.
Arthur is so driving.
Ariadne fully intends to pester Arthur for information (and Eames will totally be on her side, so they could totally break him before they get wherever they're going) but she gets distracted. Gotham is really... different.
It's an amalgam of smooth glass and rough brick, with an honest-to-god monorail running through the middle of it. The bridges are cleanly included in the main street plan, which might be due to the massive rebuilding a decade or so ago, but there are shadowed little alleyways running all over the place, even in the obviously up-scale districts Arthur is driving them through. And there are gargoyles and grotesques on every other building, which just does not make sense. People said Gotham was crazy, but she'd always figured they meant the people, not the city itself.
Pretty soon they're heading into what looks like countryside, and Ariadne is confused. She turns to look at Eames, who is lounging in the back seat, and raises an eyebrow at him. He raises an eyebrow back, and she frowns.
"I'm just enjoying the ride," he says, and stretches, one arm accidentally-if-he-wasn't-him brushing the back of Arthur's head.
"We're nearly there," Arthur says, and they drive through a large set of gates. Ariadne isn't quick enough to catch the writing on the sign, but Eames is.
"We're visiting Wayne Manor?" He sounds dubious.
Ariadne tries not to hyperventilate, because that thing in the airport was kind of embarrassing. Also, Wayne is so very much too old for her. Seriously. Also the supermodel thing. And he's probably in Monte Carlo or some place anyway.
The drive takes a sweeping turn, and the manor itself comes into view. Holy shit. Wayne Manor is fucking huge. And it's a vaguely Gothic neo-Renaissance pinnacled monstrosity that's almost as weird as the city. (Holy shit, Bruce Wayne really grew up here on his own? Holy fucking shit.)
Arthur leaves the key in the ignition, doesn't bother locking the car when they get out. Ariadne follows, trying not to gape too obviously at the surroundings. "When I was younger, shit happened," says Arthur, "so, yeah, I lived here for a while."
Ariadne stops in her tracks, and Eames almost trips over her. They're still tangled up when Arthur reaches the door, and it swings open to reveal a white-haired gent who reminds her of Miles. "Master Arthur," he says gladly. "And this must be Miss Ariadne, and Mister Eames. Please do come in."
Arthur is smiling, like, a lot. "That sounds really wrong, Alfred," he says. "And you could drop the titles, you know."
Eames strides forward, holding out a hand, and Ariadne follows, jogging a little to keep up. "We're not exactly respectable citizens, after all," he says.
"Speak for yourself," Arthur interjects quietly, smirking at Ariadne.
"And may I say what a pleasure it is to meet a fellow countryman here in the wilderness?"
"Of course, Mister Eames." Alfred nods at him, and steps back, gesturing for them to enter.
The entrance hall is actually not as huge as she'd expected, but then it leads into an even grander hall that has her craning her neck to look at the intricate cornices and sparkling chandeliers. The others are talking, but Ariadne is more interested in which features are original; she's halfway through trying to stick her head up the chimney when someone taps her on the shoulder and she nearly jumps out of her skin.
"I do beg your pardon, Miss Ariadne, but we have a number of papers in the library that you might find interesting, as an architect yourself."
"Um," says Ariadne, and looks for help. Arthur is standing patiently in the middle of the hall, while Eames is studying a framed document with the kind of fancy writing that's really hard to read. "You really don't have to call me Miss."
"Would you prefer Ms?" Alfred asks, very politely.
"No, no, it... you know what?" Ariadne takes a deep breath - she's kind of really intimidated, here, and she absolutely shouldn't be, because she got through several years of architecture school and also limbo - and smiles as prettily as she possibly can. "Those papers sound awesome."
The disadvantage of dealing with fellow countrymen is that they generally fail to be charmed by the accent. A well-applied 'darling' has helped him immeasurably in the past, getting both into knickers and out of trouble. No dice with Alfred - in fact, the man seems rather wary of him, though he did condescend to share his stash of Tetley's. It's interesting, though, because Alfred makes out he's born-and-bred to service, never thought of doing anything else, but that's definitely not true. There's also a minute hesitation before he says Arthur's name: not surprising when Alfred surely knows him by another one, maybe even the real one.
