[1]

At the age of ten, when most boys are simply boys and not yet men or even adolescents, Arthur becomes a man.

He kills, not by accident, but on purpose. Breathing hard, Arthur stares down at the man at his feet, limp, lifeless, his eyes already taking on the milky shade of the dead. Arthur does not know how long he has been standing there, in that dank alleyway that no one notices, that everyone just slides their eyes past, but he knows that before the man died, it was not raining. Now it is. It slides down his loose shirt and plasters itself close to his skin; Arthur would have been uncomfortable in any other circumstance, but not now.

Arthur does not dare stare at his hands, because he knows he will find no blood there, and somehow, that makes it far worse. Far more horrifying, more terrifying. Because there is no evidence, no tangible proof that it was he that stole life away. His hands are pale, and he has never really noticed it before now.

The rain is a deluge, and it pours down Arthur's back.

At the age of fourteen, Arthur becomes a killer. He has killed two men now, and Arthur can no longer delude himself by telling himself over and over again that it was an accident. That it was an act of pure defense, that he did not know what he could do, because now he knows. And he does it again. It does not terrify him again.

This time, it is another man, larger than his first kill, with a look of pure, unadulterated terror etched on his face in death. Before, it had been a sneer, an ugly look that suited the man perfectly. Arthur had spotted him in an alleyway (and really, what was it with distasteful men and alleyways), his fist in a girl's hair, snapping her head back to expose her neck. Her clothes had been ripped, scattered pieces on the floor, and the fly of his pants were open. She had been sobbing, tears streaking down her cheeks, shattered look in her eyes.

There had been no one around, because it is a supposedly decent neighborhood, and all the people in the right mind are in their beds, asleep and waiting for the dawn of another monotonous day. Having taken a look at his immaculate shirt, Arthur took a moment to mourn for the possible demise of it. The proceeding events happened as such - Arthur had walked up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder, which of course had resulted in the man jerking back and swinging a fist. Arthur had pressed his forefinger to the man's skin, watched as color drained out of his face. 'Fuck you,' he had said. Spittle landed on Arthur's face, and he wiped it away carefully and said, 'please leave. She's crying.'

'Fuck you,' the man repeated, and Arthur had sighed internally. When the man next swung for his face, Arthur grabbed his wrist and held fast. And then, Arthur thought, really hard, that the man should honestly boil from the inside out, to burn the sin from his being.

And the man obeyed. Arthur kills, and it is with his mind.

Then it rains again, and Arthur leaves the girl behind.

He does not hear her scream.

[2]

'Hello, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Cobb,' Arthur says at age nineteen. Mr. Cobb smiles and asks Arthur to call him 'Dom, please', and Arthur is not hesitant to obey. Arthur sees Dom's eyes assess him, knows what Dom will see. Arthur is smiling pleasantly, the slightly curled lips softening the otherwise sharply angled face. Dark hair slicked back, meticulously gelled in place. Brown eyes staring straight back at Dom's own blue ones, confident and sure. It takes three seconds, but Arthur thinks he sees Dom nod to himself, and his smile twitches up just that bit more.

'I know what you are,' are the next words Mr. Cobb says, and Arthur stops the smile that had been crawling up his face. 'Oh?,' Arthur says carefully, looking at Mr. Cobb (it's back to Mr. Cobb now, because Arthur must be careful) in the face. That is how he catches the sparkle in Mr. Cobb's eyes, and he becomes Dom again.

'I have use of your talents,' Dom says, and this is how Arthur gets into the job of killing.

He asks Dom once, if he has killed before, and Dom nods. Arthur asks if he still does it, and Dom shakes his head, and there is a haunted look in his eyes. Arthur waits, but Dom does not tell him more. "I just give out the jobs now," he says.

'This is Eames,' Dom tells Arthur when he is twenty two. Dom has been telling Arthur that he needs to learn, that he has plenty of things that he does not yet know, and that he knows the perfect man who can help him. Arthur had scowled an ugly scowl at him, because he does not like being reminded of his gaps in knowledge. He knows he is not infallible, but he would prefer that to be an observation kept very close to his heart, because weaknesses get you killed. 'He'll tell you how to fit in.'

Arthur gives Eames a once over, and takes in the casual yet assured stance the man in in. Calm. Balanced. Large, muscled, Arthur thinks, and knows that this is a man that is dangerous. Sharp eyes. He's looking for for something. Arthur refrains from straightening his tailored suit.

Then Arthur sees his heavily patterned shirt and the garish colors that the man is wearing, and Arthur thinks that he is scandalized. Somehow, though, it suits him (even though Arthur thinks that it is really quite tiring to look at), so Arthur just nods.

But because Arthur is snide and sometimes an asshole, all he says is - 'as long as he's not my fashion consultant.'

When Arthur learns about what Eames can do, he is rather impressed.

'You're an illusionist,' Arthur blurts out to the rather busty woman before him. She is wearing a dress that uses the most minimal amount of cloth which leaves really very little to the imagination. It is slightly disconcerting. Arthur knows that this is Eames, knows his history and what he can do, and yet, in the face of this new person before him, Arthur is unable to recall Eames having any face other than this. It is like an extremely odd but potent combination of memory modification and illusion. Eames is twirling and striking poses, and Arthur can feel his eyebrows merging with his hairline.

'That's such a pedestrian term, love. One day, you'll come to appreciate my true talents.'

Arthur snorts in response, but does not say that he already does.

'Now, darling,' Mr. Eames says (and Arthur has long stopped protesting about the use of the endearment). 'It's all about focus. Just think about it.'

Eames has Arthur staring at him. Eames, Arthur quickly finds, has a quick mind, and Arthur appreciates him more for it. There is a difference between telekinesis and being a telepath, but people often blur the lines between the two and stare stupidly at Arthur when he tells them that no, he cannot move objects with his mind. Eames had understood immediately.

'You make it sound so easy,' Arthur grumbles, but he thinks about it anyway.

Arthur learns that the men that he killed before simply had weak minds, and that sometimes, the people that he now needs to kill are far stronger than he would like them to be. 'It's going to be tough before it gets easy,' Dom tells him. Arthur takes a moment to think that Dom is really far too young to be acting like a bearded wise sage from the mountains of Tibet or somewhere equally obscure. 'Your mind needs to be stronger than theirs, stronger than anyone else's.'

'It's a battle of wills, really.'

Arthur glares at Mr. Eames, and concentrates really hard. One day, Mr. Eames, Arthur thinks. One day.

When that day comes, Eames degenerates into a man with the mind of an ape for the rest of the day while Arthur laughs. Dom smiles with him.

'It was just a slip of the moment,' Eames defends later.

[3]

'Arthur,' Dom says in a hurried whisper, 'you need to run. Eames is waiting for you, you need to go. Now.' There is the sound of nearly breaking wood, and Dom snaps his head to the door, the finger in the trigger of his Colt tightening. He trains it on the door and refuses to tear his eyes away, every muscle in his being taut. 'Go,' Dom repeats. Arthur thinks he feels his mind splintering slowly with the wood; it is moving so fast, possibilities being thrown in his face and dismissed all in a breath, trying to find a way out, trying to fix this. He shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest, but Dom hisses in his face, a sound with no words but all of frustration. 'Dammit, Arthur, just go.'

Arthur is twenty three when he first decides that a friend like that is worth fighting with, and so pulls out his Glock.

The lucky thing is, they all come out of it alive. Not unscathed, certainly (Arthur has his arm in a sling and Dom has a bullet wound in his shoulder, while Eames has a gash across his back that he insists would have been more manly had it been across his face in a true earned battle scar), but alive. That, however, does not stop Arthur from fuming and worrying where he is sitting. Arthur thinks that he keeps it rather well hidden, thank you very much, but the moment Eames lays eyes on him, he walks over and presses a thumb to the crease between Arthur's eyebrows.

'Lighten up, darling.'

So much for a poker face, then.

Eames is smiling at him, and attempting to appeal to Arthur's calm by offering him biscuits and soothing touches.

'Stop touching me.' True to form, Eames does not listen, and plants his hands more firmly on Arthur's shoulders. Arthur turns around to glare at Eames, but all Eames' does is grace Arthur with his brightest smile, and Arthur cannot help but mellow. But only a little. And then Eames does that little squeeze with his hands, and Arthur just melts into his touch, but not without first grumbling, and just to himself, Eames thinks that it is just that little bit on the cute side. He considers telling Arthur that, but thinks that Arthur has enough devastation on his plate without shattering his illusions of his stoic, harder-than-steel self image.

'We could have been dead,' Arthur begins, but Eames anticipates it and cuts him off. 'We could also have been song singing canaries, but we're not, so quit worrying about things we're not, love.'

Arthur does not stop grumbling, but as he feels the tension slip out of his shoulders, he supposes that this time, it is his loss.

At twenty four, Arthur is married.

