Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I need a ride,” Dom says when he calls. “I’ll text you the address.”

Arthur turns off the stove, puts a cover over the pot, and changes. An hour later, he’s pulling up to what could only be termed a ‘country manor,’ complete with colonial architecture and an expansive estate behind it. As he gets out of the car, the front door opens. Dom hurries out, jacket half-on.

“Thanks for coming,” Dom says. “I know it’s a Sunday night.”

“It’s no problem,” Arthur starts to say, but there’s a second man emerging from the house in nothing but a pair of threadbare jeans. Arthur pulls his gun out, ready to shoot.

“Easy there, love,” the man says, palms going up in the air. His eyes are wide and his tone placating, but Arthur can read tension in the ripple of his muscles--ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Combat training, Arthur thinks. “Just thought I’d return a phone that was left behind.”

At Dom’s nod, Arthur lowers his weapon. The stranger is handsome, sharp eyes accompanied by a sultry mouth, and his movements ooze sexuality in a way that’s difficult to ignore. Given the state of undress, he’s probably Dom’s newest piece on the side. Dom always was a sucker for a foreign accent.

“Thanks,” Dom says, accepting the phone with lingering fingers. “Arthur, this is Eames.”

“A pleasure,” Eames says, British accent drawing out his syllables in a way that ignites something warm inside Arthur—something dangerous.

“Nice to meet you,” Arthur says stiffly. “Dom, are you ready?”

“Yeah.” Dom hesitates, then glances back at Eames. “I’ll—I’ll call you later.”

Eames smiles faintly. “I’ll be waiting.”

Arthur nods once at Eames before getting in the car. When Dom gets in, Arthur notes the dark smudges underneath Dom’s eyes, the drawn expression. “You look tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“No, not really.” Dom looks out the window. “Only shuteye I get is when I come out here.”

“Really?” Arthur tries not to let the surprise show too much. The last thing he’d think Dom would be doing when he comes out here is sleeping. Then again, the area is pretty far out from the city, isolated, and surrounded by trees. Who knows. Maybe there’s something relaxing about knowing there’s nothing but deer and squirrels around while you fuck.

“Mal’s been—" Dom scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought the meds were helping, but yesterday all she did was stare at the trash can like something was coming to get her. I tried to talk to her, you know, engage like the therapist said but she--she would barely reply.”

“What about James and Phillippa? Has she—"

“No,” Dom says. “She won’t even look at them.”

Arthur glances over at Dom again, slumped over in his seat. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Dom pauses. “At least I have Eames.”

“Yeah?” Arthur thinks about all the money he'd noticed flowing into new accounts: the grocery deliveries that had started a few months ago, the utility bills that had increased, maybe even the pay-per-view porn bill that had cropped up. Guess those mysteries are solved, now. “Things going good there?”

“Yeah.” There’s a smile on Dom’s face that would be best described as satisfied. “It's simple with men. Direct.”

"Sure," Arthur says, even though 'simple' is not the first word he'd use to describe Eames. “So this business—is it Arclus?”

“No. It’s Nash.” Dom’s tone is all Arthur needs to hear.

“Shit,” Arthur says. “So he finally went and flipped?”

“Yeah,” Dom replies. “You were right, Arthur. You’re always right.”

“I didn’t want to be right about this,” Arthur says, and he means it.

“I know,” Dom says. “We’re heading to the warehouse on LeGrand.”

“I can handle this,” Arthur says quietly. “You don’t need to be there.”

“No, it’s—I’ll do it.” Dom shakes his head. “I can’t have people thinking I’ve gone soft.”

The rest of the ride is spent in silence, Dom scrolling through messages on his phone while Arthur thinks about the last time he saw Nash. It'd been at a holiday party Nash and his girlfriend had thrown; he must have been lying to Arthur's face even then.

When they pull up in front of an abandoned warehouse littered with broken windows, Arthur asks, “You want me to go in first?”

“You shouldn't need to. I told him to come alone."

They walk inside the rusted front door into a dingy, cavernous space. Nash is waiting in the back, twitchy as always. He sees Dom first and approaches. “Hey, something you nee—" Then he catches sight of Arthur, stops. “Shit.”

Arthur pulls a gun before Nash can bolt. “Don’t bother trying to run. I got no problem shooting a traitor in the back.”

Nash takes a step back and forces a smile. “Hey, hey, guys, I’m sure—it doesn’t have to be like that, alright? Dom, if you call off your attack dog for a second, I can explain—"

“There’s nothing to explain.” Dom pulls a pair of leather gloves from his jacket pocket. “You double-crossed me and now you’re caught.”

