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Working for the dreamsharing world comes with a lot of pros, especially if one is as sought-after as Arthur is, but it also comes with a lot of cons—like running for his life at least once a year or having to put up with dumb-ass jerks like Jerry, the architect who can’t build a basic two storey without it collapsing on Arthur’s head midway through a very risky extraction.
“Fucking Jerry,” Arthur mutters as he brings down the axe, chopping a sizeable log cleanly in two.
Fucking Jerry, who bolted immediately when he noticed something was amiss, leaving Arthur to jolt awake mere seconds before Eames, disoriented slightly from the abrupt end of the dream.
Fucking Jerry, who left them and Layla, their chemist, behind to fend for themselves against a fast-awakening and very, very angry MMA fighter with ties to the Mafia Mexicana.
Fucking Jerry, who has essentially led Arthur to his current predicament of chopping wood while buried knee-deep in thick snow in damn Minnesota in the tail ends of sodding December because that’s where the closest safehouse was located, and they needed to go into hiding ASAP.
It was such a shock that Eames, of all people, would own a cabin deep in these freezing woods that Arthur, at the perilous moment of decision after they had parted ways with Layla, had agreed easily when Eames suggested they keep together and said he had the perfect hideout for them to hole up in. Arthur should have known that agreeing with the elusive forger would turn to bite him in the ass.
He laments his wasted reservation in the Le Méridien as a snowflake lands on the tip of his nose and, with a well-aimed swing, efficiently chops yet another log, imagining it’s Jerry’s head in its place instead.
Arthur had plans for once, dammit! He fully deserved a well-earned vacation somewhere where he would be able to relax and decompress. He had worked extra hard to make sure this one last job would end before Christmas so he could fuck off to Nice. He’d planned to spend the next month sleeping, eating and partying his days away, maybe in the company of gorgeous, still-tanned men if he was lucky enough to find someone who wouldn’t bore him in the first five minutes of their acquaintance.
Instead, he’s going to have to spend god-knows-how-long in this place with Eames as his sole company, removed from society and the delights of a Mediterranean city while the world is celebrating the end of the year. What a great way to spend his vacation.
The sound of the monster of a truck Eames had hot-wired when they were halfway through Wisconsin precedes its appearance by a whole minute at least and Arthur sighs in the broken quiet of the snowy woods. He watches sidelong as Eames drives around the cabin and parks the car right by the backdoor before he jumps down, his heavy boots making a muted thump in the snow. True to his warmth-seeking nature, Eames is dressed up to the gills in warm red plaid, thermal pants and a thick white hat that Arthur doesn’t remember him wearing when he left the cabin earlier. The pompom at the top moves with every swaggering step he takes.
“There’s a snowstorm coming,” Eames provides in lieu of a greeting, coming to stand close to him but far enough so he’ll be out of reach from the axe.
“I know,” Arthur says, chopping another wood.
“Of course you do.” Eames, at least, doesn’t insult Arthur by looking even remotely doubtful.
Another swing of the axe.
Eames whistles through his teeth. It doesn’t sound particularly impressed. More annoyed than anything else.
“I got provisions,” Eames says, tilting his head down to stare at Arthur from above the rim of his aviators, “and booze.”
“I prefer staying sober, thanks.”
Eames snorts but takes a cautious step back when Arthur turns to glare at him, raising his hands in a placating motion. He’s been treating Arthur like a time bomb ready to explode ever since they arrived here three days ago. It’s a smart move, but it also serves to irritate Arthur more than he already is at the whole fiasco.
The gentling hands get stuffed into the eyesore Eames calls a coat before they have a chance to get cold, and Arthur returns to his task.
“Did you manage to check in with Layla?” he asks, frustrated at having to have other people do his work for him. It wouldn’t be prudent to be seen together in town and, even though, the reception here was non-existent, Arthur didn’t feel like making the hour-long drive down the snowy mountains.