Granted, it's not exactly a legitimate marriage, seeing as how it is fake and all, but for all intents and purposes to people other than those who know the truth, Arthur and Eames are married. Eames takes to it with much joy (that is the simplest word that Arthur can find that will even adequately explain the obscene smile that spreads across Eames face when he acquiesced to the plan), and takes it upon himself to forge them a pair of identities. That is how Arthur Smith (oh, yes, Arthur had looked rather critically in Eames direction at the mention of his surname and said, 'Smith, really?', but Eames had just chuckled, and Arthur had let it slide) and Robert Eames come to be.

Arthur is not exactly sure how married couples behave (seeing as how he really has not been around them often), but Eames seems to have an idea, so Arthur gives him the benefit of the doubt. He catches the amused glances Dom throws in their way ever so often, as if wondering why Arthur puts up with it all. Truth be told, Arthur wonders that sometimes, but tells himself that it is the job.

They are at the lobby of a hotel. Their mark is walking along the lobby rather smartly (Arthur approves of his posture), towards the elevator. Eames, who has his arms around Arthur shoulders, just pulls Arthur closer to him, and Arthur (who is really just settling in beside Eames with his warmth seeping through his suit) is somewhat confused by the sudden proximity change. 'Eames,' he starts, but Eames just makes a shushing sound. It takes another two minutes, but Eames releases him with a small peck on the cheek, and smiles. 'Shall we, then?', he says, and Arthur nods and follows him.

Arthur soon learns that things rarely go according to plan, and the mark has more than two large, bulky men as bodyguards. Arthur takes a moment as they are assaulted to wonder where men of those statures could hide in order to elude both Eames and himself. It is a short thought, though, and Arthur swiftly smashes his foot into the solar plexus of one of the men while Eames delivers a rather beautiful roundhouse punch to the side of the face of the other.

The men grunt, and Arthur ducks elegantly as a fist swings over his head. Arthur spares a look at Eames, and finds that the man has managed to grapple the bodyguard into a headlock.

'Really?' Were you born in a brawl house?'

Eames grins at him, and, adding insult to injury, gives the man in his grasp a quick slap to the side of the head before dispatching him with hard blow to back of his head. Arthur huffs and swipes his feet across the floor, sending his opponent crashing down to the floor. Arthur is pleased to note that the man's head elicits a rather resounding hollow crunching sound.

The mark is in his room, with a wild look in his eyes. 'We'll have to hurry then,' Arthur mutters. Two large men crashing on the floor is bound to attract the attentions of annoying inquisitive people. They will realize that the men are not getting up, ask for someone to investigate, and Arthur is loathe to unneeded explanations.

They do make a quick job of it, and when people do actually come to investigate, the two men can only remember that they had been taken down by two rather lovely women (one of them actually blushes) and the mark is dead.

Arthur learns many things. One of those things is that Google is really your best friend (because people seem incapable of keeping their private business their private business) for preliminary research. Another of those things, is that Eames seems to be afraid that Arthur will disappear (Arthur knows that Eames stares at him every now and then for no rhyme or reason known to Arthur). Arthur knows that Cobb has noticed, and has once tried to get an answer out of the man as to the cause, but Cobb just looks at Arthur oddly and tells Arthur that he can't be that oblivious (which Arthur apparently is, because he's really not faking it, but he does not correct Dom anyway). And another thing that he has learned, amongst many others, is that your past can really come back to bite you in the ass.

Eames and Arthur are following ('we're stalking, really,' Eames says, but Arthur refuses to use such an undignified term) their mark. 'We need to know his schedule, his habits,' Arthur remembers saying, but does not remember when he had invited Eames along.

'This one's raping girls, but he never got convicted. Seems like someone with enough contacts and resources wants revenge,' Cobb had told them simply.

Eames is sidling close to Arthur when a loud, shrill scream breaks across the street, and both men turn, bewildered, to the source. Of course, what they see is what neither of them expect. Perhaps a gallivanting horse that is out of control, or an exploding car, or something along those lines, Arthur would have just shrugged off. But this, well this, Arthur finds that he cannot ignore.

The girl (very pretty, but rather insane looking, Arthur notes rather unkindly) is pointing right at him, with a terrorized look in her eyes that Arthur now only knows too well. Arthur squints in a transferred habit obtained from Cobb, and recognition dawns. The face has changed slightly, but she is not unrecognizable. Arthur remembers his second kill, and the girl with the auburn hair.

It takes Arthur a moment before he realizes that the wordless scream is now an accusation that screams 'murderer'.

'Oh, fuck,' Arthur hears Eames mutter, and then his hand is being taken by Eames. They sift through the crowd, in the opposite direction of where they are supposed to be heading. Arthur considers making a token protest (because this is Eames, and everything just needs to be protested against as a general course of action), but thinks he has more pressing priorities, and so does not.

The one good thing about following (oh, alright, stalking) someone in broad daylight on a weekend in the city area is that it is packed. Normally, Arthur abhors crowds, but for this moment, this time, he thinks that it is an unexpected stroke of luck. The girl is still pointing, and people are stopping, but she has lost sight of Arthur, who Eames is shielding from her sight. He urges them both forward with a hand on the small of Arthur's back, and now she is simply standing there, frantically searching.

'Skinny as a bean,' Arthur hears Eames mutter, and Arthur just says, with fondness inexplicable to himself, 'thick like a moose'.

It is only when Dom comes around one day, after Eames has left for a cup of coffee ('Black, one sugar, right, darling?', and Arthur touches a hand to his chest, his face morphing into an expression of affected affection) that Arthur actually contemplates the thought of him fancying Eames. This contemplation comes into fruition aided by Dom's raised eyebrows and the imitation of Arthur's face that he effects. Arthur scowls at him, and Dom takes a moment to glance at the door, before ambling over and perching himself on Arthur's desk.

'You know, you shouldn't lead him on like that. Unless you mean it.'

Arthur raises his eyebrows. It's like they are a pair of monkeys. Monkey see, monkey do.

'I'm not.'

Dom raises an eyebrow skeptically, allowing them to speak for him.

'You wound me.'

'He likes you, you know.'

'I know,' Arthur says, before he even thinks about what he is going to say. And that, that stops him in his tracks. It's like Arthur's just uncovered a newfound road of self-discovery. He pauses (also refusing to acknowledge the infuriating smirk that Dom's face now has on), and then shoos Dom off with an imperious wave of his hand, and Dom goes.

Oh well, Arthur's brain supplies. It's not like you'll ever act on it. It really doesn't matter how utterly kissable those lips look, or how terribly endearing those crooked teeth of his are, or how you'd like to see what those tattoos really look like in their full glory, or how..

And now that's going too far.

Later, Arthur comes to the knowledge that what he considers too far, is entirely within acceptable range in Eames' point of view. It happens like this -

They are running. It happens. For one reason or another, people are unhappy, and they come chasing after Arthur, Eames and Dom (and sometimes the other people that help them out with their jobs, but mostly just 'the three masterminds').

'I'll take Ariadne,' Dom huffs (what did Arthur tell him about getting more exercise?), 'and we'll meet you guys there three days from now at rendezvous.'

Arthur eyes Ariadne. She's a spunky one all right. All bright eyed and full of ambition and the determination to prove herself. It is that sparkle in her eyes that got Arthur interested in her helping out initially, and he decides on a leap of faith. 'You take care of him, now,' he whispers to Ariadne as he claps her on the back and nods to Dom. She smiles a tight smile and nods back to him, waving her gun not-so-subtly. 'I got it,' she says, and Arthur believes her.

Arthur watches as Dom and Ariadne peel away into the distance through the back door, before he feels a tap on his shoulder.

'They're here.'
'How about we raise a little hell,' Arthur says, and watches as Eames' eyebrows try not to do that waggle that they do when he's amused.

It's a good thing, Arthur supposes, that there aren't any civilians around. The warehouse that the four of them had surreptitiously claimed as theirs had been quite conveniently situated in the vicinity of abandoned industrial plants. The bad thing, however, is the ridiculously wide amount of open space between here and there. There being the front door, since Arthur and Eames do intend to lead their pursuers in a direction opposite of Dom.

'You know, perhaps now would be a good time to profess your undying love to me,' Eames yells over the gunfire, sparing the time to throw Arthur a leer.

'I love you more than time can prove,' Arthur returns dryly, pushing himself away from the wall for a moment to fire two well-placed shots. There is a yell, and Arthur feels a macabre satisfaction.

'Why, darling, I never knew you cared! Had you only told me earlier, we could have been in matrimonial bliss!'
'Far from me being presumptuous enough to question your memory, Eames, but – dammit, do they never run out of bullets - '
'It's like a movie, Arthur dear, bullets never matter - '
'But I believe we are married - '
'Only in one state and in one version of our many names - '
'It counts.'
'But we could be so much more!' The blast of gunfire ceases. Finally, Arthur thinks.

'Yes, we could,' Arthur murmurs, and dashes out from behind his cover, Eames close behind him.

'You're running away from commitment!'

'Just from you, Eames,' Arthur calls back, and slides the remainder of the five meters behind a metal cylindrical container (another stroke of luck; Eames had insisted on retaining it for good fengshui, and Arthur had let him even though he possessed research that proved otherwise). Eames arrives next to Arthur in the same manner, albeit with a little more brandishing of his gun.