“You gotta believe me when I say I didn’t want to.” Nash is sweating now, edging away with Arthur’s gun still trained on him. “I tried, I really did, but they made me, they would have killed me if I—"

“Kill an informant? That doesn't sound right. A rat can't squeal if it's dead.” Dom finishes slipping his fingers into black leather. “And congratulations on the new timeshare, by the way. I hear Florida is beautiful this time of year.”

“Jesus, please, I—" Nash turns to Arthur. “Please, Arthur, how long have we worked together, huh? How long we known each other? Don’t let him—"

The first two shots drop Nash to the ground in mid-sentence, the last one splatters his brains across the floor. Arthur nudges Nash’s body with a shoe. He’s dead, of course; Dom’s all about disposing of people with a minimum of flash and a maximum of efficiency.

“Do you want me to take care of this?” Arthur asks.

“No, you can leave it.” Dom tosses his gun to the ground, then takes off his gloves and drops them into a plastic bag for incineration later. “I’ve got clean up crew on their way here.”

“You know word’s going to get out.”

“That’s the point.” Dom stands over Nash’s body, face tired and sad. “I can’t have people in my organization I can’t trust.”

Sometimes it still surprises Arthur that Dom operates under a framework of 'trust' after all these years. But then again, that’s part of what makes Dom who he is; a good boss when you’re loyal, a bad one when you’re not. “You can’t let it get to you.”

“No?” Dom shakes his head. “I know, you’re right. It’s just—I guess it’s always a cold wake-up call when you realize who your real friends aren’t.”

This is Dom’s problem, Arthur thinks. He always takes things personally.

For the most part, Arthur lives a nice, quiet life.

He wakes up every morning at six-thirty to go for a run around the neighborhood, waving hello to joggers and dog-walkers. Then he takes a hot shower, jerks off, and reads the morning paper over breakfast.

Two days of the week—Monday and Thursday—Arthur goes to his office at Parrota & Wolgin to push paperwork around and balance Dom’s books. He used to think he’d get bored, but his coworkers are friendly and deferential, not too inquisitive. Besides, he likes using the degree he went to college for. Maybe he just isn’t in the office often enough for tedium to set in.

The other days of the week he works remotely. This means doing whatever it is Dom wants done, whether it’s overseeing local operations or negotiating deals. Dom likes to send Arthur in first, have him slap the opposite side around a little. It softens them up for Dom to come in later, all sweet talk and reasonable demands to close the deal. They’re an effective team that way, and Arthur’s content to do whatever needs doing.

It’s a good position, being the right hand man. Arthur gets rewarded for years of service with generous compensation and plenty of responsibility, doesn't have to deal with the political crap that comes with being higher up. There are others above Dom—everyone has a boss, after all--but the infighting at the top that’s been going on for the past two years means that he has nearly free rein to do what he wants without interference.

But even if internecine violence weren’t an issue, it’s not like Dom can call the amici and chat. Other than Arthur, Dom probably hasn’t had a friend—a real one—in years.

Not that Arthur has much time for friends or socializing either, these days. Some weekends, when he’s not too tired from staying up all night overseeing shipping operations, he’ll go to a local bar, try to meet some people.

Every now and then, Dom or Mal will introduce Arthur to some women—and occasionally men—with sweet smiles and good bodies. They’re usually nice enough, and careful not to ask too many questions about what exactly it is Arthur does. But they never seem to last. Mal used to scold him for that—back before she had James, before she stopped scolding or dancing or talking altogether.

At one point, Arthur had thought he’d been in love with Dom, a little. And maybe that would have gone somewhere if the circumstances were different. If Arthur hadn’t been sixteen when he first met Dom, who was already twenty-two; if Dom hadn’t dreamt of having biological children his entire life; if Mal had never entered the equation. That’s a lot of ifs, and Arthur doesn’t like to waste time wondering about things that can’t be.

Overall, he has a good life. He works a lot, comes home to his tastefully furnished apartment, and fixes himself dinner (or breakfast, or lunch). If he has time, he’ll sometimes watch some TV, read a book, call his mother to see how she’s doing, if she needs anything.

Arthur’s never really wanted children and the white picket fence. On the rare occasion, however, he does let himself speculate about how it’d be nice, maybe, to have someone to come home to—someone to eat dinner with, to laugh with, to feed him soup when he’s sick.

But Arthur’s always careful not to let pointless longings distract him from work, which is what makes him the best right hand man around.

“Shit,” Dom says, glancing up from the mountains of paperwork on his desk. “There’s no way I’m getting out of here before midnight. Arthur, let Eames know I won’t be able to make it.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, and goes to make the call.

Eames picks up after five rings, slightly breathless voice bringing to mind the curling black ink across muscular flesh. “Hello?”

Arthur pushes away the mental image and tries to control his voice. “Eames? It’s Arthur. We met six days ago.”

