A/N: OK, this is my second ever Inception fic (the first being Tangerine Kisses, an Arthur-Ariadne piece). I'm focusing more on the FRIENDSHIP side of Arthur/Eames, because I think there's a good comradery there to be explored. However, I suppose diehard E/A shippers can read more into it, if they really squint.

Reviews are love...

Kisses,

Ciara

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Eames knows Arthur. They've worked together plenty of times on extraction jobs and, most recently, on inception. Eames knows that Arthur is his polar opposite; lean where he is burly, unimaginative where he lives for spontenaity, dull where he is a livewire. He knows that, to Arthur, there is little more to life than getting the job done without incident and moving on.

But he also knows Arthur.

They've worked together enough times for Eames to know when something is up with the Point Man. It always starts the same way. Arthur becomes quiet and withdrawn, moreso than usual. Of course, nobody thinks anything of it because he is just being Arthur. Then he says he's not feeling well and stalks swiftly out of the old warehouse or three-star hotel room they are working from to 'get some air'. At first, Eames thought nothing of it, but after the first few times he became intrigued and followed the thinner man, under the pretext of grabbing a coffee. He always finds Arthur in exactly the same position; slumped over in the corner booth of the nearest bar to their temporary residence, nursing an untouched glass of whiskey and a stormy expression. Eames doesn't ever try to comfort the man- that would be absurd, especially when it's so much easier to cheer someone up by gently poking fun at them.

It hasn't happened all that often. The first time, as Cobb told him later in a hushed voice, Arthur's sister had been diagnosed with cervical cancer.

The second, when his mother had decided to move out of the family home. His father had been in a mursing home for a number of years, and the mortgage repayments on the big house overlooking the lake had become too high, even with Arthur's generous input.

The last time had been just after they finished their first inception job, the Fischer case. Eames had been sitting in Ariadne's hotel room with the dainty architect and the efficient point man when Arthur received a phonecall which sent him rushing from the room without so much as an explanation. Ariadne came with him to the bar, and the girl coaxed the truth from Arthur's lips in a way which Eames had never had the courage to try. As it turned out, his sister's cancer had spread.

This time, Arthur listens to a voice message that makes his lips turn white. Like all the other times, he merely jumps to his feet and sweeps from the warehouse muttering something about a stomach bug. Ariadne gives Eames a worried look, but the Forger shrugs it off easily. Arthur hadn't been happy when he brought Ariadne along the last time, though she had held his hand and hugged him in a way Eames never could have. Eames knows not to try that tactic again. He watches carefully as the thinner man leaves, frantically fiddling with his totem with trembling fingers.

He gives him an hour, because the look on his face before he left said he needed to be by himself for a while. Then Eames stretches his arms above his head and feigns a yawn. It's elaborate and over-the-top, but then so is he. And the rest of the team are too busy analyzing their plans to take much notice. Ariadne shoots him a knowing glance from beneath sooty lashes before she returns to the discussion with Cobb and Yusuf.

When he doesn't find Arthur in the first couple of bars, Eames starts to get a little uneasy. If there is one thing he can count on with Arthur, it is his predictability. It's gotten them into trouble a fair few times on jobs. He has always been able to rely on Arthur being in the closest available bar, and this new development is confusing and, he's not afraid to admit, a little worrying.

He does find him eventually though, and what he finds isn't pretty. Arthur is sprawled across the counter of some dingy backstreet pub with a collection of glasses around him. The place is full of old men in plaid pants and sweater vests, and the efficient point man is so out of place in his neat three-piece suit that Eames might have laughed had he not been so relieved to find him. He realises that this isn't the same as usual; something is really wrong.

"Hello darling," he says softly, swinging himself up easily onto the stool next to Arthur's. "Fancy meeting you here."

The point man struggles to prop himself up sloppily on one elbow and stares at him in bewilderment.

"Eames?" he says doubtfully, and the word is slurred. Eames knows he doesn't drink much, and is a bit of a lightweight, but he must have downed a considerable number of drinks in quick succession to get himself into this state.

"Who else did you expect, the Queen Mum? Isn't it always me when you get upset?"

Arthur sighs and runs a hand miserably through his gelled hair. "I thought... I thought I'd ev-eva... got away from you," he says, and Eames can't help feeling a little hurt.

"Nice to see you too," he mutters darkly. Immediately, Arthur's face transforms into a rather spectacular pout. His lips are very pink, Eames realises, and his hands are still shaking as he latches onto the thief's arm.

"No, no, I didn't mean it likethat!" he exclaims. His eyes are wild with desperation. "I didn't... I mean, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it old chap," soothes Eames, because the younger man has worked himself into something of a panic at this point. "It's quite alright."

"Really?" Arthur asks, his tone almost child-like. Eames nods and he smiles sloppily as he orders another drink. Eames doesn't bother to take it away; he knows from experience that sometimes the only thing for it is to get completely bladdered. "That's good. 'Cos I couldn't handle anything else going wrong today."

He downs the whiskey in one go, wincing slightly as the amber liquid burns his succeptible throat, and then ruthlessly orders another. He slips slightly sideways and the stool wobbles precariously. Eames steadies him and lets his hand trail on the other man's thin shoulderblade.