'I'll cover you,' is the next thing out of his mouth - and Arthur is on his way to nodding – 'dear husband of mine,' Eames finishes, and Arthur exchanges the nod for a brief threatening wave of his gun in Eames' face before taking off again.

The moment Arthur rolls out of the way, he hears bullets impaling the metal of the barrel, and he looks back to the sight of Eames, lips pressed tight and firing into the distance. Arthur hisses as a bullet lands somewhere in the vicinity of his foot. In the corner of his eyes, Arthur sees a vague shape in the form of a human. He stands, and in a fluid moment, squeezes the trigger in a rapid succession of three. A loud, short lived yell sounds, and Arthur notes with grim satisfaction that all his firearms training seems to be paying off.

'Here!' Arthur gestures to Eames, and the man nods, following Arthur in his path. They are now nearing the front door, on the edge of escape. They are pressed side by side behind an upturned desk, and Eames chuckles when he sees that Arthur realizes this desk is the one he had favored as his own.

'That's why we can never have nice things,' he quips, and Arthur restrains himself from shooting Eames in the face. Not now, he thinks. But later is another matter altogether.

'Two on my side,' Arthur says instead, and looks at Eames. Eames peers out from behind the table, and withdraws his head quickly. A split second later, a bullet nicks the side of the table where Eames' head had previously been. 'Pity,' Arthur tuts, and Eames grins.

'Two,' he affirms, 'and didn't you promise to 'love, guide and protect', you little monster.'

'Wishful thinking, Eames. Or delusion. I'm not sure which is more dangerous.'

A bullet splinters through the thick wood between Arthur and Eames and embeds itself into the wall in front of them. Arthur raises his eyebrows and looks at the hole in the table.

'Now we have a gaping hole between us,' Eames says, presses the muzzle of his gun to the whole and pulls the trigger. A yelp sounds, and Arthur can't help the bark of laughter that escapes him.

'Cheap shot,' he accuses.
'Luck is a form of skill, dearest.'
'A skill is acquired.'
'Obtained through good karma.'
'Fighting crime and saving the world, now, are we?'
'You can be Bellum, darling, you have the legs.'

There is the ominous sound of bouncing metal on the ground, and Arthur swivels his head around the moment Eames says, 'oh dear'. Arthur opts for the more explicit but suitably forceful 'fuck', and both of them lunge forward, Eames taking the time to lash his foot backward and propel the grenade towards the direction where it came from.

'Three seconds, Eames!'

'Estimating, Arthur? Where's your specificity?'

Arthur growls and Eames just smiles, although he is following right behind Arthur. Arthur takes a moment to turn back and make sure that Eames is right there behind him (he also sees their pursuers retreating quickly to the other side of the building) when an explosion rocks through, and Arthur is propelled forward.

He lands sprawled on his front in a somewhat undignified manner, and he certainly does not groan when a large weight lands on top of him, almost smothering. Arthur's first instinct is to shove the weight off him, but a grunt and the further bearing down of the weight stops him; Arthur ceases his movements.

It takes a moment, but Eames slowly eases off him, and Arthur wastes no time in turning around to look at Eames. He doesn't say anything, but quickly turns Eames around and sees that shrapnels have embedded themselves in his back.

'Later,' Eames grits out, and makes to stand up.

'Later,' Arthur promises, and helps him up.

Here's the thing - once they are upright, Eames finds himself leaning heavily on Arthur. Arthur is not protesting. Instead, he slips an arm around Eames' waist, and places a hand on his chest. Steady on, his body language says, and Eames nods in return.

Arthur turns his head, and finds himself in exceedingly close proximity with Eames. Before his mind can actually process what it is that he's doing, Arthur has placed a quick kiss on Eames cheek.

Eames is slightly too shocked to protest when Arthur helps him out of danger and into safety. He does, however, notice the flush that climbs up Arthur's throat and onto his face quite prettily.

[4]

It isn't as if Arthur and Eames go around advertising their own personal lives on billboards and posters, but it seems that being the best in the game garners quite a large amount of interest in their persons. Arthur wishes he could shoot them all, but grudgingly agrees with Eames when he tells him it's rather impractical.

Three hours into Arthur inviting Eames into his house and Eames' acceptance, he receives a call from Dom (he has already received five separate phone calls, including one exceedingly exasperating one from Ariadne; the girl pries too much).

'About time,' Dom starts, and Arthur can almost hear the smirk.

'Don't think I can't decapitate you while you're still on the phone,' Arthur says as a greeting. 'I could be right outside your window.'

'You're not.' Arthur can definitely hear the smirk in there now. Smug son of a bitch.

'Not yet,' Arthur allows, 'but I will tell Philippa what an insufferable fuck you're being.'

'You will not use such language,' Dom admonishes.

'Your life will be a living hell,' Arthur continues. 'You will rue the day you ever crossed me.' Arthur smiles a small smile at Eames as he comes out of the bathroom. Eames eyes travel to the mobile in Arthur's hand, cocks his head and nods his head towards the phone. 'Dom,' Arthur mouths, and Eames grins. Sauntering over, Eames slips his arms around Arthur's waist. Arthur sinks into the warmth at his back.

'Cobb, my good man,' Eames says loudly. Arthur angles the phone to pick up Eames' voice better. 'I'm sure Arthur is well on his way to promising your inevitable and shockingly prompt demise one way or another, but I'm afraid I require him for urgent business right this moment. Call and I shall bury you in your basement.'

Arthur can still hear Cobb chuckling on his phone as Eames tugs it out of his grasp and tosses it onto the couch. 'Dom doesn't have a basement.'

'Then I shall build him one. It's my devotion to the cause that makes me such a wonderful person,' Eames murmurs as he presses Arthur into the kitchen table, one hand coming around to cushion Arthur from the hard edge. 'We have unfinished business,' he continues, and his mouth connects with Arthur's. Arthur shudders under the warm breath that is brushes past his ears.

The thing is, many people have it in their heads that Arthur is an unyielding man, rigid posture and grace and who is more determinedly obstinate than the proverbial stubborn mule. They think that Arthur is the kind of man who breaks before he bends.

The problem is, people always make mistakes.

Arthur is pliant and responsive under Eames, and Eames hums a sound of happiness as Arthur's mouth opens under his. Eames licks into his mouth, and Arthur matches his fervor. This kiss has not the mark of something urgent and hurried; Eames is taking his time, sealing their lips together, exploring. Arthur runs his hands down Eames' side, slips his hand underneath Eames' shirt. Eames makes a soft sound and presses himself further onto Arthur. It takes Arthur a moment to realize that he's matching Eames' sounds with those of his own.

Arthur breaks away, if only to take a deep breath. Eames whines and follows, and Arthur chuckles. "I just showered," he mutters into Eames' skin, and Eames takes the moment to appreciate Arthur's still wet and floppy hair, the damp skin, and the pinkness of his freshly scrubbed skin. "Without me?,' Eames effects in mock horror. "I'll just have do do pleasurably filthy things to your person so you have to take another shower, then. With me."

Arthur takes advantage of the fact that his hands are still underneath Eames' shirt to flick at his nipple. 'Fuck,' Eames groans, and leans heavily on Arthur. "I fear you will need another shower very soon, darling," Eames says, and proceeds to backtrack Arthur into the bedroom.

Along with the mistaken premise that Arthur is, in fact, unbendable and stiff as a ramrod, comes the notion that he is also pricklier than a porcupine. Somewhere along the business, the rumor that if one were to touch Arthur, one would be quite swiftly and mercilessly compromised manifested. As a result, the general underground populace keep their distance from Arthur, never touching him more than necessary; a fleeting tap, a quick pat on the back. Arthur had shrugged and taken that in his stride, mainly because he feels that he is not really missing out on anything.

Then Eames came along.

One day into meeting Eames, the man had draped his arm over the length of Arthur's shoulders, tried to pinch his cheek and ruffle Arthur's hair (the nerve, Arthur still finds himself murderous with indignity every time he thinks about it). And then Eames was leaning into Arthur, crowding his space, and generally breaking every rule of personal space.

Arthur had asked Eames once if he had a personal vendetta against the idea of personal space, and the man had simply blinked and shuffled closer. "Darling," he had drawled, "I'm just that attracted to you."

The thing is, when Arthur thinks about it and finally decides that self-delusion is rather unhealthy, Arthur thinks that while he may have been surprised then, he certainly did not dislike it.

There are things that do not take a while to happen; they just do, and in the wake of the unstoppable way certain events tend to unfold, one can either just accept it or live in denial for the rest of their lives.

When Arthur awakes, sun streaming from the window and into his face, the first thing he does is scrunch his eyes up at the light that is filtering through his eyelids. The next thing he does is get up. Or, rather, the next thing he tries to do is get up. Arthur gets about as far as inclining his head before there is a groan beside him, and Arthur freezes. It takes him another moment to remember that the groaning individual is Eames, and they had spent a night together doing filthy things to Arthur's person, as Eames had promised. He blinks, and turns his head to face Eames. The man is blinking right back at Arthur, looking sleep mussed and utterly adorable (adorable? Arthur's internal mind screams, what is wrong with you, you giant sap).

