Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/177509.

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M/M
Inception (2010)
Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Published: 2011-04-04 Words: 15169

Pants on Fire
by Helenish
Summary

"Ah," Yusuf says, lifting a reproving hand, "are we calling less than 24 hours of memory
loss amnesia now?"

Notes

Many thanks to solvent for her tireless and ingenious beta work.

Losers always whine about their best. Winners go home and fuck the prom queen
John Patrick Mason, The Rock (Hollywood Pictures, 1996)
***
Shit, Arthur thinks. He doesnt remember how he got here.
He forces himself to take a slow breath and keeps his eyes closed, pretending to sleep. He spent all
of yesterday working in a seedy hotel in the Ukrainestained carpet, broken television, cigarette
burns on the furniture. The room looked out on the parking lot and the sky was grey, snow
coming. Cobb came back to the room well after dark with some sandwiches in a paper bag
smudged with grease spots. The sandwiches were cold already, tough meat and stale bread, but
Arthur hadnt eaten anything all day, and shoved his down in huge bites. He and Cobb worked
past 2am in near silence and then they went to sleep. Arthur let Cobb have the bed and wrapped
himself in a blanket on the musty couch; it took him almost another exhausted hour to fall asleep,
listening to Cobbs snores, the sandwich sitting queasily in his stomach.
Theres sun on his face now. The air feels fresh and a little damp; spring. Arthur opens his eyes
cautiously. Hes sprawled out in a low, cushioned deck chair in a airy loft. Hes hooked to a
PASIV, along with two other peoplea girl with dark hair, wearing sneakers, and a bigger man,

slumped sideways, handsome, his face soft with sleep. Both of them are utterly unfamiliar.
Arthur forces himself to stay calm. Hes been kidnapped, but at least he hasnt woken up tied to a
chair, having his teeth pulled out one at a time. Then again, its subtle; they want to trick him into
giving up information easily, maybe make him think hes dreaming, something. Sneakers eyes
flutter open and she gives him a bright, uncomplicated smile. Easy now, Arthur thinks. Best to
play along until you know whats happening.
"That went pretty well," she says, yanking her IV. She swabs down the site and slaps a bandaid
on almost automatically. Shes practiced, a little casual, but not uncarefulexperienced, then.
"Whatd you think?"
Arthur shrugs. "Not bad," he says. He pulls his own IV and she takes it from him and loops it
back into the case, just as Handsome pushes himself upright, scrubbing at his face.
"hlo, beautiful," he says, voice low and sleepy. English accent, Arthur notes. Hot body, nice
hands. Sneakers doesnt answer and Arthur realizes that the greeting is meant for him.
"hey gorgeous," he says, a little flatly, but it startles Sneakers into a laugh, so he guesses its all
right. Sneakers stretches her arms over her head until her shoulders pop and then wanders off
towards the cluster of desks in the corner. Handsome stares up at him, consideringly.
"Feeling all right?" he says.
"Headache," Arthur says. Theres a little kitchenette in the corner and a door on which someone
has hung a battered cardboard sign which says, in looping, delicate script, 'please knock before
entering.' Arthur goes in and shuts the door behind him. Theres no lock.
Totem first, clattering on the immaculately clean tile floor. His hands are shaking. Hes not
dreaming.
He rinses his hands in ice-cold water and presses them to his burning face, letting himself panic for
three long breaths, and then he pushes it down and stares at himself in the mirror. Arthur loses
weight too easily and the last months with Cobb have been difficult; hes grown used to his face in
the mirror, vulpine and sallow, his too-apparent ribs, heavy shadows under his eyes, but the face
that stares back at him just looks a little creased from sleep, and his cheeks dont look hollow. His
hair is longer. There are ten threads of grey starting at his left temple; there used to be two. He
stretches a little to see if they hurt him when they took him; theres some kind of mild injury on his
hips, which, when he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants to check, turns out to be a
couple light fingerprint bruises on one hip and a spectacular love bite on the other. Huh, Arthur
thinks, touching the bite tentatively. Its hot, a little tender to the touch.
Wallet: 127 bucks American, 60 Euros, four credit cards in two aliases, neither of which he
recognizes, a fortune, gone soft at the edges "You will open doors with your charm and patience,"
a couple receipts from bookstores and coffee shops, a ticket stub from a Cubs game. Arthur
doesnt like baseball.
Arthur checks his watchhed pawned his watch last week because money was tight and they
didnt want to burn a new identity to pay for hotels. This watch is a heavy, gunmetal-grey silver
with faintly glinting mother-of-pearl numbers and Arthur has never seen it before in his life.
Theres scuffing on the metal of the band; its not new.
Hes been in the bathroom for five minutes, starting to be too long. He flushes the toilet and
washes his hands again, puts everything in his wallet back together, stares at himself hard in the
mirror, and leaves.

Handsome is in the kitchenette. Arthurs immediate plan is to get him alone and break his fingers
until he tells him whats going on. He has a weight advantage with Sneakers, but Arthur has
always found women worrisomely unpredictable to torture for information; he also has a harder
time telling when theyre lying. He always thought it was because he was gay. Once, better times,
hed told Mal and Cobb about it, and Cobb had laughed so hard hed had to lie down on the floor.
Cobb, Arthur thinks, Cobb. Fuck.
Arthur gives Handsome a neutral to friendly smile, wondering how he can get this guy to take him
someplace private.
"Coffee?" Handsome says. Hes wearing a linen shirt, open at the throat, a thin v-neck undershirt
beneath, a pair of shambly grey pants that fit loosely over his hips.
"Sure," Arthur says. The guy takes one of the mismatched mugs from the drainboard, fills it from
the carafe and hands it over. Arthur takes a sip. Theyre about the same height but the guys got at
least 30 pounds on him and looks solid; itll be a fight to take him, but Arthur can do it, given the
right opportunity. Handsome leans in a little closer, close enough that Arthur can smell him; soap,
a little clean sweat, not unpleasant. Arthur forces himself not to take a step back.
"Want to come over tonight?" he says, very softly, corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile.
Nice eyes, Arthur thinks. Pretty color.
"Yes," he says.
Arthurs desk is obvious; his favorite pens, notes in his handwriting. His to-do list is neatly laid out
in his own short-hand. The date on his computer is wrong by more than three years; all thats easy
enough to fake, though. It takes him five minutes of work to figure out that Sneakers is named
Ariadne and Handsome is Eamesand that name does sound familiar; one of Cobbs distant
work connections, Arthur thinks, but cant be sure.
Arthur is impressed; it took precision to fake all his handwriting and notes, and Ariadne is noteperfect; she ignores him in the friendly way of people who share space, sitting sideways in her
chair for most of the afternoon and folding and refolding paper with every appearance of doing
actual work. Eames, thoughsloppy, Arthur thinks. He fucks guys when he gets the chance, its
not a secret, but Eames is jerk-off fantasy hot, and when Arthur starts going through his e-mails,
he discovers that Eames is also diligent, clever, detail-oriented, worksbased on the timestamps
nearly round the clock. Arthur thinks the whole thing is too good to be true even before he finds
his phone in the pocket of the jacket hung neatly over his chair: video messages from Cobb. James
flying down a slide, Phil waving, "hi, hi, Arthur, hi" the camera swinging around to the edge of
Cobbs face, smiling. Arthur stares, forces himself to swallow. His eyes feel hot.
He thumbs through the rest of the pictures on the phonethe kids, mostly; Phillippa has a big blue
streak in her hair and looks so much older. They can do that with computers, Arthur reminds
himself. James face is still round, but not the indeterminate toddler roundness Arthur remembers;
hes growing into Doms cheeks. There are a few naked pictures of Eames in a subdirectory
thats subtle, assholes, Arthur thinks, checking them out anyhow.
Theyre not well-shot pictures. Theyre shadowed and blurry and Eames is grinning like a lunatic
in most of them and giving the camera a goofy up-through-the lashes seductive look in the last one
that, Arthur notes, is still pretty effective despite obviously being a joke.
Hes going to beat Eames until he talks and maybe hell kill him after, just for good measure, just
for that picture of Cobb and the kids eating ice cream.

Having a plan makes Arthur feel almost normal, until they let him escape.
Eames leaves first, saying something offhand about lunch, leaving him alone with Ariadne. Arthur
doesnt expect to really be able to get away; Ariadne will probably just shoot him or tranq him
again, but at least shell have to tip her hand to get him to stay. He picks up his wallet and saunters
casually towards the door Eames left through; hes nearly there when he hears Ariadnes voice,
urgent, a little out of breath.
"Arthur!" she says. Her hands in her pocket; he really is about to get shot. Fuck. "Can you get me
a Milky Way?" she says, drawing closer.
"What?" Arthur says.
"Or Twix," she says. "Just nothing with nuts." She tucks a dollar into his loose fingers.
"Okay," Arthur says.
"Awesome, thanks," she says. Then she heads back to her desk, sits down, puts her headphones
on, and starts putting careful creases in a giant piece of paper.
Arthur leaves.
He walks, purposefully but not too quickly, turning down streets at random; after twenty minutes
he realizes that something is wrong. No ones following him. The dates on the newspapers agree
with the dates on his computer. Hes in Evanston, Illinois.
Arthur ticks through the possibilities: first, hes lost his grip on reality; thats not a useful train of
thought. If hes had a psychotic break, none of his actions here matter. Hes been abducted and
theyve attempted to use dreamsharing to brainwash him and it didnt take. Thats preferable; it
gives him the advantage. Third, this is real. Cobb is safe in California and Arthur is working in a
leafy Chicago suburb on some quiet, interesting, long-term project that involves a lot of archival
research, with a hot boyfriend who likes to send him naked camera phone pictures that he saves in
a special directory on his phone and he justdoesnt remember. Improbable, but no more
improbable than the brainwashing, which seems like a hell of a lot of trouble. Arthur knows things
classified things, secrets, all kinds of informationbut he cant think of anything he knows
thats valuable enough for this level of effort.
Arthur turns a corner and forces himself to consider the possibility that hes still dreaming, whether
theres someone in here with him and what they want. Whether this was what happened to Mal.
He walks for an hour, thinking; cell phones look sharper, smaller, and jeans are cut differently. Its
the future.
He calls Cobb; it goes to voicemail.
In the end, he buys Ariadne a Milky Way, goes back to the warehouse and starts working through
the first research query on his to-do list, half playing along still and half trying it out to see if
anything seems familiar. Its slow going, having to reconstruct what he already did, and he keeps
getting distracted by older files on his computera string of friendly e-mails from Cobb about
nothing much in particular, e-mail exchanges with Eames that are entirely about work, working
out interview schedules and comparing notes on subjects, an apparently long-running argument
about whether its possible to militarize someone without their knowledge, the raw interview notes
Eames apparently copies him on, paragraph after paragraph, familiar, friendly, professional.
Eames, now and again, signs his e-mails with an 'x', Arthur notices. It seems like too much, still,
sets up a prickle of dread in the back of his throat.

