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“Why are you still here?” Arthur hissed, brushing by Eames as he left the luggage carousel. Eames pushed himself upright from his luggage trolley, stepping casually beside Arthur.
“We're supposed to lay low; split up,” Arthur muttered angrily, weaving between people to try and drop Eames.
“I never suggested not splitting up,” Eames said, dodging the crowd efficiently. “But if you're offering a place to stay, who am I to turn that down?”
“I didn't offer,” Arthur said tensely, opening the door of a cab he'd ordered on the plane. The trunk thumped suddenly and Eames slid into the backseat from the other side with a smile.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked.
“Sorry, I thought it was free. Maybe we could share,” Eames said, smirking.
“Maybe not,” Arthur replied, resisting the urge to smile at Eames' easy recollection of his taxi conversation during the job.
The cab driver waited patiently for one of them to get out.
“Who am I driving?” he asked, eying them in the rear view mirror.
“Me,” Arthur said, glaring at Eames.
“Us,” Eames corrected. “What's your address, again?”
“720 Marshall Street,” Arthur said, meeting the cab driver's eyes in the mirror. He would dump Eames there and continue to his apartment alone.
“Don't listen to him,” Eames said. “65 West Avenue.”
Arthur startled. “How do you know my address?” he asked, speaking through his teeth as the cab started moving.
“You're good, darling, but you're not that good.”
Arthur glanced out his window as the cab started picking up speed, and met Yusuf's eyes. Yusuf smiled at first, and when he caught sight of Eames, his mouth dropped.
The car sped up and Yusuf's confused and shocked visage blurred away.
Twenty minutes of tensely silent L.A. Driving passed, and finally the cab eased to a stop. Arthur climbed out, dragging his simple bag with him. By the time Eames caught up, pile of luggage in his arms, Arthur was about to press the button on the elevator.
“I picked up the cab fare,” Eames said.
Arthur shot him a glance. Eames shrugged and smirked at the only button glowing on the elevator panel.
“Penthouse?” Eames asked, leaning on his luggage.
Arthur closed his eyes, pretending for a moment that he was alone, heading up to his apartment to sleep for a few days straight.
“Now, should I be expecting a sparsely furnished, modern place? Or an old fashioned royalty type deal?”
Arthur grumbled something under his breath and stepped towards the slowly opening elevator doors.
Eames followed, nearly dropping one of his bags. As he recovered his luggage, Arthur pushed his own bag into Eames' loaded arms.
“Hold this,” he said, digging into his pockets. He produced a key after a few moments and unlocked the door. There were four other locks on the door, as well as a key card slot. After almost another minute of uncharacteristic fumbling, he produced the other keys and finally pushed open the door.
“Put all that on the table,” Arthur said, tossing his handful of keys into a bowl at the door. Eames followed him in slowly, glancing around the apartment as he looked for the aforementioned table.
The walls were a boring taupe, and there were massive, thick black curtains draped across an entire wall- certainly a full window wall, completely shrouded. The furniture was light colored and simple, barely noticeable in the room. An innocent table suddenly appeared in Eames' periphery and he dumped the bags there, letting out a sigh of relief from the weight. A bright chandelier flickered on above him, and Eames glanced over at Arthur.
Arthur spun once in the middle of his open kitchen, a lazy smile on his face, completely oblivious to Eames' observance. He headed to his fridge, rummaging in it briefly before pulling something out and walking over to the curtains. A quick tug at a string yanked the curtains away from the window and abruptly an entire skyline appeared. Eames watched intently as Arthur continued to walk around the apartment, pulling and tugging at things.
A few picture frames of dull things like trees and boats were flipped quickly, suddenly showing people, smiling happily into the camera. A few blank panels of wood on the wall were spun and revealed large bookcases, filled to the brim. A subtle cabinet off in the corner popped open at Arthur's toe and suddenly the point man was tossing colorful pillows onto the bland couches.
