Part III

The clock on the wall ticks loudly in the background, the only sound to penetrate the heavy silence.

Arthur's concentration is on his phone. He checks it for messages, checks for signal strength, stares at it, drums it against his palm, and when his phone gives him nothing, he comes to his feet to face the wide open windows, running both hands through his hair. Nothing there either, only the Impala parked idly beside the storage shed, and the rise of a green and brown hill against a gray sky. He counts the seconds as they pass, one after the other in a terrible succession, and leans his forehead against the glass, his breath fogging as he speaks.

"Come on Eames, come on, come on," is the dry whisper, and he keeps his eyes on that horizon, searching for any signs that any moment Eames come trudging over it. Still, nothing. It is three hours past their scheduled rendezvous, and Forger had promised to be right behind him. The Forger ordered him to leave, against every fiber of his will, and he trusted Eames to keep his word. In this line of work timing and time are everything, and even Eames does not show up late to the rendezvous. Yet, Eames has not contacted him. In fact, no one has.

At first, Arthur had refused to leave—the job had not finished as smoothly as if should have and the opportunity presented itself that one of them should make the getaway with the loot. Arthur had been that person, but he had not gotten out in time to avoid seeing the blood drawn on both sides. He is still caked with it, on his face, on his hands-he has not even showered yet. He is waiting for Eames, and not even the stench and stickiness of the blood on his clothes, on his body, can distract him from that.

Night falls. Arthur was ordered not to pursue Eames, and he is not one to disobey orders, so instead he finally takes a shower. It is brief, a hard scrub under hot water, and the second he is finished he yanks a towel down and wraps it around himself, then goes straight back to the window. Nothing stirs in the darkness outside the cabin; no sign of Eames. He dresses quickly—a pair of brown slacks and a white undershirt—and takes a seat down by the window to clean and bandage his injuries, phone beside him. It doesn't ring. Arthur wants to throw it across the room and watch it shatter, but he can't. He cannot control what will happen next, and he hates it.

He is wakeful through the night. He paces, he cleans his firearms, he does push-ups—he clears through an entire pack of Marlboro lights before morning, smoking, and pacing, and running his hand over his face, through his hair. The night fades into a smoky morning. The phone has not so much as given him a coded message, or a sign of life. Arthur cannot stare at it any longer. He takes one last, long gaze over that grassy hilltop before he makes the decision to go back, and get Eames.

He straps on his shoulder holsters, and a decent pair of shoes, trying to formulate some sort of strategy to this ill-fated rescue attempt. He figures he will have to take at least a few distance shots, so he heads toward the hall closet for a sniper rifle and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The bruises on his face and arms are bone deep. Briefly, he wonders what Eames will look like should he see him again and immediately terminates the thought. He does not even imagine want to imagine what Eames must look like.

He loads up the Impala with almost every piece of ammunition in the safe house, and when he gets in he slams the door, and reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror. He turns the key and brings the engine to life, and with another glance in the rearview begins to back out. There is a figure distant in the rectangular reflection, and Arthur almost breaks his neck on a double-take. Eames is just on the ridge of the hill, on foot and walking slowly, head down and jacket folded over his forearm. Even from the distance, Arthur can see that his shirt is splattered in a dark soak of blood, and one of his trouser legs is shredded clear to the knee, where there is a sloppy attempt to bandage an obscure wound. Eames does not even look up; he seems so tired.

"Eames," it is a dry, barely audible whisper. Panic rises in Arthur, and he slams the Impala back into park, clumsily tearing out of the driver's seat and breaking into a sprint. "Eames!" he shouts, and his voice carries, and echoes across the secluded wood.

Eames' head snaps up and he stops in his tracks, drops his jacket, and doesn't even get Arthur's name out of his mouth before they literally collide into one another in a fierce, rough embrace.

