Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fischer held up two fingers, signaling he wanted more to drink. As he waited for the whiskey to arrive, he stared at the window. It was raining heavily outside. The bartender appeared in front to take his money. With a sigh directed more at himself than at the man, he slid dollar bills onto the counter towards the bartender.

“Keep ‘em coming,” he muttered. Raising an eyebrow but not speaking, the bartender took the money. Fischer sipped at the remaining whiskey in his glass. Then the bartender spoke.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?” he commented. Fischer looked up at the voice. It wasn't the usual clipped American accent. This man didn't have slicked back black hair, nor a seemingly permanent expression of distaste. No, this man had brown hair, with scruff and a British accent.

“You do speak English, don’t you?” the bartender asked dryly, his voice cutting through Fischer’s thoughts. Fischer blinked and shook his head.

“Sorry, I was ... distracted,” he explained before he glanced at the windows. “Yes. Terrible weather.”

“Mm,” the bartender grunted. He was absently cleaning a glass before he noticed that Fischer had finished his whiskey. He looked across the room to where the usual bartender was. “Oi, Arthur!” he shouted. He followed this with a sharp whistle and the black-haired man, Arthur, looked over with a mildly annoyed expression. The British man pointed with a thumb at Fischer. “Needs a refill, stat.”

As he waited for Arthur to get a bottle, the man looked back at Fischer.

“What’s your name?” he asked by way of conversation. Fischer shrugged.

“Why does it matter?” he replied suspiciously. The bartender chuckled.

“Just wondering.”

“Fischer. Robert Fischer.”

“Son of Maurice Fischer?”

“That’s me.”

“And what's the son of Maurice Fischer doing in a bar like this?”

Fischer fixed the British man with a restrained glare.

“My father died two days ago.”

Rather than apologizing or offering sympathies, the bartender just shrugged.

“Happens to the best of us,” he answered. Fischer felt a tinge of irritation at this man’s morbid sense of humor, but also found himself respecting him. He wasn’t afraid to voice his thoughts. Plus, he didn't start treating Fischer like a child upon hearing the news. Most people would apologize for it and start a long monologue about how ‘great’ a man Maurice Fischer was.

Truth be told, Fischer was rather sick of hearing it. His father had never cared about him, and hearing people talking about Maurice like he was a hero made Fischer’s mouth taste bitter.

“Whiskey for you,” the bartender announced, taking the bottle from Arthur and pouring it with a small flourish into a new glass. Fischer sipped the whiskey and grimaced at the burn. The bartender watched him closely.

“Good stuff, eh?” he grinned.

“I guess,” Fischer replied, taking another sip. The bartender crossed his arms.

“So, Robert-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Fischer’s tone came out more acidic than he meant but he didn’t care. He wasn’t in the mood for any condescending words. Plus, that was what his father had called him. The British bartender’s eyebrow arched.

“Fine,” he said, unfazed by Fischer’s angry tone. “So, Fischer, why whiskey? Drowning your sorrows in booze?”

“Look,” Fischer said, interrupting, “I’m tired. I just came here to drink, alone. I don’t even know you, so please-”

“Eames.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Eames. That’s my name.”

Fischer looked at the man for a moment, holding his gaze, before snorting softly and drinking some of his whiskey. He couldn't believe this man’s nerve. Eames leaned against the counter

“I have to tell you, Mr. Fischer, you have absolutely stunning eyes.”

Fischer choked on the whiskey he was swallowing, coughing into the glass. A triumphant grin twisted Eames’s face. Arthur appeared next to him, holding a bottle.

“Eames, please can you stop flirting with customers for a minute and go pour some drinks?” he asked in an aggravated tone. Eames gave a mock salute.

“Sure thing, boss,” he shot back in an overly sarcastic voice. Arthur walked away again and Eames left to serve other patrons, leaving a confused Fischer alone. His face burned and his hands were hot suddenly on the glass. What the hell? Was this Eames guy really hitting on him already?

“It just isn’t my day,” Fischer mumbled, finishing the whiskey. As he put the glass down, a woman sat next to him.

“How’s it going, sugar?” she asked with a smile. Fischer could barely contain an eye roll. He ignored the woman and pointedly took a sip of his drink. He saw movement and then the bartender, Eames, was there, talking to the woman.

“Sweetheart, unless you’re buying, please don’t bother our patrons,” he said in a sarcastic voice. The woman threw a dirty look at him, then at Fischer, and stalked away.

“Thanks,” Fischer murmured. Eames laughed.

“No problem,” he answered before exhaling sharply. “It’s bloody hot in here. Someone's cranked up the heating.”

