Fic: Make It Mean (1/2)

[eternalsojourn]

Title: Make it Mean (Link to Master Post)
Author: eternalsojourn
Artist: sin_repent
Rating: NC-17 for sex, graphic violence, torture (committed by main characters), strong language, description of past non-con, ambiguous ending, possible main character death, and probably something else inappropriate for minors that I’ve forgotten
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Beta: night_reveals
Word Count: 16,761
Warnings: See Rating

Summary: An alternate universe of a kind, in which Mal’s death alters everyone’s course of action before the events of Inception. A senseless act of violence pushes Cobb out of his life’s course, and as a result Arthur and Eames both miss their opportunity to enter dreamshare. They meet anyway and head down a decidedly bloodier career path as assassins. Along the way their shoulders brush with what might have been.

AO3 Post here.

Art is embedded but you can also view on sin_repent's journal here.

Author’s Note: My eternal gratitude goes to sin_repent for this incredible art, which simply blew me away. I feel incredibly privileged to work with her as I’ve admired her work since I entered this fandom. And as always, none of this would have happened without the endless patience, gentle (and not-so-gentle) prodding of my beta, night_reveals. And a special shout-out to both achaostheorem, whose constant moral support is invaluable, and metacheese, who helped me wrap my brain around wrangling an honest-to-god plot.

Make It Mean - Part One

Leeds, England, April 2003

Eames stepped back out of range of the puddle of blood seeping across the floor. It was a laughable gesture when he was already soaked, splashes across his face, sleeve a mottled sticky Rorschach blot of red and white clinging to his skin. The knife hung from his hand, pat-pat-patting droplets onto the floor.

He breathed heavily, and he was positively thrumming with surplus energy. His greedy eyes took in the sight of the man, wounds not even visible through the mess of blood and torn clothing. One side of his face was smashed into the linoleum, one arm bent at an improbable angle midway up his forearm. His eyes were open and when Eames bent forward to look at them, he wondered why he never noticed before how beautiful they were, icy blue with flecks of brown around the pupil. Against the white of his skin and the red smeared across his cheek and over the bridge of his smashed nose, Eames decided the palette was stunning, comic-book bright and intense saturation.

For the first time in far too many years he actually felt compelled to draw, to commit this beauty to paper so that it could live on. But something wasn’t right: this wretch didn’t do anything in life to deserve a beautiful corpse, so Eames took a moment to etch the image in his mind, then bent down to grip the man’s skull, digging his thumbs into Dave’s eye sockets. He pressed steadily, felt the resistance and the slickness of the eyeballs sliding sideways out from under his thumbs. He dug until he was satisfied that enough blood had pooled, enough damage done so that only Eames would have a record of how they looked in that one divine moment.

The feeling was indescribable, better than the satisfying ache after a perfect workout, better than the boneless bliss of post-coital pleasure. Eames took in the scene; he looked down at the spreading pool of brilliant red, at the bruises on his own knuckles -- not yet purple but swollen and raw -- at the knife in his hand, at the man at his feet, empty and wiped clean of everything that made him him. And Eames thought, “Yes.”

Manchester Prison, June 2002

The fuckwit was actually laughing. Dave, his name was. Outside of here, in another life maybe, one that hadn’t turned him wiry and hard and landed him in this place, he might have been a handsome man. But his muscles didn’t come from the gym, and his face was lean and severe the way only tough living could make it. His accent matched the rest of him, rough and harsh; it was yobbos like this who gave council estates a bad name.

“She screamed a lot. Pretty voice. French. You know those French girls, always up for a tumble.” Dave leaned against his knees on his bunk, rocking back and forth with the excitement of remembering. “After awhile, I couldn’t take the screamin’ any more, had to stuff her knickers in her mouth. She took it in the backdoor, cried like a bitch, but I could tell she liked it. Prolly never got it proper from her bloke. It was the best, like. No one around so I kept her for hours. Blew off in her three times, innit? Never did get done for that one.”

Eames sneered in utter contempt. He never did shut up, that one. That was why Eames kept his nose clean in there, why he kept the guards sweet. He saved it up for times like those, when he knew if he asked nicely enough, offered whatever favours were necessary, he could get the guy transferred out of his cell. And in the meantime he just turned over in his bunk and shut his odious cellmate out. It was a skill he learned early on, how to disappear into his own skull. In prison it was one of the handiest things he could have known how to do.

Manchester, England, February 2003

It felt good to be in civilian clothes again, even though they didn’t quite fit after all the weightlifting Eames had done during his time inside. He had his wallet and not much else, and his rumpled suit did little to stave off the chill of the overcast and drizzly Manchester weather.

Eames stepped out the front door and looked at his feet for a moment. He hadn’t been in prison very often, he was too careful for that. But every single time he had a philosophical moment upon his release when he contemplated his physical place on the planet, and how absurd it was that the ground right here meant something so different from the ground 100 yards behind him.

He shook it off and turned his attention forward. Cobb stood beside a silver Subaru, arms folded and looking as grim as Eames had ever seen him.

Eames was expecting him; in prison he’d been handed the message that he was to be picked up. Presumably Cobb was there to talk to him about that new line of business in California. Eames was skeptical that any straight line of work would pay the kind of money he was used to, but Cobb had seemed to think Eames would be interested.

