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3 Years A.E. (After Eames)
He’s numb to it at this point.
Growing up in the far northern part of the United States, Arthur has always had a certain degree of numbness to the cold. Negative temperatures, snow, ice; none of it has ever really bothered him in more than passing annoyance, which is something that makes him good at his job when it comes to unpredictable dream weather. Even then, it was hard to adjust to the feeling of a cold mattress to his left; he’s used to it now, but it’s never lost on him. He wakes up, reaches out, finds the empty air, and remembers.
He doesn’t cry about it (anymore.) There’s nothing (left) to cry for.
1 Year A.E.
“He wouldn’t want this for you.” Ariadne’s voice is quiet when she tells him. She isn’t angry, and she’s barely even sad; she’s just stating a fact, and if he had it in him, Arthur would hate her for it.
“What’s it matter?” he drawls, voice apathetic and distant to his own ears. They both know he’s anything but, though. “He’s dead. Dead people don’t get a say.”
6 Months A.E.
“Are you coming by for Christmas?” Cobb asks. He sounds tinny and tired down the phone, but happy. Arthur can hear Philippa and James playing in the background, and the vague tune of someone singing about holiday spirits.
“No.” he says simply. He doesn’t make any excuses, because he knows none of them are really good enough. “Can’t.”
Cobb, to his credit, doesn’t ask why not. He understands; finally, they have something in common other than dreamsharing and a thirst for knowledge. “It doesn’t get easier until you let go.” he says instead, and Arthur snorts.
“Maybe I’m like you,” he says, and he knows it’s pouring salt into an only now healing wound, but he can’t stop himself. “Maybe I don’t want to.”
2 Weeks A.E.
“I’m retiring.” They’re the first words Arthur has spoken of his own accord in fourteen days, and they startle everyone- or, their meaning doesn’t, just that appearance.
“You don’t have to.” Ariadne says, playing with the lie. “You don’t have to stop, because of this. This doesn’t make and break you- he doesn’t.”
Arthur laughs, hollow and loud. Everyone is silent after that; they all know what it meant.
-1 minute A.E.
“You don’t get to do this.” Arthur isn’t crying, or if he’s crying, he doesn’t feel it anymore. Every part of him is wet, anyway; it’s raining, and Eames is bleeding, so if there are tears, there too jumbled up in everything else for him to tell. “You absolute ass, Eames, Eames, I love you, you don’t get to do this.”
“Every dog has his day, darling.” Eames definitely isn’t crying. He’s smiling, actually, and it’s so stupid, Arthur wants to wipe his grin off his face and the blood from his shirt and this entire moment from existence. “This is mine.”
“This is stupid.” Arthur says. “This is so stupid. I love you.” He repeats himself like, though sheer force of will, he can make the universe see sense and reverse it all.
“I love you too.” is all Eames says, and it sounds garbled and wrong, and now Arthur wants to scream. “You should probably go.”
“I’m not leaving you; you’re dying.” He’s resigned, now, but still fighting for the last few moments. “Shut up, shut up.”
“It’s alright.” Eames says, and Arthur feels like that’s supposed to be his line, but he can’t bring himself to lie. Eames has always been better at that. “You can let me go, you don’t have to stay and watch.”
“Cobb will be here soon.” Arthur says, and he doesn’t let go.
He watches.
Eames doesn’t go quietly, and he can barely stand when Dom tries to drag him away later.
-3 days A.E.
“It’s a simple job,” Dom says, leaning back in his seat. “In and out extraction, non-militarized subconscious.”
“I had no idea we were in the business of stealing candy from babies.” Eames muses. He’s sitting on the armrest of Arthur’s seat, twirling a pen between his fingers.
“If candy’s worth as much as we’re getting paid for this, I’d steal from a thousand babies.” Arthur huffs, and Eames throws his head back and laughs.
“You morals are blinding, darling.” he drawls, and Dom makes a disgusted noise.
“Get a room,” Yussuf calls from across the warehouse. “I can feel the eye sex over here.”
“You’re lucky it’s just the eyes.” Eames retorts, standing. “There’s a very nice desk over there, after all.”
There’s a simultaneous gag from Yusuf and Ariadne, and Cobb rolls his eyes. “One layer should do the job nicely.” Arthur says, jaded. “If you pass me my notebook, Dom, I’ll show you my ideas.”
-2 weeks A.E.
“That’s my shirt.” Arthur points out, squinting over his coffee.
“An astute observation, love.” Eames hums, leaning against the kitchen counter. “You’re very keen, for so early.”
“It doesn’t even fit you.” Arthur mumbles, moving closer. The shirt is entirely unbuttoned and hangs all wrong, because he and Eames aren’t built the same at all, but Eames somehow manages to make it work for him.
“Mm, but I look lovely in it anyway.” Eames is grinning like the cat that caught the canary, meeting him halfway with a kiss. “Good morning.”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, moving in for another. “Sure.”
-4 months A.E.
“We’re gonna have to shower, soon.” Arthur says. They’re both sweaty, and there’s a wet spot on the bed, and he should feel gross because things are starting to dry on his skin and his his hair that really shouldn’t have been given the opportunity, but Eames just shrugs.
“In the morning.” he yawns. Arthur huffs.
