Chapter Text
The mountain air is rendered crisp by a tentative spring. It’s one of the first truly mild days of the year; Eames is already anticipating taking the snow tires off the truck, and the absence of frost by midmorning bodes well for the seedlings he’s hoping to transplant into the garden soon.
Eames swings the axe one final time, embedding it firmly in the stump. He smirks to himself as he stretches away the knot conspiring to form between his shoulder blades. It had been Arthur’s grand plan, moving to the wilderness as a reclusive woodsman. Yet here’s Eames, stuck with all the requisite woodsman’s labour.
He only pretends to mind, just like he pretends not to notice whenever he catches Arthur standing at the back door, openly staring as Eames works. It’s good exercise, and meditative, and twenty minutes into town isn’t exactly the boonies, besides. If Arthur appreciates the aesthetic, Eames can hardly deny him.
This morning, though, he has no audience. Eames is only mildly disappointed—he’d known Arthur would be busy today. Preening less than he might have, he gathers the split logs into the canvas carrier. It won’t be long before the cooling sweat on his arms becomes a true chill; he hurries up the gravel path to the house.
“Darling?” he calls as he steps inside. No answer. He kicks his way out of his heavy boots, then circles back to put them on the shoe rack. For good measure, he sweeps up the dried mud they leave behind, determined not to track onto the newly-refinished hardwood.
The sitting room is empty when Eames goes to set his load by the hearth, but the furious clacking of a keyboard is beacon enough. Wiping his dusty hands on his jeans, Eames rounds the corner into the kitchen; there’s Arthur, hunched over his laptop at the head of their paper-laden dining table.
“We’re scheduled to land at a quarter to six,” Arthur announces, as though continuing a conversation they were already in the middle of having. “That should give us enough time to meet up by eight o’clock. My current timetable has us there for forty-eight hours, but I have an alternate flight at twenty-four, if things go sideways. Our hotel is downtown, anyway. Do you think we should rent a car?”
“Hello to you, too,” Eames quips, retrieving a bottle of water and downing half of it. When Arthur only carries on typing, he sighs. “Respectfully, are we sure this is necessary? It’s your mum, not the cartel.”
“God, if only,” Arthur groans, pushing his glasses up to rub at his eyes. “And yeah, it is. If we’re gonna spring it on her like this, you bet your ass I’m going in with an exit strategy. You just know she’s gonna have shit to say.”
Eames nods with mock gravitas. “I know. Her only child, scammed for a green card.”
Arthur laughs, easing a little with the sound. “That would be a lot of hoops to jump through for something you could just DIY.” As soon as he says it, he tenses again, baulking up at Eames. “Oh my god, do not tell her that.”
Eames steps behind Arthur to settle his hands firmly on his shoulders. “Maybe it’s not as bad as all that. Emma and Charlie had a go at me, and that blew over well enough.”
“That was two phone calls, Eames. And standing invitations to visit whenever—on our terms. My mom is gonna be pissed we didn’t have a formal announcement. She’s going to want to have…Events.” Arthur glowers like the word is unforgivably distasteful, the capitalization implied.
“Heaven preserve us.”
Arthur just rolls his eyes. “You’ll see,” he says, then turns back to his computer.
“It’s not for a month, pet. You’ll have plenty of time to come up with all sorts of clever excuses. Let’s focus on this week first, yeah?”
“Right.” Arthur tips to look up at him. “And you’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Arthur makes an equivocal noise, so Eames defiantly kneads at the muscles of Arthur’s neck, until his fingers go loose over the keyboard. When Arthur finally relents and lets his head fall forward with an appreciative moan, Eames grins. He hasn’t lost his gift for distraction; he still has plenty of opportunity to practise.
There’s still the matter of all that paperwork, though. Eames hesitates, but his curiosity wins the day.
“So is this to do with our exit strategy?”
“Hmmm?” Lolling up with an owlish blink, Arthur follows Eames’ gaze to the rows of pages colonising the table. “Oh,” he says, shaking away the haze. “Nah, it’s just a bunch of stuff I need to file. We’ve been killing a lot of trees these days.”