“No, but I got you a new satellite phone because I know you’ll like to try again after the storm is over.” Risking a few steps closer, Eames touches Arthur’s shoulder. “She’s going to be okay—we all are. You’ve already made sure of it, and I trust your skills.”
Arthur pauses, the material of his gloves screeching against the axe’s handle as he squeezes his hands around it. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Eames is so good at reading him—that’s what makes him such a good forger in the first place; that’s why Arthur prefers working with him, no matter how hard Eames might be to work with—but it does. Arthur takes pride in not letting anyone know him, not truly, not ever since Mal and Cobb, and the Fischer job, and even before all that.
Letting people know you, get close to you, means you give them ammunition for when they will eventually betray you. Arthur has known that for years, of course. It was such a universal rule in their sort of business, just like how the sun rose from the East and set in the West, just like how one knew they shouldn’t trust even half of the stories that came out of Eames’ mouth or how Arthur held the highest percentage of successful jobs.
So, no, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does warm Arthur up inside a little that Eames noticed, that he cares enough to provide comfort. Even unwanted as it might be.
“Thanks,” he says and feels his scowl ease a little.
“Come now, pet, lend me a hand to unload the car, and I’ll help you move the firewood inside,” Eames offers after a few more minutes of watching Arthur butchering the logs.
Arthur takes it for the peace offering it is, even though he’d like nothing more than to take the car and drive away, leaving Eames stranded in this damned cabin in the middle of the woods, and get far, far away from him and his damned charm and keen observation.
✵✵✵
“Just how much alcohol did you get?” Arthur asks as Eames brings in yet another box full of rattling bottles that he leaves beside the other three.
“Why, as much as I could, of course. I’m not planning on spending this dreadful storm sober, darling, and neither should you.”
Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames’ wink and busies himself with sorting through the bags of groceries.
“Wait till you see the dumplings,” Eames says off-handedly as he ducks back outside.
“Why, Eames, how many did you get?” Arthur asks loudly, alarmed, looking through the bags quickly, hoping that Eames is only joking.
Except that, no, Eames isn’t joking.
To his horror, Arthur finds three medium-sized bags full of frozen dumpling packets amid the rest of the groceries. He stares at them perplexed, unsure of how to proceed because that’s just too much for two people.
“Just why?” he asks when Eames comes back inside, this time with a six-pack of soda in each of his hands.
“Why what?”
“The dumplings, why so many?”
Eames shrugs, leaving the soda on top of a box of rum by the back door. “I had a craving for them,” he says and fixes his ridiculous hat that’s falling in his eyes.
“And you needed to get fifteen—no, wait—sixteen packs of dumplings because you ‘had a craving’?”
Eames looks amused, smirking at Arthur’s air quotes and even coming to stand close to him as if Arthur would have any qualms about shooting him in the head if Eames got on his nerves. Which he’d been doing successfully for over five years now… Maybe the dumplings were going to be what would make Arthur finally give in to this insistent desire to murder the bastard.
“I couldn’t decide which flavour to get, so I got all of them,” Eames says, obviously uncaring about his well-being.
“I’m pretty sure the store didn’t have sixteen kinds of dumplings, Mr. Eames.”
“And you’d be correct, Arthur, like always.”
“Then why did you get that many?”
Eames’ grin is easy and unrepentant, his eyes twinkling with mirth for something that Arthur can’t quite put his finger on. “Because I felt like it.”
Arthur grinds his teeth and goes back outside to chop more wood for the fireplace lest he gives in to the mounting need to wipe Eames’ stupid smile from his handsome face—with his mouth if he has to.
If Eames chuckles lowly at the bottle of tequila that Arthur snatches from its brethren, the pointman lets it slide for both of their sakes
✵✵✵
By late evening, the storm is well on its way, howling its upcoming arrival through trees that are shaken free of their snowy coverings, wheezing through any opening it can find in the cabin.
