Archive of Our Own

It was probably some sort of universal law, Eames thought.

He and Arthur had been dancing the dance of unrequited lust around each other for years without ever acting on it, and in all that time not one of their jobs had ever gone wrong.

Of course there had been moments where it looked like they might go wrong – the Fischer job was a case in point – but every time they had managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

And as soon as he and Arthur had decided to act on the feelings? Disaster naturally ensued. Even if you overlooked the host of irritating little problems that had plagued the job, and the unkind words that had been said (and no, Eames was not inclined to overlook those, thank you so much, Arthur), very few successful jobs involved being run out of town at gunpoint.

It was probably divine retribution, Eames thought, and who was he to argue with whatever gods looked over dream sharing?

So, eschewing the violent revenge that would usually be his preferred option, he hot-wired a car, drove from DC to New York, and caught the next flight to London.

In all it took him close to three days from the moment he’d realised they’d been sold out to the moment he set foot into the rather sub-par flat he called home.

From that point, it took a further 23 minutes (put the kettle on, use the loo, move the pile of junk mail into the Box of Horror, make tea, check the mice hadn’t overrun the kitchen) before he got round to checking the messages on his answerphone.

It would surprise some (and horrified Arthur) that Eames still had an answerphone machine. Oh, of course he had a mobile – that damn Nokia from 1999 didn’t seem to die no matter what he did to it – but he wasn’t sure that anyone had actually ever called him on it.

To be fair, very few people called him on the landline either, so, when he saw the blink of the little red light (because he wasn’t actually a fool and there was no way he was going to trust BT’s Callminder, thank you so much), his initial reaction was to relax. Arthur had obviously made his way to safety and was calling in, a wonderfully human touch that was delightfully unexpected.

The first three messages were indeed from Arthur and did nothing at all to dispel this belief. Then came a message from Eames’s mother, a curiously obscure message from his sister (even by her standards), two messages from his dry cleaners, and then, finally, another message from Arthur.

This one? Did not make Eames smile. Not any part of it. Especially not the gunshots at the end.

He listened to it again, and then again, checking whether he could hear any clues that would tell him where Arthur was – whether he had escaped the gunfire – but the longer he listened, the more the knot of panic tightened in his stomach, until he couldn’t pretend he was doing anything other than listening to the rough edges of Arthur’s voice, and picturing all the things that could have happened to prevent him from making call five.

By the time he’d managed to pull himself together, his tea was cold and the flat was dark, lit only by the streetlamp outside the window.

He had to do something - that much was obvious - but thanks to his timely and sensible escape he was now on the wrong continent and didn’t know where to start to look for Arthur.

He rubbed his eyes, hours of travel catching up to him now he was still.

He’d need to go back. That was the only option. Work out what had gone wrong with the job, and where Arthur had gone to ground.

Of course, there was the argument that he should stay put and wait for Arthur to make contact with him. That would be what Arthur would tell him to do - but Arthur was always a bit tetchy when he had to be rescued.

That he needed to be rescued was self-explanatory. If he was free, then he would have got in touch. And… well. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, someone would have got in touch with Eames by now to tell him.

Dream work was still a small world, and anyone gunning for Arthur would want to spread the word if he was dead, either as a warning or a message that they were taking his position.

No, Arthur was alive, he had to be, and it was clearly up to Eames to find him.

He signed and reached for the phone. Tired or not, he had a job to do.

oOo

His first port of call, oddly enough, was Amsterdam.

It was a city Eames had a lot of time for, and had spent a lot of time in. He loved the feel of it – the ebb and flow of different languages around him, the buildings and canals, the darkness of the art and the slant of the light.

He’d first come there as a student, back in the days when a life above board was still a possibility, even in the face of genetics and inclination; he’d returned when he dropped out of uni and found that England in general, and London in particular, were not as hospitable as he had wished.

Some of his best art had been painted while he lived on a canal boat here, and it was here, at around the same time, he had discovered a talent for forgery, duplicity, and living on his wits.

All that was a while ago. Recently he’d favoured the warmth and endless potential of Africa, but there was still a part of his heart that whispered home as he stepped from the train.

He certainly remembered his way around well enough to make short work of tracking down Kemp. He was, as Eames had suspected he would be, holed up in the darkness of a bar just off Rembrantplein.

“Long time, no see,” he said, standing behind Kemp, leaning close enough that his lips were almost touching his ear. “I might almost be offended.”