As he approached, Cobb didn’t move a muscle. He just balefully dragged his eyes up from his thousand yard stare. He looked wrecked and Eames thought that of the two of them, Cobb looked like the one who’d just served eighteen months.

“Eames. Glad you’re out,” Cobb said. “Where am I dropping you? I should tell you first that we need to have a chat, but if you’re not up to it yet...”

“No, mate, that’s fine. I still have my flat in Didsbury, but if you want to chat, I could certainly use a proper pint and a pub meal. How about the Britons Protection?” Eames said. Then, wryly, “I’m afraid you’ll have to pay, though; I’m a bit skint.”

Cobb nodded, shifted off the door, and opened it for Eames. “Britons Protection. You’ll have to direct me.”

***

The pint of bitter was good. It was so good Eames wasn’t inclined to disturb the silence between them. His stomach growled in anticipation of his food coming, although he knew it’d be a bit yet.

They were pretty much alone in the pub. Two slightly older men sat on stools, but that was on the other side of the bar, and Eames and Cobb had settled into the room at the back. Cobb stared at his pint of lager, spun it slowly, then placed it precisely in the centre of his drinks mat, then spun it again, ad nauseam.

Eames was halfway through his pint when Cobb finally cleared his throat and pursed his lips, visibly steeling himself. “Mal’s dead, Eames. I thought you should know, she always liked you.”

Eames’s stomach lurched.

When, after an unknown number of difficult breaths later, he felt capable of saying anything, he replied, “Cobb. Mate. I’m so sorry,” and it didn’t cover half of what he wanted to say. At that moment he was simply trying not to remember all the little pictures of Mal that sprang unbidden to his mind. Instead he turned his attention to the man in front of him.

“When?” Eames asked. “How?” And he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, wasn’t sure if he should even ask.

“She was raped,” Cobb’s voice cracked on the word but his face remained otherwise unchanged. “Repeatedly. I was away, out of the country, and they called me, the hospital called me. When I came back she was drifting in and out of consciousness.”

Cobb picked up his pint finally and took a long, deep pull. With another clearing of his throat he continued. “That was almost a year ago. Physically she recovered, but. Mentally she... retreated into a fantasy. Kept saying this world wasn’t real and that she had to wake up. That project we were working on, she had to stop —” Cobb paused, giving his glass another spin. “She killed herself.”

Eames let the silence resume, unable to take it all in. He filed it away, resolved to himself to examine it later if he needed to.

“If there’s anything I can do, just name it.”

“Thanks, Eames,” Cobb managed a smile, but it was a mockery. “I have Philippa and James to take care of now. A man of your particular skill set is not really what I need right now.”

Eames nodded, comprehending more than was on the table. Bringing Eames in on this secret project was no longer on the table. Together, Mal and Cobb had held out for Eames’s inclusion. With Mal gone, and Cobb grieving, and the general resistance to training a con man... well. This was Cobb’s way of asking Eames to stay away.

The barman approached the table then, a plate of steaming curry wafting towards them. Cobb looked up at him with relief.

With a nod to the barman, Eames let his food sit for a minute. “Still, if there ever is anything I can do...”

Cobb gave a dismissive wave but said, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Listen, do you need a bit of cash to tide you over or anything?”

Eames picked up his fork and pushed some curry onto a blank spot of rice. “No, I’ll be alright.”

***

It wasn’t until Eames settled himself into his own bed that night that he thought back to his prison bunk and the conversation he had so carefully ignored. It took him a few minutes to even remember the bloke’s name; he had arranged a transfer quickly and a new fish had been shuffled in.

Dave. Eames seemed to recall the man being released about month before Eames himself. Which would mean he was out there.

Mal was a friend; she had always treated Eames like a real human being, had talked to him like a person and not a criminal. Cobb and Mal weren’t family exactly, but Eames didn’t have much in the way of family and the Cobbs had been unerringly accepting.

A memory popped into his head of Dave, who had no redeeming features when Eames met him, and had even fewer now. Eames did a few calculations: when Dave entered the prison, when the incident with Mal must have happened.

Eames went to sleep with a half-formed idea that soothed him. In the morning he would ask around about Dave. Eames would find him.

Leeds, England, April, 2003

“So some French bird gets raped and you assume it’s me? There’s a lot of French girls, mate, you can’t know.” Dave, in a show of either confidence or stupidity, looked like he honestly expected Eames to discuss this. Eames wasn’t there to talk.

“You’re right,” he said agreeably. “Maybe it was someone else.” He tilted his head and stared, watching as Dave first grinned, then faltered, then began to fidget. Eames hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable, but now that he was, Eames was fascinated.

Sweat pricked up on Dave’s temples and upper lip, his wiry frame became even tenser, subtly curving in on itself. His eyes kept flicking to the door behind Eames. Perhaps there were other ways out, onto the fire escape stairs maybe. Eames was amused at how obvious it was that Dave was assessing the same thing in that moment.

It was almost comical the way Dave’s face reassembled into something conciliatory.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t do your bird, mate. But look here, right? You got done for robbery, yeah? I got a mate, he’s got a line on a big job. I could hook you up, like. It’s big time dosh.” He actually looked hopeful.

“I make it a habit to avoid working with weasels,” Eames said evenly. Dave looked like a caged animal and it put Eames on alert. Dave may be a scurrilous little rat, but Eames wasn’t stupid enough to underestimate him. Eames tensed, shoulders rising, hands curling into half-fists. He knew what he looked like when he decided to look intimidating. It’d made bouncers hesitate to ask him to leave bars; it’d made lesser men piss themselves.