“We’ll be glued together in the morning.”
“And then I’ll never have to leave you again; win-win.” Eames says, and promptly passes out. Arthur envies his ability to do so for a moment before closing his eyes. In the morning isn’t such a bad idea.
-7 months A.E.
“How did you even get this number?” Arthur asks. It’s two am, according to the alarm clock on his bedside table, and the Fischer job finished a week ago. He’s been off the grid since, holed up in his only legitimate apartment because that would be the last place anyone would look for him, and the call is coming from his landline, not his cell, which had been crushed at the end of the job.
“I have my resources, darling.” It could be the sleep deprivation, but Eames almost sounds like he’s singing at him down the line. “How do you feel about a vacation?”
“This is my vacation.” Arthur replies.
“A sunnier vacation.” is Eames’ rebuttal. “With me, on a beach.”
“Not a job?” Arthur’s skeptical, but considering it, which is another thing he chalks up the sleep deprivation.
“Not even remotely.” Eames assures him. “I just want to seduce you with the sand under my feet and a mimosa in my hands.”
“Generally, you don’t have to seduce people you’re already in a relationship with.” Arthur’s getting up now, and considering what he’d need to pack.
“Mm, but it’s fun.” He can picture Eames’ Cheshire grin. “Is that a yes?”
“Sure,” Arthur says. “Yeah.”
-4 months A.E.
“I’m going to Mombasa.” There’s airport chatter behind Eames on the phone. Arthur’s sitting in a bar, watching as Cobb talks to a new client.
“Okay.” he hums, waving the barman away for the umpteenth time. He’s starting to get belligerent about Arthur ordering something, which tells him that it’s almost time to get Dom to wrap it up. “Want me to meet you there after the job?”
“If you like.” Eames says. “It’s nice, this time of year.”
“You always say that when I’m at risk to get sunburnt.” Arthur huffs. Eames laughs.
“Red is your color, darling.” he says, and that gets Arthur laughing too. “I have to go. Call me later?”
“If I can.” Arthur says. “Goodbye, Mr. Eames.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Eames croons. “Talk later, Arthur.”
-1 year and 4 months A.E.
“I’m sorry.” Eames says- no, whispers, and that’s two odd things at once, and it’s almost too much for Arthur to bear.
“It’s fine.” he says, even though it isn’t. “I’m not the one that you should be giving your condolences to.” Philippa and James were herded away, still crying, by their grandparents before he got the chance to say anything to them. Dom was run out of the country a few days ago.
“You get to mourn too, you know.” Eames says. “She meant as much to you as him- not the same things, maybe, but just as much.”
Arthur has to bite his tongue to keep from spitting ‘what do you know?’, because Eames would know; Mal touched a lot of lives, and never insignificantly. “Maybe.” he says instead.
They’re silent for a long time, staring at a slowly dissipating crowd of mourners from a distance. The sight of the new grave makes Arthur want to vomit. “Do you want a drink?” Eames asks, and Arthur knows he means ‘do you want to get out of here, because this place makes me want to scream.’
“God,” Arthur says, finally breaking. “Yes.”
-3 years A.E.
“You know,” Eames says, hanging out the car window. His voice is nearly swallowed up by the wind, and would have been, if this was real life. “We really must stop doing things this way, darling.”
“Shut up and shoot.” Arthur says through gritted teeth, navigating the, thankfully empty, streets that had been for them mapped earlier by Cobb.
“What do I get out of it?” Eames drawls, ducking back into the car as the projections start shooting back.
“Other than a paycheck?” Arthur snorts. Eames hums in ascension, and he sighs. “Fine. If we finish this without getting axed by projections and get what we came for, I’ll take you to dinner.”
He can see Eames’ slowly spreading smile in the rearview mirror. “I like Italian.” he says, and goes back to shooting.
They make it out at the times kick with what they came for.
-4 years A.E.
“Arthur,” Mal says, smiling her smoothest smile; she has many smiles, and this ones is reserved for business meetings and new partners. “Meet Monsieur Eames, our forger.”
“A pleasure.” Arthur says curtly, eyeing the man in front of him with intrigue and tempered with disdain for show. He’s dressed like he did it in the dark, faded tattoos visible everywhere on what skin his brightly colored shirt doesn’t cover, and he’s looking at Arthur like he’d like very much to eat him.
“The pleasure is all mine, darling, believe me.” he says, grinning and offering his hand to shake. Arthur takes it without hesitation, not breaking eye contact even as he draws his hand back. He feels like he just signed a pact with the devil.
“Mr. Eames,” Dom says, stepping up, all business. “Now that we’ve exchanged names and pleasantries, let’s get you read in.”
Eames nods, and slips into his own business mode- which isn’t much different than his introduction mode, or any other mode Arthur gets to know. They’re all loud and rough and involve irritating him to no end. (Somewhere, deep down, he thinks it’s endearing. He’d never tell Eames that, though, not ever.)
1 day B.E.
“We’re going to need a forger.” Arthur says, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. Humidity and a long day of work has it mussed and almost curled.
Across from him, Mal stretches like a cat, and her smile is predatory. “I know just the man,” she says, standing and pulling out her phone without further pomp. “You’ll love him.”