Kemp started in his seat, trying to twist, but Eames took hold of his shoulders and pinned him in place.

“Now, now,” he said. “No need to overreact.”

“I don’t know anything,” Kemp said, his voice shaking, and Eames sighed.

“Seriously? I come all this way to catch up with an old friend, and you treat me like this? You might make me think that you weren’t pleased to see me, and you wouldn’t want that, would you Simon?”

Kemp shook his head convulsively, and Eames smiled, taking the stool next to him and gesturing at the barman for a drink.

“What do you want?” Kemp asked, squinting at Eames. “I’ve not done anything to you, Eames, I always…”

“I’m looking for a mutual friend,” Eames said, sipping his beer and grimacing slightly at the taste. “You always spent a lot of time with Renard, back in the day, didn’t you?”

“Renard?” Kemp’s face had already been pale; now he looked almost ghostly. “God. I’ve not heard from him in years.”

“Really?” Eames asked, genial as a tiger approaching a fawn. “Because I distinctly remember seeing you with him in Singapore not six weeks ago. Are you sure,” he leant in, smiling, “you wouldn’t like to reconsider your answer?”

“I…” Kemp looked at Eames’s face, at his perfectly pleasant smile, and sagged into himself. “I might be able to locate him. If you really needed him.”

“You know,” Eames took another sip of his beer. “I really rather think I do.”

“He’s not in a good state,” Kemp said. “He was injured on a job.”

“Mmm.” Eames smiled. “I’m aware of that, Simon. And do you know how I’m aware of that? Because I was one of the poor bastards on that job that he sold out, so I suggest you stop beating about the bush and tell me what I want to know.”

“He’s in Paris,” Kemp said in a rush. “And he didn’t mean to sell you out – you know us, Eames. We’ve always enjoyed working with you. He’d never have done this if he had a choice.”

“And he didn’t?” Eames raised an eyebrow. “Because I find that a little confusing. If I remember correctly he was being friendly as anything the evening before. I’ve never seen him in such high spirits. So maybe you can tell me what changed so suddenly that meant he sold us out and set us up to be killed less than twelve hours later?” He took another sip of beer. “And while you’re at it, who he sold us out to.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Kemp said, shocked, and that may have pushed Eames slightly too far.

In one smooth movement he pulled a knife from his pocket and pinned Kemp’s hand to the bar.

“No,” he said, as calmly as he was able, “I don’t. And if you want to walk out of here with all your fingers I suggest you tell me now.”

He waved the barman away, though from the disinterested grunt he had hardly caused a crisis of conscience, and waited while Kemp gasped beside him.

“It was the mark,” Kemp said at last, so quietly that Eames had to strain to hear him. “The mark had better security than you knew, and they caught up with him. They made him tell them what was happening, Eames. He didn’t have a choice.”

“The mark?” Eames blinked at him. “Are you taking the piss? The mark was some two bit antiques dealer who was in DC visiting a client. There was no way he had security.”

“He did.” Kemp fixed him with a pleading gaze. “That’s what he told me when I saw him yesterday. Jesus, Eames. You should see what they’ve done to him.”

“You know,” Eames pulled the knife free and wiped it with his handkerchief, “Arthur is still missing. I might even find it in myself to care about what they did to Renard after he’s found. Until then,” he leant close to Kemp, his voice a vicious whisper, “you can tell your friend that if I so much as see a hair on his head he will regret that the mark didn’t kill him. You understand me?”

Kemp nodded, shakily, and Eames smiled.

“There,” he said. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

He didn’t wait for a response, just dropped fifty Euro on the bar and left as quickly as he could.

He’d been truthful in what he’d said to Kemp – in so far as it went. The mark was an unassuming man, more interested in his antiques and his pilgrimage across the States than in violence, but… well. They hadn’t been asked to do an extraction for nothing, and even if Arthur hadn’t warned Eames there was something they were missing – and that they should be spending more time on research before the job – then working on this side of the law had taught him that no one was as innocent as they might first appear.

oOo

The last thing he wanted was another Trans-Atlantic flight, but it had been five days now since everything had gone to hell, and there was still no news of Arthur.

It unsettled Eames – enough that he bought the ticket and boarded the plane without hesitation – but whatever relief he had found in making the decision was short-lived, and the eight hours of flight time gave him an utterly unwelcome chance to reflect.