“Lock the door properly,” Arthur said, his voice as robotic and simple as it had been when his apartment appeared to be owned by an elderly stocks holder.
“So is this...some kind of bipolar flat?” Eames asked, walking over to flip the deadbolts, pin a chain, and click a few other locks.
“If someone happens upon my apartment, I'd prefer they not know everything about me with a simple glance. Might as well make it difficult for them.”
“It's not foolproof, though, they'd uncover everything,” Eames said, frowning.
“If they've found and broken into my apartment, I might as well give up,” Arthur said, beginning to disappear down a hallway. “But it's more fun to give up by being obnoxious about hiding details a little more.”
He wandered through a door with that, and Eames was left alone in the room, staring at the newly exposed intestines of the place.
“Why do I get to see all this?” Eames called down the hall.
“I guess I've given up,” Arthur called back. “Congratulations.”
Eames sat gingerly on the immaculate couch, staring around him with a confused aura. The place was exactly like Arthur, but at the same time nothing like him. The books were certainly like him- but the family pictures, the pillows?
He almost fell asleep on the couch- it turned out to be the plush, marshmallow sort of couch- and was dozing when the soft thumping of feet behind his back roused him. He glanced back and saw that Arthur was back in the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stove.
Eames found himself shooting to his feet as he took a better look at Arthur. His hair was down around his ears, looking soft and wet. It tangled slightly at the back of his neck, just barely curling. His perfectly tailored suit had been swapped for a pair of charcoal gray sweatpants that dragged slightly under Arthur's bare feet and a black t-shirt.
“What happened to you?” Eames asked incredulously.
“I'm going to sleep,” Arthur said, not turning on the kettle but setting out a mug with a tea bag inside it. “And if you wake me up anytime before oh, let's say next week, I will strangle you.”
With that, he disappeared through a different door, and once again Eames was left in the room with no words to describe his confusion.
“There's a guest bedroom,” Arthur called through the door at the end of the hall. “If you can find it, you can sleep in it.”
Eames frowned and ducked back to grab his bags before wandering down the hall. He opened the five doors along the hall- a bathroom, a closet, a laundry room, another bathroom, and another closet. A few more laps up and down the length of the apartment revealed nothing, and finally Eames began a search of each room, looking for doors and passages. The second bathroom finally granted him access to the guest bedroom- a subtle panel inlaid with bricks.
The bedroom itself was adjacent to the main bedroom, and had thick, wine-colored carpeting. The furniture was all light maple, and there were no windows. Eames collapsed onto the bed, his body tired down to the bones.
He'd meant to change out of his clothes, he had- and when he woke up some uncountable number of hours later, he had creases all down one side of his body from the fabric.
Finding the exit from the bedroom again turned out to be almost as difficult as finding the entrance in the first place. He ended up shoving at every panel around the wall until finally one gave way and he stumbled out of the bedroom.
Eames glanced around curiously, realizing that he'd shoved his way into the main bedroom rather than into the hall. The wallpaper was a light blue, and the floor was a light hardwood. The bed and other furniture matched the floor, and the bedspread matched the wallpaper. Eames stared at the whole room curiously, wondering exactly how poorly he knew Arthur.
The bed was empty, the blankets pulled back messily. Eames leaned over it, efficiently tucking in corners until the bed was made.
“Arthur?” he called, emerging from the bedroom.
The man turned around the end of the hallway, holding a mug.
“Good evening,” Arthur said, something like a smile on his face. “I see you found the guest bedroom.”
Eames had never felt so out of his element- he couldn't come up with anything witty to say, and he ended up standing there awkwardly.
“It's all very bright,” Eames said. “It's like a home.”
“It is a home,” Arthur said, turning around again, headed for the couch. His shirt and sweatpants were terribly wrinkled, and Eames wanted to give the man a good shake and remind him that he was the ironing king.
“I expected something much more...professional.”
“Why should I make my home professional when everything else is stiflingly professional?” Arthur asked.
“Why did you let me come here?” Eames asked, all of his confusion pouring into his words.