He hadn’t made a move but something in Dave stretched to breaking, then snapped. He launched himself forward in an apparent attempt to knock Eames aside while trying to burst past him to the door. Eames shifted, heaving his weight, and knocked Dave to the wall, pinning him there. He pressed his forearm to Dave’s throat. Dave struggled and landed some hard punches to Eames’s ribs. Eames grunted but didn’t let up, just leaned in harder, watching as Dave’s eyes went red and started to water.

Eames smiled, baring his teeth while Dave’s kicks and punches lost their sting. Dave’s legs went lax for a moment, then his knee connected with Eames’s groin and in the resulting flare of excruciating agony, Eames let Dave drop.

When he opened his eyes Dave was halfway to the kitchen and Eames stumbled after, gritting his teeth through the pain that hadn’t yet abated. Dave brandished a large kitchen knife, though his hand was shaking. Eames held his hands out, calming. The kitchen was galley-style, meaning Dave had no choice but to fight his way out. Eames adopted his most disarming look of sympathy, moving forward millimetre by millimetre, never stopping.

“Stay calm, I’m not going to hurt you,” Eames said, and the part of his brain that knew otherwise simply stayed quiet, allowing him to believe it for a moment so that Dave would as well. Eames allowed a small, kind smile to touch the corners of his lips, watching as confusion caused Dave’s stance to falter, the knife to lower slightly.

Without waiting to see if Dave would believe him completely, Eames shot his hand forward, lightning quick and slammed Dave’s wrist to the edge of the stove, but the knife stayed in Dave’s grasp. Surprisingly strong for one so skinny, Dave wrenched free of Eames’s grip and slashed, catching Eames’s forearm.

In the ensuing struggle, Eames took a few cuts but his size and weight pressed Dave to the refrigerator, the counter, and eventually into the cool linoleum. He wrested the knife from Dave’s hand and watched as panic widened Dave’s eyes. His pulse fluttered at his throat, his pupils dilated. Briefly Eames wondered what Dave saw in his own victims, but the thought was fleeting, a mere glimpse caught in his periphery. He was too focused on how the blade pressed into the flesh of Dave’s neck, no blood, just a smooth, sharp dent. Eames’s lip curled in disdain at the bluntness of the blade.

With an internal shrug, Eames sliced through Dave’s throat hard and quick before punctuating it with a hammered punch to lodge the blade into Dave’s heart. The crunch was loud as his ribcage gave way. Dave’s neck squirted everywhere, splattering Eames’s face, his clothes, so Eames stood up and backed away, yanking the knife out and holding it loosely in his hand.

It was a few weeks later before it occurred to him to leverage this apparent aptitude for violence towards branching out his career. New challenges and all that.

Chicago, Illinois, June 2003


“Large Triple Shot Americano,” the girl shouted and turned back to the steamer. Eames lifted his drink off the counter and took it to the nearest table, within earshot of the pair of women he’d been eavesdropping on for the past few minutes.

“...not supposed to tell me, but whatever. It’ll be in the news tonight anyway. She’s seen all kinds of gross things, apparently, even though she’s only been on the force a short time. But she’s getting counselling for this one; I’m worried about her.” The dark-haired one probably thought she was keeping her voice low but Eames made it a point to study people, and had picked up some keen listening skills along the way.

The blond one made an effort to sound scandalized, but glee bled through her tone. “So did she say what he looked like? I mean -- was he tortured?”

The brunette dropped her voice further so Eames had to strain to hear her. “I don’t know about tortured, but she said she almost threw up. His whole head was smashed in, but that the forensic guy thought it was after he died. It was apparently done with his own frying pan, bacon fat and egg bits everywhere.”

“Oh my god. So what happens now? Is she back at work?”

Eames tuned out and couldn’t stop the slight sneer from curling his lip, but he hid it with his cup. Second hand information and already the information was garbled. The woman was probably embellishing a little for her friend’s benefit, but still. It was the man’s spaghetti pot, and he hadn’t beaten his whole head in. Just his face, and it only took the one hit.

Regardless, that was probably a good cue for him to leave Chicago. Shame, really. He rather thought he’d have time to source some more ID here before the corpse was found. The guy had been a loner, Eames had been quiet, and the trailer had been relatively remote outside of town. Bit of bad luck, but it couldn’t be helped. At least he’d collected his nice fat payout: enough to keep him going while he kept his head down for a while.

Just Outside Spokane, Washington, August 2003

“Bring back a case of beer when you come back from the shop,” Wayne yelled, voice gravelly. Arthur winced in dismay at his uncle’s voice; Arthur had very nearly made it out the door unnoticed.

Arthur clenched his jaw. “I’m not going to work today. Kenny’s watching the station.”

There was a brief pause where Arthur knew his uncle was taking a drag — from his cigarette or a joint, he wasn’t sure, didn’t care. “That Chinese kid? What the fuck you trusting him for? Go watch over the station,” his uncle shouted.

“He’s Korean, Wayne. And I’ve been working twelve days straight, I’m taking a day off,” Arthur said, irritated, then stepped out the door before he could hear anything else. He closed the door harder than he meant to, not wanting to piss off Wayne enough to have him hauling himself out of his la-z-boy to follow.