He had honestly thought that Arthur was the reluctant one in this erstwhile relationship – that Eames had been coaxing him into communication and closeness. Now, forced to remember which of his identities would stand the scrutiny of American border control and cut adrift from the information streams he had come to take for granted, he started to appreciate the extent of Arthur’s commitment to him.

It was typical of the man, he thought, that his attention – his affection – was more evident in its absence than in its presence.

In the end it took close to twenty hours for Eames to reach the particular street he wanted in New York, and it was only chance that the shop he needed was open.

He entered, his hand luggage still slung over his shoulder, wincing at the jangling bell over the door, and waiting in the gloom and sawdust-heavy air as the sound of footsteps approached.

It did, at least, allow him to assume the most nonchalant expression he could muster, and as the mark entered the room, Eames was examining an antique bureau as if he were any other interested customer.

“Can I help you?” His accent was, to Eames’s well-trained ear, a mixture of clues, but he let no trace of this show on his face as he turned around.

“Yes,” he said. “I rather think you can, Theo.”

For one second the mark looked shocked, and then he laughed. “I’m impressed you would show your face,” he said. “Didn’t you hear what I did to the rest of your team?”

“That’s what I’m here about,” Eames said, inclining his head, “although I have to admit I didn’t think you had the capacity for that kind of violence.”

“I do try to avoid it when I can.” He shrugged, self-deprecating. “But, you have to understand, people have been after the story behind that painting for years, and I have friends who seem to think I need protecting. To them, violence seems to be the easy option.”

“Boris,” Eames said, biting down on a smile at the mark’s expression. “I met him a few times, back in Europe. A few years ago.” He made eye contact. “I think you probably remember the period I’m talking about.”

The mark’s face went very still. “He used to be involved in all sorts of unsavoury practices. I suspect you were one of those.”

“Hardly the most unsavoury thing he was involved with,” Eames said. “And he still seems to have a taste for destruction.”

“Insurance.” The mark shrugged. “Do you have any idea how many people come after me? Sometimes it’s useful to send a message.”

“And Carter?” Eames raised an eyebrow.

“Was that his name?” The mark gestured, faux apologetic. “Well, Boris gets carried away sometimes, and a good lesson always makes a mark.”

“So I’ve heard,” Eames said. “Renard won’t forget his lesson at any rate.”

“Ah. The one who sold you out. Boris always did have difficulty forgiving a traitor. Which makes you the only one who escaped our clutches. Congratulations, Mr Eames.”

Eames swallowed. “So, you got Arthur then?”

“Oh, I didn’t kill him.” The mark smiled. “No… but perhaps you can tell me more about why you took the job before I tell you any more?”

Eames shrugged. “Like you said, lots of people want to know the story of the painting.”

“Enough to pay for a full team to extract the information from my dreams?” The mark shook his head. “I don’t think so. Try again – unless you’d prefer not to know what happened to your colleague.”

Eames’s chest suddenly felt very tight, and he swallowed around a lump in his throat. “I saw the picture,” he said. “Back when Boris was using it as collateral. It made… an impression.”

“It does,” the mark said quietly. “I still remember the first time I saw it.”

Eames nodded. “I saw when it got handed back to the museum, and I wondered what the story was. I mean, of course I did, but I wouldn’t have taken a job just for that.”

“I didn’t think you would have,” the mark said, sitting down at last, and fixing Eames with a stare. “We don’t move in such very different circles, Mr Eames.” He gestured at the cabinet beside him, a good reproduction of a Queen Anne if Eames was any judge (and, truly, he was). “I have heard of you by reputation, you know.”

“Then you probably know what this job is about,” Eames said, and the mark sighed.

“The furniture,” he said. “Someone wanted the information about which of the pieces were fakes.” He stared at Eames. “Am I warm?” Eames nodded, and the mark sighed. “In that case, I think I have a name for your employer. How does Lucius Reeve sound?”

“Accurate,” Eames said. “But I wouldn’t have taken the job if I hadn’t wanted to know about the picture. Not for the client, for me.”

The mark nodded. “A piece of art like that, a masterpiece, it takes a hold of you, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Eames glanced down. “You don’t know how much I coveted that picture – I don’t even know if I wanted to own it or to have painted it – but every time I saw it used as collateral, passed from hand to hand like some gold bar or stock certificate… well.”