"Fuck," Arthur's voice is loud, and unsteady, even to his own ears. His arms lock around Eames, tight and secure, as if he is a mirage and will melt away just as quickly as he appeared. "Fuck Eames, you scared the shit out of me, where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, love, I'm sorry—I couldn't lead them back here," Eames is breathless and he holds Arthur hard, pushing his fingers up through the back of the others dark hair and pulling him even closer. "I couldn't lead them to you, I had to..." he doesn't finish the thought. Instead he just presses his cheek harder into Arthur's temple and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry."

"Blood," Arthur felt it seep into him the second his body pressed into Eames', and he jerks away, pulling at the Forger's bloodstained shirt. "God, you're bleeding—"

"It's not my blood, Arthur," Eames breathes. "It's not my blood, I'm okay." He takes Arthur's face in his hands, and his own face, bruised and battered, gives way to a wide grin, and his eyebrow quirks cheekily. "I'm okay—you were worried about me?"

Arthur's stare is incredulous. He scowls. "Of course I was, Eames, you asshole, you followed none of the rules we set down, sent our entire exit strategy to Hell—"

"Shut up, Arthur," Eames' grin widens, just before he leans in and kisses him hard. Arthur takes his lovers advice and returns the kiss, bruising on those full, decadent lips, rolling his tongue over Eames' and lowering them both onto the ground until the Forger is almost flat on his back beneath him. Arthur continues the kiss, invasive and hungry, until Eames has to break away to take a breath, lips swollen and wet, and his eyes glazed over. He laughs, once, and his eyes crinkle in that way that can usually get him anything he wants out of Arthur. He doesn't have time to speak before Arthur is kissing him again, lowering himself so that his is lying atop him, taking in the heat from the other body, and running his hands through Eames' short hair, pulling a fraction, and completely unconcerned with losing himself in this moment. Eames' hands snake up around either side of his ribs, fingertips running over every rise and fall on the surface of his skin, and Arthur is gone.

"Eames," he groans into the other's mouth, and when he feels that smile against his again, he can't help but murmur into it, "God, baby, I was so worried about you-"

Eames pulls away, ever so slightly, and his smile has twisted into a grin. "What did you call me?"

...

Arthur's heart drops somewhere into his belly, and his face feels hot, but the rest of his body is numb, and cold. His voice catches in his throat, and all he can do is stare back at Tommy like a deer in the headlights. Tommy's expression is caught into something between genuine confusion, and something else. Not recognition, it is something deeper. The silence hangs around them, heavy, threatening to drop and smother.

"Easy, I said—I said 'go easy'," Arthur finally stammers. Tommy frowns, and shakes his head.

"No, no you said, 'Eames'. That's a name, what is that?" Arthur's jaws feel welded together, and his arms feel heavy. He stares straight back into the other's eyes, and Tommy, now seeming a little disturbed, slowly removes his hand from inside Arthur's pants, but doesn't get off of him right away. Against his own nature, he hesitantly ventures, "Did I do something…?"

"It's nothing you're fucking ready to handle, Tommy, get off me," Arthur snaps, and shoves Tommy hard with his palm, sending the other man back on his heels, and then flat on his ass. He only catches a glimpse of the look stricken on Tommy's face. He is so goddamn Eames right now Arthur can't even look at him, or stick around to explain himself. He just gets to his feet and brushes himself off, reaching for a towel hanging off the ropes, and then storms out of the ring. He makes it all the way to his office before getting inside and slamming the door, letting his back fall against the filing cabinet and bringing his hands to his face, rubbing hard up into his hair. Through his peripherals he can just make out the outline of Tommy slamming the doors behind him, and turning left for the long walk home. He fucked up. He knows he fucked up, again, and he digs his palms into his closed eyes and releases a sharp, frustrated cry from between clenched teeth.

Sometimes he really, really envies Tommy, and how gloriously fucking clueless he is.

This scenario, however, is not one Arthur is entirely unfamiliar with. It has happened before.

...

"Well, you fucked the pooch on that one."

Arthur clears his throat, and dares to cross Ariadne. "I think the phrase is, "Screwed the pooch."