Arthur leaned against the couch, facing away from Eames still.
“Do you want me to be honest?” he asked.
Eames didn't reply.
Arthur turned around slowly. “I have no idea.”
“Name everyone that's ever seen this place,” Eames said carefully.
“Me,” Arthur said, a frown growing on his face. “Cobb knows where it is...he's seen the door.”
Eames let out a breath. “I'm the only one who's been in here, besides you?” he asked.
“The cable man,” Arthur said. “A plumber, once.”
“Arthur,” Eames said, not liking the way his voice sounded. “I shouldn't be here.”
“Why not?” Arthur asked. “We just pulled off the biggest job any of us have ever done- why not be reckless?”
“You're not the reckless type,” Eames argued, walking towards the kitchen, touching the kettle to check if the water was still warm.
Eames heard the quiet footsteps behind him, but when Arthur's presence was suddenly cornering him against the counter, he stiffened in surprise.
“Who are you to tell me what I am?” Arthur asked, his voice a low mutter.
“Apparently no one,” Eames said carefully, shifting to the right, trying to duck away from Arthur. His arms came up and held the counter on either side of Eames, his fingers tight, knuckles white.
“Having a few unexpected pillows on your couch and hosting a coworker is not reckless, darling,” Eames said, twisting around to face Arthur. “But you have to learn to walk before you can run.”
Eames' back crunched against the granite counter a moment after the words left his mouth, Arthur's hands leaving the counter to shove hard against Eames' chest. Another flicker of a moment, and Arthur's body was pressed against Eames, pushing him tighter against the counter. There was a pause, and Eames cautiously met Arthur's eyes. There was anger there, certainly- anger, indignation, frustration- and something else that Eames couldn't quite identify, he'd never seen it in Arthur's eyes before.
Before he could spend any time wondering, Arthur pressed closer, bringing his mouth to Eames'.
So that was what it was. Lust.
Eames didn't let the momentary shock of the kiss- the reckless kiss, yes- phase him, and he grabbed Arthur's thin but firm waist and twisted them around so that Arthur was pinned rather than him. A slight click in the back of Arthur's throat- a breath being held back- urged him on, and he let his cold hands push aside the thin cloth of Arthur's t-shirt.
Arthur pushed slightly back, tilting his head back, baring his throat. Eames found himself stunned again- the guarded pointman, doing something as fundamentally submissive and trusting as exposing his throat. Eames got over the confusion and ducked slightly to reach Arthur's slender, pale neck. He pushed up Arthur's shirt at the same time, having to pull away to yank the shirt over his head.
Arthur's pale skin was flushed, and he gave Eames a push towards the hall. They barely made it to the first door before Arthur had Eames pressed into the wood, kissing him as if one of them was about to be shot dead.
After a few more flips of dominance, they reached the main bedroom door, and both stumbled through the threshold, Eames' hands tangled in Arthur's loose hair, Arthur's hands working the buttons of Eames' shirt undone.
Eames almost laughed at the gasp Arthur let out into his mouth as Eames tugged at his hair. They made a few more halfhearted steps and sank against the bed.
Arthur suddenly yanked back, his eyes wide.
“You made my bed?” he asked, his astonishment comedic against his red cheeks and mussed hair.
“Well,” Eames began, glancing behind him. Arthur abruptly shoved him to his back, straddling Eames' waist carefully before leaning down and meeting his mouth again.
“You're turned on-” Eames gasped into the kiss, “by me making the bed?”
Arthur let out a sort a grumbling moan and pushed Eames' shirt off of his shoulders, reaching for his belt in the same movement. His belt was barely off before Eames rolled, pushing Arthur into the mattress as he ground down slightly, pushing against Arthur's arousal. Arthur arched up against him, his head tilting back against the mattress, the lines of his throat and jaw prominent.
“Eames,” Arthur said hoarsely.
Eames frowned down at Arthur, leaning down over him so that their faces neared. “Is that your concise way of saying 'get on with the action or this will be the action'?”