Eames keeps the fire burning throughout the night, making the sole bed shake every time he gets up to throw another log on. Cool air sneaks in beneath the covers, making Arthur groan in complaint, silently missing the furnace of Eames’ body for as long as it takes the other man to return.
Eames is possibly the worst bedmate Arthur’s ever had. He moves around too much, bounces every time he changes sides, starts snoring as soon as his eyes fall closed and has exactly zero regard for personal space. He’s also always goosefleshed when he does huddle back, rubbing his hands over his arms and lodging his feet between Arthur’s calves, stirring him awake in the most annoying way possible.
“If you grope me, I’ll break your fingers,” Arthur threatens sometime during the night, feeling Eames’ arm wrapping around his waist.
The hold tightens, pulling Arthur back against Eames’ front. It’s a brazen motion, unapologetic, and Arthur’s voice comes out soft with sleep, raspy, the threat losing its weight for how pliant he sounds. A gust of warm air kisses his nape as Eames laughs quietly. Tired and supple as he is, Arthur isn’t quick enough to prevent the gentle quiver the sensation detonates in his body. Thankfully, for his own good, Eames doesn’t comment on it.
“Fear not, my sweet, I won’t push my luck anymore tonight,” Eames whispers, and he’s resting his head so close that Arthur can feel his lips moving as he speaks.
He wants to find something to bite back with, but Eames’ palm is warm on his belly through the cotton of his t-shirt, and Arthur’s brain is so muddled with sudden desire and lingering sleep that he fears what might come out if he even tries to open his mouth.
In the end, Arthur doesn’t even get a chance to curse at him as Eames starts snoring lowly against his nape, his breath a hot, misty sensation that eventually pulls Arthur back under again.
✵✵✵
“I find it funny, you know,” Arthur says two evenings later, popping a still-steaming dumpling into his mouth. He smiles while he chews—close-mouthed because he isn’t a heathen—and savours the taste, taking his sweet time in acknowledging Eames’ inquiring grunt.
The storm is still raging outside, now sending flurries of snow into twirling spirals before they land on the ground, accumulating at a level that will require a full workout to shovel out of the pathway. Eames is looking up at him from where he’s sitting on the floor, head leaning back on the couch cushion by Arthur’s hip. He’s bathed in the warm orange light from the fireplace, his whiskers coming in fully after days of not shaving. Not for the first time, Arthur wants to kiss him.
“What?” he asks finally when Arthur takes a little too long staring at him in silence.
“You’re exceptional with your hands,” Arthur begins, ignoring Eames’ flirtatious ‘you’ve seen nothing yet, darling’ and forging on, “but you are absolutely horrible with chopsticks…how?”
Eames snorts, his lush mouth stretching into a small, amused smirk.
“I just can’t get the hang of it. It calls for a form of dexterity that obviously eludes me.”
“Hm, maybe,” Arthur says, non-committal, absently, looking down at him from where he’s lounging on the couch.
A plate of dumplings is precariously balanced on his belly, right above where Eames’ head is resting beside him. Their tumblers are on the floor, and they reach for them at the same time, knocking against each other’s hands. Arthur grabs Eames’ and holds his nimble fingers in his, feeling strangely relaxed after days of being on the run.
“I’m sorry you’re missing your vacation,” Eames whispers out of the blue, stroking Arthur’s hand, and Arthur doesn’t ask how he knows—they are both smarter than that.
“This is nice too,” Arthur whispers back and holds the plate steady as he bends down to finally kiss Eames softly, finally giving in.
Fucking Jerry, criminal organisations, lost reservations, and several inches of snow be damned, Arthur wouldn’t change anything that’s led to this moment with Eames springing up on the couch so abruptly that he sends the plate of dumplings toppling to the floor, making Arthur wheeze out a laugh as he lands on top of him.
Arthur feels the way Eames grins against his face, delivering a flurry of kisses, and thinks to himself: Yes, this is better than Nice.