“I can do it,” Eames offers. It earns him a dubious look.
“Are you sure?”
“I won’t promise to arrange it by Mr. Dewey's standards, but I think I can manage yours.”
Arthur scoffs, but doesn’t protest, so Eames opens the box file that’s stationed on the table with a cavalier flip. He picks up the closest document, immediately squinting at the tiny print.
“Here,” Arthur murmurs, passing his own glasses to Eames. Humming his thanks, Eames slides them onto the bridge of his nose, angling Arthur’s progressive lenses until the page comes into focus.
Everything is already scrupulously organised, naturally—even the dividers in the box are pre-labelled by category. Insurance policies, advance directives, wills, deeds. Warmth unfurls under Eames' sternum. The lot of it should be horridly dull; he supposes it might even be construed as flat-out morbid, in a memento mori sort of way. From Arthur, they may as well be love letters. Collated, tabbed, notarized love letters.
Eames scans them, and the places where he had penned each indicated line with the only name he has need of anymore. He relinquished the other characters who had shared his face, long ago. God rest ‘em, the sorry bastards. Eames hopes they wouldn’t be too jealous to see his looping signature, laid by every instance of Arthur’s firm, confident script.
By the time he finishes, Arthur has thankfully abandoned his laptop. Eames trails him to the bedroom, where he’s busy finagling his neatly-folded clothes from their arrangement on the bed into a leather carryall.
“Anything else, love?” Eames asks. Arthur tilts his head, to-do list flicking by behind his eyes.
“Did you pull the bins back in?”
“Yessir.”
“Hm. Could you put the clean sheets on, please?” He glances up, giving Eames an imperious once-over. “Shower first, though. You’re all sweaty.”
Eames chuckles. “Am I?”
When he takes a casual step towards Arthur, he’s met with narrow-eyed suspicion.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“What? You’ve had me toiling away like an honest-to-god lumberjack all morning.” Eames’ tone is perfectly innocent, even as he looms closer with a wicked grin. “I was under the impression that that turns your crank?”
“Eames…” Arthur says, low and warning, but he doesn’t move away. This close, Eames can see his spreading flush, and the hammer of his heartbeat beneath the tender skin of his pulse point.
“That’s what I thought,” Eames purrs, knocking the bag off the bed in the same motion as he tackles Arthur onto it. He doesn’t hear any more complaints, after that.
from: [email protected]
subject: proposal
message:
I got a chance to look over the proposal you sent. It seems solid enough—to my knowledge, there’s nothing quite like it yet. The therapeutic possibilities of dreamshare have been postulated for some time, but not for veteran dreamers. Certainly not for those who have been in your unique situation.
I’m no psychiatrist, obviously, but I would of course be able to consult as you develop your initial protocols. Let me know how/when I can be of assistance.
-Eames
from: [email protected]
subject: RE: proposal
message:
Thank you very much. I will appreciate your expertise. Ariadne and Yusuf are already on board, so once we determine everyone’s availability, I will be glad to fly you to Tokyo at your earliest convenience. Arthur is, as always, welcome to join our team, but I suspect I already know his answer.
Yusuf says you have left the industry entirely. The significance of your work on this project is not lost on me.
Saito
from: [email protected]
subject: RE: proposal
message:
Alas, Arthur is spoken for. Cementing the information literacy of Colorado’s brightest and all that. He’s made himself indispensable as usual—the whole university would probably collapse. For my part, as far as the field is concerned, I was whacked ages ago. My sudden resurrection would definitely cause a snag or two. But I trust your discretion.
On the subject…I know it’s a wildly impertinent question, but I have to ask: Why dreamshare? Why now? I would have thought you’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.
-Eames
(P.S. Arthur was paying bills this afternoon, and discovered our mortgage mysteriously settled up. It wouldn’t do to presume, but the timing is interesting, considering we only just shared our news with Cobb. And while he’s hardly in a bad way, I’m fairly sure he doesn’t have that sort of disposable income. Ergo: thank you, from us both. Sincerely.)
from: [email protected]
subject: RE: proposal
message:
I understand. I assumed that was the case, but I would be remiss not to ask. Perhaps he can join us on a recreational basis?