Arthur gave Eames a slight push away, confirming Eames' words. Eames struggled against Arthur's sweatpants for a moment, stripping them away and tossing them towards the floor. Arthur wore nothing underneath, and he self consciously pulled his knees up slightly.
“Darling,” Eames said simply.
Arthur gestured wildly towards the bedside table. “Third drawer.”
Eames launched himself for it, slipping off his pants as he dug out a bottle of lube and a condom.
“Stop being so slow,” Arthur groaned, grabbing Eames' hair as he crawled back over him.
“Your decision,” Eames said, holding out the condom between his fingers.
“You, you, you,” Arthur said, bucking his hips up impatiently. “Quickly.”
“Quickly means half-assed and painful,” Eames said, uncapping the lube. “I don't half-ass things.”
“Well then full-ass it,” Arthur said, pushing back against Eames' first slick finger. “Get a move on.”
Eames had to give Arthur's chest a few pushes during the process, forcing him to wait a minute more. Whether or not this was a one-time deal, a quickie to let off the steam of the inception, it was going to be good.
“Do it, I'm good,” Arthur said. “Eames.”
Eames looked down at Arthur, taking in the messy hair, the blown pupils, the beads of sweat at the brow, the parted mouth.
“I'm so glad you're not a clinical lover,” Eames said, rolling the condom on, adding a palm full of lube. Arthur let out a slight laugh that turned into a groan as Eames finally pushed in, his hand finding Arthur's shoulder and digging in with his nails.
“Move,” Arthur said tensely, his hands clutching at Eames' back and pulling him closer. “Move.”
Eames barely paid attention to what he was actually doing- he was busy watching Arthur's face, watching the steel facade slip into a crinkled nose, heavy eyes, and a gasping mouth.
He shifted his hand down from Arthur's shoulder, gripping and tugging at Arthur, reveling in the tiny noises he got in return.
“Eames,” Arthur warned, his spine arching up against Eames.
“Darling,” Eames returned, snapping his hips harder. “Any time.”
Arthur's head flipped back with a gasp, and he came hard, his hands curling deep against the sheets. Eames followed him, bending over Arthur's thin frame wearily.
“Eames,” Arthur said, a few moments later. “If you want, you can stay here for a while.”
He rolled over, pressing a kiss to Arthur's collarbone.
“You couldn't get me to leave for the world,” Eames said.
As the exhaustion and exhilaration of the inception slipped off of them in waves, Eames noticed that Arthur retreated back to his suits and crisps words. But something he'd managed to capture lingered- a sense of recklessness peeking through in the occasional smirk, the crook of a dimple at a joke, the impulsive sex in the shower, the clothes left scattered (unfolded, misplaced!) all over the floor all night.
When the phone rang, a few weeks after the case, Eames flinched. He hadn't even noticed a phone. He watched Arthur approach it cautiously and finally picked it up. Eames walked up to him slowly, trying to listen to the voice on the other end.
“Who is it?” he whispered, twisting his ear towards the phone.
Arthur tugged the phone away impatiently.
“Of course we can meet,” Arthur said. “It's been almost a month.”
Eames raised his eyebrows. “Cobb?” he asked, forgetting to whisper.
Arthur shifted away again. “Nobody,” he said. “I live alone, Cobb, you know that.”
Eames bounced on his heels, waiting for Arthur to hang up.
“They want all of us to meet at a restaurant or something, just to make sure that we're all okay.”
“When?”
“Tonight,” Arthur said. “Two hours. Get dressed in something that doesn't look like Elvis' puke, alright?”
“Of course!” Eames exclaimed, wandering into one of the walk-in closets. There was a corner full of his things, and he eventually found something that was distasteful enough to bug Arthur, but not ugly enough to make him angry.
He had to wait for Arthur to get out of the shower- it was only a tiny wait, Arthur took showers like he was on a navy ship.