Its after dark when he lifts his head and notices that Ariadne is long gone, and Eames is standing
and shrugging on his jacket.
"Leaving?" Arthur says. Eames smiles.
"Drop by anytime," he says.
"Thought wed go together," Arthur says, leaning back and smiling up at Eames as guilelessly as
he can. Eames puts his wallet and his phone in his pocket.
"I thought you were working late," he says. Arthur is hungry and tired and he doesnt know
where Eames lives and he spins in his chair a little, trying to figure out how to get Eames to take
him home.
"How aboutcan we go back to your place and eat and I can work there?" Eames looks
skeptical; yeah, motherfucker, Arthur thinks, try to get out of this one. "I just thought it would be
nice," Arthur says, trying on a sincere expression. He almost adds "to spend some time together,"
but chokes it off at the last minute. He has a tendency to overdo it sometimes. Less is more.
"Ithatall right," Eames says.
*
"Pork chops okay?" Eames says, digging in the refrigerator.
"Sure," Arthur says, settling in on one of the barstools at the counter with his laptop. Eames slices
up a few potatoes, rubs them down with salt and pepper and then chucks them in a glass dish with
some olive oil and puts them in the oven.
"Thesell take a while," he says. "I need a shower, if you dont mind."
"No," Arthur says, pretending to be neck-deep in a document. When he hears the shower go on,
he stands up and starts to look around, casing the entire apartment as quickly as he can. Its a
short-term rental, clearly, and tastefully bare. Kitchen, living room through the back, bedroom
big bed, unmade, with a puffy comforter half on the floor, condoms in the night stand, lube, the
kind he likeshmnone of his clothes in the dresser, a single cufflinkhis, from a set Mal had
given him, a birthday giftsitting in a dish on the dresser. He looks quickly through the living
room, pretty sparse, one afghan, an armchair tucked in next to a window, a stack of books, a
couple sketchpads, and then then the kitchen cabinets, where he finds several pretty nice bottles of
red. He hesitates, but its been a long, shitty day, and either totems dont work and hes in some
assholes dream being extracted, or he has a brain tumor and is hallucinating, or. Or Cobbs two
thousand miles away tucking the kids into bed, and Arthur is enjoying a nice evening with his
boyfriend. Any which way he could use a drink.
He pours himself a glass and then one for Eames, setting it on the counter, and then he digs out the
silverware and sets the table. Hes back at his computer, actually working, by the time Eames
comes back, hair damp, wearing a beat-up pair of khakis and a navy henley, missing a button at
the collar.
Eames eyes flicker across the table, the wine, but he doesnt say anything. Instead he crouches
down and starts looking through the crisper drawer. His pants slide down a little over his hips and
the shirt is worn so thin that Arthur can see the sinewy curve of Eames spine outlined through it,
the long muscles of his back. It is, Arthur thinks, taking a sip of wine, one hell of a view.
Eames starts chopping cherry tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad. The potatoes splutter
pleasantly in the oven and Arthur reaches over and filches a tomato, giving Eames a quick grin.

When he looks up, Eames is holding the knife, staring at him.

"What?"
"Nothing," Eames says. He turns and starts digging through the cabinets for a frying pan.
*
Its not anything special, really, but the pork chops are tender, brown, nearly caramelized on the
outside, and the potatoes are hot and peppery, and its the first home-cooked meal Arthur
remembers eating sinceMal, since before the call, Cobbs voice, low and leaden.
"Thanks, this isits really good," he says, and something must leak through in his voice, because
Eames just stares at him, holding a forkful of potatoes. Arthur remembers that if this is real, then
they do this all the time, and he probably doesnt usually act like pan-fried pork chops are the best
fucking food hes eaten in weeks. "I skipped lunch," he says. Eames recovers himself and grins,
"Salright," he says. "Compliment away."
They clean up the kitchen together; Eames scrubs down the counter and Arthur loads the
dishwasher and tries to decide if it feels familiar. It doesnt. Eames hands him the cast iron skillet
to dry; hes bent over the sink, cleaning out potato peels; he could be a projection, a hallucination
Arthur could ram the skillet into the back of Eames skull and yank him down backwards onto
the kitchen tile, put the potato knife to his throat, get some answers. He should get to it. Instead he
puts the skillet back in the cabinet over the dishwasher, shifting around a few pans to make it fit.
When he turns around, Eames has boosted himself up on the counter and is peeling the top off a
pint of ice cream.
"Want some?" he says, scooping out a spoonful. Arthur moves quickly, to see if Eames will flinch
or break, come off the counter and punch him, but Eames doesnt move and Arthur closes his
mouth around the spoon and gets a mouthful of vanilla ice cream. Eames laughs and pulls the
spoon out of his mouth. He scoops out another bite for himself. Arthur moves in closer. Eames
slides his knees open to let him, watching.
"More?" he says and feeds Arthur another bite, his jaw going a little slack when Arthur leans in to
take it.
"Its good," Arthur says, to break the silence, and Eames drops the spoon clattering to the floor
and drags him into a kiss with one hand on the back of his head. Arthur catches himself on the
countertop, his hands on either side of Eames hips. After a moment, Eames other hand cups
Arthurs jaw, palm cold from the carton of ice cream.
Arthur should stop this. He should either shove Eames off the counter and beat some answers out
of him or tell him he doesnt remember him, but Arthur is tired and Eames tongue is cool and
sweet, and when he pulls back from the kiss, Eames eyes are fond, a little dreamy. If he tells him,
theyll end up sitting in a hospital all night and its been eight months since Arthur got laid, a
single, stupidly risky blowjob, the guy yanking at his hair and then giving him a crummy handjob
after. Arthur thinksthey do this; theres the bite on his hip, throbbing a little now, hopeful, to
prove it. He thinksEames wont mind; theyll laugh about it when he remembers, maybe.
Arthur thinksmaybe hell wake up tomorrow back in that shitty hotel room, staring at the water
stain on the ceiling and listening to Cobb thumping around the bathroom, cold and exhausted and
alone.
He puts one hand on Eames hip and presses in against him, runs the heel of his hand down
Eames thigh and pulls him forward, kissing him until he needs to take a breath. Eames slides

down from the counter.

"Do you want" he jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom and then goes. Arthur takes a
deep breath, finds the top of the ice cream and puts it back in the freezer, and then follows.
Eames is down to his underwear by the time Arthur walks in the door, stripping his shirt off over
his head. The muscles of his back are heavy, sharply defined. Arthur licks his bottom lip, a little
overwhelmed. Eames turns around and yanks him in with one hand, pressing his mouth roughly to
Arthurs and unbuttoning his shirt at the same time. Arthur lets him wrestle the shirt down over his
shoulders before he feels a sick lurch of disquietmaybe this was the idea all along, get him alone
and naked, vulnerable, fuck his secrets out of him.
"Eames," he says. Eames is pulling at the hair at his nape and layering bites along his jawline and
Arthur is going to stop this and get the fuck away from him, but then Eames skips down and sucks
at an electrifying spot on Arthurs neck, like he knows just where to kiss Arthur to make him stop
talking at all. Arthur feels his skin prickling with the knowledge that this iscant be a set-up, an
extraction. Eames does know just where to kiss him to make him shut up, and that means hes
alone in here, and Mal was right and Eames is nothing, an idea in his mind of something he didnt
know he wanted, someone to make him dinner and buy him ice cream, kiss and fuck, someone
who knows him. He could be strapped to a hospital bed somewhere, Cobb could be dead
"Can we go slow?" Arthur says. He puts his hand flat on Eames shoulder, runs it down his chest.
"Yeah," Eames says, a little terse. "Fine." Heshe seems almost surprised, which doesnt make
sense for a projection or a hallucination. This could be real, Arthur thinks doubtfully, watching
Eames chin dip as he stares at Arthurs hand. Maybe he comes over here every night and they eat
dinner and fuck in Eames big bed. Maybe theyve been together for years and dont bother to go
slow very often, but Eames doesnt look like he objects, just backs up until hes sitting on the bed
and watches, eyes dark and interested, while Arthur pulls off the rest of his clothes.
Arthur mostly has rough sex, lets guys fuck his mouth or his ass however they want, shove him
around a little if thats what gets them hard, but he guesses maybe hes outgrown that by now,
because Eames is sweet and a little romantic, his palm wide on the small of Arthurs back while
they make out. Arthur, even if he doesnt really know the guy, gets kind of into it, running his
hands across Eames shoulders, letting Eames roll him over onto his back and press him into the
bed and prove, with every touch of his lips, how he well he knows Arthurs body, better than
anyone ever has. It makes Arthur feel impossibly tender about him, the way Eames responds to
him, rolling back over underneath Arthur at a single gentle push and opening his mouth against
Arthurs, eyes closed.
Eames, naked, sprawled across the bed, is something to see. Arthur kisses him, lazily, his hands
stroking against Eames chest, and then he kneels back up again to take it in.
"What," Eames says, coming up on his elbows.
"You are really" Arthur rubs a hand down Eames thigh and Eames opens his knees for him,
moves his hips in a little restless motion, Jesus Christ, Arthur thinks, it cant be a dream, even his
wet dreams arent like this, he could never have come up with Eames on his own, "You are really,
really hot," Arthur says. "YouI want to" He kisses Eames andhe knows they probably just
did this, the bruises on his hip cant be more than a day or two oldbut Eames murmurs "Arthur,
Arthur" and kisses back like hes desperate for it, opening his mouth under Arthurs, making a
hot little noise in his throat when Arthur begins to jerk him off slowly, without real intent, just
sliding his hand loosely up and down Eames cock, spreading around a little of the wetness at the
tip.