To your question, I can’t explain it totally. This sort of thing evades language, in general. In short: I am ready now. As you said, dreamers who have had a similar experience are currently without resources. It is a chance to prevent some small measure of tragedy, going forward. Mr. Cobb might be able to articulate it better than I.
And I’m sure you know as well as anyone can, you never fully leave it behind.
Saito
(You are quite welcome. Please accept my congratulations. You’ve both earned it, many times over.)
“Ohhh, funny guy.”
“Hush. It’s a partial tour of our important historical landmarks.”
Arthur quirks a brow at the boarding pass Eames is brandishing, heralding their journey to McCarran International— LAS.
“It’s poetic,” Eames explains, and that gets Arthur to crack a smile.
“Does this mean we’re going to take a stroll of our friendly neighbourhood military compound?”
“Don’t be silly.” Eames tucks the ticket in Arthur’s back pocket as they both survey the Departures board. “I never shagged you on a military base.”
Arthur laughs. “Is that how you’re defining an ‘important historical landmark,’ then?”
“It’s a not-insignificant factor, but no, not exactly. If that were the only criterion, we’d have to take a much longer holiday.”
“Oh baby,” Arthur whispers, theatrical and teasing. “Poetry and taxonomies? You really thought of everything.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Eames says indulgently, taking Arthur’s hand to find their gate.
from: [email protected]
subject: Congrats (maybe??)
message:
Hello my friend,
I received a very interesting note in the post, today. I’m not sure Arthur (bc I’m assuming it was his work, yes?) could be more vague if he tried, but I think I gathered that congratulations are in order. So, congratulations. I hope to be able to tell you in person, sooner than later.
As always, it’s quiet around here without your particular brand of trouble. Not going to say whether that’s good or bad.
Yusuf
from: [email protected]
subject: RE: Congrats (maybe??)
message:
Yes, I believe he was attempting to split the difference between making it a whole to-do and totally surprising everyone (see prev: making a whole to-do). He’s never fully made the transition back into regular old social life, I’m afraid. Then again, I suppose he’s always been like this. That would make two of us.
Thanks, mate. I’m sure you’re doing your part to keep it interesting. I believe our mutual friend will be summoning us all shortly. Perhaps we can make an ill-advised reunion of it.
E
Eames hums to himself, tuneless notes strung loosely together, as he shaves at the lightly-fogged mirror of their hotel bathroom. Precise and efficient, he straightens up only the edges around the column of his neck.
Arthur likes the short beard. He tries not to be too emphatic about it, but Eames knows. It’s a small luxury, no longer having to adjust his appearance to suit the job; now that Eames actually has the choice, Arthur does his best not to influence it. Whatever you feel like, his casual mantra. But subtlety has never been his strength, and the extra attention of his straying fingertips on Eames’ jawline when he kisses him is a dead giveaway.
As he rinses away the last of the soap, Eames inspects his work. The grey, he notes, is spreading, more prominent than it had been even a year ago. When he smiles, the eyes looking back at him are faintly lined at the corners. More of those gentle reminders: the way the man in the mirror is changing, a refreshingly passive transformation.
Eames isn’t quite forty—still young by most measures. And yet he’s surpassed even the most generous predictions for his longevity, his own included. When he considers every factor he’s defied, he can’t bring himself to make even a token complaint. Getting older is lovely. He would highly recommend it.
> hey, it’s ariadne. i just finished a job so i’m still on a burner.
> why isn’t arthur picking up? he asked me to call him a couple days ago.
> he’s dead to the world atm. sleeping in for once.
> oh shit, i forgot you guys were on paris time rn. sorry!
> do you know what it was about?
> i might have an idea
> img_03132016_003.jpg
> do you know how ominous it is to get a photo without context
> when have i ever sent you anything nefarious??
> don’t answer that actually
> just open it. i promise it’s nothing untoward.
> ok.....
> OH MY GOD
> WHAT
> WHEN
> ARE THOSE REAL??
> of course. i would never be so gauche as to buy him fake jewellery.