***

Eames stepped out of the shop into the unusual heatwave that had settled on the city. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and patted his pockets for a light.

He stopped moving, hand frozen on his breast pocket when he looked up to see a boy, head thrown back to catch the last drops of his drink. He was long, lean, and his dark curls flopped backwards, his neck an elegant arch. Eames stood utterly still, cigarette hanging from his lips.

The boy finished, his swallow visible, relief apparent over every inch of him. He noticed Eames staring and lifted an eyebrow. Tossing the empty bottle into the bin, he strolled over to where Eames was standing and smirked.

“Can I have one?” he said, and his voice was lower than Eames expected. As a matter of fact, on closer inspection, Eames could see that he was older than he first appeared, a reserved, almost jaded look to his brown eyes.

Eames removed the cigarette from his lips and handed it over. He pulled his lighter from where he had felt it through the material of his breast pocket, cupped his hands and watched as the boy — man — took a pull, tip blackening then burning, wisp of smoke curling up and drifting away. Eames pulled out another one for himself and they stood there for a moment, simply smoking and taking each other’s measure.

“Name’s Eames,” he said, and finally proffered his hand after transferring his cigarette to hang from his mouth again. He didn’t miss how the man’s eyes settle on that spot for a moment before taking Eames’s hand in a firm shake.

“Arthur,” he said simply. And with that word something settled into place. Arthur. Eames felt something akin to that moment when he identified his next target.

“So what brings you here? This is kind of far off the freeway, and people don’t usually make a point of stopping in this podunk town,” Arthur said, scratching a fingernail idly down the side of his neck, drawing Eames’s eyes.

“I guess you could say I’m doing a road trip. Traveling across America, see what all the fuss is about,” Eames replied.

“Everyone goes looking for America, like it’s some big mystery. Is that what you’re doing?” Arthur took another drag, head canted slightly, his stance casually defiant. But something about the set of his expression gave Eames the impression he was not actually as cynical and challenging as his words would suggest. Eames detected a note of genuine curiosity.

“It’s not the land so much as the people,” Eames said thoughtfully. “I’ve always been interested in people.”

“Oh?” Arthur shifted his weight, thinking with a little frown creasing his brow. “What do you do, anyway?”

Eames grinned. “I kill people.”

Arthur didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Mm. Good benefits package with that? Or is it more freelance?” A teasing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Eames laughed, loud and bright, and after a moment Arthur grinned broadly, making him look young once more. Eames clapped his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and said, “So. Arthur, why don’t you let me buy you a drink? Surely there’s a pub in this... ‘podunk town’?”

Arthur smiled and tossed his cigarette to the pavement, grinding it with the toe of his bright blue trainer. “There would have to be,” he responded, puffing out the last thin bit of smoke. “About the only thing there is to do here. You might as well leave your car; it’s just a couple blocks away.”

Arthur moved off and Eames followed, drifting his hand down from Arthur’s shoulder across the warm, slightly damp material of his t-shirt and down to the small of his back before dropping it entirely and taking up pace beside him.



***

“At least the beer’s cheap,” Eames offered when he lifted the two bottles from the bar and they walked to a booth along the side with a sticky table.

“People wouldn’t come otherwise. Work’s short around here,” Arthur said as he slid in. He tipped his bottle as a ‘thank you’.

“Work’s short everywhere.”

“Hm,” Arthur conceded. “Actually, I do have a job,” Arthur said, announcing it like a chronic illness. “I help my uncle do the books for his gas station.”

“Oh?” Eames asks, registering interest but no real surprise.

“Well. I wasn’t supposed to. It’s not like I’m an accountant or anything, but I’m a hell of a lot more organized than he is,” Arthur laughed to himself. “Not hard to be. Anyway, I was supposed to move to California this summer. There’s this project at the university but that all fell through. So I’ve been stuck here. Now I’m probably going to have to take over running this station, and...” Arthur trailed off, tearing little pieces off his coaster while his beer slowly sweated rings onto the sticky, dark table.

“Adaptable. No wonder they need you here,” Eames observed, weaving a coin around his fingers idly. “It seems to me adaptability would be an asset anywhere, though.”

Arthur, who’d been staring at the coin, entranced, flicked his eyes up to Eames’s. “Is that what you do? Go around being adaptable?” Arthur asked, and then, abruptly changing tone, he said lightly, “I mean. If you’re going to get people to trust you enough so you can get close enough to kill them, I imagine you have to be pretty charming. Or innocent. Or kind, whatever is most appropriate, right?”

Eames’s smirk dropped as he was stunned to silence for the briefest of moments. Then he smiled again and took a pull of his beer. “Well, that’s just life, isn’t it? It’s wise to know how to be different things to different people. That’s the best way to get what you want.”

Arthur considered the words, nodding slowly, cheeky smile morphing to something more interested. Impressed. “How’d you learn to do that?” he asked, sweeping the ripped pieces of coaster into a pile and pushing them off to the side to make room to lean in further.

“Acting. Of a sort,” Eames hedged, and at Arthur’s blatant, impatient disbelief, he expounded. “Conning. It’s depressingly easy to part a fool from their money. And in my experience, most people are fools for a particular kind of person. It’s not difficult to figure out which kind of person that is for them.” He drew a finger down the bead of condensation dripping down his beer bottle, looking up to Arthur in apparent nonchalance, but really gauging his reaction.

