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Barcelona, Spain (reality)
They’re being shot at again, and it’s entirely the fault of Eames. Arthur is contemplating whether to save himself and let the British man take a nice sharp bullet to the skull. The appeal of the option greatly increases when Eames yells over his shoulder, “Nice way to spend an afternoon, eh?”
“Shut the fuck up and keep running!” Arthur shouts back.
Eames mutters something indiscernible under his breath, most likely an insult involving Arthur’s ass and an average household object, but to his credit he keeps running. They’re sweaty and red-faced and this is not the action Arthur was expecting when he signed up for the job, but that’s what you get when you work with Eames: the complete opposite of what you bargained for.
By sheer luck they find a narrow alley to cram into while the shooters in question run straight past them. Once the coast is clear the two men collapse in a heap, gasping for air.
“Idiot,” is the first thing Arthur says once he’s caught his breath. “Did you really have to provoke them like that?”
“It’s not my fault,” Eames wheezes from the ground, rather like a fish out of water, “that they’re so provokable!”
“In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t the dreamstate, and if you’d taken a bullet you would have died,” Arthur hisses. “We both would’ve died!” He pauses, then adds, “Idiot.”
“You already said that,” the man snorts. It takes all of Arthur’s willpower not to nail Eames in the skull with the toe of his Salvatore Ferragamo loafer.
“Remind me again why I decided to take this job with you?”
“God only knows,” Eames mutters, closing his eyes. “God only knows.”
They get the job done, as always. Miraculously, Arthur doesn’t murder Eames.
London, England (dreamstate)
Arthur can think of several better ways to be spending his January than posing undercover as a happily married British man. What makes it worse is the fact that it gives Eames a chance to act irritatingly superior.
“Arthur, darling, don’t be so uptight. No London man in his right mind would stand so proper.”
Against his will, Arthur slouches. Eames hums his approval.
“There you go. I knew you were a fast learner.” The smile that plays on his lips suggests he means something more than the current heist.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“It’s arsehole, love. If you’re going to be British at least get it right.”
“Weren’t there any other roles for this job that don’t involve being married?”
“Why, you don’t like being my husband?” Eames asks innocently.
“I don’t think that question deserves a response, arsehole,” Arthur replies, mimicking Eames’ accent on the last word.
The man pats Arthur’s shoulder. “Excellent,” he says, “you are learning.”
They’re sneaking inside a fancy hotel, sneaking meaning stepping in an elevator and hoping for the best. Two floors up the doors slide open and the man walks in, briefcase in hand: the target of their job, the one whose subconscious they are currently in.
Fuck, Arthur thinks.
Eames doesn’t seem to be worried (then again, when is the man ever worried?). He slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur tries not to twitch.
“Are you headed to the bar?” he asks the target outright. “I hear they’ve got lovely martinis.”
Arthur rolls his eyes when Eames isn’t looking.
The job is over in two days, and they head their separate ways. Eames catches Arthur at the airport.
“Cheers, husband,” he says, patting him on the shoulder. Arthur sighs.
Los Angeles, California (dreamstate + reality)
“You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”
There’s a smirk playing on Eames’ lips, the familiar lilt in his voice as he raises the grenade launcher. Arthur steps back to watch, wondering how he’s ended up with Eames on yet another occasion. The man is annoying, but at least he gets the job done.
It’s one level later and Eames is leaning back on the ground, glancing up at Arthur. The usual humor in his eyes is gone. “Security’s gonna run you down hard,” he murmurs.
It’s Arthur’s turn to smirk this time. “And I will lead them on a merry chase.”
“Just be back before the kick–”
“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”
And then Eames is closing his eyes and Arthur’s stepping back. What follows is one of the most stressful moments of his life, but he’s the point man, and he gets it done.
Two days after the flight Arthur gets the call. He picks up the phone, waits.
“That elevator drop,” says the man on the other line, familiar accent, no greeting whatsoever. “Bloody brilliant.”
“Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Eames.”
Silence on the other end.
“That was a joke,” Arthur adds, then, softer: “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Eames replies, and the humor is back.
Paris, France (reality + dreamstate)
They’re in France, sitting across from Ariadne, explaining the theoretics of their current job–one that involves erasure, not extraction, most likely prone to lots of gunfight and close calls. The architect is holding a fancy French drink, scarf wrapped tight around her neck as she peers up at Arthur and Eames with judgemental eyes.
“You two are insane,” she snorts, bringing the drink to her lips.
“You mean, Eames is insane,” Arthur corrects.
She shakes her head, and there’s a familiar twinkle in her eye. “No. Both of you. I think he’s rubbing off on you.”
“Or on him,” Eames murmurs. Arthur kicks his leg under the table.
“What was that?” Ariadne asks.
Eames smirks. “Nothing.”
The job inevitably goes badly, with Eames lying on a bed bleeding out from his leg. Arthur tries not to show his panic.
“How’s it looking?” Eames wheezes. “Is it bad?”
“Don’t think about that,” Arthur murmurs, dressing the wound.
“I just want to know if I’m going to die, darling–”
“The only way you’d ever die is because you’re so goddamn annoying, I’d murder you first.” He pauses. “I won’t let you die, Eames.”
The man leans back and closes his eyes. “Thanks, mate.”
They get Eames to a hospital. Arthur watches him as he sleeps, and hears the beep of the heart rate monitor, and thanks his lucky stars.
São Paulo, Brazil (reality)
It’s mid-July, years after the Paris job. Arthur has found himself undercover with Eames again, but this situation offers far different circumstances.
They sit on the patio of their apartment together, surrounded by palms and bromeliads, and the mosquitos are catching.
It’s been a strange decade, and corporate espionage is never normal, but Arthur has surprised himself. The fact that he’s voluntarily sitting next to Eames is itself unexpected.
But that’s what life is, isn’t it? Unexpected.
“Bloody annoying,” Eames murmurs. He slaps a hand down on his arm, raising it to reveal a flattened mosquito and a streak of blood.
“Hey, it’s better than being shot in the leg.” Arthur gets a chuckle in response.
They stay there in silence, until Eames says, “We should go inside–plan out that heist.”
“Right.”
Neither of them moves.
They stay there, swatting the occasional mosquito, together.