He turned to Arthur, who was cleaning a glass. “If you wouldn't mind, darling, could you tend to our friend Robert here? I need a breath of cool air.”

Both Arthur and Fischer watched as Eames walked out. Arthur filled Fischer’s glass again and Fischer cleared his throat to speak hesitantly.

“That Eames man. How come I’ve never seen him before?”

“Oh, him?” Arthur said, sounding surprised. “He’s fairly new. I don’t know what he did before this but he’s pretty good here. Charisma is needed to get good tips.”

“I'm sure he has plenty of both,” Fischer muttered. He turned his glass in circles on the countertop, slowly rotating it and watching the amber liquid ripple. Arthur watched the doors of the bar for any new patrons. A voice came from behind Fischer suddenly, startling him.

“Miss me?” Eames asked in a cheery tone. As he walked around back to behind the counter, he flashed a smile, first at Fischer’s slightly alarmed face, then at Arthur’s completely unamused expression. Eames patted the other bartender’s arm as he passed. “Of course you did.”

Fischer quickly looked down into his glass and took a sip. Arthur went away to serve new arrivals. Eames hovered around the main area, tapping his fingers in a random pattern as he gazed absently around. Fischer finished his glass and decided he was done drinking for now.

“Want another?” Eames asked.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

When Eames’s gaze on him didn’t move, Fischer looked up, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“What?”

“I wasn't lying before,” Eames told him, with an open, honest expression. “Your eyes are truly lovely.”

“Um. Thank you, I guess,” Fischer replied awkwardly, embarrassed and bewildered over the compliment. His face was flushed again, to Eames’s glee, it seemed.

“Please stop,” Fischer demanded suddenly, looking up at Eames. His suddenly acrimonious tone confused the bartender.

“Stop what?”

“Whatever this is. Complimenting me. Surely you say things like that all the time. It won’t mean anything.”

“I only pay compliments to someone really, really special. And if their eyes are as lovely as yours ...”

As Eames leaned closer, Fischer felt more and more confused. He leaned away by a fraction, not sure whether he felt uncomfortable or not.

“Eames!” Arthur said in an exasperated voice, turning to stare at the man. Eames shrugged. He threw a last glance at Fischer’s eyes before straightening up and going to serve more patrons. Fischer heard Arthur groan and looked up.

“I’m sorry about him,” Arthur said by way of explanation, his eye catching Fischer’s. “He doesn’t seem to understand that there’s a rule against flirting with patrons. Our boss Saito doesn’t like it. He says it's ‘vulgar’.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Eames, who had just winked at a patron. “I, for one, understand what he means. Yet Eames doesn’t understand there’s a line between his job and his love life.”

“Love life?” Fischer asked, his face paling. Was this Eames guy actually flirting with him, of all people?

“Maybe it’s a British thing,” Arthur muttered as Eames came back over. He clapped a hand onto Arthur’s back.

“Speak up a bit, Arthur, I couldn't quite hear you,” he said in a now familiar sarcastic tone. Arthur sighed. He quickly left the area, leaving Fischer alone with Eames. Fischer looked stubbornly down into his empty glass so Eames couldn’t comment on his eyes again.

“Chin up, darling, if you want a refill,” the bartender said, leaning over with the bottle. Fischer reluctantly lifted his head but refused to meet Eames’s eyes. He could sense the man’s gaze on him as he watched the whiskey fall into his glass. Fischer still didn’t look up as he thanked the bartender and drank from his glass. With a sigh, Eames stopped trying and wandered to other side of the room to refill another patron’s glass.

*

Hours passed. Fischer steadily went from sober to dizzy but he didn’t think anything of it. He wanted to forget everything. He didn’t care how drunk he got. Eventually, a hand rested on his shoulder.

“Hey. You should stop drinking.”

Fischer looked up, vision slightly blurry, to see Eames. The bartender had a concerned expression. “Look, it may not be professional, but I’ll get you to where you need to be. You can’t walk these streets like this.”

“I'll be fine," Fischer mumbled, and Eames snorted.

“Rich kid wandering the streets at night in this state? No, you’re far too vulnerable. Worst case scenario, you’re kidnapped for ransom. I’ll help you up.”

“I can walk,” Fischer protested, holding up a hand to unsuccessfully push Eames away. The British man simply took the hand and used it to pull Fischer up, supporting him.

“Come on, you. Let’s get you out of here.”

As he let Eames walk him out, Fischer looked over to see Arthur watching them with a strange look on his face. However, Fischer was too far gone to react or even care. He stood silently, enjoying the buzz behind his temples, as Eames hailed a taxi. He felt a hand rummaging around the inside pockets of his jacket, pulling out his wallet; Fischer weakly reached for it but missed. Eames flipped it open and read the address to the cab driver. As the bartender opened the door to let Fischer in, the driver spoke.