"Hey," Eames says, smiling. "C'mere."

Arthur shuffles over, taking a moment to note that Eames is a humungous cover hog, and that they are going to have Words about it, because Arthur likes his covers.

Eames throws an arm over Arthur and drags him on top, pulls Arthur's forehead down to meet his. Arthur sighs, feeling the warm weight across his shoulders. He likes the way Eames feels; warm, a solid, stable presence. Arthur dips his head down further, and gives Eames a chaste kiss. He feels him smile underneath him, and Arthur's own lips quirk up in a smile of their own.

Arthur's phone rings.

The sound blares out over the room, and Arthur curses, the language coming out of his mouth before he can even think twice about it. Eames laughs, an amused chuckle over the harshness of Arthur's vehement 'fuck'. "Go get it," Eames says, but he does not let Arthur up before he places a kiss on his sternum.

"What," Arthur snaps into the phone, at the same time Dom says, "Arthur."

"I will bury you in your basement," Arthur says with feeling, and he hears Dom scoff on the other side of the phone. "I don't have a basement."

"That's of no consequence," Arthur returns, but he is already retrieving his pants from its place on the floor and pulling it on. "I will bury you." Arthur hears muffled sounds from the phone. "Ariadne asks if you've been defiled yet," Cobb relays, and Arthur insults their parents and pets all in one breath.

"What do you want," Arthur says mulishly, pulling the shirt over his head even as Eames just begins rouse from the bed. "Shower?," Eames mouths, and Arthur nods once, the blood in his veins racing again. Eames grins (damn that face, Arthur thinks), directs his gaze very purposefully towards Arthur's crotch, and disappears into the bathroom.

"Got a job," says Dom, "for you and Eames."
"Eames and I?"
"You're a package deal now. Price of one for two."
"Come again?"
"I think people think you guys are like wolves. Mating for life and all that. Two halves of a whole. Two sides of the same coin."

And so that was that. Arthur and Eames were not longer just Arthur or just Eames. They were Arthur and Eames.

[5]

They take jobs together, because it is true, and they are Arthur and Eames.

That does not stop Arthur and Eames from exchanging snide remarks at each other's expense. It is like a dance. Arthur comes away from it learning more about Eames, and Eames comes away from it grinning harder than ever (because nothing amuses him more than riling Arthur up). Neither will admit that their egging brings out the best in them, are they become slightly better than best, because that was what they already were.

"They're so in love," Ariadne sighs one day, and Arthur's saying nothing just encourages Eames to grin saucily at him for the entire day.

Arthur supposes that the one good thing about their working together is they are now inordinately rich (Arthur will never admit that he actually really likes working together with Eames). Eames complains that they are too busy, though, and continually drags Arthur out for elaborate meals and serenades him with flowers and badly drawn cards.

A long time later, when Arthur looks back at the entire matter, he will think that his assumption that the job would be simple was clearly a moment of pure, unadulterated insanity and a severe lack of foresight and judgement. Then he will drill into his mind the previous learned lesson that nothing ever really goes according to plan.

Nothing that involves himself, Dom (even if it's just by associated of a recommended job) and Eames will ever be simple. Not in this lifetime, not ever, not unless the world decides to turn in on itself, and by then, Arthur figures he would have bigger problems anyway.

Arthur laments that it starts out simple enough, though - Dom calls Arthur with a job. Eames follows Arthur and Arthur calls Ariadne, because the best require the best.

"It's a run of the mill job." Dom throws files at Arthur, Eames and Ariadne. Arthur snatches it deftly out of the air and Eames ignores his in favor of sidling over to Arthur and peeking over his shoulder. Ariadne stares at Dom until he hands her his own file, the other lying on the ground.

"It's always political," Eames comments, and Arthur is not inclined to disagree. Dom shrugs. "Easily blackmailed."

"He's trained." Arthur jabs at the file, raises an eyebrow at Dom. "You're trained better," Dom returns.

He should have known. Arthur reflects that he should have know that 'easy' was not a word that could be associated with him or any of his acquaintances, because they are who they are, and people do not come to them for easy jobs. Somewhere in his mind, Arthur knows that they had probably been overconfident and it was probably partly their fault, but Arthur shoves it back down and tells it to stay there.

There are many ways to skin a cat, they say, and in that same vein, there are many ways for things to go wrong. In this case, it was the simple fact that the mark had apparently anticipated the hit and had taken precautions. Extensive precautions. Precautions bordering on the insane.

One would have thought that killing the mark would lay off his security, but the man had apparently paid for revenge in the event of his death.

Arthur is cursing, simultaneously executing a rather splendid drift as he yanks the steering wheel around.

'Easy there, love.' Eames grips the soft leather of the backseat, and if Arthur had the inclination to turn around, he would have seen the white knuckled hold that Eames is having on the seat, and smiled in that smug fashion of his. As it is, Arthur finds that he does not have a free moment to do that, which is something rather reprehensible altogether.

Then a bullet flies shatters the back window and flies dangerously close to Arthur's head, and he snaps.

"Here," Arthur barks, and taps the steering wheel. "Take it."

Eames scrambles over the back seat into the passenger seat quickly, movement precise and swift. It is something that Arthur often wonders about; how someone as burly as Eames can move with such grace, but he had abandoned the notion of asking the man the question again when Eames had silkily replied with a "I can show you more" and suggestively quirked his eyebrows.

Arthur is lithe, and so when he does the same maneuver to pass the wheel over to Eames, it is less of a surprise.

"Got it." Eames grasps the wheel tightly, puts his foot to the accelerator. "Go, go go."

Arthur moves to the back of the car. The window is shattered, glass spilled onto the backseat. Arthur does not have time to be careful, and feels the tear of his flesh as he gashes his palms open on the shattered glass.

He draws the gun from his hip holster and listens. "Eames."

"Not yet," Eames bites back. He wrenches the steering wheel to the right, and Arthur can smell smoke. Arthur watches Eames eye the rearview mirror, sees the force behind his eyes and the tension that furrows his brows. "We'll be fine," Arthur finds himself saying, and is heartened to see a small smile on Eames' lips.

And then it is gone, and Eames is yelling "now now now".

Arthur rises from his position and unleashes two shots from his gun through the broken back window. They miss, but the car chasing them swerves dangerously, and Arthur is afforded time for one more shot. He breathes, slow and steady, feels the cool metal of the gun beneath his fingers. He gently squeezes the trigger, once.

The driver is clipped on the side of his face, and his sunglasses fly off his his face. That is all Arthur needs, and he smiles in grim anticipation of what is to come.

Die, Arthur thinks, and stares at the man right in the eye. The man struggles, Arthur sees, face twitching uncontrollably. Guess they don't pay that much to hire utterly incompetent idiots. Arthur throws more force behind the thought, his fingers curling tightly around the gun that he holds fast still. Now. Arthur can feel the vein rising in his head, can feel the his blood churning hot underneath his skin. Die.

"Fuck you." Arthur sees the man spit the words rather than hear them, sees the man raise his gun. He manages a shot, but Arthur does not flinch, does not move. He stares right at the man, delivers him to his death. The bullet embeds itself in the frame of the car.

"We're good." Arthur is turning, turning to face Eames. He does not make it that far.

He hears Eames' shout, and then the car is being slammed into. The last thing Arthur hears is his name on Eames' lips.

Burning, burning. Everything is on fire. The world is on fire. Hurts. Hurts. Can't breathe.

Eames.
Oh god.
Eames.

Where are you?
Please.
Where are you?

Arthur is crawling on his hands and knees. The metal is searing hot, and the asphalt scorches his skin when he lays hands on it. The gravel is rough beneath him, shredding through flesh. Arthur dimly registers the slick feeling of blood intensifying. He crawls.

Arthur is coughing. His throat hurts, feels as if he is burning from the inside out. He coughs again, feels the blood well up from within. He tastes it on his tongue, the coppery tang. His eyes are watering, tears viciously obscuring his vision. Arthur attempts to evade the smoke, but it foils him. The acrid scent of charred flesh and oil envelopes him, and Arthur cannot breathe. Arthur tries to think, to conjure up thought, to find solutions, but his mind is a muddle, and he is mired in fog. He stumbles, elbows and knees failing him. He falls, and his face meets the ground. Arthur lies there, and indistinctly thinks that he is tired, that he wants to simply lie there and fuck everything else.

Eames.

Arthur is crawling.
Arthur is crawling again because he needs to find Eames, needs to know that Eames is still breathing, that his heart still beats.

Arthur thinks he calls Eames' name, but he hears nothing. Arthur cannot see now, nothing beyond blurred figures and vague shapes. There is a deafening roar of nothing in his ears, and his head hurts.

His fingers hit something soft, and Arthur feels his heart trip, stutter, before surging up again in rapid beats.

Eames.

And then there is sound.

There is chaos. The silence fractures into a cacophony of voices, each clamoring over the other to reach him. There is the blaring of sirens, the screeching of tires as everything comes to a halt around them.