“Hello, Arthur from six days ago.” Eames replies, low and amused. “Something I can do for you?”

“No.” A new image flits to mind: Eames on his knees with that luscious mouth open and inviting. “Dom won’t be able to make it tonight. He sends his apologies.”

There’s a pause. “Yes, I’m sure he does.”

“He wishes he could be there,” Arthur says, not certain why he’s still talking, filled with the urge to make excuses for Dom.

“You mentioned that,” Eames says, and before Arthur can reply, he continues, “You know, I’ve heard about you.”

Arthur blinks. “From Dom?”

“Oddly enough, no.”

“Then where?” Arthur frowns, and wonders who exactly Eames is, aside from Dom’s latest fling.

“Oh, here and there,” Eames replies lightly. “I’d heard you were rather fond of your lovely suits.”

Arthur stares down at the receiver. What angle Eames is playing at? “I’d rather be known for my work than my attire."

Eames laughs, deep and throaty in Arthur’s ear. “Why not the best of both, hm?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says firmly, ending the call before Eames can respond.

Arthur takes a deep breath and reminds himself to focus. Eames is just another in Dom’s endless parade of distractions. While it’s likely Dom will get bored soon, he doesn’t take kindly to others on his territory while he’s still infatuated. This isn’t the first time one of Dom’s conquests has flirted with Arthur--and it probably won’t be the last. The only way to handle it is to keep his distance and put any stray thoughts firmly out of his mind.

“How is she?” Arthur asks as he shuts the door behind him gently.

“She calmed down in the last hour or so,” Carmen says. Her patient face is creased with fatigue. “But today’s been--up and down.”

Arthur sighs as he heads into the kitchen and sets the grocery bags down on the counter. “Has she been eating?”

“A little, but I practically have to force her.” Carmen helps him put away the food. “She refuses to clean or let me clean while I’m here. She says she doesn’t want to throw anything away in case she needs it later.”

Arthur nods as he sweeps piles of dirty food wrappers and napkins off the cluttered table and into the trash. The sink is piled to overflowing with dirty dishes, and the smell of something rotting emanates from the layer of water in the bottom. “The hoarding’s getting worse then.”

“Everything’s getting worse.” Carmen’s voice is not unkind. “Two days ago, she snuck out while I was using the bathroom and wandered halfway across town in her slippers before I found her again. She keeps talking about going to work, saving enough money to buy you sneakers.”

“Goddamnit,” Arthur whispers. He swipes a damp paper towel across the countertop, trying to clean up the worst of the crumbs and dirt.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Damrosch. I was talking to Oliver the other day, and we’ve been thinking—"

“Don’t say it,” Arthur interrupts, still scrubbing at a pale grease stain embedded in the wood-grain. “I’m not going to send my mother away to—"

“I know this is hard for you.” Carmen puts a hand on his arm, stilling him. “I know. But between the medication, and the fact that there are days she won’t eat or sit still or listen anymore—it’s not safe for her to be on her own. Oliver and I aren't going to be enough to take care of her if her condition continues to deteriorate.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, and pulls his arm from Carmen’s grasp. “Is she still awake?”

Carmen sighs. “I don’t know. But you should go check on her—I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

“Right.” Arthur goes over the last remaining grocery bag and pulls from it a bouquet of calla lilies. “You can go, Carmen. I’ll be staying over tonight.”

“Okay, Mr. Damrosch,” Carmen replies, standing at the bottom of the stairwell while Arthur walks up the steps. “Have a good night.”

His mother’s bedroom door is open, the light on inside, and Arthur peeks in to see her sitting up in bed, reading. He knocks gently.

“Arthur,” Lydia says, setting the book down in her lap. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I know it’s late.” Arthur lets out the breath he was holding as he walks in; her eyes are clear and lucid. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Never, sweetheart.” Her eyes fall on the calla lilies. “Are those for me?”

“Of course.” Arthur bends down to kiss her cheek and passes the bouquet to her. While Lydia runs her fingers along the delicate edge of each flower, Arthur goes to empty the vase of the now-wilted calla lilies on her nightstand and fills it with fresh water.

“My favorite,” Lydia murmurs while Arthur arranges the flowers in the vase. “A son that comes to visit regularly and brings flowers—what mother could ask for more?”

“Mom,” Arthur says, letting her take his hand. “How are you doing? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Lydia replies, and she pats the bed in invitation for Arthur to sit. “I’m reading this book about reflecting on the life you've lived, and being thankful for all your blessings. It reminds me of how lucky I am.”

Arthur sits on the bed and wraps an arm around her shoulders, trying to ignore how fragile and thin she feels beside him. “So it’s a good book?”