“He ain’t gonna puke, is he?” he asked with a frown. Eames smiled and shook his head.

“Don’t worry. He isn’t that bad,” he replied. The driver shrugged and turned back to face the road. Eames took a gentle hold of Fischer’s upper arm and helped him into the taxi, making sure the slightly drunk man was sat down, before closing the door behind them. The taxi began to move. Eames sat quietly watching the cost of the journey rise, wondering if he’d borrow Fischer’s money for it and pay the guy back some other time. During this thought, the taxi turned a corner and Fischer slumped over, leaning towards Eames. Instinctively, Eames shot out a hand and grabbed the closest part of Fischer he could to steady the man. His hand ended up grabbing Fischer’s leg and Eames quickly let go, not wanting to alarm Fischer. To Eames's surprise, Fischer didn’t acknowledge the gesture. He just held his head in his hands, and Eames picked up the warning signs. He tapped on the glass between them and the driver.

“Hey, drop us off here, would you?” he asked. The driver nodded and pulled to the side when he could. The bartender helped Fischer out and, to save time, paid using Fischer’s money. He mentally remembered the amount and silently vowed to pay it back. Meanwhile, Fischer himself had stumbled over to a bench and was sat down on the wet wood, holding his head still. Eames walked over and stood looking down at the nauseous man.

“Bloody hell, if you throw up on my shoes, you’re buying new ones,” he commented, his stab at humor falling flat. Eames looked up at where gray clouds filled the sky, sending down the rain that was soaking them. Fischer eventually looked up, making eye contact with Eames for the first time since he had been complimented, back in the bar. Eames was struck again by the color of Fischer’s eyes. He bent and hoisted the drunk man back to his feet. Going over the address in his mind with Fischer’s arm around his shoulders, Eames began the slow trek to Fischer’s apartment. It didn’t take long to get to the block, but then came the elevator. Eames had to stand waiting, his hair dripping and a silent Fischer next to him, for the elevator to arrive. He pushed the button for the top floor. The ascent was quiet, with the soft rumbling seemingly soothing Fischer’s nausea. The man was stood, resting his head back against the wall, eyes closed. Eames could see the pulse tapping under the skin, slow and steady.

“Almost there,” Eames said, although he wasn’t sure if Fischer even heard him.

The doors slid open and Eames pulled Fischer by the arm with him, finally reaching to the apartment. Fischer didn’t make any move to pull out his key. Muttering, he searched Fischer’s pockets. While doing so, Eames threw a questioning glance at the man’s face.

“Couldn’t help, could you?” Eames said sarcastically as he found the key, unlocking the door. To his surprise, Fischer pushed the door open hard and stumbled in. He staggered to the kitchen area while Eames closed the door behind him.

“Nice place,” he declared to the empty room. It was a spacious apartment; the main room was large, with one wall made of windows. The view of the city was spectacular, even with the terrible weather. Eames stood gazing down at the multicolored twinkling lights before he heard Fischer return. The bartender looked around to see the man standing there, watching him. Eames’s brow furrowed as Fischer didn’t speak or move. He could just see Fischer’s face in the dim apartment, illuminated by the outside world, pale and ill-looking. Eames took a step towards Fischer.

“Fischer?” He clicked his fingers in front of the man’s unfocused eyes. “You in there?”

Fischer seemed to notice him speaking and blinked, as if coming back from a deep thought. However, he still didn’t speak, choosing to just turn his head and look at Eames. There were those eyes again, making Eames’s heart jump. This time, Fischer held his gaze and reached out slowly with his left hand. Not knowing why, Eames took the hand in both of his. Fischer’s looked down to where Eames’s damp hands enclosed his one. Eames felt Fischer’s grip tighten for half a second before the man pulled away and walked to the windows. Eames’s palms felt abruptly cold and empty before he shook his head. What was he thinking? He was supposed to have just got Fischer home. His head was light and confused.

“I’m sorry,” Fischer said. His voice was soft and sad. As Eames looked across to him, Fischer turned around, and he was silhouetted in front of the city lights. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“No, it’s fine,” Eames admitted. As Fischer watched but didn’t voice any thoughts, Eames took a few steps towards him. He stopped a meter away and Fischer looked down at the floor. The bartender reached out with his hand and rested it on Fischer’s shoulder. Unexpectedly, Fischer turned his face towards Eames. Eames felt his heart in his throat as he saw Fischer up close in the colorful lights.