"What else went wrong?" he asks carefully. He's not sure exactly what is going on here. It feels like he's stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Arthur is never this person, the sloppy fool getting bladdered in a dingy little dive at four in the afternoon. Maybe that's why Eames feels safe playing his new role too, the role of the concerned friend looking out for his mate instead of the usual charismatic joker cracking jokes to distract from the reality of the situation.

Arthur looks at him, and he can see tears in the younger man's eyes. Now, Eames is really worried. Arthur never shows emotion if he can help it, but now his lip is quivering uncontrollably and his hands are shaking so badly that he spills most of his drink all over the bar and the rest of it down his front.

"I-" he starts, but the word seems to hurt so he starts over. "He.. m-my da-ad..."

And suddenly he is crying, proper crying with salty tears flooding down his face in jagged meandering rivers. He is hiccoughing painfully as he tries to gulp in air and he slips sideways on his stool.

"Uh oh," Eames murmurs, catching his falling comrade and hauling him back upright. He expects Arthur to push him off and down the last few drops of his drink as he would do on any other day. But this is not any other day, and Arthur, overcome by a combination of emotion and alcohol, latches onto him. He buries his face in Eames' shoulder, and the forger can feel his sobs racking both of their frames. On any other day, Eames would complain in a loud voice that Arthur is ruining his suit.

But this is not any other day, so he doesn't.

Instead, he holds Arthur close and runs his fingers through the young man's gelled hair. He murmurs nonsense in soothing tones and massages the point man's back with his large but surprisingly gentle hand. Arthur continues to weep, but eventually the sobs fade to whimpers and finally to tired sighs. He continues to lag against Eames' chest, but he seems to have moved from pained outbursts of emotion to quiet shock. Eames isn't sure whether or not that is a good thing.

"Arthur darling," he says softly. "You can tell me."

"I know," the other replies with a sniff. He's back to sounding like a small child, and Eames feels a tug at his heartstrings. He smudges away a tear in the corner of Arthur's eye.

"It's something to do with that phonecall earlier, isn't it?" he guesses, and Arthur trembles violently.

"M-my dad's nursing home called," he whispers. "He... there was nothing they could do."

"Oh Arthur," sighs Eames. "Darling, I'm so-"

"Sorry? Me too, but it won't bring him back." He is Point Man Arthur again, brisk and business-like as he pulls away and dabs at his red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Arthur..."

"Don't, Eames," he growls, signalling to the bartender. "I may be severely intoxicated, but that doesn't mean you get to pity me. My father is dead, so I am going to sit here for the night and drink myself into oblivion. If you could make my excuses to the others, I would be very grateful, and I will see you tomorrow."

Eames is now considering the possibility that grief can bring on previously-hidden bipolar disorder. He is also wondering how Arthur can enunciate perfectly even when he is completely bladdered. Then he remembers: he is Arthur.

"No," he says firmly, and he pulls Arthur's whiskey away from him. Arthur stares at him in bewilderment. "No darling, I will not make your excuses to the others. If you want to sit here and try to drink your problems away, fine, but I'm not fabricating lies for you."

For a moment Arthur simply glares at him balefully. Then he downs the rest of his whiskey and leans his head against the wood of the counter.

"You're right," he sighs heavily. "I shouldn't have asked that of you. I'm sorry."

"That's quite alright," says Eames. "I will however sit here and wait to walk you back to your hotel. Knowing you, you'll run that impossibly smart mouth of yours off and get yourself stabbed or something godawful like that."

"You don't have to," Arthur mutters, but there is a note of hope in his voice that makes Eames smile a little.

"I know," he says. "But I want to. Besides, it'll give me a good chance to leer at that deliciously leggy barmaid over there."

And he grins, and Arthur coughs out a half-sob, half-laugh. And he sits with the younger man for the next few hours, drinking only lemonade, until Arthur has consumed so much alcohol that he ends up throwing up in the bathrooms for twenty minutes with Eames' cool hand on his forehead. Then Eames decides it is time to go and hauls the younger man's arm across his won broad shoulders. Arthur leans his weight on him, but instead of complaining or teasing him Eames just parrots what he has been saying for the last couple of hours: 'It'll be OK.'

He gets Arthur into his hotel room without much hassle and helps him to undress because he knows that a sober Arthur would hate the idea of sleeping in his expensive suit. Then he pulls the spare pillows from the other side of Arthur's double bed and gets comfortable on the small sofa, just within reach so that he can watch over his sleeping friend. Only in slumber does Arthur's face finally relax.

In the morning, Arthur will wake with a nasty hangover and Eames will wake with a searing pain in his lower back from the couch that is, in all honesty, too small for his bulky frame. Arthur will smile weakly as he hands him a glass of water and an asprin, and Eames will pat his arm bracingly. Neither will speak of today's events and they will go back to the others and explain away their absence easily. In three days, however, Arthur will tell Cobb that he needs a couple of days off, and Cobb will agree unquestioningly because he trusts Arthur unquestioningly. And the day after that, Eames will mysteriously come down with a bout of 'flu' and supposedly retire to his hotel room when in reality he will be by Arthur's side as the casket is lowered into the ground. The others will never know, not as long as Arthur doesn't want them to.

Of course, any other day, Arthur would never confide in Eames because the Englishman would immediately blab to Cobb and Yusuf and Ariadne, as he has done many times before.

But this is not any other day.

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Meh. I don't know if I like it. Review to help me make up my mind?