“It’s wonderful.” Lydia opens it to the page she has bookmarked, a chapter entitled ‘Family.’ “This chapter talks children. The pride you feel when you realize they no longer need you. And the anguish.”

“I’m always going to need you,” Arthur says, and kisses the top of her head.

“Nonsense,” she replies. “You've been making me proud with your total independence since you learned to talk. The fact that you’re now the handsomest accountant in the tri-state area is just icing on the cake.”

“You’re biased.” He smiles.

“I may be biased, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” She reaches up to catch his chin in her thumb and forefinger. “And what about you, hm? Why haven’t you brought a nice girl around for me to meet yet?”

“I’m busy with work,” Arthur says, and it’s not a total lie. “I don’t really have time to date.”

“That’s impossible,” Lydia replies. “You have time to come visit your doddering old mother but you can’t make time to take a nice girl out to a movie?”

“You’re not—"

“I worry about you,” Lydia interrupts. “It isn’t good to be alone for so long.”

“I’m not—"

“I know you’re busy,” Lydia says. “But friends and work aren’t enough—you need someone who’s going to love you as much as I do. Maybe more. Someone who’ll give you a family of your own, when I’m gone.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he whispers, pulling away. “Don’t—"

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay.” Lydia catches Arthur’s face in her hands and wipes the tears from his cheeks, like she did when he was young. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, you’ll see.”

While she continues to murmur soothingly, Arthur wishes he could recapture the time in his life when he’d been able to listen to her words, close his eyes, and do nothing but believe her.

“Fuck,” Dom says suddenly. “What time is it?”

Arthur looks up from the clipboard he’s holding. “Ten to eight. Why?”

“I promised Eames we’d drive into the city today and get lunch, see a movie.” Dom takes off the hard hat he’s wearing and runs his fingers sloppily through his hair. “But then the construction permits came through and I just—"

“If you leave now, I can stay behind and handle this,” Arthur offers. “It’s already dark and the crew’s getting tired anyway.”

“I don’t have enough cash to get me all the way out there in a cab.” Dom puts the hard hat on a table and motions for the foreman to tell the crew to stop work. “You come in your car today?”

Arthur puts down his clipboard. “Yeah, I can drive you, no problem.”

They stop at a convenience store on the way, and Dom waffles between getting a card or a bouquet of roses until Arthur tells him to just buy both. Secretly, Arthur thinks Eames would probably prefer hard liquor or a blowjob as forms of apology, but then again, what does Arthur know.

When they pull up in the driveway, Eames is sitting outside on the front step in a chartreuse paisley button-down shirt and khakis, surrounded by an entire pack’s worth of cigarette butts. Somehow, even with that hideous ensemble, Eames manages to make sucking a cigarette down to the filter one of the most pornographic things Arthur’s ever seen.

Dom hops out of the car immediately, leaving Arthur to park and reach into the backseat for the roses.

“…so sorry,” Arthur hears Dom say. “I swear I wanted to be here, I just got caught up in an emergency at work.”

Eames discards his last cigarette and stands. “It’s fine. You forgot—it happens.”

“You’re not mad?” Dom asks, reaching out to touch Eames’ waist. “Really?”

Eames shrugs, and then smiles coyly. “That depends. Are you staying?”

“How could I not?” Dom grins, and beckons Arthur over. “Oh yeah, I brought something for you—in case my groveling turned out not to be enough.”

As Arthur approaches with the bouquet and card filled with Dom’s nearly illegible scrawl (I’m sorry, Love Dom), Eames’ expression shifts. His gaze flicks from the flowers to Arthur’s face—from the coy smile to something hungrier.

The image of Eames standing over him with lips parted slightly flashes through Arthur’s mind, lightning-fast. He can practically feel the heavy weight of cock on his tongue, can almost hear the way Eames would purr his name.

“Flowers and a card,” Arthur clarifies as he holds out both, careful not to let their fingers brush. He immediately steps back and pretends not to notice the fleeting disappointment in Eames’ eyes when he does.

Eames recovers quickly, though, adoring smile back in place as he pushes his nose into the roses. “Flowers? How romantic of you.”

“I wanted you to know I mean it,” Dom says, still seeming a little nervous. “That I wasn’t blowing you off.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me.” Eames flips open the card. “Truly. You’re a busy man and I understand that.”

“I wish I could give you my number so you could call and remind me, but…” Dom trails off, and everyone pointedly avoids looking at the ring on his finger.

Arthur keeps his eyes on Dom’s face. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I’m good,” Dom says, already distracted with sliding a hand down the curve of Eames’ back. “Got everything I need right here.”