Arthur fingers close around a wrist, and he holds on tight, holds on to the yielding skin that is in stark contrast to the unyielding ground beneath him. Arthur tries to take a breath, closes his eyes. There is darkness.

And then he opens them again, forces them to see, because he needs to. Needs to see Eames, needs to know. His vision wavers, and so Arthur uses his hands, follows the long line of Eames' arms, cups his face. Arthur slides his fingers to press at Eames' throat, and he waits.

Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
There.

"Eames." Arthur's voice is raspy, and it hurts to talk. He blinks again, and nothing is clear, but he sees Eames' face, slack and unresponsive. "Eames." Arthur slaps the side of Eames' face. "Come on. Come on. Need you. Come on." Arthur leans in close, tries to feel Eames' breath on his face. It is shallow and ragged. Arthur blinks again, and the edges of his vision clear. Again. Arthur can see the blood that cakes the sides of Eames' face, matts his blonde hair. Head wounds bleed more, Arthur's brain sluggishly informs him, and he holds on to that thought.

Arthur's hands move down Eames' chest, and stop.
Arthur looks down.
Oh my god.

Eames' stomach is a complete and utter mess of blood and metal. His heart, pumping frantically, the organ that is meant to help Eames live killing him with every fresh round of blood it sends through his veins and out the wounds. Arthur's hands hover for a moment, before pressing firmly on the bleeding flesh, and Arthur's hand is stained. Arthur stares at them, stares because he has never seen so much blood before, and he does not know what to do.

Eames' lips are bloodless, and he is motionless.

And then there are hands, hands everywhere, and Arthur is screaming as they drag him away from Eames. He thrashes, and vaguely registers hitting something, and there is a vehement curse behind him. A voice, and it is saying words, Arthur knows the voice is saying words, but he cannot understand it.

"Arthur!"

The voice. The voice. Dom's voice?

"Jesus fuck, calm the fuck down!"
"Hold him down!"
"What the fuck do you think I'm doing?"

Voices, voices which make no sense, because they are taking Eames away from him.

"Fuck this. Sorry, Arthur."

Arthur struggles, because he hears the word "sorry", and that is not something that he wants to hear at this point of time, because "sorry" means something bad, and the only bad thing that Arthur imagines can happen is if Eames dies. And so he chokes out "no", and thinks that he keeps repeating it, even after there is a sting from a needle on his neck.

Arthur is met with white. He blinks, knows his eyes are open, but all he can see is an expanse of white. And then Arthur's mind catches up with his other senses, realizes that he smells the disinfectant and alcohol and things that he has come to associate with a hospital. He finds it disconcerting that he is able to identify a place by its smell.

"You're awake." A voice beside him, and Arthur turns his head slowly, because it still hurts. Dom squints down at him, and that is how Arthur knows that Dom is concerned. Dom always squints when he is concerned. "You're squinting."

The squint is replaced by a frown, and then by a sharp bark of laughter. "How're you feeling?" Arthur tries to shift, stops trying when he realizes moving feels like shit. "Like I got run over by a truck." Dom is back to squinting again. "You did."

And then it all comes back, and Arthur's throat goes dry. He swallows, and it is grating.

"Eames."
"He's fine, Arthur."
"Want to see him."
"You need to rest."

Arthur makes to rise, and Dom's hand presses down on his shoulder, forces him down onto the threadbare hospital bed. "Cobb," Arthur hisses, but his arms will not gather the strength to push Dom away. He feels weak, and he knows that he is trembling all over simply from the exertion of half-rising from the bed. "He's fine," Dom insists, but Arthur looks carefully at the man, and sees something behind his eyes. Dom was never a good liar, because he does not have the conviction to go through with the lie, and Arthur sees right through it. "No, he's not," Arthur says, and tries to slap Dom's hand away. "He will be," Dom promises.

Five minutes into the ride, Eames' heart stops beating. Arthur does not know this, but there is a flurry of action as the defibrillator is brought around, and Eames heart is shocked back into rhythm. In all technicality, Eames is dead for two minutes and twenty seven seconds.

Ten minutes and fifty six seconds into the emergency room, Eames flatlines. There is less of a flurry, but there is still the exchange of quick hands and deft actions as Eames is brought back again. This time, he dies for three minutes and twenty five seconds.

Four hours and thirty eight minutes into his surgery, Arthur wakes in a room away for him, and starts demanding to see him. Dom holds Arthur put in his place, because he does not yet know if Eames will make it.

Four hours and fifteen minutes later, Eames makes it.

When Dom hears the news, he breathes a sigh of relief, because he does not know what he would have told Arthur had the news been anything else.

Eames is lying pale. His eyes are closed, and Arthur cannot see the light in his eyes. His mouth is expressionless, dead. He is hooked up to machines, the steady beeping assuring and terrifying Arthur at the same time. He fears that it will stop. Eames' arm is above the blanket that has been tucked carefully around him, and Arthur runs his finger lightly down the skin, is met with a tube hooked up to Eames.

Eames breathes, the steady rising and falling of his chest calming Arthur. Arthur breathes with him.

Arthur does not know that his eyes have closed, but they have, because the next thing Arthur knows is that he is waking up.

"Hey."

Arthur starts, and his hand jerks towards the voice coming from the bed. Eames is looking at him. He is exhausted, Arthur can tell, dark circles under his eyes and marring his skin, pale pallor reminding Arthur of death's near claim. Fingers squeeze Arthur's hand lightly, and Arthur looks down, sees that he has entangled his fingers with Eames. "Hey." Arthur's whisper is quiet, almost inaudible, and his voice is as hoarse as Eames' is.

Eames lifts his hand, gently touches the bandage covering Arthur's left eye, touches the sensitive skin around the stitched up gash on Arthur's forehead. "Alright?"

Arthur makes a sound, somewhere between a wounded animal and a scoff of disbelief. "I'm fine." Then he squeezes Eames' hand, and looks at him hard. Eames chuckles, a weak sound, nothing like the hearty laughs that Arthur loves to hear.

"I'm good."

Dom makes Arthur stay in his bed for the next two days, and Arthur is visited by a man in an immaculate expensive suit, hair smartly arranged, an air of sophistication, entitlement and power in the way he walks and approaches Arthur.

"Mr. Wesson. I am Saito," he says, and Arthur recognizes the Japanese accent in his words. "Dominic informs me that Mr. Eames and yourself are indispensable to my business. I take care of my assets." And that was that.

Dom tells Arthur later that Ariadne had managed to escape when Arthur and Eames were drawing off the gunfire, and had contacted Dom, all of panic and fear in her voice. Dom, being Dom, had gone straight to Saito and told him on no uncertain terms that Arthur and Eames were important and a necessity. Everything else had been taken care of by Saito, because the man is rich and has friends in places that no one even knows. "He just bought this hospital because he thought it was neater," Dom says wryly, and Arthur has to stop his chuckle because it hurts the stitches in his side.

Arthur finds that he cannot sleep. His eyelids close, and he can see the web of veins behind them, snaking red and ugly, and he sees blood and a dying Eames. He snaps them open again, and Arthur's breath is harsh and loud in the darkness. He can taste the bile in his throat, and he dares not close his eyes again.

He lies awake in the darkness, till it is chased away by the light of the day.

He puts off seeing Eames because a bloodied and dying Eames is still distinct in his mind, and he cannot look at Eames.

"Was looking for you," Ariadne says when she comes in, and Arthur can see the marks on her lips where she had been biting on. "Thought you'd be with Eames."

"Tired," Arthur lies, and almost feels bad when he sees the worry etched in her face. His own dark circles and bandages help carry the lie. "You need more rest," she says emphatically. "You can visit Eames when you're better."

"Yeah." Arthur gestures to the seat beside his bed, and Ariadne takes the invitation and sits.

They both heal, physically.
It all goes downhill from there, though.

[6]

They take jobs together, because it is still true, and they are still Arthur and Eames.

It takes them six months and eight days before they get back in the game, butthat is because Dom has been fielding jobs away from them, and resolutely refuses to allow them to take any jobs before they bore themselves to death's door.

"Fine," Dom says after the sixth threat from Arthur to disembowel him if he keeps treating them like they are fragile ornaments, and hands them a job. It is deathly simple, and the man is so weak that before Arthur has even completed his thought, the man has dropped dead on the ground from an aneurysm. Arthur does not feel satisfaction, because there is no satisfaction from a job without challenge.

"I guess it's a start," Arthur grumbles, and Eames pats him on the back, before sliding his hand down to the middle of Arthur's spine.

"Security's going to run you down hard."
"And I will lead them on a merry chase."

There is a smile on Arthur's face, and Eames is matching him. "Alright then, run along." Arthur gives a raised eyebrow and takes off, leaving Eames to do his work.

Arthur darts along the corridor, gun loose but ready in his grip. He does not need it, but he supposes it makes Eames feel better to see him carrying it. His eyes are tracking, scanning the walls and hallways. He picks off guards that come rushing in, broadcasting his will on a small range. There is a pounding in his veins, a wonderful thrum of adrenaline, the anticipation of the completion of a job.