> you dick you know that’s not what i mean
> this isn’t like some weird con you’re running? are you back in the game???
> i appreciate that vote of confidence
> but no, arthur would have my head
> 100% genuine, 100% legal matrimony. groundbreaking i know.
> hoooly shit
> i’m assuming you didn’t have a wedding? or should i be deeply offended?
> not to worry, we excluded everyone equally. decided we’d rather make the rounds individually.
> you know arthur hates to be fussed over
> and the various companies we keep wouldn’t mix well. can you imagine?
> oh god, yeah. point taken.
> we still HAVE to celebrate SOMEHOW. maybe in tokyo?
> have you visited anyone yet?
> not yet. we’ve got plans with arthur’s mum next month. and then probably my sisters shortly after.
> we’re going to end this trip with a stop at the cobbs’. that’ll be the first.
> right
> well you know we’re gonna have to make a “fuss” anyway. so brace him for that.
> should have expected it
> that’s what we get for associating with so many contrary bastards, i spose
> damn straight
“Oh my god.” Arthur frees the pint from Eames’ hand before Eames even gets the chance to sit down. “I missed you,” he says into the bright amber, knocking back a long draught.
“Should I be jealous?” Eames chuckles, before taking his own sip. He groans borderline indecently. “Nevermind. You’re right. Hel lo.”
Their plan, on arrival to London, truly had been more sophisticated; the mundanity of actually living in the city meant that Arthur had missed some of the “essential” tourist spots, his first go around. It only takes a day (and an admittedly-enjoyable trip to Kew Gardens) before they find themselves circling back to their old haunts.
“You don’t realise how different it is until you’re stuck with American beer,” says Arthur. He wipes thin line of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “Not to sound insanely pretentious.”
“That ship has long sailed, sorry to be the one to tell you.”
Arthur gives him a playful kick under the picnic table, but lets his foot rest on the bench beside Eames’ thigh, anyway. Eames squeezes his ankle. It's a brisk day, but the sun is shining auspiciously, and sitting outside the bustling pub helps to dilute the ubiquitous smell of cigarettes.
“Europe is kind of the final boss of quitting, huh?” Arthur asks, reading his mind (or perhaps his fleeting glance at the ashtray).
“Mm. It’s getting easier.” It’s true; their first visit after he’d sworn off smoking had been punctuated by entire boxes of nicotine patches, and one instance of being caught red-handed on the fire escape, puffing away like some sort of junkie. Arthur had laughed at him, but at least had the courtesy to feel bad about it. Now, he just offers a sympathetic smile, and taps his glass against Eames’.
“Well, Mr. Cask Ale Connoisseur,” says Eames, “have you gotten what you actually came to this old town for?”
“Pretty much, now. I—hm.” Arthur nods at something behind and slightly above Eames. “There it is.”
Eames cranes around to follow his gaze, and finds the brick facade of their old building, looming beige and friendly in the nearish distance. They’re not so close that he could spot the flat from the outside, but they’d once made this walk often enough that he thinks, given enough proper English pints, he might still stumble his way back to it by instinct.
“It’s so weird,” Arthur murmurs.
“Hm?”
“Someone else, living there.” He shrugs, frowning to himself, like he’s unsatisfied with his own wording. “That’s dumb. Obviously that’s how apartments work, but—”
“It’s different,” says Eames. “I know.”
Arthur snorts. “Maybe they let it to another couple of jetsetting criminals,” he says with a wry grin. Eames matches it.
“We certainly know there’s a market for it.”
With a vague noise of amused agreement, Arthur lets his eyes fall to the drinks between them, and Eames’ left hand where its braced on the tabletop. He reaches out, running his fingertips over the gold ring that had been so surprising to Ariadne.
“Do you think we would have gotten here, anyway? Y’know. Without.”
Arthur’s voice is so soft and pensive, it makes Eames want to leap over the table to gather him into a suffocating embrace. He settles for lacing their fingers together, settling his right hand atop them.
“I don’t know,” he says, honestly, because he makes a point of never lying to Arthur if he can help it.
“But?” Arthur asks, hearing the unspoken open end.