“You talked the others into it?”

“I talked Arthur into it. Renard and Carter had brought me into the job in the first place.”

The mark nodded. “I traded him on,” he said. “Arthur. When it became apparent who we were chasing. There’s a price for him, alive. And for you, Mr Eames. It’s a significant sum, and I am, at heart, a trader. Your Arthur was worth more alive than dead to me, so he is, as far as I know, still alive.”

Eames breathed a sigh of relief. “Who? Who did you sell him to?”

The mark looked at him, his head cocked to one side like a bird. “And why should I tell you?” he asked. “As I mentioned, you’re worth a lot in the right hands. What’s to stop me calling Boris and adding you to my haul?”

Eames shrugged. “I’m not sure how easy you’ll find that,” he said. “But in any case, I have something you might consider worth the trade.”

He reached into his bag and reached out a small package, the size of a paperback novel, wrapped in the sort of wrapping paper that would appeal most to a nine-year-old girl. Despite that he handled it with exaggerated care, and placed it down in front of the mark.

To be fair, he hadn’t seen such a suspicious reaction to a present since his eldest brother’s middle child had turned four, but despite that Theo opened the package, and his face transformed.

“Is it real?” he asked, his voice hushed and Eames shrugged.

“Reality is such a nebulous concept, isn’t it?” he asked. “Much more nebulous than ownership.”

The mark nodded, his expression dazed. “Gdansk,” he said. “That’s where he was sent. I have details.”

“And I would appreciate you sharing them,” Eames said, his smile small but genuine. It wasn’t often, after all, that his art got such an appreciative audience.

oOo

In fact the trail that Theo started led from Gdansk (the location of Eames’s first job in dreamsharing) to Verona (location of far too many family holidays as a child), and from there to Glasgow (where he had briefly gone to art school).

Indeed, it was something of a trip down memory lane, so, it wasn’t altogether a surprise that when Eames finally tracked the trail to its inevitable conclusion in an all too familiar stone building just outside Ambleside in the Lake District.

Staring at it from the road, Eames sighed and squared his shoulders. He hadn’t had much hope that he was riding to a romantic and glorious rescue for the past twelve hours, but this was proof positive.

It any case, arriving in a blaze of bullets and glory would have been slightly de trop, since Arthur was lying on the bed in Eames’s own childhood bedroom, a cup of coffee on the bedside table next to him, and his Kindle in his hand.

“Oh,” he said, looking up and yawning. “You finally showed up then.”

“Showed up?” Eames asked, blinking. “Arthur, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What do you mean showed up?”

“He means that we were expecting you days ago.”

“Oh, God,” Eames said with real feeling, and the voice behind him laughed.

“Now, now, baby brother. You’ll make me think you’re not pleased to see me.”

“Georgie.” Eames turned around. “You know I am thrilled to see you – when am I not? – but firstly, you are only twenty minutes older than me, which does not make me your baby brother. Secondly, maybe if you had let me know you were here when I was breaking in through the bathroom window I would have thought to say hello. And thirdly, and I cannot stress this enough, if you don’t tell me what the hell Arthur is doing here, I am going to gut you now, and not worry about explaining to mummy until later.”

“Ouch.” Georgina sashayed around him and putting a second mug on Arthur’s bedside table. “I am cut to the quick. Arty, you won’t let him speak to me like that, will you?”

She batted her lashes at Arthur, but to Eames’s amazement he just laughed.

“I dunno,” he said. “I mean, I can’t get in the way of sibling rivalry, can I? I’m fairly sure that would work out badly for me.”

“Oh, good,” Eames said bitterly. “Everyone is happy. Everyone is laughing. Everyone is getting on. And you know what? No one is telling me what the flaming fuck is going on.”

“You’d better tell him,” Arthur said. “That vein in his forehead is throbbing. It’s always best to listen to him when that happens.”

Georgina hummed. “He’s putting it on,” she said. “You can push him much further than this. The last time we met up, in the south of France, he actually…”

There were, Eames thought, many things he could tolerate. He certainly prided himself on being a tolerant man – especially if the price was right. Right now, however…

“Arthur, I don’t know what sort of impression my sister has given you, but would you mind terribly explaining what is going on?” Eames smiled genially at Arthur. “Because if you don’t, I am very tempted to reenact that time in Azerbaijan.”