Arthur knows where the vault is. Their client this time requires something other than a clean kill, requires a document or rather. The contents are of no consequence to Arthur, and he needs only know that it is important, and it is something that has been requested, and will so obtain.

He breaks into it far too easy, and takes time to wonder if the mark had been serious about keeping this safe at all. As far as Arthur knows, it is incriminating evidence, or what his client thinks to be as incriminating evidence, in any case.

He returns to Eames, and the trip back is far easier than to the trip to, mainly because the guards are still unconscious or groaning piteously on the ground. Arthur checks a few of the unconscious ones to make sure that they still breathe, and then hurries along on his way. The police are slow, but not that slow.

Eames is standing in the room, and he is towering over two collapsed bodies. Arthur frowns, because their mark was singular, and there should not be two bodies on the ground. There should be one.

"There was another one." Eames says, and his back is still to Arthur. "Yeah, two." Arthur is moving slowly into the room, looking around, because the devil is in the details. "No, another one." Arthur can hear the frown in Eames' voice. "Another one of us," he elaborates, and Arthur stops. "He was flinging things at me." Eames is griping. "With his mind."

Arthur is laughing. Eames nudges the body with his foot. "I am defaced. Destroyed. Disfigured. Arthur, darling, tell me you still want me?"

Arthur is on the verge of saying "I don't take damaged goods" when Eames turns around, and Arthur stumbles backwards.

Blood, blood. It burns. Decay and death, hollowed eyes. Flesh tearing into ribbons, strips of skin coming apart to reveal the bubbling boil of crimson. There is a gurgling sound, throat rent in two, gaping mouth, gaping. Moving with no words and -

"Arthur?"

He is shaking, and he looks at his hands, and there is blood, blood, red red blood. There is life leaking out of it, a steady stream of bright red. He sees the face, pallid, white, Eames' face, sees the agony written in the lines of his face. Arms, arms bending at an improbable angle, white of bone blossoming with red, sticking grotesquely out of skin.

"Arthur!"

And then there is Eames, and his forehead is bleeding profusely, blood running into his eyes, but his face is flushed, his eyes are bright, and he is breathing. Arthur knows he is breathing, because Eames is right in his face, and his breath is washing over him, warm and present.

"Blood," Arthur is saying, and Eames has his lips downturned. "Arthur?" Arthur takes a deep breath, gathers himself. He forms the words in his head, speaks, careful to keep his voice steady.

"You need to take care of that."
"Arthur – are you alright?"

Arthur can taste something sour at the back of his throat, feels his stomach lurch. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Eames takes a step back, looks at Arthur, and Arthur tries not to look away from the blood that is streaking down the side of Eames' head. You've seen this before. It's nothing.

"Alright." Eames says quietly. "I'm here."

"Yeah," Arthur breathes. "You're here."

Arthur is loosing it, and Eames knows.

They still go on jobs, because Dom does not really look beyond the physical recovery of the two of them (it is not that Dom does not care, it is simply that he is really not that intuitive with these things), and so sends them out.

Arthur is physically, has been physically sound since he started threatening Dom.

He goes on jobs with Eames, and every time Arthur sees Eames throw himself headfirst into a fight, he feels his heart skip beats, feels it pound painfully under his ribcage. Feels it slam itself against it's prison, and he feels the fear choke him.

He slows down.
He gets hurt.

Eames notices, because Eames notices these kind of things. Arthur tells him it's nothing, and Eames' face tells him "bullshit", but the man himself says nothing.

Arthur feels Eames' eyes on him.

The thing is, because Eames has his eyes on Arthur, he does not have eyes on the people who are trying to kill him, or at the very least, severely wound him (because then they will drag him, torture him, and make him reveal the secrets they think he has).

Arthur is loosing it, and Eames is distracted.

At the end of the job, Eames has a new scar on his back, and Arthur has guilt.

"We need to talk."

Eames is stitching up the wound on Arthur's arm, a ghastly angry tear on his flesh. He is haggard, and there is worry clear on his face even as it is screwed up in concentration, carefully pulling needle through skin and flesh. Arthur winces, tries to withdraw his arm, but Eames is holding fast, fingers encircling Arthur's wrist.

"No."
"Arthur."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You could have just pushed me out of the way."
"I didn't think, alright?"
"Arthur, you always think."
"Not this time."

Arthur did not think this time, because all he knew was the overwhelming terror that had seized his body and thrown him in front of the blade that was descending upon Eames. Because all he knew was that he could not let Eames bleed, not again.

Silence. Eames continues sewing Arthur's wound together.

It takes a while, because Eames is meticulous, but he finally pats Arthur on the wrist and lets him go while he forages around for a bandage.

"So I'm the indisputably gorgeous damsel in distress then." Eames smiles as he finishes, and Arthur knows that he is trying to lighten the moment, but the smile does not reach his eyes. "And you're the arguably dashing prince with a hero complex."

"Yeah," Arthur says, and does not meet Eames' eyes.

Arthur is trying, he really is, but he does not even really sleep anymore. He tries, but he is anxious all the time, and he knows that there is tension in his shoulders, that his body is stiff and rigid, that it does not sink or meld as easily into Eames as it did before.

Eames can feel it, Arthur knows that Eames can, because even Arthur himself knows it. Eames tries to talk to him, but it is too soon, too raw, and Arthur shakes his head every time Eames opens his mouth. Eames will sometimes try to insist, but it always degenerates into Arthur shutting himself in the room, with Eames sitting outside.

Eames touches him sometimes, and Arthur will either flinch away before he knows what he is doing, or, as he did on one occasion, break Eames' finger.

Arthur can see the confusion written on Eames' face, can see the anger, the sadness and the helplessness. He wishes he could tell Eames that it will all be alright, that it's just a phase, that he'll get out of it, but Arthur cannot lie this time, because he has not the conviction.

Dom stops giving them jobs, and Arthur thinks that Dom is finally cluing in.

"I can't do this."
"We could leave. We could stop this, move to Paris. You've always liked Paris."
"I can't."
"I can." Eames says it like a promise, and Arthur knows that Eames means it as such.

It hurts Arthur now, and he cannot look at Eames without seeing him torn asunder. He starts to think that maybe he needs to go away, to move away from the hurt, to erect barriers and build walls before he can face Eames again.

The idea is like a malignant disease eating at his mind, and it will not go away.

Arthur is waiting for Eames when he comes home. Eames sees the suitcase by Arthur's feet, drops wordlessly on the couch next to Arthur. There is a pregnant pause. "You're leaving." It is not a question, and Arthur is struck by the resignation in Eames' voice.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."

Then Arthur has Eames' face in his hands, and he is babbling. Eames has Arthur's wrist in hold, and his grip is pressing painfully into Arthur. "It's just too much."

"Arthur -" Arthur presses his fingers to Eames mouth, feels the soft, pliant lips underneath his touch and Arthur thinks – one more time, one last time – and surges up to claim Eames' mouth.

It is hard, it is hurried, it is desperate, and Arthur is trying to pour his entire soul into Eames. Eames makes a sound, kisses back, and Arthur is drowning, drowning. It is not elegant, it is messy, clashing teeth and shared gasps. When Arthur finally has to draw back for breath, he does so with a harsh inhalation. "Eames," he murmurs, hears the wreckage in his own voice.

Then he looks at Eames' eyes, thinks he could get lost in those endless blues, but does not. Arthur pushes his mind into Eames'.

You're going to take care of yourself. You're going to forget about me. You're going to live.

Eames' lips are swollen and red, his hair is mussed, and there is a blank look spreading across his face.

"Goodbye," Arthur whispers, and Eames does not stop him when he leaves.

They are no longer Arthur and Eames. There is Arthur, and then there is Eames.

[7]

Arthur is in Paris. He is alone.

He works, he still does, but he does not kill anymore. He cannot kill, because jobs remind him of Eames, and Arthur still feels that ache in his chest and the fear in his heart when he thinks of him, so Arthur is a clerk.

Arthur is methodical and careful, and the work is monotonous and boring, but it is safe.

He smiles at the ladies at the desks, politely refuses their invitations to hang out or to go to lunch, and they soon leave him alone. He knows what they say, that he seems cold and distant, that he is arrogant and stiff. Some of them say that he has a stick up his ass. Arthur knows all these things, but Arthur cannot really bring himself to care all that much.

He writes to Dom, because he needs to tell him that he is gone, and that he will not be coming back. He tells Dom what he has done to Eames, and Dom is unhappy and altogether disapproving, but he no longer mentions Arthur to Eames. This is how Arthur knows that Eames has quit the business as well, and that Dom does not know where Eames is.

Arthur tells Saito that he is "damaged goods", and Saito does not pursue the subject. Arthur finds a quarter of a million in his bank account the next day.

Arthur is in Japan. He is alone.

He learns Japanese mainly because he wants to, and becomes fluent in it in a matter of weeks. His neighbors are impressed, and he merely shrugs and thanks them in Japanese.