"What would you like to do?" Arthur says. Theres a faint mark on Eames throat; he sets his teeth
against it and Eames groans, thrusts up into his hand.
"I dontanything," he says. "This is good." Arthur worries at the spot with his teeth a little,
tightens his hand on Eames cock. "Say something," Eames says. "Will you"
This is where Arthur would usually say, look at you, Im going to make you beg for it, shit that
sounds stupid coming out of his mouth but gets him off, gets the other guy off, but thats notit
doesnt seem like the right thing with Eames.
"Iyou look so good," he says, tentatively. Eames mouth opens; his eyes are wide, a little
pleading. "I" Arthur chokes out. "I want to make it so good for you, how do you"
"doesnt matter," Eames says, thrusting his cock restlessly into Arthurs hand.
"You can tell me," Arthur says, low. He kisses Eames, slick, a little aggressive, slides his tongue
against Eames lower lip and Eames pulls his head away, lets out a sharp, longing gasp, and says,
"Fuck me."
Arthur usually doesnt. Blowjobs are easy, he can get off getting fucked, and it makes guys
underestimate you if you take it, makes them think they have something on you. Arthur never
fucks anyone he doesnt trust; it gets too complicated. Easier to just bend over and its not as
though anyones ever complained.
But. Eames. Arthur kisses him, thinking, and Eames hands come up on either side of his face,
carding through his hair, his mouth soft and eager. He rolls his hips up into Arthurs, one foot
skidding against the bed when he tries to get more contact, and Arthur loses himself entirely in it.
Everything falls away, Mal, the grim shadow thats left of his best friend, the back rooms and
double-crosses and fuckups, Cobbs strained voice on the phone in the bathroom midnight, saying
"Miles, pleaseplease" the life Arthur left behind for Cobb because he owed him, the constant
ache of worry and fear, knowing, the way Cobb cant seem to let himself believe, not yet, that
theres no way out for either of them. This is Arthurs way out, Eames hot mouth, Eames rubbing
up against him, grabbing his ass, and Arthur lets himself press Eames down into the bed and give
him exactly what hes asking for, lets himself believe that Eames knows him, that they do this, that
Eames loves him and knows hes a scumbag and a lying asshole and will forgive him in the
morning.
Arthur takes his time, kissing Eames and fingering him open, easing inside him while the bed
creaks gently. Eames tilts his face up for kisses, again and again, and when Arthur is fully inside
him, getting into the rhythm of it, fucking into him, holding Eames leg steady, Eames throws
back his head against the pillows and says, "Arthur," and Arthur feels irrationally sick with envy
at his own life.
*
Eames is quiet after, fucked out. Arthur gets rid of the condom in the bathroom, doesnt look at
himself in the mirror. He goes in the kitchen and drinks a glass of water, standing barefoot on the
cold tile, and then he grabs his laptop and goes back into the bedroom. Eames is face down in the
middle of the bed and Arthur nudges him until he opens one eye and gives Arthur a slit-eyed,
sleepy look.
"Sorry, will this keep you up?" Arthur says. "I need to get some work done." If this is real, hes
dicked away an afternoon trying to figure out whats going on. Hes probably going to spend the
next few days at a hospital without any wifi and he wants to read back through his e-mails and get

a workplan together.
"No," Eames says. He slides back to his side of the bed. Doesnt like to cuddle when hes trying
to sleep, Arthur thinks. Fair enough. He opens his laptop and gets started. Eames is almost restless
next to him, trying to get comfortable, maybe. Arthur is just reading, hitting the page-down button
with his right hand, so after Eames shifts for the third time, face down on the bed with his head
turned away, Arthur puts one hand on his bare back, flat, rubs his thumb slowly over Eames
warm skin. Eames shoulders deflate a little. Arthur puts his hand in Eames hair and runs it down
over his neck to his back, along the curve of his shoulderblade, one long stroke and then another.
Eames doesnt say anything, but he shifts imperceptibly towards Arthur, sighs a little, so Arthur
keeps at it. Eames hair is very soft. Its not long before hes asleep, cheek pressed to Arthurs
shoulder.
Arthur stays awake a little longer, feelinggood. Hes well-fed and warm, growing drowsy,
limbs loose from sex, Eames tucked up against him, clean soft sheets, the skyline twinkling
distantly out the long window opposite the bed; its not how hes grown used to ending his days,
these last months with Cobb. A part of him doesnt want to go to sleep in case it is a dream, but
hes pretty sure its not at this point. Hes pretty sure this is his life: Cobb squared away with the
kids, comfortable, interesting job, jawdroppingly fuckable boyfriend whos in love with him, who
cooks for him, not bad, Arthur congratulates himself. Not fucking bad at all.
In the morning, he opens his eyes and remembers.
*
Eames blinks. Arthur watches his face carefully.
"You were acting a little out of character," Eames says. He shrugs on his shirt and starts doing up
the buttons. "Now that I think of it."
Understatement, Arthur thinks. The last dinner he and Eames shared was some lousy cold fries
they split, stuck in a car doing a six hour surveillance shift. Eight months ago. Theyve been
screwing each other for more than two years, just when theyre working together and its
convenient, a series of one-offs thats turned into a halfway steady thingenough for Arthur to
buy a bigger box of condoms when he knows Eames is joining on a job, nothing more. Eames is a
great fuck and Arthur likes him, his body, the way he does more than his share of the work while
appearing to do little but show up late and tap a dry erase marker against his desk until someone
on the team yells at him to shut up, the way he rolls off Arthur after they screw, puts on his clothes
and leaves so Arthur can keep working or get a decent nights sleep or make himself a snack
without having to make up excuses to get rid of him. Arthur has never once slept over at Eames
place and hes deliberately ignored Eames hints about how hes perfectly willing to switch it up
in bed, not really wanting to get into it. Eames always shuts up the minute Arthur opens his legs,
or even just arches his back a little if hes lying on his stomach, so Arthur always assumed it was
an empty offer, Eames version of good form.
"Well, I thought" Arthur says, and stops.
"Yes, yes," Eames says dismissively. "I have met you, you know. You were suspicious so you
kept it to yourself."
"Yes," Arthur says. He waits for Eames to ask when, when Arthur decided it was probably real, if
hed even made a decision when he kissed Eames back, but Eames just scratches the side of his
neck, and then says,
"Best get into work and figure it out, then."

"Ifine," Arthur says.

*
"Oops," Yusuf says. Eames lifts an eyebrow. Ariadne tucks her foot underneath her knee and
leans back in her chair. Arthur crosses his arms. "Really?" Yusuf says. "I seem to recall that I was
accused of being callous and unfeeling for suggesting that if people had managed to live for a
century, they were likely to be tough enough to deal with standard Somnacin and that it was a
waste of time to develop a new formula."
"It interferes with their blood pressure medication," Ariadne says. "And it made Mr. Schneider
throw up."
"Well, Im not a miracle worker," Yusuf says brusquely. "You cant expect me to develop a
formula with no side effects on the first attempt. Its less than 24 hours of mild memory loss. Its
not as though your kidneys stopped functioning. And you" he says, pointing at Arthur, "you
could have said something."
"Why didnt we all experience memory loss?" Eames says abruptly.
"There are various factors that contribute to how quickly Somancin is metabolized," Yusuf says.
"At the basic level, theres body mass, and how long youve been using the stuff, but then theres
also just the vagaries of body chemistry"
"Wait," Ariadne says. "Youre saying were all going to get amnesia?"
"Ah," Yusuf says, lifting a reproving hand, "are we calling less than 24 hours of memory loss
amnesia now?"
"Yes," Ariadne says. Eames nods. Arthur says nothing.
"Fine, well, yes, then it seems likely," Yusuf says.
"When?" Ariadne says.
"It will very probably be triggered by coming out of a dream, as Arthurs was."
"So, tomorrow?" Eames says. "Thursday next?"
"Could be," Yusuf says. "Sometime in the next month or two at least."
"The next month" Arthur says,
"Or two?" Ariadne says.
"I said I was sorry," Yusuf says, glancing over his shoulder to the door.
"You said oops," Eames says, before Arthur can.
*
"So that was" Arthur begins. Yusuf has sulked off somewhere, feeling underappreciated, and
Ariadne is building a ferris wheel with her headphones on, humming, holding a bristly mouthful
of toothpicks.
"Its fine," Eames says, looking up from a stack of brittle newspapers.