"Yeah, yeah it would be, if you had screwed the pooch, but you didn't, you fuckedthe pooch, Arthur," Ariadne is beyond angry, and her cheeks are tinged with pink, brown eyes sparking. "What the hell were you thinking? You rejected him, made him feel like he had done something wrong—Arthur, you are the one true familiarity he has in this reality! Who is he going to trust now? You're the only one who didn't make him feel so goddamn vulnerable!"

"Vulnerable? Ariadne, you haven't met this Eames! Tommy is a brick shit house, physically and emotionally-" Arthur suddenly realizes Ariadne is laughing at him. Laughing at him, bitter, and dripping with disdain. He cuts himself off and confronts her in his lowest, deadliest tone. "Is something funny?"

"Yes, you. You've learned nothing from this, have you?"

"You're apparently the shrink here, fill me in."

"The one person who made him feel humanin this entire crazy reality he has created, made him feel safe, and wanted, just pushed him away with no explanation. Of course he's going to be Hell to deal with now. You'll be lucky if he even acknowledges your existence now," Ariadne snorts, and folds her arms matter-of-factly. "And quite frankly, I wouldn't blame him."

It did not take Ariadne verbally bitch-slapping him to let Arthur know he fucked up. He is not too proud to stoop for advice. "Okay. Okay, how do I fix this?"

Ariadne fixes him with a level stare. "Shoot him, shoot the brother, the father, then yourself and quite frankly, start over."

"You knowI can't."

"I know you can't," she says, and lowers herself down to the bench beside him again. She is silent a moment, and then another. Arthur can see her mind working behind her expression, hard, and it is another ten or so minutes go by before she speaks. "What about..." she stops herself, and purses her lips, forehead deepening into a frown. "What if you tell him the truth?"

"It's too soon."

"He's bought it before."

"Yeah, and on the few occasions where he hasn't cut me off completely, or lost his shit, he's blown his brains out, and we're back at square one," Arthur does not receive a reply. "There has to be a way."

"Flowers and candy." Arthur shoots Ariadne a scathing glare, and she throws her hands up. "Not literally, Jesus. I mean a gesture, jackass. Words are out now-you screwed that one-you're going to have to do something that touches him. And then you're going to have to walk away, and let it hit him, because it's not going to if you're breathing down his throat."

"Let what hit him, exactly?"

"How much you care," she says, quietly. "And what you would do just to be there for him."

Even in life, these things are so much easier said than done.

…

It is a miserable day when Arthur finally decides to confront Tommy. The sun has not bothered to show its face, and the weather is a constant drizzle; no doubt a mood reflection, which makes this all the more uncomfortable. None of this is surprising of course, considering the events of the other day. Tommy is alone on a bench in this dreary little park, just across from Colt's gym. It looks like he has just finished a run, and is waiting for the doors to open. He has reverted back to the Tommy Arthur meets when he first makes his way into limbo; closed off, and disinterested in everything but his own agenda.

Arthur has very little experience in the business of apologizing, and when he does, he tends to get defensive. In life, it is always Eames who usually fucks up, but he has the advantage of an extremely expressive set of features, and doesn't need words half the time; just that chin-down, apologetic pout-thing he does when he knows it's bad. It is near-impossible for Arthur to say no.

Tommy is a different story. When he sees Arthur approach his posture changes—not into that hunched ticking time bomb, with his hands in his pockets that is his usual stance, but something else. He is almost protective, turning his shoulders inward, as if to block an unseen attack. He is humiliated, and worse, he has closed himself off entirely.

"Hey," Arthur says softly, and comes to sit beside him, hands in his own pockets and head down. Ariadne had explained something to him about standing over someone being a psychological advantage, and that is something Tommy does not need right now. "Look, I know you're probably pretty pissed at me. I don't blame you."

Tommy leans forward a little, and won't look at him, not even through the corner of his eye. The toothpick in the right corner of his mouth seems to be the only thing occupying him. Nothing in his expression even indicates he is aware of Arthur next to him. Arthur exhales hard, and rubs the back of his neck; a nervous habit he usually gives into when apologizing.