Arthur walks through his apartment, doing his twice weekly bug sweep (which Dom always laughs at him for, teasing him about paranoia) and stops in his office when the light on his scanner flashes red. He frowns, walks out of the room, and walks back in again; the light flashes a second time. Arthur searches through the room, slowly and methodically, until he finds a transmitter on the underside of his desk.

He crawls back out, heads into the living room. He turns on the radio, pumping his favorite hip hop station full-blast, and retrieves an old Polaroid camera. He takes several photos of the transmitter from multiple angles, careful not to disturb it.

Once the photos develop, he checks the rest of his apartment and finds two more bugs—one underneath the coffee table and one near the stove.

Arthur leaves with the photos in a plain brown envelope, walks to the nearest Starbucks, and orders an Americano. While he waits for it, he pulls out his cell phone and makes a call.

“Hey,” Arthur says.

“Arthur.” Yusuf sounds surprised. “Something you need?”

“It's been a while.” Arthur chooses his words carefully. “I wanted check on how your plants are doing. When are you free next?”

“I'm here all day,” Yusuf replies, after a pause.

“Great,” Arthur says as he receives his drink. “I look forward to seeing you.”

Arthur sips his coffee and heads to the nearest bus stop. Twenty minutes later, he's standing in front of Yusuf's decrepit old building.

“I have something for you to take a look at,” Arthur says when Yusuf lets him in, stepping around a pile of what appear to be computer parts, tires with worn-down treads, and old circuit boards. “I'm thinking Feds, but I wanted a second opinion.”

Yusuf sits down at his desk, clearing some of the half-constructed (or deconstructed) gadgets out of the way, and swings the lamp around to examine the photos. “Yeah,” he says, after a moment. “These are part of the Excelon A line, sixth generation. Government-issue. Definitely the Feds.”

“Damn,” Arthur mutters. “Can we use the scramblers to block them?”

“Probably,” Yusuf says. “But then the Feds will know you know.”

“Yeah.” Arthur says, lips thinning. “Dom's not going to like this.”

Arthur calls Dom on the way back to his apartment, expecting to be instructed to meet somewhere in the city. Instead, Dom tells him to drive out to Bellevue, saying, “I'm having a lazy afternoon.” Later, Arthur figures out that this is code for I’m with Eames.

Arthur knocks at the manor door and Dom answers, wearing flip flops and sunglasses. “Come on back,” Dom says casually. “We're having a swim by the pool.”

“You check the place already?” Arthur asks as he pulls the scanner from his pocket.

“Yeah,” Dom replies, only the tightness in his mouth giving anything away. “Nothing needs cleaning.”

“That’s good, at least.” Arthur allows himself to relax, marginally.

They step outside onto the deck overlooking a decent sized pool, which Eames is currently doing laps around. Dom heads down the steps to take a seat in one of the poolside lawn chairs and beckons for Arthur to follow.

Arthur glances over at where Eames is doing a breaststroke, all tanned skin and sleek lines in the water, and turns back at Dom. “You sure we should talk here?”

“You don’t need to worry about Eames,” Dom says, and his tone makes clear that the matter isn’t up for debate. Arthur makes a note never to ask about it again. “Someone’s been listening in on us?”

“Only for a day, tops,” Arthur says. “I swept two days ago and came up with nothing, so these are new. I went through my cell phone call log, tried to remember whether I said anything worth hearing. As far as I can remember, I didn’t. But I’ll do a deeper review when I get back home.”

“Yeah, you spent practically the whole day out in Fairfield yesterday, anyway,” Dom says, leaning back in his seat. “You know who it is?”

“Feds.” Arthur takes a seat on the edge of the lawn chair. “Confirmed with Yusuf too.”

“Must have been that deal that went south a few weeks back—you know, with Montessa.” Dom turns his head, momentarily distracted by Eames getting out of the pool, and Arthur pointedly does not follow his line of sight. “Goddamn Nash.”

It’s an unseasonably warm day for the beginning of autumn, making Arthur sweat a little in his suit, the sun beating down across his face. He wishes he'd thought to bring sunglasses. Especially when he can see Eames approaching—dripping wet—at the edge of his peripheral vision. “We’re gonna have to be more careful for the next few months, maybe a year. Lay low.”

“Agreed," Dom says. "Time to get some new phone numbers, start meeting in new places."

Arthur thinks wistfully about the ease and convenience of holding teleconferences in the comfort of his own apartment, and resigns himself to losing that for the next few years, at least. “Anyplace you have in mind?”

“I bought a stake in this nightclub a while ago,” Dom says thoughtfully. “There’s a booth in the back we could talk in—hard to bug, easy to pretend it’s just a weekly social call.”

“One of the staff could be a plant,” Arthur says, trying not to let his irritation show when Dom gets distracted, once again, by Eames. “We have to be careful what we say.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Eames says smoothly, and Arthur refuses to allow his gaze to swing his way. “Don’t let me distract you from your business.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Dom smiles up at Eames. “You’re always a welcome interruption.”