Trouble for another time, though, because Arthur is sitting next to him practically begging to be needled.
"So, Arthur," Eames murmurs, leaning closer to the other man, "just because he never touched you inappropriately..."
Arthur suppresses a laugh. Eames blinks. He can see Arthur discarding stories before he opens his mouth. "Bruce taught me to wrestle, so... that could be termed, uh, inappropriate," is what he settles on, and it looks to be true, so far as that goes.
"What else did Bruce teach you?" Eames asks. He likes asking Arthur personal questions, because the answers are generally somewhat opaque but Arthur's face is not. This time, Arthur's mouth twists bitterly.
"Oh, lots of things," he says lightly. His eyes flick to either side, but there's no subtle way out of the conversation: Ariadne is engrossed in the promised papers, and Alfred is elsewhere, because the butler doesn't socialise with guests.
"Such as?"
"Small talk. Ski-ing. How to tell if someone's had plastic surgery." Arthur shrugs a little, dismissively, but Eames isn't about to let him off the hook that easily.
"How to tie a double-Windsor?"
"Don't be silly, that was Alfred," retorts Arthur, so fast it must surely be true. Eames takes up the subject change gracefully.
"Alfred's the valet, then, as well as the butler, and cook, and... is there anything he doesn't do?"
"Not that springs to mind." Arthur smiles, and he's definitely less guarded when it comes to talking about Alfred; with a moment's thought, that makes sense, because how many people must have wanted to know more about Bruce Wayne? Especially given Ariadne's earlier description of him.
Ariadne now makes a small noise of fascination, and Arthur seizes the moment. "Something interesting?" he asks.
"Oh, lots, actually, it's a shame they don't have the full blueprints because I can't quite figure out what's going on with the foundations..." Arthur freezes momentarily, but Ariadne doesn't notice, just rattles on "... and did you know the whole place has been rebuilt inside the last twenty years?"
"I did, actually," says Arthur.
"I didn't," says Eames, just for the condescending glance that elicits from Arthur.
"They actually recreated the whole place, decor and furnishings and everything, which is weirdly cool, don't you think?" Ariadne grins across at them, clearly impressed by the scale of the project.
Eames takes another look around, taking in the leather-bound books, the ladder that squeaks along an old-fashioned rail, even the leather on the table by the window that's faded on one side by a hundred years of sunlight. All this is new? "I'd call it creepily obsessive myself," is what finally slips out.
Interestingly enough, and contrary to expectations, Arthur doesn't protest. Eames had been expected a real-world version of what happened when he called Cobb, "a fucked-up bastard who did his damnedest to get us all killed horribly," which involved lots of guns. Mind you, Eames did not have the high ground, since he'd done something similiar when Arthur called Yusuf, "an unethical drug-dealing ass who'd sell his own grandmother if the price was right".
Arthur just sits there. Ariadne frowns at Eames, twists her mouth up. "I think it's sweet," she says, though she doesn't sound terribly convinced. Eames frowns back at her, and she shakes her head, turns back to the pile in front of her.
Arthur looks at him calmly, then stands and wanders over to the nearest shelves, running his fingers along the books like they're old friends. Eames turns to watch him, so he's looking at the door when it swings open.
"Well, hello there!" says Bruce Wayne.
Ariadne is in the same room as Bruce Wayne. Ariadne is in the same room as Bruce Wayne, in his house, with only two other people. Ariadne is not going to freak out. Ariadne is going to be calm, cool, and sophisticated (or pretend as much as she can.)
Bruce Wayne is shaking hands with Eames, and then he turns towards her, and Ariadne scrambles out of her seat, sending bits of paper scattering to the floor. Should she pick them up? Bruce Wayne is ignoring them and extending a hand.