"Tommy, I'm sorry," the words leave him, and even to his own ears sound every bit as alien as they ever did. To Eames, hearing those words meant something, something significant, because he knew Arthur so very well. To Tommy, they are only words.

"Nah, it's nothin, man. Don't worry about it. Is what it is." Tommy shrugs, and sniffs hard. His brows are set over his narrowed eyes, and he doesn't take them off of the gym. Arthur allows the silence to settle between them, and even if he could think of something to say, he is not so sure it would even be worth the breath it took to say it. Tommy is the one to break that silence, and comes to his feet slowly. "Look, ah… thanks for your help. Getting me into Sparta, and all that… I'm gonna make you your money, it'll be worth your while, but I got things from here."

Arthur's elbows meet his knees, and his head hangs between his shoulders. He looks up at him. "Tommy, look—"

"No, I got this. Trust me," Tommy finally is able to meet Arthur's eyes, and when they do, something crumbles a little on the inside. Tommy seems huge from where he is standing, almost looming over the other man. He lingers only a moment, as if there is something else he wants to say, but decides it is not worth it. When he starts to walk off, Arthur comes to his feet calls him name one more time.

"Everybody fucks up. Makes mistakes, and says shit they regret," he says, softly. Tommy nods repetitively, sucking his bottom lip under his teeth and biting down, a dismissive gesture. This time, it is Arthur who turns to leave. "Even you."

…

Arthur apologized Tommy's way, so to speak. He has done everything to the letter, bent things, including things about himself, to try and speak in a language Tommy can understand. The day in the park was near two weeks ago, and two weeks alone in limbo is enough to drive anyone to a breaking point. Tommy has not budged, and Arthur—still being Arthur—has never been one to chase after someone. Eames was the one who did that. Eames was the one who would always keep trying no matter how angry he had managed to make Arthur, and use every weapon in his arsenal. Eames was good at that, too; charm was something he was never lacking, as well as the uncanny ability to manipulate situations and emotions that came with the territory of the Forger. Arthur is a point man, and logic is bred into him, a pedigree undeniable, and the consequence of his nature has always been a dispassionate approach to every job, and every mark. Deep down, he knows that he is going to need to do his best to disregard that innate logic, and stop dealing in blacks and whites. He is going to need to find the middle ground, the space between Eames and Tommy, and tap into it if he is ever going to break this spell.

In a situation similar to this, what now feels like years upon years ago, Ariadne's advice had been for him to try to incorporate elements of his relationship with Eames into Tommy's reality. On several occasions, this plan, however perfectly executed, had either failed entirely or backfired on him. Without Eames there, Arthur is a different Arthur. At times, he almost seems boring to himself, and that makes it all the more difficult—the Eames in Tommy only comes out every so often, and without that spark Arthur seems to just blend into the grey and mundane background of limbo. He knows he will have to do a little better than that.

He has waited two very long weeks, and Tommy has made no effort to contact him, and so Arthur intends to give him what he seems to want the most; to be unfettered from everyone he knows. He is like a wounded animal that way, and Arthur knows better than to cage him. He doesn't bother going to the bar, or to the diner; with less than a week until Sparta begins Arthur knows exactly where Tommy will be.

Colt's is not empty, but it may as well be. It is almost closing time, and only the attendant is still in the front of the building. The projection nods to where Tommy is in the back, and Arthur follows the dull rhythm of impact into a smaller back room, where Tommy and his father are doing drills involving one-armed push-ups. They're impressively intimidating, and at first, neither of them even notice Arthur has entered the room. Then Paddy looks up.

Arthur has seen this man before—it takes a moment to recall, but he realizes it was in a box of old belongings of the late Edward Padraic Eames: a little older, a little rougher, but the likeness is undeniable.

"Can I help you with something?" His voice is a harsh rasp, a grumble, a polite growl. Arthur is perplexed, taken aback—he wonders if that is what Eames' father sounded like when he was still alive.