Arthur betrayed no particular emotion, though, his expression one of rapid analysis. Eames didn’t press further.

After several long moments, Arthur spoke again, addressing his bottle and beginning to peel the label. “You’re telling me this. So either I have nothing you want or you think I won’t turn you in for... well, presumably there’s a reward for your arrest,” he said seriously. “...or you’re planning on killing me,” he added as an afterthought, frown creasing his brow.

“To be honest, I don’t really know why I’m telling you any of this,” Eames admitted, and something in his voice, the lack of guile, the open honesty of it had Arthur glancing up to meet Eames’s eyes. “I rather think I was just pleased someone seemed to appreciate the work that goes into such things.” Eames grinned then, broad, bright, charming.

Arthur laughed, necking the last of his beer and plunking it on the table. With a flash of youthful dimples and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he pushed himself back from the table a few inches. “Are you done? This place is a fucking dive. We could just as easily grab a sixer from the gas station and drink somewhere nicer. I know a place.” The way he looked at Eames, expectant, had Eames downing the rest of his drink and standing.

He thought as he walked out the door that this might the first time in years he wasn’t sure who had the upper hand.

***

Arthur’s jeans pulled tight across his ass above Eames as he climbed the steep hill. Arthur reached out to grab roots or branches or boulders to steady himself as he walked. Eames was puffing slightly behind him and hiked the bag further up his shoulder.

“This place better be worth it,” Eames warned half-heartedly. He glanced again at Arthur’s form before lowering his eyes to find his next step.

Arthur laughed, panting a little himself. “I guess conning and killing have made you soft. It’s just a little hike. And trust me. It’ll be worth it.”

When they got to the top, Eames set the bag down and looked around. The view was pretty amazing, looking out over the town and beyond, the sun glowing golden and bright in the late afternoon. Still, a little bit of scenery wouldn’t have brought Eames up here. He turned to Arthur to say so, but stopped dead.

Arthur was stretching high, hips canted, impossibly long with his shirt riding up, revealing a slender sliver of belly, dark hair leading down into the waistband of his jeans.

“Maybe it was worth it, at that,” Eames murmured.

Arthur heard it, maybe. He heard something because he stopped stretching and just looked at Eames for a moment before going to the bag and pulling out the six-pack. He popped one open and handed it to Eames, who made no attempt to hide his brushing of his fingers across Arthur’s. Arthur just smiled slyly and sat down.

Cracking his own beer, Arthur didn’t take a drink, just held it and lifted a few curls off the back of his neck and tilted, as if trying to get air on his slightly sweat-damp nape. Eames’s eyes were glued to the spot, and he didn’t think for one second that Arthur wasn’t doing it on purpose. Ordinarily Eames would smirk, would amuse himself with the thought of a small town boy playing with fire. In a situation like this he might’ve played up someone’s fear, or at least worked them like a mark he was trying to con. But his instincts said no, and Eames had lived on his instincts too long to ignore them now.

“Why’d you come up here?” Arthur asked, leaning back on one hand.

“You invited me,” Eames said, amused, though he knew Arthur was asking more than that simple question. Rather than wait for Arthur to clarify, Eames continued, “And I just wanted to follow this through, see where it went.”

Arthur cocked an eyebrow, impressed maybe, that Eames had excised any conversational filigree. After a second he set down his beer, then shifted closer. Eames’s eyes widened slightly when Arthur swung a knee over to straddle Eames’s extended legs.

“If it goes here — you still want to follow?” Arthur said quietly, holding Eames’s shoulder with one hand and gently cupping his face with the other.

“If I’d known this was what waited for me, I mightn’t have bothered with the bar,” Eames said softly, then in a rush, closed the distance and captured Arthur’s lips with his own. Briefly he considered the risk Arthur took bringing Eames up here, after everything he’d heard. He could conclude that Arthur was either very confident in his charms, was dangerously foolish, or, more probably, felt he had nothing to lose no matter the outcome.

The thought was fleeting, though, because Arthur shifted again, moving off and sitting back down to look at the view. The come-on and the retreat were both so sudden, Eames was left reeling a little. It wasn’t very often he found someone so unpredictable. It was enticing.

“I was hoping I read that right,” Arthur said casually, looking out over the town.

“That could have gone very badly otherwise,” Eames agreed. Arthur hummed but said no more. For a few minutes they just sat in companionable silence.

“So you’ve never had the urge to go ‘looking for America’?” Eames asked eventually.

“God, no,” Arthur said. “What a cliche. Who wants to go see another town just like this one with the same stores, the same people, the same kids dying to get out?”

“University, then? You’re certainly smart enough.”

Arthur sniffed, his expression stoic. “Yeah. I was three years into my undergrad when my mom died. I had to come back and help with the station. By then this professor had spotted me and promised me a position with a project out in California. When I had to leave school, he even said he’d still take me. But...” Arthur paused, frowned and took a swig. “That fell through.”

The disappointment barely registered in his voice, but it hung in the air nonetheless.

“This is where I’m supposed to say ‘when one door closes, another one opens’ or some other platitude, right?” At Arthur’s shrug, Eames said, “I never was good at platitudes. If it’s comfort you’re looking for, I’m probably not your man.”