“Could I trouble you to dry me off?” Eames asks, a hint of heat beneath the question. There’s a towel exchanged at the corner of Arthur’s field of vision, and he waits for Dom to speak again as he studies the white tiles lining the inside of the pool.

“We could work out a code for sensitive subjects,” Dom says as he sweeps the towel over the broad width of Eames’ shoulders. “Nothing fancy, but serviceable.”

“Won’t it be suspicious if we just say the same things over and over again each week?” Arthur asks. “If I’m reporting in on profits and losses, a lot of those are going to be figures, and pretty repetitive at that. Unless you want something written down?”

“No records,” Dom says immediately. He puts down the towel, seemingly satisfied that Eames is dry enough. “Shredded paper can be reconstructed, and nothing’s ever really gone from a computer.”

“How about a poker game?”

Before Arthur can stop himself, he looks up at the unexpected interjection by Eames. Arthur’s gaze travels from the disconcertingly tight pair of black Speedos--which are eye-level and do nothing to hide Eames’ bulge--up a sprinkling of wiry hair along his lower abdomen to stop at Eames’ obscene, plush lips.

Arthur jerks himself out of the daze as soon as he’s able—which is, unfortunately, a full second longer than it should have taken, and drops his head down.

Dom doesn’t seem to have noticed, but Eames’ mouth is curved into a faint smirk when Arthur sneaks a glance up again.

“A poker game,” Dom says, reclining back in his chair. “Each round could be a discussion of a business, with the raises and the holds signifying how they’re doing, and what I want you to do.”

It’s an interesting idea, Arthur has to admit. “A poker game of two, though, Dom? Seems a little suspicious.”

“We can invite other people to join us.” Dom waves the objection away, and then inclines his head for Eames to sit. “And Eames can play.”

“Eames?” Arthur watches Eames arrange himself into a languorous pose, Dom’s hand landing on his knee in a casually proprietary way. “Are you sure—I mean—"

“I do know how to play poker,” Eames says, something teasing in his voice. “And rest assured, all your secrets are safe with me.”

“Of course you do.” Dom squeezes Eames’ knee, and his voice takes on something warm, affectionate. “You’ve been wanting to get out of the house more anyway, right?”

Arthur stares up at the blue, blue sky. Dom’s clearly more attached to this one than Arthur had suspected. Probably not the wisest choice, considering Eames’ apparent penchant for flirting with everyone in a three mile radius, but it isn’t really any of Arthur’s business.

“You have no idea,” Eames replies softly, and at that, Arthur stands.

“Is there else anything you need me for?” Arthur asks.

“Hm? Oh, no, nothing.” Dom presses closer to Eames. “You’re free to go.”

Arthur makes the mistake of falling into eye contact with Eames before he goes, and feels a gust of heat rush through his body that has nothing to do with the sunny day.

Careful, Arthur thinks to himself as he goes. He’d thought Eames was just another casual fling, but the way Dom had smiled and leaned into him, and the fact that he’s inviting him into their business--Arthur’s seen all the signs before.

Dom thinks he’s in love. And aside from Mal, nothing good has ever come from that.

The nightclub Dom selected for the poker game is discreet, popular but not too popular, and filled with just the right amount of ambient noise to make listening in on any particular conversation extremely difficult.

Arthur arrives an hour early, taking the time to scout the exits, study the layout, check for places to hide weapons. Satisfied by the results of his investigation, he takes a seat at the bar, orders himself a Scotch, neat, and waits.

Yusuf’s the first to arrive, wandering in with a half-fearful, half-confused air. Arthur hadn’t given him much of an explanation as to why Dom wanted him at the game, and Yusuf seems more than a little anxious about why he’s been summoned on this particular night. Unfortunately for Yusuf and any other participant Dom decides to invite to the table, explanations will not be forthcoming.

Dom shows up precisely on time and slides into the corner booth without hesitation. Arthur and Yusuf join him a second later, Yusuf pulling uncomfortably at his collar while Arthur and Dom exchange curt nods.

The last one to arrive is Eames, who saunters in wearing a salmon colored shirt with too many buttons unbuttoned at the top, exposing a light spray of chest hair Arthur pretends not to wonder at the texture of. Arthur decides, at that moment, that he needs to get laid, and soon; this idiotic fixation on his boss’ moll is fast approaching absurd levels.

Eames takes a seat next to Dom, greeting everyone at the table with a cordial smile that only Dom returns. Eames makes idle pleasantries while Arthur readies the deck of cards. After drinks arrive, the game begins.