Ariadne calmly, coolly reaches out to shake hands. But he doesn't shake it. He lifts it to his lips and kisses it. Embarrassingly, Ariadne lets out a giggle. "Enchanté," he says, and his accent is mediocre at best, but his voice is, um, well, yes. Ariadne doesn't dare look at either of her boys, because she just knows Eames will be making some ridiculous kissy-face, and Arthur is probably all stiff and disapproving, and either of those would make her burst out laughing, and it would be terrible if Bruce Wayne thought she was laughing at him.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Wayne," Ariadne manages to say, when he lets go of her hand. Calm. Cool.
"Oh, please, it's Bruce," he says, with a charming grin. "Any friend of Arthur's, you know, especially a friend as lovely as yourself."
Ariadne can feel herself going red, and she doesn't actually trust herself to reply, so she's grateful when Arthur speaks up. "We're not here for a social visit, Bruce," he says.
Arthur's halfway across the room, which is not small, but Bruce simply turns sixty degrees to answer him, doesn't take a single step closer. "Of course you aren't, but we might at least observe the niceties."
Arthur is standing very straight, hands behind his back. "We've been hired to use dream-sharing technology to enter your subconscious and retrieve a number of passwords, for Wayne Enterprises intranet, databases, accounts, etcetera."
"Gosh," says Bruce, very mildly.
"Yes," says Arthur, in just the same tone.
Ariadne is kind of really uncomfortable right now, and she finds herself slipping over to the sofa where Eames is sitting quietly. Neither Bruce nor Arthur seems to notice. Eames acknowledges her with a nudge of the elbow, but he doesn't look away from the two men in front of them.
"That sounds like an awful lot of trouble," says Bruce. "I mean, they're written down on a bit of paper in my desk."
Ariadne can't quite suppress an amused gasp, and Eames is grinning beside her, but Arthur just looks stoic.
"The co-signatory policy is still in effect?" he asks. It must make sense to Bruce, because he nods. Arthur takes a long, slow breath. "We need to be seen to do this job, for all our sakes. In approximately two weeks, the three of us will find an opportunity to briefly abduct you, and then we'll be leaving. You might want to look into subconscious security. For Lucius and Alfred, as well."
Bruce raises an eyebrow.
"Alfred knows your alarm codes," Arthur explains. Lucius, whoever he is, must not need an explanation.
"I suppose you can recommend someone?" Bruce asks.
"I'll make a list," Arthur says, though he could totally do it himself. Maybe he'll put himself on the list, or maybe Ariadne will just mention it to Bruce before they go. "Speaking of lists," Arthur says, in a distinctly ungraceful segue, "I'll go get those passwords. The desk in your office?"
"Top left-hand drawer," Bruce says, and Arthur leaves without another word, sidling quietly through the door.
"Well!" says Bruce, throwing up his hands, and drops into a nearby chair.
"How long since you last saw him?" asks Eames sympathetically.
"Oh, years and years," Bruce says. "He's always been independent, and then, well, we had a bit of a falling-out, I'm afraid."
"Wait a minute," blurts out Ariadne, "oh, damn, I didn't... sorry, but how young was he, when he lived here? And, well. Are there photos?"
Bruce positively beams at her. "Lots," he says.
"Now, I'm afraid," Bruce says, pushing himself out of his chair and striding across the room, "his old family albums are in his room upstairs, but here," he pulls out a single photo album from an entire shelf of them, without checking the labels, "we have a teenage Arthur."
Eames isn't close enough to read the label before Bruce has the album spread open on the nearest table. Ariadne is practically bouncing with delight, but Eames feels... something unfamiliar, vaguely queasy... and then dismisses it, because there could be some really awesome blackmail material right here.