Fischer pulled the hand off gently and began to walk away. He threw some words over his shoulder to a thoroughly confused Eames.

“Stay if you want. I’m going to sleep.”

He left Eames standing in the dark, not knowing what to do.

Chapter Text

Fischer opened his eyes. His first thought was of why he was stupid enough to drink so much. His second thought was of the resulting pounding ache behind his eyes. Wincing, Fischer pushed himself to sitting and tried to get rid of the crick in his neck. When he felt up to it, he got to his feet and wandered into the adjoining bathroom. He spent a minute attempting to get his hair into the usual neat style and used a small cup to freshen his alcohol-laced breath with mouthwash. Fischer’s next aim was to get something to ease his headache. Walking out of his room and into the main area of the apartment, rubbing his forehead with his left hand, Fischer froze at a voice.

“Enjoying yesterday’s binge now?”

It was British and tinged with amusement. Fischer looked over, his hand slowly moving away from his face. The throbbing of his head increased as he looked towards the sunlight streaming through the windows. Squinting, he registered a figure sitting on the couch, feet up. Before his mind even remembered who it was, Fischer pointed at them.

“Feet down,” he said out of habit. The man chuckled but did so, swinging his feet down and standing up. He walked with confidence towards Fischer, hands in his pockets and a slight smile on his face. He removed one hand from a pocket to gesture past Fischer.

“Go sit down. I’ll make you something, you look like you’re going to die.”

Fischer, for once, didn’t protest at being ordered around by a complete stranger. He went into the kitchen area and sat in a chair. Eyes closed and hands gripping his temples in an attempt to soothe the ache, he could hear the man moving around. He went over the man’s appearance in his head, trying to put a name to the face. Forming a picture of the features. Strong jaw. Slight scruff. Dark eyes. The way his lips quirked into a smile. Yet as much as Fischer tried, he couldn’t remember the name. It was infuriating.

“So you stayed?” he asked after a long silence, attempting to start a conversation to break the awkward tension. He imagined the smile that twisted the man’s face as the expected sarcastic reply came.

“Yes. You offered and figured, why not? It’s nice to sleep surrounded by objects worth more than anything I could ever afford. It practically smells of money.”

Fischer, unsure whether he should be offended or not, simply answered, “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t drink more," the man said. His sudden serious tone drew Fischer’s eyes to open and he found that the man’s gaze was on him. Fischer sighed. A memory came back - the man was a bartender. Then the name came too. Fischer spoke tentatively.

“Look … Eames?” The man nodded and Fischer continued. “I don’t want to lead you on. This means nothing. This could have happened with anyone and I hope you aren’t getting any ideas about me.”

“As long as you aren’t an alcoholic, I couldn’t care less, darling,” Eames said with a reassuring grin. He looked in the small refrigerator before pulling out a carton of milk and bread. He set about making coffee and toast as Fischer returned to rubbing his temples. Eames leaned against the wall, waiting. Fischer flinched when the toast popped up with sharp ping, hurting his head. Eames chuckled and put it on a plate, sliding it over to Fischer before beginning to make coffee.

“In my opinion,” Eames was saying, “the key to helping a hangover is something savory with a drink. Like coffee. It stops the dehydration you’re probably feeling, but unfortunately it does nothing to get rid of your regret.”

Fischer had bitten into a piece of toast, grimacing at the burned taste as he chewed slowly. He had barely registered what Eames was saying but was grateful for the treatment he was being given. He swallowed the dry mouthful and mumbled a soft word of thanks. Eames shrugged.

“Don’t mention it. It’s what I do for everyone who needs help.”

Eames did the same for everyone. It wasn’t special treatment for Fischer, so he should’ve be happy to hear that he wasn’t being singled out. Then why did his heart sink very slightly at the realization?

“I need to get to work,” Eames told him abruptly. He was reaching out for his jacket, which was hanging over the back of Fischer’s chair. Fischer shifted in his seat and felt the material move, Eames’s hand just brushing his back. Fischer looked down at the toast and hoped his face wasn’t betraying his guilt.

“Okay,” he replied. He knew it was a lame reply but he wanted Eames to leave in case the man saw his burning face. Fischer hid it by putting his face in his hands. The method worked. With a quick farewell, Eames put the fresh coffee with a couple of painkillers by Fischer and patted his shoulder. After a second, he let go and left. When his footsteps had long since receded away, Fischer lifted his head and went quickly to the door. He checked the corridor up and down before going back inside, over to the windows. He looked down upon the city, where there was no sign of the bad weather from the night before present now. He could see a yellow speck - a cab - far below and wondered if Eames was in it.