Eames sighs contentedly. “I would do it again.”
Arthur’s mouth quirks crooked, enough to dimple his cheek.
“Good enough for me.”
> you know arthur has an absolute horror of taking up space, so he’s asked me to ask you again:
> would you prefer we got a hotel for our stay?
> Of course not. Tell him to knock it off.
> it’s my daily struggle
> but thanks, i will pass it along
> We’re looking forward to seeing you. It’s all James has been able to talk about all week.
> Current talking points include: the fort he’s building behind the house, how we might be getting a dog soon (WE ARE NOT), and how they’re learning about Ancient Egypt at school.
> that's quite the list
> i'm afraid we might be a bit of a disappointment. our life isn’t nearly so exciting as all that.
> Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.
> And you underestimate James’ enthusiasm for his uncles.
> absolutely agreed
> cheers—if that doesn’t help talk arthur down, i’m not sure what will. we’ll see you tomorrow.
“What do you do for your job?”
It’s the type of non sequitur Eames has come to expect from Phillipa, so he doesn’t bother trying to parse it. “That’s a complicated question,” he says. “I don’t really have one right now. I suppose you might call me a consultant. Comb, please.”
From her seat on the porch step beneath his, Phillipa dutifully hands him the small comb. Eames sets to parting her long, dark blonde hair into even sections.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Hmm. So, sometimes, when people have a special problem, they pay me to help them figure it out. But it’s only every once in a while. I don’t go in every day.”
“So what do you do while Uncle Arthur is working?”
“Oh, plenty. We bought our house not too long ago, so there’s work still to be done on it.”
“Huh,” says Phillipa. Eames doesn’t think he detects judgement in it, just consideration. It’s a far sight better than some of their nosier neighbours, who seem unusually invested in Eames’ changeable schedule.
“Why?” he asks. “What do you want to do for your job?”
“I want to be an architect,” she declares, without hesitation.
“I see. Like your dad?”
“And my mom. Did you know she was an architect, too?”
Eames smiles, for all she can’t see it from behind. “I did, actually. She was very good.”
“Mm-hm.”
She seems content to let that lie, so Eames doesn’t press it. It’s difficult to tell how much she actually remembers versus what she’s been told, and he isn’t keen on dredging up topics Cobb isn’t yet ready to field. Inevitable, maybe, but not now. He searches his atrophied paternal instincts, both for an appropriately sage pivot, and for the muscle memory of weaving her hair into some semblance of order.
“Well, you’ll have to go to a lot of school and keep up good marks—ah, grades. But you’re very bright. You’ll do fine.”
Phillipa nods, jostling Eames’ work a little. “Did you have to go to school to be a consultan?”
“Consultant. And no. I actually didn’t finish school,” he admits. “I don’t recommend that. It took a lot of hard work to get here—not the good kind of hard work. And luck.”
“Why don’t you finish it now?”
Eames chuckles. “Do you think I should?”
“Yeah,” she says decisively. “You should ask Uncle Arthur if you can go to his school.”
“Hmm. Tell you what. You study hard and keep doing your best, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay.”
It’s as good a button as any, and Eames has come to the end of the plait. He extends his left wrist, offering up the collection of scrunchies he’s kept on hand. “Which one, then?”
“Here,” Phillipa says, selecting a deep purple flecked with silver glitter and presenting it with a gap-toothed grin.
“Excellent choice.”
With that, Eames ties off the braid, patting her shoulder to send her on her way. She’s up like a shot, running to join the others in the garden.
As he gathers up their tools, Eames looks up to see Cobb, freshly tagged out of their game and panting like he’s just run a marathon. Maybe he has, over the whole course of the afternoon. He collapses onto the steps with a grunt and glances over at Eames.
“Nice bracelets,” he comments, offhand, pointing to the hair ties still adorning Eames’ forearm. Eames smirks down at them, but makes no move to take them off.
“She wanted options.”
“You’ll have to show me how you do that sometime. I never got the hang of it.”
“It’s been ages since I had to do it,” Eames hedges, “but it’s still in here, somewhere.” He taps his forehead with an index finger. “I’m not sure what other knowledge it’s displaced, but somehow it held out.”