There aren't any captions, just photos carefully held on the page by fancy bits at the corners. Generally, people like to tell the stories behind pictures - when and where and all the rest - but Bruce seems content to just look. He chuckles when Ariadne exclaims over how young and small Arthur looks, explains when asked that the photo of the two of them in tuxes is from, "a charity ball, or some such." Then they turn another page, and a young man appears with his arm slung round Arthur's shoulder, maybe five years between them. Ariadne asks, of course.
"That's Dick," says Bruce. "He was the first boy I took in."
"Turned into a habit, did it?" Eames can't help asking.
Bruce's lips turn upwards, but it isn't a smile. "He and Arthur were very close, for a while," he says, eyes fixed on the photo. "He'd probably like to know you're in town." He doesn't pull out his phone, though.
Further down the page, Dick is upside-down, swinging from a tree branch by his knees, while Arthur sits at the base of the trunk with a book. In the next photo, the book is discarded on the ground, and Dick - still upside-down - is blocking a playful punch from Arthur, both of them grinning widely.
Arthur grows up quickly as they turn the pages. There are photos from events, the obligatory school portraits, and the odd candid taken while Arthur isn't paying attention. In one of them, Arthur's arm is heavily bandaged, his face bruised. "I don't think I ever got the full story on that," says Bruce. "Independent, even then." Eames doesn't believe him.
In another, Arthur is clearly staring down someone who's outside the camera's reach. "Hey," says Ariadne, "I recognise that expression!"
Eames grins. "It's the stop-talking-now-or-my-fist-and-your-mouth-become-better-acquainted look." Ariadne and Bruce both look at him, and he raises his eyebrows. "Well, that's what he said first time he looked at me that way."
Ariadne laughs, and Bruce shakes his head in a pantomime of I-taught-him-better.
Then the girl shows up. She's blonde, pretty. Arthur is looking at her in every photo, and she's always smiling back. "Stephanie," says Bruce, and something in his tone tells Eames that this story doesn't have a happy ending. Ariadne asks, of course.
"They were friends, before and after they were together," Bruce says. "You'd have to ask Arthur, but I wouldn't recommend it." He frowns, and turns the page. Eames touches Ariadne's hand, and shakes his head. She scowls, but keeps her mouth shut.
They're still looking at photos when the door opens, and Bruce immediately turns to look. Something in the movement touches something in Eames' head, and he realises that Bruce never turned his back on Arthur, and vice versa. It's troubling.
Arthur holds the door open for Alfred, who's carrying a large tray with cups and plates of delicious-looking things. Then Arthur looks at the three of them, and asks flatly, "Having fun?"
Ariadne bites her lip, suddenly abashed. "Absolutely," says Eames. "You're positively adorable in white tie."
Arthur frowns, but his shoulders lose a little of their tension. "If you could possibly think about work for a few minutes," he says, "Alfred and I have a plan."
Alfred gives him a repressive look which is dreadfully familiar, and Eames has to grin. He does love a good plan.
Four days later, Arthur is sitting in the kitchen, watching Alfred mix up a batch of cookie dough. Ariadne is back in their suite at the hotel (which is not one of the nicest in Gotham, but is comfortable), ostensibly working up designs for the extraction but probably attempting to design architectural strange loops. Or watching pay-per-view. Or watching pay-per-view. Upstairs, Bruce is sleeping off a long night of patrolling, while outside, Alfred's new temporary assistant Eames is attacking part of the kitchen garden with a spade.
Eames had complained about being put to manual labor, of course, but it's for the sake of the cover (even if there's no sign so far that they are actually being watched). Arthur came in the back way for much the same reason, by which he means, via the tertiary entrance to the Batcave, though possibly there was a little curiosity there as well. The Cave hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been down there; Bruce had mostly given up collecting trophies before Arthur came along. The computer and screens had been replaced, the car had been upgraded, and the gym corner had less acrobatics equipment out, more to do with strength training. Arthur had thought about hopping up on the rings for old times' sake, but he wasn't exactly dressed for it.