Fischer ran a hand over his face and up through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. Shaking his head, he went back to the kitchen area and took the painkillers with the coffee.

Fischer looked down at where Eames’s jacket had been. He sat down and held his head in his hands, but not from the hangover. His headache was gone; he held his head because his mind was running at a hundred miles an hour.

What was he thinking? He couldn’t be feeling anything for this man. For a starter, Fischer had always thought he wasn’t interested in men. This changed everything. And for a second, this man in question was practically a stranger.

Since he did feel this way for a man, why hadn’t his mind gone for someone like Arthur? The black-haired bartender was polite, tactful and actually had a few similarities to Fischer.

Eames was blunt, rugged, sarcastic and irritating, overly flirty and extremely hard to understand with his motives. Of all the people Fischer had to fall for, it was the man who was his polar opposite. Just thinking about it made him groan.

His cell began to ring from another room, the sudden noise making him jump. He walked to his bedroom, picking it up and answering.

“Hello, Robert Fisch-”

“I know it’s you.”

Fischer tensed up.

“How did you get this number?” he demanded.

“How else?” Eames said, and yet sounded as if he was smiling. “Found your phone when you were asleep and took down the number.”

Fischer didn’t know how to respond. After a few seconds of stilted silence, he heard another voice talk to Eames.

“Can you go serve that table?” Arthur was saying.

“Sure, sure,” Eames replied, the phone crackling. Fischer assumed Eames had covered the mouthpiece with his hand. Their voices were now muffled.

“Are you talking to someone on the phone?” Arthur asked, sounding incredulous.

“Just a quick hello-” Eames began.

“Are you talking to Fischer?” Arthur interrupted. He sounded angry. “Eames, you know that’s against the rules here! No starting personal relationships with patrons.”

“It’s not a relationship, Arthur, calm down. I’m just checking to make sure he’s still alive.”

“If you get caught, Saito might fire you,” Arthur warned. There was moment of quiet, then Eames returned to Fischer, talking as if nothing had happened.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“Good, but why are you asking?” Fischer demanded suspiciously.

“Just checking,” was Eames’s short answer before he hung up. Fischer looked at the phone. Then he tossed it onto the bed, and held his head in his hands.

Meanwhile, Eames was putting his phone away.

“I’m working now,” he called in a sarcastic voice to Arthur, after hanging up on Fischer, pushing away his guilt at doing so.

“Hey, I’m trying to make sure you keep your job,” Arthur shot back. “You know the rules, Eames. I’m trying to stop you from breaking them all.”

“Well, thank you for your consideration, Arthur.”

A few hours later, Eames was having a short break. He stood outside the back of the bar to breathe in the cool air, away from the alcohol and heat for a few minutes. Clear his head. Although it didn’t exactly clear. His thoughts went straight to something unexpected.

Robert Fischer.

Eames reached into his front pocket and pulled out a slightly flattened pack, opening it and drawing out a cigarette. He lit it and inhaled the smoke, his racing thoughts calming a bit. He didn’t want Arthur to see, as he was supposed to have kicked the habit months ago, but it helped him when he was stressed. And stressed he definitely was, thinking about Fischer.

Not exactly knowing what he was doing, Eames dialed Fischer’s number again. There was a few seconds of ringing then the man picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, uh, it’s me again,” Eames greeted. “Look, I was wondering … if we, you know, could just go out later. I need to talk to you.”

There was a long pause. Eames waited for Fischer to speak. Finally, he did.

“Yes. Okay. Where and when?” Fischer asked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Eames suggested his idea.

“Seven o'clock this evening, outside your apartment?”

Fischer voiced his agreement and hung up. Eames couldn’t believe his luck. Quickly stubbing the cigarette and finding a mint in his pocket, he went back into the bar, his mood far happier than it normally was.

*

At half past six, Fischer was feeling tinges of panic.

At quarter to seven, he was pacing and checking his appearance.

At five to seven, he was feeling slightly panicky and didn’t know whether to hang around the door or go to the front of the building.

At exactly seven, his door buzzed and he opened it to see Eames. Fischer swallowed, not knowing what to say.

“Thanks for agreeing to this,” Eames said. To Fischer’s relief, Eames looked like he felt: anxious. Avoiding Eames’s eyes, Fischer locked the door behind him and pulled his dark coat close.

“Shall we go?” Eames asked, and there was the old smile that came so naturally. Fischer felt his own lips twitch as they began to walk. It didn’t take long to get out of the apartment block and down to the park nearby. They stopped by the fountain and both looked into the flowing water, which was lit by small blue lights in the lowest stone tier, just under the water’s surface.