“I’m not looking for comfort. It’s fine. Shit happens, right?” Arthur shifted, brushing a little dirt off his thigh.

“Mm,” Eames agreed. “Fate. Chaos theory. Whatever you subscribe to, it’s led us both here. To this... random place with cold dirt and bloody great rocks under my arse.”

Arthur suppressed a laugh under a mock-disgusted scoff. “Pearls before swine. I can’t believe I wasted this view on you.”

“I still think I was given the short shrift on this one. You could probably make it up to me, though,” Eames said with a twinkle and a hint of a smile. He rolled in and drew his hand up Arthur’s inseam, grinning his way closer to Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur’s legs flexed open, his hips rolling up into Eames’s touch, and though Eames had meant to tease, this reaction had him letting out a small rumbling growl. His thumb tucked up into the juncture of Arthur’s hip, his hand enveloped Arthur’s confined package, swelled now so that his jeans were quiet snug. Eames glanced down at Arthur’s mouth and simply hovered, bare millimetres from Arthur’s lips.

Arthur stared for a second before his tongue came out, licking at Eames’s lip. Rather than kiss, Eames simply met Arthur’s tongue with his own, a curling lick that had Arthur fluttering his tongue and swirling it around Eames’s in a playful chase. When Eames licked at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, Arthur allowed it for a second before losing patience and pushing forward to kiss Eames properly. Under Eames’s hand, Arthur’s cock was pulsing fuller, shifting to angle up towards his hip. Eames rubbed, though whether it was for Arthur’s benefit or simply to indulge the feel of it, Eames couldn’t have said.

Arthur kissed like he spoke: simple, direct. His fingers threaded through Eames’s hair, gripping lightly while Eames’s hands slid over Arthur’s ribs and up his back to pull him closer. When Arthur worked his way to Eames’s neck, licking the soft skin below Eames’s ear before tugging gently on his lobe with his teeth, Eames groaned softly.

For several minutes Eames just sort of got lost in the feel of it all, relishing that neither had anywhere to be, that there was no plan, no hurry to get out. He didn’t even know which town he was headed to next; he’d reached a point where the map was a list of possibilities, not a way to find anything. And funny, how that led him here, to the side of a hill in Washington state, snogging like he hadn’t since he was a fumbling, over-eager boy who’d just failed his 11-plus.

With a final squeeze, Eames withdrew his hand.

“We should take this back to yours, mm?”

Arthur’s glare was both irritated and baffled.

“What?”

“Well, I don’t have any condoms here, or lube. Unless you do...?” Arthur shook his head in answer. “Then we could be doing this in your bed. Softer, you know.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead. “Uh. Sure. But maybe later? I mean, you’re not going to leave me like this, are you?” Arthur asked, and grabbed Eames’s hand to put it on his erection once more.

Eames popped open Arthur’s jeans. “Oh, of course not. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

With Arthur’s jeans open, Eames could see the clear outline of the tip of Arthur’s cock, a dark stain on the grey of his boxer briefs. He lifted the band up and over, freeing just the head. He petted it with one finger, then slipped his hand inside Arthur’s pants to grip him properly.

It was hot and smooth, a contrast to the damp curls at Eames’s knuckles, the feel of skin soothing the itch of anticipation Eames’d been harbouring since the pub. Arthur kissed Eames with the sort of unadulterated eagerness that Eames associated with first times and sneaky fumbles stolen on school grounds. In an odd way, it made Eames feel more himself, as he was before he played roles and people like an ever-evolving experiment.

Eames nipped and bit, licked and sucked Arthur’s tongue, scraped his scruff down Arthur’s jaw and buried himself in Arthur’s neck, gnawing on the tight flesh there, feeling Arthur’s pulse and inhaling his scent.

Arthur fumbled at Eames’s trousers, and Eames impatiently undid his belt, freeing himself for Arthur to plunge in. With that contact, they both groaned and pushed into each other’s touch.

Arthur came first, slicking Eames’s fingers and smearing his own belly. He didn’t stop kissing and biting, rubbing and stroking, though, and soon Eames was spilling, hiking his shirt up out of the way to spare it the bulk of the mess.

When he’d smoothed out his breathing, Arthur pulled some napkins from his pocket and handed one to Eames. At Eames’s raised eyebrow, Arthur said, “from the bar,” as if that was explanation enough. Eames wondered if it was optimism on Arthur’s part, or simple preparedness. He suspected the second was closer to the mark. In any case, he was glad of it, as meager as it was.

By mutual and silent decision, they tidied themselves away and shared the rest of the beers over curiously comfortable chit chat before heading back into town.

***

Back in a basic motel room Eames had to rent for the night, (“My place isn’t ideal,” Arthur’d said without further explanation), they tore at each other with an urgency borne solely of desire. Eames had Arthur against the wall by the door, neither of them having the patience or presence of mind to usher the other to the bed.

Arthur splayed his fingers on the wall, the muscles in his back flexing, his arse thrusting out to meet Eames. He jacked himself like he expected that was all he was getting, and though Eames let him think it for a while, he mentally promised to wring another shuddering climax out of Arthur later, slowly, patiently.

As Eames finally dropped off into unconsciousness, Arthur sprawled out beside him, his final thought was of checking in first thing for at least another night.

Five Days Later

The urgent knocking at his door had Eames putting down the dirty cloth he was using to clean his gun and looking up towards the door, not yet moving to answer it.