"Oh," Arthur says. He waits, grimly, for Eames to smirk at him and tell him what a gentle lover he
is, throw it in his face, all the stupid assumptions Arthur made about what they are to each other.
Eames meets his eyes, calm and unconcerned, and then turns back to his desk. Theres something
in the curve of his neck that reminds Arthur, a little flash of the night before, Eames leaning
against the counter, flipping a pork chop in the skillet with a fork.
"If I overstepped" Arthur begins.
"You didnt," Eames says. "You correctly surmised that we were fucking, we fucked, everyone
had a nice time."
"Youfine," Arthur says. Eames licks his thumb and flips over a page.
"Those are archival copies," Arthur says.
"Yes," Eames says.
"Theyre on loan from the Newberry Library."
"And?"
"Youre supposed to wear gloves," Arthur says, shuffling the box of latex gloves out of his desk
and winging it at Eames head. Eames catches it. Arthur remembers later that he was going to
thank Eames for dinner, for beingfor dinner. There doesnt seem to be a good time to do it, after
that.
*
Arthur met Eames for the first time less than six weeks after the hotel room in the Ukraine on
another one of Cobbs reckless, short-staffed jobs. He was exhausted, on-edge from babysitting
Cobb, nursing a cracked rib from a run-in with a couple enforcers Cobb had fucked over, the
usual. Eames straightened up from studying Cobbs plans, rolled out across the table, and halfsmiled at Arthur, looking alert and well-rested, clean-shaven, wearing an expensive shirt, sleeves
rolled up carelessly over his forearms.
"Cobb said you were the best," he said, with just a shade too much utterly sincere charm. Arthur
wanted to punch him in the throat. Instead, eight months after Arthur said "Once you work with
him a little more youll figure out that Cobbs full of shit 90 percent of the time," he was forcing
Eames mouth open with his dick during a little downtime.
Eames slapped one hand against the wall behind Arthur and let Arthurs cock slide along his
lower lip and then into his mouth, obscene and slow. Arthur thought he should probably say
something about Eames mouth, or about his cock shutting Eames up, but what he said instead
was,
"You want to go back to my place?"
Eames pulled off and licked his hand, a couple long businesslike swipes along his palm and
fingers, and then wrapped his hand around the base of Arthurs cock before answering.
"Lets just keep it simple," he said, easing his mouth wetly back over the head of Arthurs cock.
"Fine by me," Arthur said. He twisted one hand in Eames hair and pulled him sharply forward.
Hed never been into hurting people before, but it would be inaccurate to say that the way Eames
choked, the way his eyes watered a little, had nothing to do with how quickly Arthur found
himself arching back against the brick wall in orgasm.

Eames touched the corner of his mouth with his thumb after.
"Care to help me out?" he said. He had been jerking himself the whole time he was sucking
Arthur and he was close; Arthur could see that he was expending some effort to keep his voice
even.
"Lets keep it simple," Arthur said, zipping up.
"Care to watch, then?" Eames said, spreading his knees wider, his pants tight across his thighs, his
cock thick in his hand.
Arthur shrugged. "Thats all right," he lied, and stepped neatly around Eames.
They wrapped the job the day after that; Arthurs flight wasnt until late, so Arthur made up some
lie to get Cobb off his back and went over to Eames hotel room and Eames fucked him face
down in his bed, hard and rough and fast, not asking if Arthur could take it, clearly knowing he
could.
"That was fucking excellent," Eames said after, and then rolled over and went to sleep. Arthur got
dressed and went to the airport. When he found himself on another job with Eames a few months
later, Eames was leaning against the wall outside his hotel room when he got back after the first
day. They sucked each other off and then ended up working for a bit, talking through the job,
comparing notes, agreeing none of it added up. That job went bad; Eames didnt blink when
Arthur came in late one afternoon after three weeks of work and said, "We need to shut down,
now," just turned away and started packing up, wiping everything down. They were too late, of
course, and ended up shooting their way out, getting separated. Eames didnt contact him after
that, which meant, Arthur thought, that either Eames actually knew how to follow appropriate
protocol after getting made or he was dead, which seemed far more likely. In the end, Cobb
managed to get a cushy boring job in France about Swiss bank account numbers that stretched on
for some weeks. Eames was there, looking tan and none-the-worse for wear. Arthur finished the
heavy lifting on the research the first week and spent the rest of the time brushing up on his
German, sparring with a couple guys at a grungy gym he found, getting in fights with Cobb about
how he wasnt handling his shit, and fucking Eames. They tried a few new thingsArthur let
Eames tie his wrists and fuck him until his knees gave out, let Eames do whatever he wanted.
Arthur wanted someone to make him forget, back then. He wanted someone he could forget
afterwards; he got the first, but not the rest of it. He used to feel pathetic, the way his pulse leapt in
his throat when Eames looked at him; it used to make him feel raw and obvious and angry. These
days, he doesnt mind so much. Mals been gone a long time and Arthur has stopped feeling
guilty.
*
Four days after Arthur gets his memory back, Eames leans over and hooks a finger in his belt
loop. Theyre in the kitchenette in the loft; theyre alone. Ariadnes on a two-day field research
mission to Cleveland and Yusuf pulled an all-nighter and was leaving, bleary-eyed, as Arthur was
coming in. Eames draws him closer, eyes heavy, and Arthur slides in and kisses him. Four days
isnt any longer than they usually go, but its felt like a long time to Arthur, making solitary
dinners in his apartment and wondering if Eames is angrier than he let on.
Eames throws an arm across his shoulders and kisses him hard and Arthur pushes back against
him, wanting, backs him up until his hips hit the counter. Arthur presses in, starts to kiss his jaw,
and then Eames open palm rubs up Arthurs shoulder to wrap around the back of Arthurs neck,
pushing down a little. Arthur takes the hint and slides down Eames body, gets his pants open,

draws out his cock.

He licks at it, slowly, just the head, rubs his tongue over it, opens his lips around the end in a wet
kiss. Its hard and rosy and already leaking. Arthur slides his tongue around it, presses his
forehead against Eames warm stomach, lets his cock drag against his lower lip. He thinks of how
Eames had opened for him, his fingers, his cock, and wants it again, wants a lot of things, wants
Eames to lie him down on the floor and fuck slowly into him
"I appreciate the attention to detail, but," Eames puts a pressuring thumb at the hinge of Arthurs
jaw, "butmaybe a little of your usual instead?" Arthur slides his mouth down to meet the top of
his fist, letting Eames dick slip across the roof of his mouth, slicks the flat of his tongue against it,
and Eames swallows a yell. Arthur sucks him hard, batters softly at the underside of Eames cock
with his tongue because that always gets Eames off, and Eames pulls him up after he comes,
palming his dick through his pants. Then he gets down on the floor and yanks Arthurs pants
open, brings him off, fast and wet, eyes closed. He spits in the sink, after.
"You didnt have to swallow," Eames says. He flicks on the tap and pulls a couple handfuls of
water to his mouth. Arthur, not sure what to say, does up his pants. He wanted to, so he did.
*
Theyre building the 1933 Chicago Worlds Fair; the Midway and the arrival of the Graf
Zeppelin, looping over Lake Michigan, the automobile shows and Homes of Tomorrow, the first
Major League baseball game, Frank Bucks jungle camp, the Halls of Science and the Sky Ride
the Rainbow City, A Century of Progress, exhibitions to showcase ingenuity and invention,
beauty and history, and all the creepy, xenophobic, provincial, racist exhibitions that were the
height of modernity at the time, live babies in incubators, little people living in Midget City, freaks
on the Midway.
Its a private contract, funded by a wealthy philanthropist; it came in four months after the Fischer
job, though Cobb, who still has research connections. He kicked it to Arthur and Ariadne, who
texted Arthur a day later: Lets ask E. & Y!
Arthur texted her back: How do you know Im taking the job?
Please. she wrote, hours later, not wrong. There are new developments in dreamsharing; hook the
PASIV to a small blue proprietary recording device and brainwaves are translated into data. After
they finish, the blue box will sit in a vault somewhere and anyone who has access and a 14 million
dollar machine will be able to see the Fair, reconstructed in memory, as close to the real thing as
they can make it.
Arthur does the research and Ariadne the build. Eames makes himself into the people who came
to the fair, one after another, and Yusuf develops the drugs and vets the subjects; there arent
many people left who can remember the Worlds Fair, and none who were more than twenty-five
at the time. Many of them are too frail to be taken under at all.
Eames put together credentials for Yusuf to get privileges in the neuropsych labs at Northwestern,
so they rented loft space near campus and have spent the last month running tests, learning the
equipment. When they record, Arthur will be the dreamer. Ariadne always smooths over the
imperfections in buildings and barely sees people, their careful Sunday best, the pearl buttons on
their gloves. Eames embellishes; his dreams are lavish and detailed as a movie with a too-large
budget, too perfect, too bright, never quite ugly enough. Arthur can hold the real detail in his
mind; he sees the pearl buttons, but also that the gloves are frayed and worn, well-mended, a few
years out of date.