A movement caught Fischer’s eye and he glanced across. Eames was offering a pack of cigarettes, one sticking out for him to take it. Fischer was surprised.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said, taking the offered cigarette as he spoke. Eames chuckled around his own unlit cigarette.

“Only when I’m stressed,” he explained. Fischer nodded.

“Me too. Not that I’m stressed, it's just …"

“A bit overwhelming?” Eames asked, but he wasn’t making fun of Fischer. Noticing the lack of humor and the overall honesty of the statement, Fischer nodded.

“Exactly.”

He leaned in close and let Eames light his cigarette and they both stood quietly by the fountain, breathing smoke into the dark night sky.

It was like a surreal dream as Eames looked at Fischer, both of them illuminated by the street lamps, standing in front of the softly glowing water. Eames watched the smoke roll over Fischer’s lips and coil up into the air. He watched as those beautiful eyes, bluer than ever in this light, lifted to the darkening sky to watch the smoke fade away.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Fischer asked after a long time of silence. Eames nodded.

“I did want to talk.”

“I know. About what?”

“You.”

“Me? Why me?” Fischer sounded surprised. Eames nodded again.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but since I saw you yesterday in the bar, I knew you were different.”

“Different?”

“You weren’t the normal type.”

“Normal type?” Fischer sounded more curious than insulted.

“You know. We either get the drunken rowdy ones or the ladies only there to pick up …” Eames cleared his throat. “… clients.”

“So that woman …?”

“My god, you’re a prude. Yes, that woman was looking for more than just a chat.”

Fischer looked away. His eyelashes cast long shadows over his cheekbones and for a moment, his eyes were in darkness. Smoke mingled above their heads. Before long, it was completely dark and the stars above were visible. Eames looked over.

“How about we go grab something to eat? I’m guessing you haven’t eaten.”

Fischer confirmed this by shaking his head, and Eames continued. “Come on. Let’s go.”

After getting rid of their cigarettes, the two walked along the gravel path of the park between the dark trees, the only sound being the crunch of their footsteps. Eames reached the set of stairs leading back up to the main road first and glanced back at Fischer, who looked up at him. Eames felt a sudden strange lightness in his chest. Fischer stopped, his expression expectant. When Eames didn’t speak, Fischer’s brow furrowed.

“What is it?” he asked. Eames shook his head.

“Nothing, I just looked at you and in this light, you look …” Humor crossed his face. “Stunning.”

Fischer flushed. Eames chuckled and reached out, holding his hand towards Fischer.

“Let’s go quicker, otherwise everywhere is going to be closed.”

Eames saw Fischer hesitate, his hand twitching but not moving. There was a moment where Eames thought Fischer was going to reject him, but then Fischer’s hand touched Eames’s and grasped it.

At every restaurant, Eames would throw a glance at Fischer, who would just shrug and not have an opinion. Eventually, Eames dragged Fischer into the closest place to eat. His hand slipped from Fischer’s. They waited for a waiter. A woman walked over, ready with a smile. She glanced between them.

“Table for two?” she smiled. Eames nodded, casting a look back at Fischer, who looked back but didn’t speak. The waitress led them to a table, where Fischer sat straight-backed out of habit. Eames leaned back in his chair with an easy smile as he moved his gaze around the restaurant.

“Not too fancy, not too cheap,” he commented. Fischer nodded. His hands were on the table in front of him, clasped together, white-knuckled. Eames’s eyes flickered towards them. He decided to speak when their meal was done and they were finishing their drinks.

“Are you feeling alright?” Eames asked. Fischer, now resting his clasped hands against his chin, blinked and looked up. He lowered his hands and used one to pick up his glass. He seemed to think for a moment.

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You just seem tense.”

“Do I?” Fischer seemed genuinely surprised over Eames’s concern. He took a sip of his drink before choking on it as Eames’s hand rested on his free hand. Eames’s eyes glittered with amusement.

“That’s the second time that’s happened,” he pointed out. Eames felt the hand beneath his tense but not move away. Slowly, carefully, Eames slid his hand so it was holding Fischer’s. He sighed.

“I suppose I have to come clean.”

“What do you mean?”

There was a flicker of doubt in Fischer’s eyes as he asked the question.

“I mean,” Eames explained, “about this. About what I wanted to talk about. I’m sorry if this is sudden, but I liked the look of you since you walked into the bar.”

Fischer was speechless.

“You mean- you …” he began but trailed off. Eames laughed.

“Again with the prudishness! Yes, Fischer, I like you a lot.”

Fischer looked down at their hands. The waitress from earlier came over to their table.