And so now Arthur is sitting in a kitchen which hasn't changed at all, and it could easily be ten or fifteen years ago, sitting quietly at the table with a mug of cocoa as Alfred works at the counter. Alfred hasn't changed much in that time, is only a little thinner, a little slower, a little more careworn, with a few more lines on his face. But he's getting older, and if he'd died, Arthur might not have known in time to come to the funeral.
Arthur shifts his weight, lets the chair creak out a warning. "I'm sorry," he says, "about... all that, when I left." It isn't what he means, but it's what he can say.
Alfred looks over his shoulder, smiling a little. "Sometimes a clean break is the only way."
"Yeah," says Arthur, "but I didn't have to... well." He was a little asshole back then, mostly on purpose. "And I really did mean to call. It's just, by the time I started thinking I could, I was already, uh, skirting the edges of legality, and it didn't seem like a good idea."
Alfred sets down his mixing bowl and turns to regard Arthur solemnly. "You are always welcome here, Master Timothy," he says.
Arthur can't help smiling at him, can't help the feeling of warmth that comes from Alfred addressing him that way again. It's a feeling of home. He sits for a while longer, sipping cocoa, and in due course, Alfred hands over the empty bowl and spoon to be licked clean.
He shouldn't, but it's such a reminder, such a guilty pleasure, and it may as well be fifteen years ago. He's halfway through the bowl, licking mix off his finger, when someone walks in behind him. Someone big, light on their feet, and his shoulders tighten up fast and hard, beyond possibility of hiding.
It could be Eames, in which case he can expect a lot of teasing, or it could be Bruce, in which case he can expect worse.
The footsteps falter slightly, and then pass him. It's Bruce. He's wrapped in a dressing-gown, padding across the kitchen tiles in his bare feet, and he leans against the counter, waiting for coffee to present itself.
Arthur dips his finger into the dough again, does his best to look casual as he licks it off. He breathes deeply, waits for some of the tension to flow out of his muscles. It's not going to happen quickly, because god only knows there's reasons for him to be tense around Bruce, but he breathes, and waits.
Alfred hands Bruce a cup of coffee, replaces Arthur's mug of cocoa with a fresh one that Arthur doesn't touch. Bruce inhales the scent of his coffee, eyes open just a slit. Arthur tries not to look at him too much, keeps his attention on the bowl that he's cleaning fingerwidth by fingerwidth.
Jesus, it's been a long time since he saw Bruce. That visit four days ago hardly counts, since they were both wearing their masks in front of company. It's been a long time, and they were fighting then, Arthur viciously using his knowledge of the man to cut his way out from under Bruce's control. He still thinks the man is insane, knows he was right to get out when he did, but he hasn't done a great deal better since, attaching himself to another charismatic and damaged man and then winding up an international criminal, for god's sake.
Arthur's a lot more forgiving than he was ten years ago, so when Bruce finally looks at him, Arthur looks back with just a hint of a smile. Bruce's mouth twitches, and he looks away again, and the level of tension in the room goes down dramatically.
Bruce finishes his coffee, and turns his back on Arthur to place the cup in the sink. He nods at Alfred, and walks out of the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to drop one hand on Arthur's shoulder and squeeze.
It's good to be home.
Because Arthur is kind of a perfectionist, they wind up breaking into Wayne Manor for real. Eames spied out the alarm codes while he was at Alfred's beck and call, and Arthur is extremely skilled when it comes to slinking through the night. Once they get in, Bruce and Alfred are waiting in a sitting room, both remarkably alert for four in the morning.
Ariadne is still a little overwhelmed by Bruce - this is only the second time she's met him, and she might have spent some of the intervening time looking up gossip about him, which would totally count as research if this job was real, so there - but Alfred came to their hotel bearing all sorts of edible goodies and stayed to chat, and he's a total sweetheart, so she smiles at him and lets herself collapse into a comfortable chair. B & E: surprisingly stressful.