Arthur and Eames and Ariadne go under nearly every day once the preliminary research is done,
Ariadne to build and Arthur to watch, to practice, and Eames to sit down on a newly built park
bench that looks out over the the north lagoon and hold great-grandmothers hands and say,
"Your sweetheart, were his eyes blue or brown? Did he wear his best suit or come straight from
work at the mill?", change himself until they nod and nod, thats him, thats how he was, that one
summer afternoon when I was a girl.
*
"Is this going to happen or what?" Ariadne says, sitting up and removing her IV. Theyve been
waiting, going under every day, but no one else has lost three years of their lives, made an idiot of
themselves, done anything they regretted.
"Maybe," Yusuf says. "not."
"Okay," Arthur says.
"Arthur may have had an atypical reaction," Yusuf says.
"So you have absolutely no idea," Eames says. Yusuf nods.
"Well, I think thats just awesome," Ariadne says.
"I concur," Eames says. Arthur says nothing. Another week passes. Everyone stops waiting.
*
Arthur does home visits, driving across town, across the state, to drink coffee at kitchen tables,
drink beers sitting in lawn chairs on back patios, eat cups of red jello in nursing homes. He spreads
out photographs and newspaper clippings and asks if he can record conversations, gets shown old
photo albums and holds weathered hands in his. Its a lot of time in the car. Arthur thinks. He
takes his time over it. He doesnt want to fuck up.
There are plenty of things to like about Eames once you get past the fact that hes completely full
of shit, rude, inappropriate, impulsive, flippant, smug, unsubtle, overly impressed with his physical
and intellectual capabilities, enjoys jam band music, and, in Prague, not once but twice heated up
some kind of fish entree for lunch in the microwave.
Eames isnt a fuck-up in any of the ways that matter; thats probably Arthurs favorite thing about
him. He never needs Arthur to bail him out in a firefight, doesnt half-ass the work or whine about
the long hours, is a good tipper, has legible handwriting, a left hook that can drop a man, and an
unexpected and well-hidden streak of loyalty. Hes easy on the eyeseasy, in generaland he
doesnt hold petty grudges.
*
Arthur goes under with Ariadne, with Eames; the rocket cars in the sky ride are moving too
quickly, the General Motors research factory is in the wrong place, they havent found anyone
who can remember the Swedish Pavilion or the Colonial Village and are working strictly from the
documentation and photographs. Arthur has spent his working life in dreams with prescribed
boundaries, just enough space to get a subject to where you need him, loop back around to the
beginning. It surprises him, how different Ariadnes build feels, stretching out towards the
horizon, Chicago on the far edges. You can jump on the train if you want, take it into the city, get
a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup at the diner in Union Station; Arthur does it
one afternoon with Mrs. Adler, asking her about the seats on the train, the smell of it, whether the

waiters at the diners are dressed properly.

"More smokers, dear," she says, looking around before pulling a cigarette case out of her purse.
Eames comes along a little later, swinging down off the train in a sharp grey suit and fedora.
"Why thats Mr. Eames," Mrs. Adler says, delighted, putting a gloved hand on Arthurs arm.
Eames is helping one of the projections, a young woman in a peacock blue dress and matching
hat, with her suitcase, lifting it easily down to the platform for her. "That young man," Mrs. Adler
says, tapping her cigarette into the ash tray, "is one cool drink of water."
Arthur tries to bite back his smile and cant. Eames is more like trying to buy a Coke at a roadside
bar at sunset after driving on dusty backroads all day, having the bartender wink at you and slide
you a tall glass, slippery with condensation, and then waking up the next morning in a ditch with
your pants around your ankles, a phone number in hot pink lipstick on your chest, and a stray dog
sticking his tongue in your ear.
*
Arthur, thinking, buys groceries, looks up recipes, thinks. Buys a too-nice bottle of wine and then
goes back and buys something cheaper, twenty bucks, nothing special.
"You want to have dinner at my place tonight?" he says to Eames one afternoon. "Ill cook."
"Cant, actually," Eames says, looking up from a pamphlet, holding his place on the page with a
finger. "Im taking Mr. Peterson under to start work on the bacon slicing exhibit."
"Sure," Arthur says. "Maybe next time."
"Maybe," Eames says.
*
Arthur waits until the following Wednesday, checks Eames schedule, which is empty, and falls in
beside him on the stairs, brushing their shoulders together.
"Tonight?" he says. Eames grins at him.
"Im free," he says.
"Ill make you that dinner," Arthur says. Hes looking sideways, so he sees the smile slide off
Eames face.
"No thanks," he says.
"What, youre not going to eat?" Arthur says.
"I dont really think thats any of your concern," Eames says
"Iwhat?" Arthur says. "Its just dinner"
"Look, Arthur, cant you take a hint?" Eames says. "Youre abelieve me, a splendid fuck, but
Im not going to dick around playing happy families with you. Im not going to go on little dates
with you and pretend I havent been fucking you for two years."
"Oh," Arthur says. "So, when you made me dinner"
"Ill try anything once," Eames says. "But not really worth doing again, wouldnt you say?"

"I guess not," Arthur says.

"Knew youd see it my way," Eames says. He bumps a companionable shoulder into Arthur and
then slips a hand onto his hip, nudging him gently until hes pressed face first into the wall.
Eames breath is warm on the back of his neck; Arthur puts a steadying hand on the wall, just as
Eames slides his hand around Arthurs waist and presses his hand down flat, over Arthurs fly.
"Still want me to come by tonight?" he says. Arthur can feel the heat of Eames hand through his
pants, through his underwear.
"Yes," he says. Eames makes a quiet, satisfied noise and sets his teeth softly against the back of
Arthurs neck, rubbing his thumb down the length of Arthurs stiffening cock.
"I want to bend you over and fuck you," he says, low. "Dyou want me to?"
"Yes," Arthur says, pushing back against him, leaning forward into his hand.
"Ill come by at eight," Eames says. Then he pulls his hands away and pushes out the fire door,
letting it slam loudly behind him.
"Well, thanks for fitting me in to your busy schedule," Arthur says. He tips his forehead against
the cool concrete of the wall.
Eames shows up at quarter to nine, all smiles. He blows Arthur and then he fucks him, laid out on
top of the ottoman, and then he brings a wet washcloth back to the living room, where Arthur is
still lying, wrung out, over the ottoman. He rubs his thumb once along Arthurs cheekbone before
pulling his shirt on. Hes gone by ten.
*
Ariadne wakes up, screams, and when Yusuf says, "Its okay!" she clocks him in the face and
then throws a knee up into his groin. He collapses sideways and she takes one wild look at Eames
and Arthur, both hanging back out of knee range, and books it out of the loft, her boots clattering
on the stairs. Yusuf groans.
"No less than you deserve," Eames says. Arthur sends Ariadne a text with an explanation as brief
and believable as he can make it; she wont remember them if shes lost the same amount of time
he did. She wont remember dreaming. He attaches a few pictures they took with subjects, all of
them smiling, in front of Ariadnes models.
Ariadne texts them an hour later: All set, found my notes.
*
Arthur hasnt, it turns out, outgrown liking to get slapped around a little and Eames knows it,
suddenly seems to be going to some trouble over it, tightening his hands over Arthurs wrists and
holding him down when they fuck, once even actually slapping him a couple times, open-handed
across the face, not really hard, just enough that Arthur feels the heat in his cheek when hes
kneeling between Eames legs, blowing him. Eames knocks him back on the floor after he comes
and jerks him off, holding him down with one heavy hand planted in the center of his chest, where
Arthur knows he must be able to feel the pounding, rushing beat of his heart.
"Fuck," he says, after, still trying to get his breath back.
"Good, right?" Eames says. Arthur opens his eyes to see if Eames is being a smug asshole, but

hes just leaning back against the couch, dick hanging out of his pants, looking bright-eyed,
relaxed.
"Yeah," Arthur says. He thinks about asking if Eames wants to stay over and then remembers:
Eames doesnt.
"I can hit you harder," Eames says. "or softer?"
"What you did was fine, Goldilocks," Arthur says. Eames laughs. Then he shoves himself to his
feet and fixes his clothes and leaves.
Arthur gets up. He takes a shower, he drinks a glass of water, he eats some leftover spaghetti,
straight out of of the container, leaning on his elbows on the counter. Eames liked getting fucked;
he asked and Arthur gave him exactly what he wanted. But he doesnt want to do it again, thats
obvious. He doesnt want dinner. He doesnt want to sleep over. Anyone else, Arthur would cut
his losses.
There was a moment, Arthur thinks, there must have been a moment when he could have changed
the rules, but he missed it, stupidly, wasnt paying enough attention. There might have been
something Eames would have accepted from him, but it was unimportant to him at the time, a
footnote to the real story, which was about fucking, about getting whatever he could from Eames,
about Eames yanking his shirt and sweater off over his head in one motion and leaning forward to
bite hungrily at Arthurs throat, about Arthur crowding Eames back against a wall in a stairwell in
some hotel, undoing his belt with one hand, about the time Eames showed up for a job two days
late with a black eye and grabbed Arthurs ass in the elevator, followed him back to his hotel room
and sucked him off, fucked him on his back, holding his hands down while Arthur struggled
against him.
"That to your liking?" Eames asked, after, shaking his hands a little, fingers flexing, while he
pulled his clothes back on.
"Yes. Obviously," Arthur said. Eames put on his shoes.
"Obviously," he said, cheerful. Arthur almost said "Stay, will you?" but didnt. Eames gave
Arthur a friendly nod before leaving.
And here he is, three years later, still asking Eames to stay around, every once in a while, still
getting turned down, but he doesnt blame himself. He likes making the same mistakes over and
over; its a comfort, after watching Cobb and Mal make every mistake, invent new mistakes to
make, lose themselves. Arthur remembers watching the shape of Eames back, in the walk-away
from the first job they worked together, in a train station in Berlin, and thinking, "Thank god I
never have to work with that fucking asshole again." Arthur thinks hes done he best he can with
Eames; hes tried. Its too late for anything else.
*
Theyre maybe halfway throughthe build is close to finished, Yusufs cleared the last subjects
and gone onto another job in Mexico, and Arthur has started recording, just a little each day,
working his way slowly through the fair, eating lunch in the rooftop garden, spending an
afternoon on the thrill ridesthe Lindy Loop, Bozo Heydey, the Cyclone. He goes in late at night
to walk the midway, past the freak shows and medical oddities, the shooting galleries and the
music acts. It smells like hot fried food and faintly of gasoline and perfumes no one wears
anymore. The wind of the lake is warm on his face. Arthur feels himself smiling hard enough that
his cheeks hurt; they made this, from peoples memories, from dreams. Its been a long time since
he felt wonder, since he felt a bursting lift of feeling in his chest, like watching fireworks. Eames is