"Ah—yes, Mr. Conlan," he says, snapping out of it. "I understand you are Tommy's father. I'm Arthur Coleman."

Paddy regards him hesitantly, suspiciously even. "A friend?"

"His agent, or—I was. Actually, I have some forms here for him to sign," Arthur reaches into his coat and produces a manila envelope, and passes it to Paddy, patiently allowing the other man to scan briefly over the paperwork. The old man's brows furrow a little bit, and he leans in—then they shoot up, and he glances back at Arthur. Suspicion mingles with surprise on his worn features.

"You're signing over your commission."

"Yeah."

"Why?" the question is so blunt that it actually forces Arthur's mouth to quirk, in that way it does when he is holding back a smartass remark. He is not accustomed to explaining himself to projections.

"He's a friend of mine. I never wanted a commission."

Paddy looks like he is considering this, and finally gives a little shrug, and calls Tommy over. Tommy's head snaps up, and his face is red, expression rather murderous, but he complies, and makes his way over to Arthur with that defensive swagger. His father passes him the envelope, and Tommy wordlessly snatches it up, flipping through the papers. When Paddy does not immediately leave, he shoots the old man a nasty scowl.

"Don't you got somethin' to do?" the words are sheer venom, and Paddy's eyes drop to the floor. He leaves, quietly, saying nothing in response to Tommy's casual cruelty. Tommy's eyes fly from paragraph to paragraph, but he gets impatient, and waves it up and down after a minute. "So? What the fuck is this?"

"It's an amendment to our contract," Arthur replies coolly, producing a pen. "Sign it."

Tommy's scowl deepens, and gives the papers another look, taking the time to read them now. After a moment, "You're giving me your commission, but keeping me on the insurance, and in the game."

"That's what it says," is his dry remark.

Tommy snorts, and shakes his head. He scratches his signature on several marked lines, and hands it back to him. "So that's it. You're just handing over your cut." Arthur flicks him an annoyed look, but does not let himself be provoke by the utter ungrateful sneer in Tommy's tone. He tucks the folder back into his coat, and turns to leave.

"It was never about the money," he says, walking away.

"The fuck was it about, then?" Tommy snaps, before Arthur can get too far away from him. Arthur stops, and slowly turns to meet the other's distrusting glare. He shrugs.

"It was about you."

"Gotta funny way of showing it."

"I think I just did," is Arthur's matter-of-fact reply, and when Tommy says nothing he nods to him, and turns to leave again. Behind him is silence, almost all the way to the door of the little private room. Finally,

"Yo, Arthur," Tommy's tone has changed, so slightly than unless someone knew him they wouldn't notice that the aggression has left it. Arthur just barely glances over his shoulder as his hand closes on the knob, and from the corner of his eye can see the fight seeping out of the other man, surrendered perhaps a little reluctantly. Nevertheless, Tommy continues begrudgingly, "Thanks."

…

The week before Sparta is quiet. Arthur does not see or hear from Tommy, save once, when they pass one another in a convenience store one morning. Arthur had stopped in for a coffee and bottled water for his morning run. He is almost embarrassed to see Tommy there, or rather, that Tommy catches him in a pair of sweats and a hoodie; before his shave, even. Ridiculous, yes, but there is still Eames inside of Tommy, and Tommy seems to get the same kicks out of seeing Arthur off-guard and disheveled as Eames would.

What is perhaps even more ridiculous is that Arthur feels the need to keep up his work-out routine in this subconscious purgatory. Without Tommy around him this entire world seems to be every bit the mundane blank slate that Ariadne and Cobb had described of their experience in limbo. Sometimes when he knows he is alone, Arthur will venture to the very edge of the city and change the architecture around a little, just to make sure he is still mostly in control. Sometimes, when he is very, very alone, he will create some of the places that hold his most precious memories with Eames, and stand inside them for a little while, just to feel their ghosts brush past him, and remind him of why he is here.