Eames sinks into the chair across from her, but Arthur stays standing and launches into a speech about how they should only stay for this length of time, and this has to happen, and blah blah blah, Ariadne isn't listening because he'll tell them what needs doing when it needs done. She knows this from experience. She yawns, just a little, and Eames scowls at her. Then he grins, and makes a little 'talk-talk-talk' motion with his hand by his side. Arthur's sufficiently focused on the other two that he doesn't notice, and Ariadne rolls her eyes in reply.
Bruce finally speaks up when Arthur pulls out a needle, saying something about "verisimilitude".
"You know, Arthur," Bruce says, "I wouldn't mind seeing what you've been up to, these last few years."
Arthur blinks at him.
"I must confess to being intrigued myself," says Alfred.
Arthur blinks some more.
"What do you think, Ariadne?" asks Bruce.
Her mind goes blank. "Um," she says. "I think," she says. Then she takes a deep breath and actually thinks for a second. "We could totally do it," she says, "but it's Arthur's decision."
"It's not a good idea," says Arthur, and she gives him the puppy-eyes, noting as she does so that she's not the only one.
"I'll stay up top, if you like," Eames says, and Arthur glares at him.
"We haven't prepared anything," says Arthur, which is weak, as arguments go.
"I'm sure Ariadne could dream up something impressive enough for you," Eames says. Eames is totally challenging both of them with that, but Ariadne is so up for it. She has not been sitting around doing nothing for the last two weeks, that is for sure. It's not complete yet, couldn't be used for a job, but for showing off, her fantasy city is perfect. She grins, and nods.
"Oh, go on, Arthur," says Bruce.
Arthur sighs, fidgets, and sighs again. "Fine," he finally says. "Five minutes only, and, uh..."
"We should do it in my dream, that way I can build," Ariadne says, and Arthur nods at her, starts pulling the PASIV out of its case.
Alfred goes to the sideboard and pours Eames a cup of tea, brings it back with a plate of something that Eames exclaims over in delight, but Ariadne is concentrating. She breathes deep, stays calm, and turns up her wrist for Arthur to insert the needle.
They go under.
They're standing in a cobbled city square, with a spiral staircase climbing into the air in the center. On one side is a waterfall, straight out of an Escher print. The other three sides are lined with buildings, fairytale cottages nestled beneath skyscrapers, next to ornate Victorian townhouses and a solid red-brick bank. A road leads from each corner - one large, two middling, and one so small it's hardly a road at all.
"My goodness," says Alfred.
"Not very convincing," says Arthur.
She rolls her eyes at him, and looks at Bruce. He looks different, somehow, as if he's standing in shadow despite the light beating down from overhead. "Where can we go?" he asks.
"Wherever you like," she tells him cheerfully, "but we'd best all stick together, just in case."
"Just in case?" Bruce asks, the shadows deepening about him.
"I'll explain later," Arthur says. "For now... how about we try the stairs first?"
Bruce and Alfred look at the stairs, a spiral to nowhere in the middle of the square. Alfred raises both eyebrows.
Ariadne grins, and leads the way.
Eames has Jaffa Cakes and a cup of tea made to his precise tastes. Possibly he should be concerned about sitting in a room with four unconscious people, but A) it's nothing new and B) he has Jaffa Cakes, and he hasn't had them since last time he went home, which was nearly two years ago now and was in no way a pleasant visit, except for the brief detour to Tesco's to pick up things you just can't get outside the UK, because the export versions are never the same. Unless, of course, you're the kind of person who can pay couriers to bring them to you, and apparently Bruce Wayne is willing to do that for his butler-aka-father-figure.
Four unconscious people, and a PASIV merrily humming away in their midst. Eames hopes they're having fun down there. Ariadne is probably delighted to be showing off, Arthur... not so much. Part of why Eames offered to stay out of the dream was to take away one of Arthur's excuses. If the man had had the balls to actually say he was uncomfortable sharing a dream with these people, that would be one thing, and Eames would have found a way to support him on it, but no, Arthur had to play the hard man and come up with bullshit reasons and thus deserves all he gets.