That actually made Arthur laugh. “You’ll have to get some of it from Georgina,” he said. “There’s bits I’m not too sure of myself, but I guess you know what happened with Renard.”

“Sold us out to the mark,” Eames said. “Because that one never gets old.”

Arthur smiled grimly. “Yeah. You’d think they’d have learnt by now, but…”

“The attraction of a quick buck.” Eames shrugged. “Not that it worked out for Renard.”

“No?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“He’s in Paris,” Eames said. “He’ll be lucky if he walks again if what I hear is even halfway true, and he won’t be working again either.”

“That went without saying from the moment he considered selling us out,” Arthur said. “But it’s a shame. He was a halfway decent architect.”

“Whatever,” Eames said. “I know the mark had sent a team out after you, and I know he said that he heard you were worth more alive than dead. What I don’t understand is who had a price on your head, and how you ended up here.”

“You never used to be this dense,” Georgina said, shaking her head sadly. “I’m starting to worry you’re losing your touch, Charlie.”

“I am not losing my touch,” Eames said through gritted teeth. “I am just slightly confused how the man I thought was being sold on for torture in Eastern Europe ended up in our holiday home with my sister.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Georgina asked with a shark-like grin. “I wanted to keep my brother and his special friend safe, so when I heard your job had gone tits up, I thought the most prudent course of action was to put a price on your heads – provided they were still attached to your breathing bodies.” She tapped Eames on the arm. “I’ve never had your taste for blood, my dear, but I like to think my techniques are effective on occasion.”

“You put a price on us?” Eames stared at his sister, incredulous. “But…”

“But… thank you?” Georgina raised an eyebrow in warning. “I didn’t get you into this mess, Charlie, and I’ve invested some serious money in getting you out of it. If you’d prefer me to withdraw my investment…”

“God, no,” Eames said, holding up his hands in defeat. “You know I’m grateful, Georgie. I was just surprised. I didn’t think you kept such a close eye on me.”

“Of course I don’t,” she said, fighting back a smile. “Just like you don’t either. So, I don’t save you from angry marks, and none of my exes have ever developed mysteriously broken arms after threatening me.”

Eames looked down at his shoes. He hadn’t realised she’d found out about that.

“You can look after yourself,” he said, assiduously avoiding eye contact. “I would never presume to…”

“I know, darling,” she said, bending over to kiss his cheek. “And it’s sweet. Misguided, but sweet. Now,” she straightened up and smiled at both of them. “I need to get the kitchen tidied before mummy gets here, so I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

“Good idea,” Eames said, slightly shell-shocked. “We’ll just…” He trailed off, staring at Arthur trying to find the words he’d rehearsed over and over as he’d crossed and re-crossed the Atlantic. “Wait.” He swung round and glared at her. “What do you mean before mummy gets here? What’s mummy doing here? Is she bringing dad as well?”

Georgie laughed, evading his grasp. “What’s mummy doing here? You don’t think she’d miss the opportunity to meet your Arthur, do you? As soon as she heard he was here she made plans to drive up; when she heard you’d be here as well she got daddy’s secretary to book him out of the office and he didn’t even object.” She smiled beatifically. “I couldn’t have kept them away if I’d tried.”

Eames slumped down onto the bed and hid his head in his hands.

“You didn’t even try to keep them away, did you?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Georgie paused at the door. “I love you very much, Charlie, but if you can recall last July, you walked out of Aunty Ros’s wedding and left me at the mercy of The Cousins. You owe me.”

“And torturing me with our parents balances the score?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Partly,” she said at last. “Knowing you’re going to have to talk about your feelings helps as well.”

“Out,” Eames ordered in as stern a tone as he could manage. Behind him, Arthur was sniggering quietly, and Georgie poked her tongue out at Eames as she left. She shut the door behind herself, just as the book Eames threw bounced off the doorjamb.

“So,” Arthur said when it became obvious that Eames wasn’t going to turn around. “You have a twin sister?”

“Apparently,” Eames said gruffly. “I mean, families, you know? You can’t live with them…”

Arthur laughed quietly, and Eames suddenly realised that for all that he knew about Arthur – the things that made him smile, the way he liked his coffee, the dressing he made for himself for his salads when he thought he was unobserved, the look on his face when he was under and dreaming, and the completely different look on his face when he relaxed into real sleep – for all that, he knew nothing about Arthur’s family, and he had never even thought of asking.