“Would you like the bill?” she smiled. Eames nodded. They argued who would pay for it and Eames ended up winning the argument, wanting to pay Fischer back for the cab fare. Not long later, they were outside again. Eames exhaled and watched the cold white air before it faded. They began to walk, back down the roads and the steps to the fountain, where they paused for the second time that night.

“I’m sorry if this has ruined our friendship,” Eames apologized after a long silence. Without looking over, Fischer spoke.

“No, it’s fine. I don’t remember the last time I did something like this.”

“You’ve handled your grief well,” Eames continued.

“I’m sorry?” Fischer said, looked up.

“You’ve handled the grief over your father well.”

“Oh, that. Yes.” Fischer gave a soft derisive snort. “I’ve had to control my emotions since my mother died.”

“When was that?”

“I was eleven.”

Eames didn’t say anything, not even a witty response. They began walking to the steps that led back up the road and to Fischer’s apartment. As Eames was climbing the stairs, Fischer called out.

“Wait.”

Eames turned his head to look down at Fischer. Fischer swallowed slowly and approached, his eyes lowered.

“Thank you.”

Eames turned around fully to face Fischer, on a higher step so he was looking slightly down towards Fischer. The shadows of his eyelashes cast long dark lines over his cheekbones. Then Eames reached out, barely knowing what he was doing, and took the sides of Fischer’s face in his hands. He cupped the man’s face gently before leaning in and kissing Fischer. Eames tasted smoke and wine before Fischer pushed him away. Startled, Eames opened his mouth to speak but stopped. Fischer pulled his jacket tighter, his expression almost torn.

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames,” he said in a clipped tone before walking past Eames and away into the dark. Eames watched him but didn’t follow. For a moment, he wondered if he dared to tail Fischer, but he knew better. Eames made his way back to the bar, silent throughout the cab journey he took, and pretended to not notice Arthur’s stare when he returned. The bar was empty, having closed hours ago, but Arthur was still tidying up, as he usually had Eames to help him.

“Where the hell were you?” Arthur demanded. Eames wasn’t in the mood. He ignored the question and set about doing his routine of collecting glasses and trash. However, he couldn’t avoid it when Arthur stood in front of him, frowning with crossed arms, waiting for an answer.

“I went out!” Eames said in a falsely bright voice, before his tone turned sour. “You’re not my parent, Arthur. You don’t need to know.”

“I heard you on the phone earlier,” Arthur said in a way that sounded accusatory. Eames bristled.

“You listened to my conversation with someone else? That’s low, Arth-”

“You’re breaking the rules!” Arthur interrupted. “What did you do?”

“We went on a walk. We had a meal. That’s all,” Eames replied in a restrained growl. Arthur raised an eyebrow. Eames sighed. “And I kissed him.”

The scenario seemed ridiculous, the two grown men arguing over romance like children. But there was nothing humorous about the situation. Arthur threw a final disappointed look at Eames before turning away. He acted like Eames didn’t exist for the rest of the evening, not even saying goodbye when they left.

Back at his own apartment, Eames feel asleep thinking of Fischer’s eyes. He was woken up half an hour later by his phone ringing.

Chapter Text

Fischer fumbled for his key the second he reached his apartment door. He locked it behind him and went immediately to the bathroom where he stood gazing into the mirror, breathing fast. Before he registered it, Fischer had punched the mirror, his fist cracking the surface.

“Why?” he asked shakily, as if speaking to his reflection. He ran his hands over his face, trying to calm himself. His hands were shaking. He felt a sudden rush of self-loathing, first at letting Eames get so close, but then at his reaction. He thought of the expression on Eames’s face. Fischer shook his head and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. He felt wrong. After showering, he changed and walked over to the windows, looking down at the city. At night, it was stunning, and he knew the view was always something to marvel at. But his mind was elsewhere. Brushing his damp hair back, he pulled his phone from his pocket and found Eames’s number in his contact list, from when the man had added it while Fischer was asleep. His thumb hovered over the call button before Fischer steeled himself. He pressed the button and heard the ringing start. Twelve loops later and Fischer was about to give up, but suddenly, Eames picked up. Neither said a word at first. Fischer’s voice hitched as he spoke.

“I need to see you.”

“See me?” Eames snorted. “We were just together. You seemed quite happy to get away from me.”

“I know.” Fischer sounded distressed. “And I just … We need to talk. I’ll see you by the fountain in ten minutes.”

“Make that fifteen, it takes me at least ten to get there by cab.”