Arthur wanders the world after that, because he cannot find any one place to stay. He always feels as if something there is not right, that the weather is too cold, or the sun is too bright, always finds reason to go to another place.

If Arthur were really honest with himself, he would perhaps think that he simply misses home.

Arthur is in Spain.

He wonders what Eames is doing, wonders if Eames is doing well.

He does not do much there, because those thoughts harass him for the two weeks that he is there, and he has to leave to leave them behind.

Arthur is in Germany.

Arthur is not alone, because he is in a hotel with a man. Arthur does not know his name, but allows him to touch Arthur. The man is whispering things into his ears, whispering in a language that Arthur has not bothered to learn because he knows he will not stay there long enough for it to be worthwhile. Arthur thinks that this is for the best, that he does not need to understand those words.

Arthur stops it before it gets too far, because he thinks that while he may find pleasure, he will never find gratification.

It is Christmas, and he is still in New York, because Arthur has finally acknowledged the fact that he misses home. Dom has not heard from Eames, and does not know where he is, so Arthur assumes that New York is a safe place to be. Arthur tries not to think of the fact that Saito could probably find out where Eames is with a single phone call.

"Come over for dinner." Arthur thinks about refusing Dom, doesn't know why Dom would invite him over in the first place, but then sees that there is no reason to, and so goes over.

It is not bad, as dinners go, and Ariadne is there. It almost feels normal again, and for a moment, Arthur forgets that he is unhappy. But then he laughs, and he turns around to see the twinkle in Eames' eyes, and the laughter dies in his throat.

Dom sees it, but says nothing. Arthur thinks that perhaps Dom's intuition has improved, and he probably has Ariadne to thank for it (and possibly also the invitation). They do not tell him anything, and Arthur thinks this is because they think him either delicate or bitter and wrathful. Arthur does not blame them for it. He has eyes, though, and he sees the way the sit close together on the couch, the way Dom looks at Ariadne, the soft way she smiles at him and fusses over what he eats. Arthur tries to smile because they are his friends, and he should be happy for them.

Arthur gets a collection of Disney tapes for Christmas, because Ariadne claims that Arthur "did not have a childhood." He vehemently protests that the only clue she would have about the state of his childhood was the fact that he had not yet watched "The Lion King", and that it constitutes next to nothing. He accepts it though, and gives a small smile to the apologetic shrug that Dom gives him.

He gets another quarter of a million in his bank the next day, and Arthur sends a card with detailed information about charities to Saito, along with a copy of "How to Succeed in Business."

Arthur is alright.

He still dreams of Eames, still sees the horror in his dreams, but it is no longer as vivid, muted by time.

He works, and is now teaching. Ariadne mocks him for it when inviting him for lunch one day, wonders at how Arthur could possibly have enough patience to impart wisdom and school pupils, and he simply tells her that he feels the revenge when he starts marking papers.

"Yusuf probably waxes poetic about you to anyone who will listen anyway," Ariadne sniffs.

Arthur does not understand Yusuf, really. He is the resident Chemistry teacher, and for some reason that Arthur cannot fathom, the man seems to have taken a shine to him. Yusuf is physically emotive, and accidentally hits Arthur too many times while he is speaking.

"We should ask him for lunch," Ariadne says brightly. It is probably because she sees the frown across Arthur's forehead when she mentioned Yusuf, the little menace. "Pizza?"

"You're going to get fat. Dom isn't going to want you anymore."

Ariadne smacks him in the stomach. "My figure is flawless."
"For now."

Ariadne orders pizza anyway, and promptly drags Arthur out his house at seven in the morning the next day for a jog.

It has been ten months, and Arthur thinks it might possibly get better.

[8]

Arthur remembers the date well, cannot scrub it from his memory.

It is a year, today.

He is in school. He is morose and snappish, and his students are avoiding him like the plague.

Dom finds him after school, calls him out for a drink, and essentially refuses to leave Arthur alone. Arthur thinks Dom is afraid that he will do something stupid, although Arthur also thinks that he has probably used up all the stupid allowed in his life by now. Yusuf follows, although Arthur thinks that it is less for Arthur's benefit than is the lure of free booze. Ariadne joins them after she is done with her own business, and they sit in a booth in a pub, drinking the place out.

"You're too small." Arthur is probably drunk.

"What?" Ariadne seems way too sober for the amount that she has already consumed. Arthur waves vaguely in her direction, gesturing to her entire body. "Where the fuck do you put all of it?" Yusuf is mixing drinks from all their glasses, and giggling at the colors.

Ariadne pats on Arthur on the back, and effects a simultaneously condescending and pitying look. "It's a natural talent."

And then they drink some more.

The end of it is this – Dom drives them all home with a long-suffering look on his face, drops Arthur off in his bed and puts out Advil and a glass of water.

The result of it is this – Arthur shuffles out of bed in the morning, head pounding and even his eyelids are throbbing, and his mouth feels like something exceedingly nasty had died in it. It takes him a shower, pills and coffee before he manages to walk in the presence of light without wanting to curl up in a corner again. When he does, he moves to the door to collect the newspaper, and that is when he steps on an envelope.

Arthur looks down, sees a white nondescript envelope under his feet, and the first thing he notes is the shoe print (Dom's, because the man has huge feet and the envelope is mostly covered with the print) on the white surface, and is momentarily outraged that Dom had brought his shoes in, but supposes after a minute that Dom has the right.

Arthur bends, picks it up, and tears it open.

There is a single sheet, and when Arthur reads it, his blood runs cold.

Alright, Arthur?
Eames

Arthur battles with it for two whole days, but decides in the end that Dom and Ariadne are as good friends as any he will find, and shows them the letter. They take it in their hands, read it, and Arthur sees the moment where they look at each other and exchange Looks.

"Still here," Arthur says, and the Look is on him.
"When did you get this?" Dom is inspecting the letter, bringing it close to his nose. His voice is careful, and Arthur has the inexplicable urge to snatch the letter away from his face and hide it.
"Couple of days back." Ariadne is pursing her lips, but Arthur pretends not to notice.
"Must've dropped it off himself. No postage or anything."
"Maybe he gave it to someone."

"No, he wouldn't have." The words are out of Arthur's mouth before he can stop it, and he cannot say that he knows it is Eames, because Eames would never give something like that to anyone else other than Arthur. And then Arthur thinks that perhaps Eames has found someone other than Arthur to trust, and he stops that train of thought right there.

"Did you tell him," he asks Dom instead, and Dom squints at him. "No."

"He shouldn't know this." Arthur is gesturing to the letter still in Dom's hands. "He shouldn't know who I am." Pause. "I'm good at what I do. Did." Dom nods. "You were." Pause. "But Eames was good at what he did, too."

"He let me go," Arthur says, and he knows that this is not fair, that he should not have that accusing tone in his voice, because Arthur was being selfish and a coward, but he cannot help it. Dom shrugs. "What're you gonna do?"

"I don't know," Arthur says, and it is not a lie.

Happy Birthday, Arthur.
Eames

Arthur keeps a box.

There are four letters in the box, one for each month. Each letter ends with his name, and Arthur thinks that it is Eames' way of telling him that he still remembers. The messages are always short.

Some time around the time of the sixth letter, Dom apologizes to Arthur.

"I'm sorry, you know. For not noticing." He pauses, and Arthur can see Dom steeling himself for something. "I should have. Happened to me too."

Arthur stops scribbling on his moleskin, turns to face Dom. "Is that why you don't kill anymore?" "Yeah," Dom says. "Her name was Mal."

Arthur puts down his pen, looks at Dom straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry about Mal. But you did notice. Thank you."

Some time around the eighth letter, Arthur allows himself to think about Eames again.

He closes his eyes, tries to remember Eames, and his mind calls up Eames' face with startling clarity. Arthur waits for the blood to set in, to take over and sink him, and it is there, he knows, nagging at the back of his mind, but it does not rush at Arthur in a torrent, does not sweep him away.

He remembers.

Arthur does not know how long he sits there, in the middle of his bedroom on his bed, but it is dark when he had closed his eyes. Now, the sun is peeking from the horizon, the rise of a new dawn. Arthur is breathing, and everything will be better.

The thing is this; Arthur still sees the blood, and there is still that tendril of fear curling within him, but Arthur knows that all life ends with demise, and that's the way it rolls. When he thinks about it, Arthur finds it highly ironic that a man that has taken on an occupation that takes away life and inflicts death should fear death that much, but he supposes everything is that much more different when it is happening to you. It has taken time, but Arthur knows that fear is paralyzing and crippling and will do no good, and that the past is all it is; past.

"They're just memories. They're just there to remind you, not to burden you." Yusuf doesn't know what he is talking about most of the time, but times like these, Arthur thinks that he simply does not give the man enough credit.

The next thing is this; Arthur misses Eames. He feels the ache in his heart again, but it is not the familiar anguish of dread and sorrow, but merely that of chances and time lost. He thinks of Eames often now, because he finally can, and he remembers his soft voice, the way his speech rounds over vowels. He remembers his smile, the laugh wrinkles on his face, the hideous shirts.

Arthur misses Eames.