From what Arthur can determine by the weather patterns, and the changes in the colors and the light, is that Tommy's mood is that of a dark, swelling anger, even more focused than before. He is closing deeper within himself, hardening his outside so that when the time comes, he will challenge his brother, and not hesitate to take him out. The time for giving Tommy his space is soon to be over, whether Arthur wants to or not. Arthur knows exactly what plays out when Tommy's anger is left unchecked, but this next move must be very precise—should he make the wrong move, or even the right move too soon, the world will crumble from beneath them.

And so now he finds himself at the bar again, in a booth alone this time, wondering exactly what the Hell to do next. The rain pelting against the windows makes it dark outside, but it isn't late—it's about halfway through happy hour, and he only came here to calm his nerves, and clear his head. He has been nursing his scotch for the best part of an hour now, and nothing has come to him. Ariadne would probably disapprove of him coming to a bar to formulate a plan. Her name runs through his head, briefly, and her last words of advice follow suit. He reaches into his coat pocket, and produces a stack of photos—they are not real, at least not in life, because no one was around to take a picture; but they are forever in his memory, and he may dream them up whenever he likes, and admire them for a while.

He lays them down side by side on the table, and reaches for his drink with one hand, and picks up the first picture with his other. It is a football game—who was playing who and where is kind of a blur, but the memory inside is crystal clear. Eames is wearing a red hat, standing up next to Arthur with an arm looped around his neck, pulling him down into an awkward hug with his expression frozen in the middle of a loud, heartfelt laugh. The next few shots are of them on the job, seated around the table with very serious looks on their faces, concentrating on something outside the shot, probably Cobb briefing them. Arthur has his notepad, and Eames is just listening, rather intently. Before them on the table, beside a stack of papers and a laptop, is an empty box of take-out. Sushi, to be specific—

"Eames," Arthur is desperately trying to make sure his paper stack is absolutely straight, and in impeccable order. Eames is not as concerned with the paper stack as Arthur is and he has been eyeballing the sushi for the last five minutes. "Eames, you eat that last piece of sushi and it's going to get ugly, fast."

"You're going to have to choose between order, and the California roll," Eames says, and picks the last piece up delicately between his thumb and forefinger. "Quickly Arthur, you don't have all day," Eames manages to get the piece of sushi almost all the way in his mouth when Arthur is suddenly in front of him, expression flat, and rather determined. Slowly, he removes it, and decides to negotiate. "Here, I'll bite off half."

"Wasabi first,"

"Arthur, you are so spoiled," Eames mutters, as he dips it in the wasabi concoction, and brings it back to his mouth, taking only half in a bite, and then reaching over to set the other half in Arthur's mouth. Arthur's hands are occupied by two stacks of papers at this point, and so he has to bend awkwardly to receive his half of the bite, but he does, and gets a taste of Eames' fingers as he does so.

"Thanks."

"You're so welcome,"

Arthur turns, and only then realizes that both Ariadne and Dom staring at him. He frowns, "What?"

"That was in his mouth," Ariadne says, as if perhaps Arthur had not been privy to this information. "Like, all the way in his mouth before you ate it."

"That's disgusting," Dom mutters, going back to his own research. "You just ate out of Eames' mouth."

Arthur finds himself coloring, but protests indignantly, "He bit off half, what's the—"

"After he'd put the whole thing in his mouth," Ariadne insists, upper lip curled in mock disgust and a smile trying to break through. "Like, set it on his tongue with intent to chew. The saliva was flowing and everything."

"He did not!"

"I did, it did touch my tongue before I took it out again. You did kind of eat out of my mouth," Eames informs him, as if he is every bit as disgusted as the others, when really he is relishing in Arthur's chagrin. He shrugs, and takes his seat again. "Bit like a baby bird."

Arthur can only stand there, rather mortified, and just before he is about to unleash a rather colorful string of curses, Yusuf stirs in the corner, and looks up from his calculations, rather amused.

"Well it's not like Eames' mouth is bloody terra incognita, now, is it? Not for Arthur, anyway."