“Eames, it’s Arthur, open up.”

Eames stepped barefoot across the taupe carpet, opened the door, and stepped aside to let Arthur in. Arthur was ruffled, flushed, pacing like predator thwarted of its prey.

Eames didn't say anything, opting to wait for Arthur to come out with it on his own. He was prepared to wait. But Arthur looked as though, instead of calming down, the process of trying to tell Eames was winding him tighter, until he reached the wall and slammed it with a startling bang with the flat of his hand.

“Where are you going when you leave here?” he asked tightly.

“I figured Seattle, but after that, I don't know. I don't exactly have an itinerary,” Eames replied mildly, keeping a respectful distance.

“I gotta get out of here,” Arthur said, a mountain of new meaning underneath that familiar statement Eames'd heard from Arthur more than once over the past few days. “The station was robbed. Again. Kenny quit on me, and Wayne...” Arthur let out a frustrated growl and started pacing again. “He blames me, you know. For my mom dying. Says if I hadn't run off, she wouldn't have had to take care of the station and run herself ragged. As if that lazy piece of shit wasn't capable of helping her. Fuck, Eames, I'm done. I'm out.” Arthur flopped down to sit on the side of the bed and looked up, mouth a hard line but a question in his eyes. “I want to come with you. As far as Seattle, and then I can leave. Or you can leave. Or whatever.”

Eames nodded along easily. Of course Arthur could come. Whether remaining together beyond that would work, whether Arthur would actually be okay with Eames’s line of employment —

Eames didn’t have time to complete that thought as Arthur stood and laid his fingertips on Eames's chest, frowning intently and chewing on his lip. He opened his mouth as if to say more but instead swallowed it down and just kissed Eames fiercely. And Eames, who was well-versed in being all things to all people in order to suit his own needs, for once had the urge to be Arthur's punching bag, a wall for Arthur to throw himself against until he tired himself out — not to gain an advantage or play out a con, but simply because Arthur needed it, and Eames could give it.

Arthur’s hand clenched in Eames’s shirt and for a moment he just frowned into the kiss. Eames was going to give it a minute, and if Arthur didn’t make another move, he would push, tear Arthur apart if that’s what he needed. But it was only a moment before Arthur tugged, pulling Eames back towards the bed insistently. Turning Eames, Arthur pushed him down a little roughly before lifting his own shirt over his head and kneeling up over Eames’s lap. The effect was looming, and Eames wouldn’t lie to himself and say he didn’t enjoy it.

Arthur brusquely tugged at Eames’s shirt and dropped it carelessly to the side. He tried to push on Eames’s shoulder to get him to recline entirely, but Eames resisted, on the assumption that Arthur didn’t want an easy conquest. By the flash of satisfaction in Arthur’s eyes, he’d got it in one.

The push that came then was emphatic, and Eames allowed it, but made a mild attempt to roll Arthur over. Arthur was having none of it, nipping at Eames’s collarbone sharply. It was painful, but bright, immediate, a pain that Eames could bear for Arthur. Eames growled and craned for a kiss, which Arthur granted. It was demanding, though, aggressive, and Arthur leaned in hard to use his weight to assert himself.

The hard contours of Arthur’s muscles were flexing under Eames’s fingers, and he had but a moment to enjoy it before Arthur got fed up and grabbed Eames’s hands to pin them to the bed. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he merely gripped Eames’s lower lip between his teeth and pulled before delving deep into Eames’s mouth, coaxing Eames’s tongue out to suck, insistent and greedy.

It was novel, being pinned like this. Precious few had the ability to put Eames wherever they wanted him, and Arthur’s strength was controlled and tight, like everything Arthur did.

When Arthur climbed up Eames’s body, Eames enjoyed the press of Arthur’s cock at his lips. He expected press towards the back of his throat, so he opened to it, though it had him coughing and dripping saliva down the corners of his mouth. He didn’t expect Arthur to pull out, stroking gentle fingers over his jaw, and for Arthur to move up further, making his expectation clear.

Eames took the hint, licking up over Arthur’s hole and using both hands to spread him wide, flicking his tongue over that sensitive clutch of muscle. Arthur grunted and tilted his hips to better Eames’s access, pressing down onto Eames’s probing tongue. Having Arthur fuck himself down, gently in consideration of Eames’s vulnerable position, was a display of both power and restraint that had Eames swelling harder. He wanted inside that heat, he wanted to sink his own cock deep but for now, this was perfect: Arthur above him taking what he wanted. It was an unexpected relief to relinquish control.

When Arthur finally moved off, Eames’s mouth was tired, having worked Arthur open with focus and intent, eventually trying to thrust as deep as he could just because he loved the feel of that clutch on his exploring tongue. But Arthur had enough and moved down, reaching behind to slide Eames’s cock up into his crease, just riding it that way for a bit, the way slicked with nothing but spit and precome.

“I want you to fuck me like this,” Arthur whispered, taking Eames’s earlobe between his teeth. “Just like this, bare.”

Eames was so hard, he could barely think. It was a mark of trust, or of recklessness, though Eames knew he was clean. He didn’t know that of Arthur, but then, there was more than a spark of recklessness in Eames as well. He reached clumsily for the bedside table that held the lube, and once he had it in hand, he made short work of squeezing a liberal amount on his hand to stroke over himself and then over Arthur’s hole.