Arthur
Eames

Arthur gets a letter, and it is in a hurried script, his name on the sheet of paper. He sees the way the pen has penetrated the paper, sees the tension behind the word, and knows that Eames has not found another person to trust.

Some times, Arthur wants to write back, but he does not know how. He thinks about asking Saito, but decides if Eames wants to be found, he will be.

The twelfth letter comes like this -

Please.
Eames

There is an address on the back of the paper, and Arthur feels his heart race.

[8]

Arthur is in Mombasa.

He does not even know why Eames is in Mombasa; it is hot, and Arthur knows how much Eames hates the heat.

Arthur is standing in front of a house. It is decently sized, and does not stand out with its simple colors. It seems dull, because Arthur knows that Eames is fond of his colors and patterns.

Arthur stands in front of the house, because he has absolutely no idea what he is to do next. He wonders if he should have taken up Dom's offer of coming along after all, but dismisses the thought as quickly as it had surfaced.

Arthur draws in a breath, and hopes that perhaps he can draw courage into his lungs and person, and knocks.

He waits.
There is no answer.

Arthur thinks about going away, but he does not. He looks around, and picks the lock.

The house is empty. There is an echoing sound as he steps in, and he hastily removes his shoes, shifts it neatly into a corner beside the door. It is not bare, but only just. Arthur shuts the door behind him, and stands in the house, the silence deafening.

Arthur sits on the couch, and waits.

Arthur comes awake with the quiet snick of the opening door.

He blinks, and his eyes do not have the time to adjust to the darkness of the night when a switch is flicked on, and light comes flooding into the room. Arthur grimaces, recoils, then remembers where he is.

His eyes snap to the door, and Eames is there, looking at him.

He is thinner, and there is a look of something on his face. Arthur stares at it, tries to to identify it, but realizes that he cannot, because there is a war of emotions being waged on that face, and it is too much for Arthur to figure out.

"Hey," he says instead, because Arthur does not really know what to say.

Eames' brow tightens, and he presses his lips together. Arthur tries not to fidget, but there is an oppressing silence, and Arthur's eyes dance away from Eames'. The letter is in his pant pocket, and it feels heavy all of a sudden, an unwelcome weight. Perhaps Arthur is wrong, and Eames means something other than what Arthur thinks he is. Arthur does not know what it could be, but he does not ponder on it now. "Right," he says, and picks his suitcase off the ground.

Then Eames is front of him, and Arthur is taking a step back, because when did he move? Eames' hands are pressing on top of Arthur's, taking the suitcase from him and dropping it on the ground. Between one moment and the next, Eames is all around Arthur, warmth encompassing him, and Arthur melts into it. Eames feels it, Arthur knows he does, because he tightens his grip and buries his face into Arthur's shoulder. Arthur sighs, because he had missed this, had missed the easy way their bodies fit together, sure and true.

"Hey," Eames croaks, and Arthur hears the relief in his voice and holds Eames all the more tighter.

That night, they fall into bed, a tangle of limbs and panting breath.

There are no words, because they are frighteningly inadequate, and there is no need for inadequacy. Eames backs Arthur into the bed, and Arthur allows it, topples onto the mattress as the back of his knees hit the edge. Eames follows, hands lifting the shirt off of Arthur. Arthur reciprocates.

He flips them over, and Arthur has Eames under him, and Eames is wide eyed, pupils blown. Arthur leans down, sucks at Eames' bottom lip, aligns their bodies. Eames is groaning, gently bucking up into Arthur, running hands down Arthur's side.

Arthur touches, running his hands down Eames chest, feels the scars on his skin. Arthur breaks away, looks down, and there is enough light through the open curtains to see that the skin is raised and long healed. Arthur knows that Eames is holding his breath, is waiting, and Arthur takes his time, traces his finger along the edges of the wounds. Memories overlay with reality, and for a moment, there is blood on Eames' skin, but Arthur blinks, tells it to go away, and it retreats.

Arthur looks up at Eames and smiles, and Eames smiles back.

Eames is at his back, and Arthur skin is warm from the contact. Eames has his arms wrapped around Arthur, and Arthur feels safe and sated in his cocoon, and so presses back further into Eames. Eames shuffles, adjusts himself, and Arthur feels the moment when Eames transitions into awareness.

They lie there for a while, quiet, basking in the comfort.

"How?" Arthur asks, and Eames huffs a laugh behind him. "Guess you didn't mean it." Arthur turns in Eames' arms, comes to face him. Arthur frowns at him, and Eames laughs, gives him a half shrug, because his other arm is pinned down by Arthur. "I know you like to think you're unerring and smashingly competent and dogged in your accomplishment of a goal, which you are, really, but that's all I have for you."

"You let me go." This time, there is no hint of accusation, and Eames looks Arthur in the eyes, smile fading, hand coming up to thumb Arthur cheek. He strokes it for a while, says "you needed it", and Arthur is staggered by the sincerity in Eames' voice.

"I couldn't help you," Eames says, and Arthur can hear the pain, "and if you thought that was what you needed, then that was what you needed."

"Are you going to be alright," Eames asks, and Arthur takes a moment to consider the question, and Eames waits, does not pressure him. "I think so," Arthur says finally, and there is the conviction behind the words, and Eames believes him, smiles again and kisses Arthur chastely on the lips.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and Eames nods. "I know."

"You don't do it anymore?"
"No."
"Why not?"

Eames slants a look in Arthur's direction, hands him a cup of coffee. Arthur sips at it. Black, one sugar. Exactly the way he takes it, and Eames smiles when he sees Arthur's approval.

"I've worked with you." Eames takes the coffee cup from Arthur, refills it. "I realized that I didn't really want to do it if you weren't there." Then he smiles wryly. "So I'm safe now. No brandishing weapons, no accidental grenade launchers going off." Then he looks at Arthur. "Don't suppose you're going to go back in?" Arthur shakes his head, snags the leftover crust off Eames' plate and chews on it.

"Yes, steal the crust from the poor hungry man," Eames pouts, and nostalgia washes welcome over Arthur.

Arthur laughs, and it feels good.

"You never eat it anyway."

"What have you been doing?"
"This and that," Eames says vaguely, and Arthur raises his eyebrows.

"Moved around a lot." Eames shrugs. "Couldn't find what I wanted."
"Mombasa got you what you wanted?"
"They have casinos here."
"So does Las Vegas."
"Mombasa has phenomenal credit rating, darling. What more could I ask for?"

Eames is sidled close next to Arthur on the couch, their shoulders touched and knees against each other. The television casts shadows of images over them, reflecting on their faces. Arthur does not know what they are watching, eyes and mind just sliding over the muted moving pictures as he reclines next to Eames. He feels contented, just like this, and there is a lazy smile on his face.

"I never intended for those letters to be read," Eames blurts, and Arthur turns to see Eames looking intently at the him. "I just needed to do something. I sent them because I thought I would go mad otherwise." Arthur looks at him, sees the truth in the lines of Eames' face.

"I'm glad you did," Arthur murmurs, and brings his forehead to meet Eames'. "I'm glad you did."

Arthur is still a teacher, and Eames is a baker.

Arthur is still learning things about Eames, and Eames still enjoys egging Arthur on, because some things never change. Arthur learns that despite the numerous paisley shirts that Eames owns, he prefers checkered patterns over them, and so only has a few, because he will insist on buying the highest quality ones. Eames will cover Arthur in ice frosting, and tell him that it makes Arthur "delectable and ravishing" and is a "good look on him".

They are back in New York, because Arthur likes it, and Eames does hate the heat in Mombasa.

Dom and Ariadne had met them at the airport, and Dom had thumped Arthur heartily on the back and told him that Ariadne and himself were out of the business as well. Arthur raises an eyebrow and inquires about Saito, but Dom just shrugs and tells him that the man can buy out plenty of other young, aspiring fools and to leave the old, aging ones alone ("I am young and spritely and more than capable of proving it," Eames says, and leers at Arthur).

Dom and Ariadne still invite them out for drinks, and Eames takes on the role of returning their offers because he knows Arthur likes their times together but is far too much of an idiot to ask them out himself. Occasionally, they ask Yusuf along as well, because despite the drinks being questionable in color, the ones that Yusuf mixes are actually rather good. Eames suggests to Yusuf that he should be a bartender instead, and Arthur is just that slightly alarmed that Yusuf seems to be considering that suggestion seriously. He hastily and haltingly tells Yusuf that he will miss him were he to leave the school, and Yusuf grins wide and happy and gives Arthur the most immense hug he has ever had the misfortune to experience.

Eames goes back to calling Arthur the most ridiculous pet names that Arthur has ever heard, and Arthur does not tell Eames this, but Arthur is growing fond of them. His favorite is still "darling", because of the way Eames draws the word out, and also because it was the one that started them off.

There are times when Arthur will look at Eames and still tell him "thank you" and "sorry", and Arthur thinks it will be a while before he will finally stop saying it. Eames knows, and is waiting patiently for the day.

Arthur laughs more now, and Eames laughs along with him.

They both have scars, but they'll be alright.