waiting for him, half hidden in the shadow of one of the tents, his face blank, but not unfriendly
unreadable.
"Something, isnt it?" he says. Hes a dockworker, long dead, on his one day off, hes a little girl,
Mrs. Andosky, hair still bright, holding a doll, hes a tall, stooped man at the end of his life, her
grandfather, marveling at what the world has become since he was a child, living deep in the
woods in a log cabin, hes Eames once more.
"Shall we?" he says, and turns into the door of a tent, already changing again.
*
That first job they worked together, the architect had wanted to learn how to forge. Shed been tall
and busty and worn a lot of tight tank tops and cargo pants that slipped down until they exposed a
narrow band of dark gold skin on her hips. Eames had been extremely obliging and patient with
her questions.
"The lie isnt the important thing," he said once, unspooling the PASIV lead and stroking one
hand down her arm to the crook of her elbow, "never lie if you dont have to; thats just extra
work." Arthur had been able to see from across the room how light his touch was, fingertips
resting unassumingly against her skin "and when you have to lie, only remember to make it
good." Hed been leaning in just a little closer to her, eyes gone quiet, intense, close enough that
she would have been able to see the faint freckles dusting his cheekbones.
Give me a fucking break, where did Cobb even find this self-important horndog, Arthur
remembers thinking, at the time, but the memory bubbles up to the surface the next time theyre
screwing, when Eames hands are braced on either side of him and hes fucking into him hard
enough to shove his knees up the bed, his mouth pressed groaning against Arthurs back, and
Arthur is panting, pressing his forehead against the bed and jerking himself off, moaning stupid
bullshit and not caring at all.
"yes," hes saying, and "fucking do it, fuck, come on," and "yes," and "Eames." Eames lifts one
hand and reaches down to cover Arthurs hand on his cock, his hot fingers fumbling over Arthurs
hip and belly, and then wrapping tightly over Arthurs fingers. Arthur has it under control, is
jerking himself just how he likes it and Eames hand is only in the way, not helping at all, except
Eames fingers closer around his and Arthur comes so hard that he loses control of his limbs, and
only comes back to himself when hes lying half-comatose in the wet spot, all of his joints rag-doll
loose, with Eames still on top of him.
Eames is fucking him roughly, in jolting, heavy thrusts, and his breath is labored, stuttering, his
lips brushing Arthurs neck. "God, fuck," he says fervently. When he comes he makes a hard,
almost violent sound, and then collapses heavily just to Arthurs left, gasping, his eyes closed,
replete.
Theres no reason for Arthur to think of that memory now, no reason to think of the way Eames
voice had sounded, that stupid soft voice he used when he was flirting and pretending he wasnt,
saying "Never lie if you dont have to," but Arthurs mind, efficient as always, insists.
Make it good, Arthur thinks, later, admiring the way his fingers are wrapped gently around the
barrel of his pen, the way hes not grinding the fine felt tip too hard against his notebook, ripping
the paper or making the ink bleed blue across the page. Arthur is rarely wrong when it comes to
secrets.
*

Arthur is well aware that its not his business if something happened to Eameswho taught him
how to lie so well, ifif things happened to him, if he got hurt, if someone beat him up or fucked
him the wrong way or if things got out of hand. Arthur makes himself fold these thoughts up and
put them away, carefully. He tells himself to take what Eames offers.
Fucked up things have happened to Arthur tootry dropping out of high school at seventeen and
lying to enlist in the army when he knew he was gay already; try being nineteen and desperate for
sex, for love, for anything, 115 pounds soaking wet and, in the subjective opinion of certain
jagoffs, in possession of a pretty cocksucker mouth. Hes jerked guys off whove punched in him
the face the next day, hes a magnet for certain categories of asshole, hes had his share and then
some and he hardly plans to tell Eames about any of this, but the problem with Eames is that hes
a fucking prying dick
"Incredibly intuitive," is what Cobb always saidArthur often suspects that Eames already has
guessed more than Arthur will ever say.
*
He knows the moment that Eames opens his eyes and smiles across at him and says,
"hello," very soft, very low.
"You have amnesia," Arthur says. Its just the two of them; Ariadne is unhappy with a section of
the Science Halls and a few of the foreign villages and is on a day trip to Chicago to scope the
original sites and visit a few photography archives, and Eames and Arthur have been under all
morning, recording.
"Leading with the one fact I happen to be in possession of is an intriguing choice," Eames says.
He sits up and removes his PASIV lead. "Do go on," he says. His hands are steady, relaxed, but
Arthur gives him a little space anyway, seeing how his eyes trace once towards the door, over
Arthur, the way hes holding his shoulders, loose but ready.
"Its a Somnacin reaction; itll wear off in a day or two," Arthur says.
"And?" Eames says.
"Thats all," Arthur says. "Iyour desk is over there. Theres coffee in the kitchen. Ill get you
your address if you want to go home."
Eames looks at him for a long moment, his mouth solemn. "Whats your name, sweetheart?" he
says, finally.
Arthur tells him.
*
"I think you should know," Eames says, sliding in next to him in the kitchenette while Arthur is
making himself a sandwich. "There are some very saucy pictures of you on my phone."
"Yes, I know," Arthur says. Eames takes them sometimes; Arthur sent him one once, as a joke.
Eames touches the back of Arthurs neck, curiously, just the tips of his fingers, and Arthur flinches
away, gets some space between them.
"Dont tell me we had a fight," Eames says.
"No," Arthur says. He screws the cap back onto the mayonnaise. "Were justwere not like

that."
"Were not like what, I dont touch you?" Eames says, looking interested. "Is itdo we just do it
with pictures? Or is there instant messaging?"
"What?" Arthur says.
"Itswe have an ongoing sexual relationship and have for some time, but we dont touch,"
Eames says, assessing. "So. Thats a bit unorthodox, but obviously Ive made peace with it.
Actually" he says, giving Arthur a slow, appreciative once-over, "I begin to see the appeal. Do
we physically consummate eventually, or is it just the pictures? Or perhaps video," he says. "I
would be extremely keen on video."
"It's not"
"I dont mind," Eames says. He shrugs. "Ill do anything."
Thats a lie. "Can you just," Arthur begins sharply. "Shut your mouth for a second." There are
things Eames wont do; there are things Eames wouldnt want, if he could remember. Arthur
doesnt plan to allow Eames to make the same stupid mistakes he did. Arthur cuts the sandwich in
half, the knife scraping across the plate.
"Oh," Eames says. Hes looking at Arthurs hands, eyes a little dark. "Do you dominate me? Or,
wait. Ido you like to humiliate me?"
"We just fuck," Arthur says.
"Sounds complicated," Eames says dryly.
"Its not," Arthur says. He stares at the sandwich. "I wanted something. Youdidnt, so."
"Ah," Eames says. "I see."
"Okay, then," Arthur says. He wraps up the bread and puts it back in the cupboard, puts away the
turkey and the pickles and the mayonnaise. "Is there anything else you need?"
"I should apologize," Eames says quietly. "I didnt mean to bring up a painful topic."
"Its fine," Arthur says. "It just didnt work out, thats all."
"Hm," Eames says, still looking pensive. "Well. I can promise you its not because you dont take
a fantastic picture."
"Thanks," Arthur says. "Thats. nice."
Arthur hopes Eames will go home after that, so he can just get his memory back and they can get
on with the job, but he sticks around for the rest of the afternoon, apparently working. Its not
anything Arthur wouldnt have expected, but its annoying. Eames looks at Arthur from time to
time, his eyes full of warm interest. Arthur isnt used to it. It makes his chest feel tight. Eames
doesnt look at him like that anymore; maybe he never did.
"May I offer you some advice," Eames says, catching him in the elevator when hes heading
home.
"No," Arthur says, punching the button.
"Perhaps its not the best idea to keep fucking some wanker who doesnt want you," Eames says.