Something of Eames’s thoughts must have shown on his face because Arthur nudged him with his knee.

“She’s nice,” he said, with a disquieting smile. “I like her.”

“What did she do?” Eames asked, already reconciled to the fact it could be nothing good.

“She may have showed me the photo albums,” Arthur said, confirming his worst fears. “I gotta say, Eames, you look damn cute in a sailor suit.”

“Can we change the subject?” Eames asked. “I spent the last week thinking you were dead. Can you let me enjoy you being actually alive before I am forced to kill you?”

“Sure.” Arthur swung himself up so he was sitting next to Eames. His smile was far from comforting. “We can always talk about your feelings if you like.”

All Eames’s good humour drained away, and he felt suddenly cold.

“Let’s not,” he said. “You made your thoughts on that perfectly clear before we left DC.” He narrowed his eyes at Arthur. “You might not feel the same way I do, but there’s no need to bloody make fun of me.”

He started to get up, but Arthur caught his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to tell you when I was leaving the messages. I should never have said what I did.”

Eames shrugged. “I’m a big boy, Arthur. I get that all you want is a convenient fuck. Just because my sister has some maggot in her head that I have feelings, doesn’t make it true.”

“Oh, yeah.” Arthur grinned. “I can tell that. You’d track any of your team members across the globe if they went missing.”

His smile was so open that Eames found his bad humour easing in response.

“Cobb,” Arthur continued. “You’d go to the ends of the Earth for him. Yusuf. Renard…”

“You’ve made your point,” Eames said, struggling to control a most unwelcome smile. “So what. I have feelings? Well, I’ve had them for a while. It’s nothing to get hung up over. We can still work together, and if you want to drop the rest, then I’m not going to sit crying into my tea.”

Arthur looked at him intently, and sighed. “Eames, I shouldn’t have said you were convenient. I mean, even if I hadn’t been lying about my own feelings, it wasn’t true.”

“No?” Eames turned to look at him, at the way the skin was pinking on his ears and cheekbones. “So, what is true then?”

“That I might have feelings too.” Arthur stared down at his fingernails. “That I’ve had them for a while.”

“Really?” Eames looked at Arthur, and had to stop himself from laughing at how ridiculously teenaged the whole thing was.

“Yeah.” Arthur shrugged. “I mean, come on, Eames. You’re a great many things, but none of those are convenient, are they?”

Eames shook his head. “I did wonder when you said it.”

“I was being an ass,” Arthur said. “I knew there was something out of whack on the job – I knew from the start.” He smiled at Eames’s disbelieving expression. “Really? How many times have you asked me for help, Eames? I knew it was something different, and I couldn’t say no. Not when you’d asked. But then it got intense and I didn’t know how to handle it. So…”

“You tried to push me away.”

Arthur nodded. “I’m not good at this,” he said. “The last time I blurred the lines between work and personal it ended up… well…” He shrugged. “You saw how it ended up with Cobb, and I was only there for that because I owed Mal.”

“We’re not Mal and Cobb,” Eames said.

“No.” Arthur smiled at him. “I’m sure we’ll find our own, wholly original ways to fuck things up.”

“You have such faith,” Eames said and Arthur laughed.

“You think we won’t make mistakes?” he asked, and Eames hid his smile in the warm skin of Arthur’s neck.

They stayed like that for a moment, until the crunch of tires on the gravel of the drive outside dragged Eames back to reality.

“So,” he said, tangling his fingers in Arthur’s hair. “You want to get out of here?”

“And miss the chance to meet your parents?” Arthur’s grin was evil. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else, Mr Eames.”

“And I can’t sway you with the promise of depraved sexual practices?” Eames asked, hopefully.

For a second Arthur looked tempted, but shook his head. “You know? I think you’ll end up demonstrating all those depraved practices whether I meet your parents or not. Besides,” he leant closer so his teeth were grazing Eames’s ear. “I quite fancy seducing you in your childhood bedroom.”

Eames gazed at him, smitten, horrified, and not a little turned on. “You’re a minx,” he said.

“I know.” Arthur kissed him, filthy, quick, but full of promise. “Now come on, Eames. I want to meet your mom. You’re sister told me about her feelings about your clothes – I’m sure we’re going to have plenty to talk about.”

He paused at the door and smiled, extending his hand, and Eames, not sure what the hell was happening or why he was so happy about it, took it and followed him.