The first three rounds are simply playing, everyone betting with the pot of loose change one of the servers brings to the table. Yusuf is crap at poker, seeming only dimly familiar with the rules. Dom is better, though he doesn’t seem to care much about how he does in terms of winning or losing.

Arthur can’t stop his competitive streak from rearing up as the game goes on, ignoring the voice inside him advising that it might be prudent to concede to Dom every once and again. The desire to win is heightened by the fact that Eames is, to everyone’s surprise, quite an excellent player. As the night wears on, the steady stream of inane small talk from Eames (accompanied by a bland, genial smile) never fades, and Arthur feels himself growing more and more rankled by Eames' lack of visible tells. In fact, Eames barely glances at his cards once he gets them, placing them face down on the table for the duration of each round.

Dom eventually brings an end to the competition by signaling for a new round of drinks to be brought to the table. Yusuf winces at the brandy Dom ordered for him, Dom complains about his warm beer, and Eames sips his whiskey thoughtfully. Arthur shuffles the deck, feels Eames’ gaze on his face. When Arthur glances up, he catches a faint unsteadiness in Eames’ hand as he lowers his glass to the table. Strange.

Dom and Arthur slip into the code they’d worked out two nights ago while Yusuf and Eames play in earnest. It goes relatively well, though Arthur makes a few blunders, and Dom seems uncertain about what means what. Towards the end of the night, Dom once again refreshes the drinks, which signals a return to a regular game; Eames ends up taking the whole pot of pennies, nickels, and dimes.

“Good job,” Dom says, and Arthur can tell by how close they’re sitting together in the booth that Dom’s hand is on Eames’ thigh.

“Thank you,” Eames replies, watching the server push all the change back into a large mouthed jar. “And here I thought I’d get to keep my winnings.”

“So you can buy yourself—what, another drink?” Dom asks.

“I was thinking more along the lines of an ice cream,” Eames says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

“You want an ice cream? I’ll buy you an ice cream.” Dom grins. “Hey, Yusuf, thanks for playing. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Yusuf says as he slides out of the booth. He swallows. “If you ever need me again please don’t—hesitate to call.”

“Be seeing you.” Dom nods to let Yusuf know he’s free to go. “Eames, you ready?”

“Ready and willing,” Eames replies, smoky tone ever the mixture of innocent and profane. “Have a good evening, Arthur.”

Arthur inclines his head in response, and watches Dom and Eames leave. After they’re gone, he plucks Eames’ glass from across the table—careful not to smudge the fingerprints—and drops it into a plastic baggie. Then, he finishes his drink and leaves, satisfied with the results of the evening.

“Excuse me,” a man says from behind Arthur. “Are you Lance?”

Arthur swivels on his bar stool to size the man up; he’s a bit older than his photo has suggested, with a bit more softness around the middle, but the face is the same. “Yes.”

“Balal,” he says, holding out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Arthur gestures at the stool next to him. “Would you like a drink?”

“Thank you, but no.” Balal glances down at his watch. “My daughter has a recital I have to get to by eight.”

“Ah.” Arthur downs the rest of his drink and climbs off the stool, brushing up against the side of Balal’s arm as he does. “Shall we go up then?”

“Did you get a room already?” Balal falls into step beside Arthur as they leave the hotel bar and head into the elevator.

“Room 511,” Arthur says as he holds up a keycard.

“This place is nice,” Balal says as he looks at the mirrored walls of the elevator, the plush carpeting. “I was surprised when you said you wanted to meet here. Thought I might have got the address wrong.”

“You were expecting something seedier?” Arthur smiles, and leans in a little closer. Balal does have a nice face—handsome, kind. Innocent in the way that suburban dads can be. Or seem, at any rate.

“Truthfully, yeah.” Balal chuckles. “The last time I—uh, well, this guy invited me over to his place. At least, he told me it was his place—turns out he was living in the basement of his mother’s house and we had to be really quiet because she was upstairs in her bedroom watching soaps.”

Arthur laughs. “Was it worth it?”

Balal cocks his head to one side and thinks. “You know, for a basement-dwelling mouth-breather, I gotta say it wasn’t that bad. I’ve had worse.”

Arthur grins as the elevator slows to a stop. “This is us,” he says as he touches Balal’s wrist, briefly.

They walk to the room at the end of the quiet hallway and step inside a modest, but elegant room with a neatly made-up King sized bed.

As Arthur goes to take off his leather jacket and hang it on the back of a chair, Balal says, “You know, you’re a lot hotter than the photo you sent me let on.”

Arthur glances over to where Balal is pulling his light blue polo shirt over his head. “Thanks. I could say the same about you.”

“You could, but then you’d be lying.” Balal smiles good-naturedly and pats the slight paunch of his belly. “Most people don’t believe me when I say it’s hard to find a photo of me, alone, from the past few years. And I have no idea how to fix the photo so the other people are cut out.”