They watch as James passes the football to Phillipa, a wobbly toss that she manages to save with a dive. Her own throw to Arthur makes it a bit further, enough to draw an oof when he catches it.
“She’s sharp,” says Eames. “And quite the interrogator.”
“Yeah,” Cobb laughs. “Unfortunately, she inherited my tact.”
“And your hard-headedness, I should think.”
“Believe me, I know. And we haven’t even hit the teen years. I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
“Ah, I remember that, too. Godspeed.”
“They say kids are karma for whatever you put your own parents through.” Cobb leans back, propping his elbows on the step behind him. “If that’s true, I’ll be paying double. If what Miles has told me is any forwarning.”
“Yes,” Eames agrees. “...I see a lot of her.”
Cobb sighs, uncharacteristically wistful. “Yeah.”
Across the grass, Arthur calls for James to go long, sending the ball with an impressively tight spiral—his birthright as an American boy, Eames thinks. It goes far enough that the kids both have to chase it, laughing and shrieking, giving Arthur a moment to rest with his hands on his knees. He pushes his dark hair back, his grin wide and unabashed as he watches them.
“I don’t thank you enough,” Cobb murmurs. It’s apropos of nothing, except that it isn't, actually.
Eames shakes his head. “You don’t have—”
“I do, though,” he says. “I know it was hard. On both of you.”
“Well.”
“Every day, I get up and think about how I could have been missing this. Even the tough stuff, it means something. And I owe a lot of that to you guys. A lot of it. I feel like I should say it more, but…” Cobb shrugs. “I always feel like I took something from you. Time, I guess. I just—I want you to know that I don’t take it for granted.”
Eames chances a sidelong look to see Cobb gazing out at the scene before them. He’s wearing look of genuine peace, whose absence Eames remembers all too well. Eames checks himself, as he occasionally does, and finds none of the simmering resentment this conversation would have once brought on.
“I understand,” he says. “I think I always have. Don’t get me wrong, I was fucked off with you for quite a while, but…I know. You do things when…”
He doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t have to. Cobb smiles.
“He looks really happy,” he says, nodding towards Arthur. “Mal always said you would be good for him.”
“It meant quite a lot, having her in my corner.”
“No, I mean, from the beginning.” Cobb looks blithely back at him, like he’s sharing some privileged bit of gossip. “After your first trial run with him, Mal told me ‘Arthur is done for.’ I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but I figured it out pretty quickly.”
Eames is determined not to blush in front of the man; he lifts his hand in a visor to protect from the sunset that isn’t quite low enough yet to warrant it.
“She was right, for the record.” Mercifully, Cobb turns away. “She usually was but, y’know. You are. Good for him, I mean. Thanks for taking care of him when I couldn’t.”
Eames hums thoughtfully, pushing himself up to standing. “I don’t think he would have ever been happy if he hadn’t done everything he could. I get that too, now.”
The kids have successfully retrieved the ball, running at top speed back to Arthur’s side of the makeshift field. The rules of the game aren’t totally clear, but it seems to involve barrelling directly into Arthur, their combined force tackling him to his knees. He laughs, loud and bright, and Eames surrenders to his own daft grin.
“It was worth it,” he says, and is relieved to discover that he means it.
He offers his right hand down to Cobb, helping him up. The grasp lingers for the briefest of moments, but the shake is unmistakable.
“I think he could probably use both our help, at the moment.” Eames nods towards the dogpile, of which Arthur is serving as the breathless foundation. Cobb sniggers.
“We better get going, then,” he says, and they enter the chaotic fray.
from: [email protected]
subject: Welcome Aboard!
message:
Mr. Eames,
Good news! Our employers have processed your onboarding paperwork, and we are finally allowed to officially welcome you to our team. You should be receiving your clearance information from them soon, but I wanted to be the first to say it =)
As you know, we do most of our work from our home (benefits of the updated portable models, yes?) Please see the attached map. I was told you already have living arrangements in place, but please let us know if you need any assistance at all.