"Perhaps its not the best idea to keep fucking some wanker who doesnt want you," Eames says.
"You seem like a sweet and lovely person."
"Im really not," Arthur says.
*
The next day is Saturday. Theyre working regular hours this job, taking weekends off; its novel.
Arthur sleeps in, goes for a run, buys groceries, calls Cobb, does a little work, sprawled out on the
couch in the late afternoon sun, reading. He makes eggs for dinner, melts cheese on bread under
the broiler until its bubbling. Hes just finishing up the dishes when the doorbell rings.
Its Eames, leaning in the doorway, shoulders tight. His memory is back.
"Are youwhats going on?" Arthur says.
"Nothing," Eames says. He brushes past Arthur and slaps down a crumpled post-it note on
Arthurs entryway table. It says:
Break it off with Arthur.
He is very hung up on you, its cruel.
"Fine," Arthur says. "Were broken up, can I"
"Are you really hung up on me?" Eames demands.
"I dontwhat? of course not," Arthur says. "Its like I said. We just fuck."
"Thats not what you said." Eames says. He doesnt sound hostile or angry, just blank, almost
tired. "I wont have you going around telling peopleacting like youre poor sweet lovely Arthur
and Im some arsehole who uses you for sex and is breaking your heart"
"Dont fucking flatter yourself," Arthur says. "Its not my problem if you chose to misinterpret
what we do because of your own staggeringly high opinion of yourself"
"You started it," Eames says.
"What?" Arthur says. "Is this aboutlook, I couldnt remember you, you hit on me in the break
room, it was an honest mistake, you said you didntcare"
"Well, I dont care, exactly," Eames says, "not in the way you seem to think I do."
"What do you know about what I think?"
"You want me to be a blow-up doll who knocks you around and treats you like a stupid fucking
slut because youre incapable of" Eames voice is brittle, furious. "You dont get to pretend that
its notyour idea, that Im hurting you"
"Yeah, I can tell you get nothing out of it," Arthur says.
"Just admit that we do whatever you want," Eames says.
"Iwhat? I wont"
"Who fucks someone they cant remember?" Eames says. Hes not even looking at Arthur
anymore. "I would never havewho fucks a complete fucking stranger like that?"
"If you had a problem with what we were doing, I wasnt forcing you," Arthur says, starting to

get hot under the collar himself, because what the fuck. "Im sorry I fucked you when I didnt
remember you, I shouldnt have done that, but, to be honest, it didnt seem like you minded that
much."
Eames goes white. He opens his mouth and closes it and then says,
"Were through, you fucking arse. I wouldnt shove my cock in you again if you paid me."
"Wait, what?" Arthur says. "ImI dont. Eames. Did I hurt you or" hes thought about
fucking Eames more than he should, thought about the way Eames trembled underneath him and
couldnt seem to keep it together, thought about how dazed he seemed afterwards. Maybe, Arthur
thinks, it wasnt as good as he thought it was. "Did I hurt you?" he says, stomach sinking. Eames
huffs a disbelieving laugh.
"Oh, Arthur," he says, smirking. "Really? It was very special, but you cant possibly think that
just because Id never bent over for you that it was my first time."
"I didnt," Arthur says honestly. "I just"
Arthur is not, strictly speaking, especially good with people. Hes good with facts, with research
and analysis, with drilling down through layers of extraneous information, making connections,
and he never forgets a single thing. Eames wants to keep it simple. Eames wants the usual. Eames
can do it harder or softer, either way. Eames is standing in his hallway yelling at him at nine
oclock on a Saturday, came across town to ask if Arthur was hung up on him, and Arthur is, hes
gone, he thought hed given up on Eames but he hasnt, he doesnt want to. "It was pretty obvious
it wasnt your first time," he says. Eames can teach someone how to lie but Arthurs job is the
truth. "But it had been a while."
Eames shrugs, bored.
"Or maybe not." Arthurs job is to shove a gun down someones throat and get some fucking
answers. "Maybe you just cant get enough." Eames eyes flick to his, startled. Arthur feels his
heart rate spike, blood roaring at the base of his skull, but long practice makes his voice come out
steady, quiet. "If you were that desperate for it, you should have asked."
"I did," Eames says, but hes not angry anymore. When Arthur shifts his weight, Eames eyes
follow him, curious.
"Maybe," Arthur says, "you just werent persuasive enough."
Eames licks his lower lip. "Was I supposed to" he says, and Arthur closes on him quickly,
grabs a fistful of his sweater and forces him down to his knees.
"Use your imagination," he says. Eames sways towards him, and Arthur slides his hand up from
Eames sweater to his hair, yanks him in closer, pulling hard enough to make Eames wince, push
up into Arthurs hand to get a little slack.
"You never seemed especially interested in this sort of thing," Eames says, mouth curving into a
sly, knowing smirk, and lets Arthur drag his head in until his face is pressed to the front of
Arthurs pants.
"Were learning all kinds of exciting new things about each other," Arthur says and Eames has
Arthurs belt unbuckled and and is pulling his cock to his mouth without Arthur having to say
anything else. "I should have known," he says, struggling to keep his voice steady while Eames
licks hungrily at the head of his cock. "I should have known from how much you wanted my dick
in your mouth that you needed it." Eames shoulders relax, fractionally. He leans in and closes his

eyes.
Arthur twists his hands in Eames hair and makes Eames suck him fully hard, fucks his mouth
until Eames is choking, shuffling closer on his knees, reaching for Arthur to brace himself, and
then he drags Eames off and shoves him down so roughly that Eames falls sideways, has to catch
himself on the floor with both hands.
"Thats enough," Arthur says. "I want to come in your ass, not your mouth."
Then, because he cant help it, he slides down and kisses Eames, who fists a hand in his shirt and
kisses back open-mouthed, wet and sure, and opens his knees when Arthur palms his cock
through his pants. "I should have seen it before," Arthur says. "I bet everyone else did."
"Do you want"
"I want to fuck you until you scream," Arthur says. Eames nods in agreement immediately. "Get
in the bedroom and get your clothes off," Arthur says, pushing him off.
Alone, he takes three deep breaths. That was the easy part. He squares his shoulders and starts
down the hallway to the bedroom.
Eames is naked, lying his stomach, head pillowed on his bent arm, one knee tucked underneath
him.
"Show-off," Arthur says, having to work at it to keep his voice un-fond. He rips his shirt off over
his head and then leans down and squeezes Eames ass with one hand, hard, letting his fingers fall
into the cleft. Eames flinches. "You can stop pretending youre not used to this," Arthur says.
Eames doesnt answer, so Arthur leans down and rubs a knuckle down into the crack of his ass,
dipping it against his hole, pushing until Eames makes an inarticulate noise and moves back
against it.
"Thats what you need," Arthur says. He steps back to pull off the rest of his clothes, says, "You
want more?"
"Yes," Eames says. Arthur leans down and presses in his thumb to the first knuckle, dry. Eames
comes up on his knees a little, pushes back, draws in a long breath.
"Youd beg, wouldnt you," Arthur says.
"Please," Eames says, readily. Arthur bites his lip. Fine, then, he canhes going to do it, hes
going to tell Eames what a hungry little bitch he is, how hard hes going to fuck him, ask him how
many cocks his wet little hole has taken, and he gets as far as shoving Eames over on his back,
slapping his legs open, and running the heel of his hand up over Eames dick, which is a little stiff
but not fully hard.
"How many, how many people have used you like this?" he says. He pulls open the drawer in his
bedside table and yanks out a condom and then the lube.
"A few." Arthur wets his fingers thoroughly, but hes not gentle, twisting two fingers hard up
inside Eames, who takes it, says nothing.
"A lot," Arthur says, prompting.
"A lot," Eames agrees, low, rocking up against Arthurs hand, staring at his face.

"And I think you begged for it, every time. I think theres nothing you wouldnt do to get fucked."
"Yes," Eames says. Arthur pushes up onto the bed and Eames moves awkwardly back to make
room for him, sliding his legs further apart.
"Look at you," Arthur says. Hes planning to say, look at what a fucking slut you are for me,
youre not coming until you beg for it, "Look at you," he says, hearing his voice soften. He leans
down and presses a kiss to the center of Eames chest, one and then another and another, and then
he shoves down the choking tide of anxiety in his throat, tells himself that at least hes not a pussy
like Eames and says, "anyone who ever made you beg was a fucking idiot."
"What" Eames says.
"You dont like it much," Arthur says.
"I wouldnt do it if I didnt like it," Eames says, trying to screw himself down on Arthurs fingers.
Arthur has been working with Eames for longer than hes been fucking him, and Eames never
drops character, wont tap out if things go south; thats always been Arthurs job, slamming into
rooms where Eames is bracing himself in a chair, coughing up blood, holding a gun as steadily as
he can. Its Arthurs job to say, "You're done here, I've got this," touch the hinge of his jaw, slide
his gun across his lower lip, end it.
"But you dont like it," Arthur says. He pulls back until hes just rubbing softly at Eames opening
with his fingertips, dipping in a little, "I never wanted to hurt you, orhumiliate you, you never
needed to let me" he leans down and kisses Eames cheek, lingers a little over the broad curve
of his cheekbone.
"Stop it," Eames says, twisting his face away.
"I love it, what you do for me," Arthur says. "I like to get hit and I like it rough, and youre so
good to me, but I can be gentle, you can want something like that"
"I dont," Eames spits out.
"Safeword then," Arthur says. "Ill stop. " He leans in and sets a string of kisses into the hollows
of Eames collarbone and throat, working slowly. They have a safeword. They dont use it very
often, but Eames has never been shy about shoving him off and saying, forget it, lets just suck
each other off and call it a night.
"Safeword," Arthur says, insistently.
Eames exhales sharply, face averted, fists tight in the sheets. He jerks his chin: no.
"All right," Arthur says. "All right."
Eames wont kiss him back at first, his mouth tight and uncooperative, eyes closed. Arthur tucks
in against him, runs the flat of his hand down Eames side, kisses the corners of his mouth, the soft
bow of his upper lip, until Eames lifts a hesitant hand to his cheek and opens his mouth, his lips
catching on Arthurs, wet and soft, his other hand rubbing down Arthurs back, holding tight to
him, their feet tangling together.
"Ive been thinking about this," Arthur murmurs. He brushes Eames hair back off his face.
"About how much I like doing this with you."
Eames doesnt say anything and he wont meet Arthurs eyes, but hes arching into Arthurs
hands, turning his face for another kiss, opening his legs until Arthurs cock is rubbing wetly