With that, Eames hung up. Fischer put on a jacket and walked out of his apartment, down the corridors and stairs to the street outside. The night air was cold and his breath made white puffs as he walked to the fountain. Ten minutes later, Fischer heard footsteps and turned to see Eames, who stopped a meter away.

“Your hand is bleeding,” he said with concern.

“I broke a mirror,” was all Fischer said. There was a long pause before he eventually talked again.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Eames asked. Fischer half shrugged a shoulder.

“For what just happened. How I acted.”

“It’s perfectly understandable.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s …”

“It’s what?”

“It’s what I wanted to happen. But I also didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at me. As you called me, I’m a ‘rich kid’. Being rich doesn’t mean you’re not lonely. Having business partners doesn’t guarantee friends. As the saying goes, money can’t buy happiness. And I speak from experience here … having wealth? It isn’t a dream come true. It doesn’t solve all your problems. In fact, it almost repels people from me.”

Fischer gave a dry laugh. “They see me as someone who only lives for money. The last thing I want is to push away the only person who knows me as a human, rather than just a rich deal or punching bag.”

“Didn’t your father understand?”

“Oh, no. Far from it. He was disappointed of me all his life. Never thought I could live up to his standards, his way of working.”

Eames suddenly looked over and said, “What you just told me. ‘A punching bag.’ What do you mean?”

Fischer’s shook his head, before beginning to leave. Eames caught him by the arm.

“Hey. Tell me.”

“Nothing,” Fischer said stubbornly, as he began to move away again. Eames tightened his grip on Fischer’s arm. There was a flicker of familiarity in Fischer’s eyes. “Eames. Stop.”

“Tell me,” Eames repeated, but he loosened his grip.

“Who else did I have to stay close to?” Fischer snapped in a vicious tone, wrenching his arm free but not moving this time. There was anger written across his face; his blue eyes burned like fire. Eames took a step back.

“Was it-” Eames's remembered a name he’d seen on theme news. “Browning?” he began. Fischer cut him off with a false laugh.

“No, he’s fine. Better parent than daddy dearest ever was.”

“Your father?” Eames was stunned.

“After my mother died, he wasn’t exactly 'father of the year' material.”

“Why did nobody say anything?” Eames demanded.

“He paid them off,” Fischer replied bitterly. “Even Browning. They’ve all kept quiet for so many years. Not once, have they even spoken to me about it.”

“How could they not?”

“Oh, they could, if they wanted to. They just don’t. That's how it's always been.”

For once, Eames was speechless. Fischer looked down at the ground.

“When he got sick, I thought it was a blessing. I was wrong. He couldn't physically, but the things he said …”

He looked past Eames, avoiding his gaze.

“The one I remember most … When I was twelve, he threw a lamp. The lightbulb broke.”

“When?”

“I was about to go to sleep, and I accidentally asked for my mother. He didn’t like me mentioning her.”

Fischer could still remember everything clearly, but that night was one of the most vivid memories.

Robert Fischer, twelve years old, lying in bed, his father standing over him.

“Be a good boy and sleep, Robert,” he was saying. He turned to leave. Young Fischer looked up.

“Can I say goodnight to mom?” he asked, half asleep and unaware of his words. The room went dark as the lamp was ripped from the socket. It hit the wall. Glass hit Fischer where he shielded himself, cutting his cheek. His father threw the broken remains onto the bed by his son before walking out. Fischer lay still, his eyes stinging and his face hot.

Cowering by the side of his bed, unable to sleep in it. The pillow had blood on it from the cut. It had congealed a while ago but the pain still lingered. Then a man walked in, and Fischer looked up. He saw who it was.

“You should be asleep,” Browning said.

“Uncle Peter, help me,” Fischer begged, holding out his bloody hands. Browning’s expression didn’t change, nor did he even acknowledge what the boy was showing him. He just pulled Fischer up and made him get into his bed, moving the glass and ignoring the boy’s tears and pleading voice. Then Browning walked to the door and closed it, leaving a crying young Fischer behind.

In the shadow, Eames couldn’t see Fischer’s eyes.

“Hey, he’s gone now. He can’t hurt you.”

“I know. I …”

Fischer looked up, and Eames saw his eyes again, and knew what he meant.

“That's why I need you. I can trust you.”

Eames felt it was right this time when he slid his hand around the back of Fischer’s neck. Fischer didn’t pull away and seemed to sink into Eames as they kissed for the second time. The two stood, bathed in the soft blue glow, silhouettes together.

“Thank you,” Fischer said softly.

“I should be thanking you,” Eames insisted. “You’ve saved me from my repetitive, boring life.”

He smiled at Fischer’s disbelieving expression, before continuing.

“Thank you, Fischer, for walking into my bar.”