We should be ready for our first trial in as little as a week. Dom and I are looking forward to seeing you in person again, and to introducing you to our other friend and colleague. He is incredible at what he does, and I trust you will like him tremendously. At risk of making a terrible pun, this is an absolute dream team.
Thank you again for your interest in our research. With any luck, we are headed towards new and fascinating horizons.
-Mallory Cobb
Magnanimous though he is, Cobb is still a single father of two school-aged children. When Arthur suggests he and Eames tidy up so Cobb can kip early, their host is practically down the hall before he finishes saying “thanks.” Just as well; Arthur will sleep better once he feels he’s contributed something to their interim household. While he finishes the washing up in the kitchen, Eames works on setting the common areas to rights.
By the time he’s done, the sitting room floor is clean of the elaborate plastic car track on which they’d spent the afternoon, and a load of laundry is thrumming away in the washer (Eames isn’t sure how many pairs of socks the kids go through in a day, but he’s certain the maths don’t add up). In the dim light of a floor lamp, he surveys the wall of family photographs, framed in an array of mismatched frames that all somehow work together. There are more than he remembers: newborn photos juxtaposed alongside current school portraits. Little league teams and camping trips. Mal and Dom’s wedding; Eames puffs a fond laugh to see Arthur standing beside them, gangly and dimpled and guileless.
The room is quiet enough to hear the ornate wall clock ticking steadily, a stark difference from the lovely chatter that had greeted them the moment they crossed the threshold. He falls into an armchair, letting the happy aches of the day perfuse him. Idly, he lets his eyes fall to the sofa beside him.
He’s startled—transported instantly to this very spot, now a good decade past. It’s the same sofa, but there’s a young man gracing it. His handsome face is open and unlined with sleep, his arm hooked to a fantastical little device by a lead of plastic tubing. Eames has his own line in hand, smirking as he prepares to introduce himself in the most unconventional manner possible.
He prides himself on his expansive imagination. Foolish, young, arrogant; he hasn’t the faintest idea what’s about to happen to him.
It’s an older, world-weary Eames who resurfaces to the sound of a crackling record over Cobb’s old stereo system, before the soft, familiar notes of a cabaret band usurp it; Arthur is standing at the player, similarly altered by time and trials, but no less gorgeous. Setting aside the vinyl sleeve, he crosses over to Eames in slow, meandering steps.
“Hello, love,” Eames sighs, taking Arthur’s proffered hand to kiss the back of it.
“Hey,” says Arthur. For a pleased moment, Eames thinks perhaps Arthur is about to join him in the chair. Instead, he pulls Eames out of it.
“Hello,” Eames says again, as he’s led wordlessly to the middle of the room. “What’s this?”
“I’m dancing with you,” Arthur murmurs, and draws Eames close. “Keep up.”
“Yes, I gathered that.”
“It’s our weird, protracted reception,” Arthur explains, matter-of-fact, “and I’d like to dance with my husband.”
“Ah, I see.” Eames winds his free hand around Arthur’s back, relaxing into the embrace. It’s slow, lazy. Hardly proper dancing at all, but undeniably pleasant. “Here I had thought you were dead set against the usual trappings of a wedding.”
Arthur chuckles. “The fun thing about doing whatever we want, now,” he says, low and conspiratorial, “is that we can do whatever we want.”
“Well said,” laughs Eames.
As Arthur lets his head rest atop Eames’ shoulder, Eames takes a deep, slow breath. He feels the way the air fills his lungs, somehow more satisfying for the gentle pressure against his chest.
Eames doesn’t dream anymore. He’s among the unlucky few who never regained the ability, even after the various sedatives and chemical cocktails had long since left his system. He had thought that it would bother him more. As they sway, here, in the tangible intersection of past and present and hopeful future, Eames doesn’t miss it at all.
Il est entré dans mon cœur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause
C'est toi pour moi, moi pour toi dans la vie
He pushes his cheek against Arthur’s hair. “And if I wanted to kiss you now?”
“Hmm,” Arthur says, tipping back to scan him with those dark eyes; Eames’ subconscious could never do them justice. “Then you’d probably better do it.”
And, well, who is Eames to argue with that?