“Go on, fuck yourself on me,” Eames said, then arched up to nip at Arthur’s chin before Arthur deigned to turn his head enough to kiss again.

When Arthur sank down, he paused for a moment just after the breach, and Eames could shout for the frustration of it, but he just held Arthur’s hips and gritted his teeth, waiting. When Arthur was ready, he lowered further, letting his breath out in short, measured bursts. Hitting bottom, he began to roll, closing his eyes and lifting off, gradually picking up speed and intensity until he was fucking like Eames was a secondary consideration. His fingers gripped onto Eames’s biceps, and periodically, Arthur would open his eyes, dragging them over Eames’s form and tracing the lines of his tattoos, the curves of his muscles with fascinated fingers.

He rode and rode, eventually taking himself in hand and stroking mindlessly until Eames couldn’t take it any more and frantically tugged at Arthur’s arm.

“I’m gonna come, Arthur,” he warned, but Arthur just nodded, impatient and stroked himself harder.

When Eames did tip over the edge, Arthur didn’t even stop moving in consideration, and even when it was sensitive, a little too much, Arthur ground down, frowning and tugging at himself, and in a few moments he was spilling over his own fingers, face in angry ecstasy.

Afterwards, with Eames in blissful shock and Arthur lifting off and wiping them both down with rough, scratchy motel tissues, Eames dared to speak again.

“As far as Seattle?”

Arthur laughed, a small breath through his nose. Addressing the ceiling, he replied, “Look. If you want a partner. For what you do...”

Eames pulled Arthur to him, kissing him deeply, sincerely. Answer enough.

I90, A week later, August 2003

Arthur placed his granola bar and orange juice on the counter next to Eames’s pack of beef jerky and Coke. He started to pull out his wallet but Eames beat him to the punch, waving his hand to stay Arthur’s offer. “And fifty dollars on pump three. Oh, and some Marlboro reds,” Eames said and looked up at the employee from under his brows as he tucked his wallet into his back pocket.

Back in the car Eames casually pulled out of the station and while he was looking down the road for an opening, he asked, “So how did he take it?” He’d waited half an hour in silence after Arthur had pitched a duffel bag in the back seat and flopped into the car, face like thunder.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak then closed it again. After a moment he took a breath and started again.

“It could have gone better,” he said. Eames had to admire how matter-of-fact Arthur sounded. Had he not felt the dark cloud in the car for the entire ride so far, he might have believed Arthur was glossing over a mere argument. “Let’s just say there was no love lost there.”

Eames glanced at Arthur, who stared at the dash unseeingly, lost in his memory. And while Eames would love to be able to give Arthur all the time in the world to get over it, they needed to make a decision before getting too far.

“I need a businessman,” Eames said.

Arthur looked up from his reverie. “What?”

“I have some money stashed in a phony account I set up that’s been receiving payroll from Golder Inc. I have a few, but this one is ripe for picking and we could use the cash. I can do you up some ID, but Gerald Chalmers is a businessman. I was thinking of suiting you up for the task.”

Eames almost missed the flurry of thoughts, the pleased excitement that barely registered on Arthur’s face, busy as he was keeping one eye on the road.

“I don’t have a suit,” Arthur said after a moment.

Eames was relieved that Arthur seemed to be unphased by the reality of the life he’d signed up for.

“That,” Eames said, “is easily remedied.”

***

Through the car window Eames caught a glimpse of Arthur coming out of the bank. He was struck again by the transformation. His languid, easy walk gained purpose while retaining its fluidity. The defiant, careless set to his shoulders morphed into something colder, more businesslike. His haircut, lopping off the loose curls he previously wore, was pomaded into razor-sharp lines to go with the rest of him.

The car door opened and Arthur slipped in, shooting Eames a smirk.

“That was too easy. Do you have any more accounts we can clear?” Arthur said, eyes flashing.

“There are two,” Eames replied. He’d prepared a few IDs while Arthur had taken the car to shop for clothes and get his hair cut. He pulled out two envelopes from the beside his seat and handed them to Arthur. “Top one first, commit those details to memory. Bank of America first, we’ll be there in five minutes.”

Arthur did grin then, leaning in to give Eames a deep, wet, albeit brief kiss, before opening the envelope and getting down to business.

Eames looked at Arthur for a second, lips twitching. Then he fired up the car and headed to the next bank.

Near Skagit City, August 2003

“You’re in it now, you realize,” Eames said, shifting to the left lane to ease past a slow driver. “You’ve just stolen approximately thirty seven thousand dollars total from three corporations. Your face is on camera.”

Arthur scratched at an imaginary spot on the door. “What part of that am I supposed to react to first?” he asked.

“Whatever you like,” Eames said easily.

Arthur sat in silence for a few minutes. Then, “I don’t care,” he said firmly. “My whole life it’s never mattered whether I do well. The only notice I ever got was Wayne realizing he didn’t have to raise a fucking finger any more. And anyway. Thirty thousand dollars.” Arthur couldn’t even say the words without smiling. “What the fuck are we going to do with thirty thousand dollars?

“Well, provided we’re not stopped at the border, I was thinking we’d spend a few days in Vancouver sorting out new IDs, then fly out. Wherever we feel like going,” Eames was about to continue but decided to let that part sink in.

“Wherever we want,” Arthur repeated, like trying on new clothes.

Part Two