Part of it is that to someone with no experience in dream-sharing, what Eames does is no different than what anyone else can do. Only someone who's been around, who's tried it themselves and failed over and over again, will actually be as impressed as they ought to be when Eames sheds himself and walks around in someone else's skin. Part of it is that he doesn't trust these people, which is kind of ironic given that he makes a living out of going into strangers' brains with criminals, but that's work, and this is recreation, and there is something wrong about Bruce Wayne, something that Alfred and Arthur both know about, and Eames does not like it.
Also part of it, just a little, is that it's fun watching people sleep. Not in a creepy way, but getting to look at them when they can't turn away, can't put on a false face... okay, maybe it's a little creepy, but Eames is okay with that. He's a criminal, after all.
Ariadne and Arthur, he's seen dreaming many times before. Ariadne is smiling, this time, a good sign for the dream. Arthur is laid out neat and tidy, as usual, and Eames is tempted, as usual, to ruffle his hair, but Arthur would undoubtedly have his revenge.
Alfred is also neat and tidy, leaning back in a recliner. He looks older, asleep, a certain vitality gone missing that lets his true age show through. Surely he should be retired, by now, but Eames suspects there is more to what Alfred does than could be listed in a job advert; knows that to anyone who's lived here, Alfred is simply irreplaceable.
Bruce Wayne is sprawled arrogantly on the couch. He looks older, too, and a lot more serious. And on his arm, beneath his rolled-up sleeve, a thick scar is still raised and red. Eames leaves behind his chair to take a closer look. On the small amount of skin visible, Eames sees a lot of scars, new and old and in between. Bruce's hands are tough and calloused, with fingers that have surely been broken in the past. They're not the hands of a dilettante.
Those hands twitch, and the timer counts down, and Eames retreats to his chair, gulps down some more tea. He's perfectly relaxed by the time Arthur blinks awake and sits up. The others follow suit more slowly; Arthur is sliding needles out of veins even as Alfred shakes his head dozily, as Bruce checks his surroundings with flickering eyes.
"That was fun," says Ariadne, "but I'm really not sure about..."
"Ariadne." Arthur cuts her off with a smile, and she subsides cheerfully enough. "All right, Alfred? Bruce?"
They're fine, of course, and they're impressed, and Arthur pushes Alfred down in his seat and makes the drinks himself, and then has a minor tantrum over how many of the Jaffa Cakes Eames has eaten (but really, Alfred handed over the entire plate, and if Eames had been given another minute or two he would probably have finished them, and Arthur should count himself lucky to be getting one, even if the way he meticulously picks off the chocolate and eats it first is rather endearing).
Then Bruce gets up. He moves like a fighter, and click, click, click, everything falls into place inside Eames' brain, and he doesn't stop to think before he speaks.
"You're Batman," Eames says, and the way Bruce's face hardens at that, the way he can peripherally see Alfred flinch and Arthur straighten, they all confirm it. But none of them reply: Ariadne gets in first.
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she says. "Everyone knows the whole Batman thing is really the CIA."
All four of them look at her, with varying degrees of surprise and disbelief.
"What?" says Ariadne, confused at their reaction. "This city is a testing ground for chemical weapons and terror tactics, but nobody notices because the story is always how Batman saved the day."
"Um," says Arthur. "That's not... I mean..." He blinks at her, and looks to Bruce and then Alfred for assistance, but they both just shake their heads.
Eames laughs and laughs and laughs.
Later, he nicks Arthur's phone, and changes the ringtone to Rockin' Robin. Arthur's expression when he hears it is a thing of beauty and a joy forever, and the situation only improves when Ariadne starts singing along.
Later still, Arthur calls in Yusuf and, having developed a new technique for camouflaging subconscious militarisation, takes them all back to Gotham, where Ariadne finally admits her CIA-conspiracy-theory might not be true; but that's another story altogether.