Arthur dressed quickly in his usual- a well-fit gray suit- and searched for a book to read while waiting. He nearly dropped the book when there was an urgent knock on the door. He sprang to his feet and quickly tucked away some odds and ends- flipped pictures, turned the bookcases, shoved away a few knickknacks and random articles of clothing that had managed to find homes on the ground and tables.
He finally approached the door with his gun in hand, slowly flipping open the peephole to see Cobb's anxious face. He unlatched all of the locks but the chain and eased the door open.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You know I don't like having people in...”
Cobb shook his head. “It's an emergency, let us in.”
Arthur unlatched the chain before he considered Cobb's choice of words- 'let US in'.
Cobb barged in immediately, Ariadne and Yusuf just at his heels.
“I think something has happened to Eames, his phone line in England that he gave me keeps going to voicemail.”
“We contacted a few agencies already, trying to find out if he's been taken or put to work,” Ariadne said. “We need your help to try and track him down. He could be kidnapped!”
“Uh,” Arthur said, receiving several concerned glances for his lack of careful words.
Eames chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom, hair soaking wet, dripping down his torso into the towel slung around his waist.
“I heard voices,” Eames said, turning around the corner of the hall. He caught sight of the three guests and immediately turned on his heel, marching back into the bathroom. “What a pleasant surprise!” he shouted through the door.
“He's not...kidnapped?” Ariadne asked, frowning.
“Huh,” Yusuf said thoughtfully. “I thought that I'd imagined seeing you two in that cab.”
Cobb struggled for words. “Ehm,” he managed. “Dinner, then?”
Arthur closed his eyes, willing away the situation.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Arthur said tensely, leaving the three in the living room. He headed for the bathroom, ducking inside.
“They must think that I am the least professional person,” Arthur hissed at Eames. “Oh, don't wear that shirt.”
Eames grinned and finished buttoning the shirt. “They're probably all impressed that you're not a cold hearted robot, actually.”
Arthur 'hmph'ed and left the bathroom again, nearly running into Ariadne and Yusuf.
“I said make yourselves comfortable,” Arthur snapped. “Not wander through my home.”
“We were eavesdropping, actually,” Yusuf said, getting an elbow from Ariadne. “But no matter.”
Arthur walked back towards the main room, stopping in his tracks at the sight of Cobb flipping over all of his pictures.
“Is nothing sacred?” Arthur asked, glaring at Cobb's back.
“No pictures of you and Eames?” Cobb asked curiously. “Is this new?”
“Yes,” Eames said, having emerged from the bathroom. “And I'd appreciate if you'd not aggravate Arthur too much over it, or it might not last the night.”
There was a moment's pause before Cobb turned and walked out, glancing behind him as he crossed the threshold. “Dinner!” he shouted.
Eames and Arthur walked a few feet behind Cobb, and Ariadne and Yusuf walked shortly behind them.
“I have a reputation to uphold,” Arthur grumbled, taking long strides angrily. “I hate this.”
“What about my reputation?” Eames asked quietly, letting his hip bump against Arthur's as he grabbed the back of his shirt to slow him down.
“Your reputation is of being unprofessional and ridiculous,” Arthur replied. “Don't kid yourself.”
“Yes, exactly, and being associated with you makes me seem more professional.”
Yusuf tittered behind them, and Arthur turned sharply.
“What?” he snapped, glaring at the pair behind them.
“It's strange,” Ariadne said. “The dynamic.”
Arthur scowled. “You're strange.”
“I think Eames is rubbing off on him,” Yusuf said. “Typical of people spending all of their time together.”
“Maybe he's always been this way,” Ariadne said. “Maybe his seriousness was just a facade for work.”
“Dear god,” Arthur said, following Cobb across the street into a restaurant.
Cobb had already gotten them a little table towards the back of the restaurant, and they sat at it stiffly. Ariadne and Yusuf pointedly arranged themselves to leave two adjacent seats open for Eames and Arthur, who barely looked at each other as they sat.
Yusuf peered at them curiously and cleared his throat. “So, how's the sex?”