"Good point."

"People," Cobb says, firmly. "We're professionals, let's try and act like it."

It takes Arthur a moment to realize he is grinning, and he sets the print down, not wanting to get anymore lost in those memories than he already is—but he misses them, so dearly. He misses the gentle nature of Eames, the laughter. He misses the joy Tommy lost a long time ago, and now it only surfaces for seconds at a time before he smothers it again. The grin fades, and he reaches up to massage his forehead, rubbing his fingertips deep into the bone, as if somehow it will help to ground him again. He doesn't notice that the rain outside has stopped, until he hears the shuffle of fabric, and the squeal of wet shoes on tile.

"You're here early," It is Tommy's voice, and Eames' face, hovering just over him at the booth, and he freezes. He does not unfreeze fast enough to stop Tommy from snatching one of the pictures up. Just before he is able to reach up and snatch it back, Tommy's face changes, and what could have been a potential smile turns into a frown. "What's all this?"

"Mine," Arthur's reply is short, noncommittal, and as he pockets the stack he waits on the edge of an anxiety attack to see if Tommy recognized himself. It would be difficult, considering the differences in build, and the lapses in time, but not impossible.

"Alright, alright," Tommy says after a moment, and Arthur exhales—he didn't realize he had been holding his breath. As much as Tommy seemed to have wanted to retreat from the subject, he hesitantly returns to it, as if he cannot quite dismiss it as quickly as he wanted to. "Who is that? In your pictures?" A poor attempt at a casual tone.

"A friend of mine. He's dead," Arthur does his best to squash anymore attempts to casually approach the subject. "What are you doing here?" Tommy stands there, mutely, and unconsciously shifts one of his feet to the side, as if he cannot decide whether to make a quick getaway or actually sit down and answer the question. Arthur can read Tommy as well as he could read Eames, and he always could tell when a little nudging was in order. "Did something happen today?"

Tommy purses his lips around his toothpick, and exhales hard through his nose, sitting down heavily across from Arthur. He is drumming his forefinger into the tabletop, slow and deliberate, as if he is giving himself a countdown to find the right words. Arthur reaches for his drink, and lets him have another moment. Then,

"Marco Santos took a tumble bout three days ago," Tommy's eyes slide to the side, and remain there, slightly unfocused. "He's out. Somebody pulled some strings, and bumped Brendan Conlan into his spot."

Arthur has been waiting for this conversation, although it usually happens at the tournament itself. "Your brother."

"Yeah, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Tommy's tone is all but accusing.

"No," Arthur drags out the word, slowly, wondering what would bring Tommy to the conclusion that he had something to do with it. "No, I wouldn't." Tommy's studies him a moment, then just shrugs, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "Does it bother you?"

"No," Tommy responds automatically, eyes downcast and finger still drumming. "I gotta fight him, not kill him."

"But there's something there," Arthur continues. "If you were comfortable about it, you wouldn't be here telling me." Tommy snorts, and rolls his eyes, dismissively. "So you're comfortable with the idea of unleashing all that rage on your brother, which you know you will so don't bother to deny it, and beating him to a bloody pulp?"

"No, I'm comfortable with the idea of beating Brendan Conlan down, that's all it is."

"So then…" Arthur raises his brows, and waits for the explanation. Tommy shrugs.

"I don't know, man, I was hoping maybe you'd go up there with me. Keep me in check or something."

"You really think you're gonna snap?"

"I don't want to be a liability." The words are spoken quickly, a confession of sorts, surrendered to the other before the 'Tommy' part of his brain could stop him. Arthur is moved by them, to say the least; moved by how Tommy maintains eye contact with him. There is a plea in there somewhere, hidden behind a wall of intensity. It is somewhat intimidating; there is a connection here Arthur has not made before, in every other scenario, and now that he has it, he understands he must proceed more delicately than ever before. The realization makes Arthur anxious, but it also fills him with warmth he has not felt in the equivalent of decades. Slowly, and only fractions at time, things are finally beginning to change.