against the inside of his thigh, sliding down beneath his balls into the crease of his ass, until
Eames cock is pressed between them, and Arthur can feel how hard he is, the wet smudge of precome on Eames stomach.
"I think about you all the time," Arthur confesses. "I think about that night, how I didnt know,
how Icouldnt believe that I was sleeping with someone who looked like you, whowanted
me like that."
"Oh," Eames says, barely out loud, and thats all, but it makes a greedy, rushing heat gather in
Arthurs stomach, makes his voice drop, lower, a little ragged.
"And Ive beenthinking about it since, about kissing you and touching you and making you feel
good and you wont let me, youyou wont"
"Arthur," Eames mutters. Arthur strokes his fingers down the back of Eames thigh and pulls his
leg up to hook around his hip, Eames ankle pressing into the back of his thigh, kisses and kisses
him while Eames puts his hands on Arthurs waist and the small of his back, holds on, rubs up
breathlessly under him, opening for him, letting Arthur put his tongue in his mouth, drag his
fingers through the hair at Eames nape and pull his head gently to where he wants him, until
Eames is making soft noises in the back of his throat and chasing his mouth,
"Youre beautiful," Arthur blurts out. "Fuck, you are soget on your side, I want" and Eames
does.
Eames is tight, tight, and he lets out a low, desperate moan when Arthur adds a second finger,
going slowly, running the pads of his fingers around Eames entrance to watch the way the
muscles in his back tighten and release. It isnt like he remembered it, not really, the visceral jolt of
want when he puts a third finger in Eames and feels Eames contract around his fingers, the heat of
him, the way Eames voice sounds when he says,
"You want me to" he swallows audibly. "talk, I can"
"Not unless you want to," Arthur says. "Do you want to?"
"I dont, I dont know, I dont know," Eames mutters, slurring the words together, sliding down
on Arthurs fingers.
"You want me to say something?" Arthur says.
"No," Eames says, after a long moment.
"What," Arthur asks. He opens his fingers inside Eames, twists them apart and then pulls out, rolls
on the condom and lines up, working inside as slowly as he can, licking a soft kiss on the crest of
Eames shoulderblade.
"Tell meyou like it," Eames says, quiet, breath hitching. Its not the first time hes said it,
shoving Arthur down on a bed and pulling his dick out, sneering, "I know you like this," and
Arthur hasten times, a hundred times, gasped out, "yes, I like it, I love it, fuck me" but this
time he says,
"I like this, I like you like this," and pushes fully inside him, holding one arm tightly across
Eames chest, palm open.
"Arthur," Eames says, grabbing at Arthurs thigh, riding down on his cock, "Fuck," he says,
curling back on Arthur, gulping in breaths, grinding, trying to get Arthur in deeper, "Oh, fuck."

"Come here," Arthur says, "Let me" He tries to nudge his dick gently into Eames, to keep
moving into him in slow, rolling thrusts, but Eames heart is pounding under his hand, and Arthur
wants more. Eames is breathing hard, but otherwise silent, maybe biting his lip to keep quiet. His
body strains against Arthurs, hard and uncompromising, muscle and bone, but hes so soft inside,
a tight sucking clutch around Arthurs cock. "Please let me," Arthur says.
"You canyes," Eames says thickly, and Arthur drags Eames back against him, mouthing the
ridge of his spine, slides out nearly all the way and then sets a steadily rising rhythm. Eames
moans, barely anything, a soft little set of exhalations, but his hand on Arthurs thigh tightens
convulsively with each thrust, pulling Arthur deeper into him.
"I want to watch you next time, I want to see you," Arthur says and Eames shivers and starts to
move against him in a reckless, unraveling, wet fuck. He grabs at Arthurs hand and brings it to
his cock, which is thick and leaking, hot, and their fingers tangle together as Arthur jerks him off,
Eames hand uncoordinated, just cupped over Arthurs working hand, tightening as Eames shakes
apart in Arthurs arms, comes in his hands, head bent.
"Okay?" Arthur says. He rubs his wet hand down the length of Eames thigh, gone lax, and feels
Eames open up a little more, take Arthur more deeply inside him.
"Yes," Eames says, his voice cracked open, raw, and Arthur only lasts a few more mindless
thrusts after that.
Arthur eases out of him and ties off the condom. Eames falls over onto his back and throws an
arm across his face, chest heaving. His stomach is smeared with come and there are wet streaks on
his hand and the inside of his forearm. Arthur reaches for him, curves a hand over the rough cut of
Eames ribs, the bad scarring thats been there since Arthurs known him. Eames breathing
quiets, slowly.
"Ill justIll get you a washcloth," Arthur says, but Eames is asleep when he gets back, sprawled
open on the bed. Arthur runs the cloth quickly over the worst of it, and Eames stirs but doesnt
open his eyes, curls in against him when Arthur pulls the blankets over them.
*
Arthur wakes up when his alarm goes off; Eames is standing by the bed, buckling his belt.
"Morning," Arthur says.
"Morning," Eames says. He looksfine.
"You want some coffee or something?" Arthur says, slowly.
"No thanks," Eames says.
"I probably have some OJ," Arthur says, getting up and pulling on his pants from last night, which
are in a crumpled heap on the floor next to the bed.
"I think Ill survive," Eames says. He has his shirt on now, is yanking his sweater over his head.
Arthur watches the twist and pull of his chest muscles, the way he scrubs a quick hand through his
hair to flatten it down.
"So, was that"
"Yes, it was lovely, Arthur, thank you," Eames says, a little carelessly. His tone is just right, kind,
a sliver of condescension, light as air.

"All right," Arthur says. Eames turns to look at him, and his face is normal, wry little smirk, barely
lifted eyebrow, but theres a blush gathering in the hollow of his throat, a livid pink that sweeps up
his throat and over his jaw when he sees Arthur looking, spreads into his cheeks, and then up to
his hairline.
"I should be going," he says, and thats wrong too, not light anymore, but hoarse.
"Ill see you at work," Arthur says.
"Fine," Eames says. His ears are bright red; Arthur wants to push him down on his back in the
bed and fuck him again and he knows he could do it, that Eames would fall apart for him, that
Eames wants it and thinks he shouldnt. Eames shoves his hands in his pockets and then pulls
them out.
"Hey," Arthur says, but its Eames who draws him into a kiss, one hand on his hip. Arthur tilts his
mouth sideways, slides his tongue against the corner of Eames parted lips, and puts a careful hand
on the back of his head. Eames mouth trembles against his, and then Arthur runs the edge of his
thumb slowly down the nape of his neck and feels Eames actually stumble towards him a little,
catch himself, and then nearly slam his shoulder into the wall.
"Right," Eames says, jerking himself upright. His ears darken to crimson. "I have awork."
*
Eames is under when he gets to the loft, sacked out on the couch. Arthur sits down on the chaise
next to him and looksthe long, raw, ragged bulk of his thighs, his mouth, parted a little, his
hands, open. Theres a hickey on his neck; Arthur takes a picture with his phone.
He thinks about the only other time Eames slept at his place. Theyd worked, all day, the kind of
shitty, low-rent, high pay, boring job for assholes that made Arthur feel a grinding, rote weariness,
that the sheer gutbursting joy hed felt the first time he slipped into a dream should boil down to
sitting in a stuffy room drinking bad coffee with Eames and their architect and extractor, building a
dream for some mundane secret he cant even remember now, some numbers someone needed for
something unimportant. It had been shitting down rain all day and both of them were in lousy
moods. They knocked back a few drinks in silence at the bar in Arthurs hotel and then went
upstairs. Eames took off his clothes and Arthur cuffed his wrists tightly behind his back and then
sat on the couch, suit, tie, thousand dollar shoes, and fucked Eames face, told him he was a slut
and a cocksucker, low, quiet, and Eames got off on it, very obviously, sucking lavishly on
Arthurs dick, eyes fluttering shut, hips working a little. Arthur came on his face and made Eames
wait to come until he took off his suit and hung it up and drank a glass of water and Eames was
into all that, too, watching him hungrily, nodding, agreeing when Arthur said he was a bitch when
he jerked him off. Arthur went to sleep in the bedroom. In the morning, Eames was asleep on the
plush carpeted floor, one cuff still on, spunk in his eyebrow, crusted in his ear, and he rolled over
and grinned smugly up at Arthur and said,
"Morning," busted out a jaw-cracking yawn, and cracked the handcuffs in under a minute using a
ballpoint pen. Then he kicked around Arthurs hotel room for most of the morning wearing a
towel, talking job logistics, eating an eight dollar bag of peanut M&Ms from Arthurs minibar.
Arthur leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, looking. Its easy to forget what Eames looks
like if you see him every day, to get habituated; its easy to listen to the things he says, to believe
them. Eames is very good at what he does. There are only another fifteen minutes on the PASIV,
so Arthur waits.
"Arthur," Eames says, when he wakes. He shakes his head, looking a little amused, and pushes

himself up. "Well, youre persistent, anyway."

"Yes," Arthur says. Eames slips the IV, eyes down.
"Look, I dont" he begins.
"Dont break up with me," Arthur says. "It was a bad idea based on inadequate information."
Eames sighs. "Were not even"
"Then lets," Arthur says. "Lets go out."
"What is it that you think is going to happen here?" Eames says.
"I just want to do stuff you like in bed," Arthur says. Eames shifts back against the couch.
"I appreciate the thought, but its really not necessary," he says, shrugging. "I was perfectly happy
before."
"Yeah," Arthur says.
"Whats that supposed to mean?"
"It means, youre a lying sack of shit," Arthur says, very gently. Eames smiles, crooked and small.
"I canmake some changes," he says.
"No," Arthur says. He looks at Eames, his hands loose on his knees, the creases beneath his eyes.
Hes starting to blush again. "Dont bother," Arthur says. "I like you this way."

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