“Maybe you could ask your daughter to crop your photo for you,” Arthur says as he takes off his shirt. “Tell her it’s for your social media profiles.”

“Oh god, you’re right. She probably knows exactly how to do it.” Balal laughs. “Although I think she’d die of embarrassment if she found out I was going to set up a social media account. She’s under the impression that I live my life solely to humiliate her.”

“Let me guess: she’s a teenager.”

“Just hit thirteen last in March.” Balal fishes out his wallet and holds up a photo of a frizzy-haired girl with a trombone as big as her. “Kids, you know--grow up before you even get used to having them there. You have kids?”

“Me? No.” Arthur coils his belt up on the table, and then undoes the fly of his pants. “I don’t think that’s for me.”

“Fair enough.” Balal carefully tucks the photo away and then bends down to untie his sneakers. “I wasn’t sure if they were for me, either, but then things happen and your life changes, just like that. Before you know it, you can’t imagine life without them.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow as he balls up his socks in his shoes. “So it was an accident?”

“I like to think of it more as a happy surprise,” Balal replies. “Like falling in love.”

“You’ve fallen in surprise love?” Arthur pads across the carpeted floor to stand in front of Balal, enjoying the way his gaze rakes over Arthur’s body.

“Well, you know, sometimes it creeps up on you.” Balal raises a hand to skim along Arthur’s neck, up to his ear. “You find yourself connecting with someone you didn’t expect to.”

“Sure.” Unbidden, the image of Eames’ sly, knowing smile flashes through Arthur’s mind—an image he pushes away as he leans forward to kiss Balal.

The kiss is gentle, more of a curious exploration than anything else. Balal is an excellent kisser, Arthur notes, which bodes well for the rest of this encounter.

“You’re really, um—" Balal seems a bit breathless when the kiss ends. “You’re gorgeous, Lance. Like—really.”

“Thanks.” Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed, guides Balal to stand between his legs, and brings a hand up to run his thumb along Balal’s lower lip. “I like your mouth.”

Luckily, Balal gets the hint. He nips at Arthur’s thumb, once, before he sinks down to his knees and takes Arthur’s dick between his lips. There’s not much talking after that; Arthur takes deep breaths and discovers that Balal’s cocksucking skills are indeed on par with his kissing skills.

After he’s come, Arthur flops back onto the bed while Balal goes into the adjoining bathroom and spits. Arthur hears the sound of the faucet running, and rolls onto his side when Balal comes back into the room.

“Hey,” Arthur says as Balal climbs onto the bed, feeling sated and loose-limbed.

“Hey,” Balal replies with a smile, leaning forward to kiss him again. Arthur doesn’t really care for the taste of his own spunk in another man’s mouth, so he’s a little relieved that Balal thought to bring Listerine.

After a few minutes of lazy making out, Arthur rolls over on top of Balal, bending his right knee up to press very gently at the base of his erection. Balal moans, and Arthur brings his knee down onto the bed between Balal’s legs.

Arthur reaches down to jerk Balal off, and they kiss until Balal can’t anymore, panting breathily against Arthur’s lips until he comes, slipping and stuttering in Arthur’s hand. After he’s done, Arthur goes to the bathroom and comes back with a damp washcloth to wipe Balal off.

“Thanks,” Balal says, smile wide and happy. It’s unclear whether he’s thanking Arthur for the handjob, the cleanup, or both.

“No problem,” Arthur says as he leaves the washcloth in the bathroom sink.

“You said you were a consultant, right?” Balal calls out, and Arthur tries to remember what they’d talked about in their brief online conversation prior to meeting.

“Yeah."

“Do you work close to here?” Balal asks, stretching on top of the covers.

“Not really,” Arthur says. “I travel a lot for my job.”

“Oh,” Balal sits up. “Well, my branch—it’s not too far from here.”

There’s a pause, and Arthur glances away. “I think I’m going to hop in the shower, so—"

“Sure, yeah.” Balal swings his legs off the bed. “Right, and I have—I have to get to that recital.”

“Don’t worry about the room or anything,” Arthur says as Balal shuffles over to the pile of clothing on the table. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Okay,” Balal replies.

Arthur stays in the shower until he hears the gentle click of the door closing, then waits another ten minutes to be safe. He steps out of the stall and listens for any sound in the adjoining room while he towels himself off. Satisfied that Balal is gone, he goes back into the main room, and retrieves the fresh set of clothing he’d hung in the closet earlier.

Arthur changes, and hangs his dirty clothes in a garment bag. He pauses when he finds a business card on top of his belt, the words ‘Balal Chatterjee, Wolthingham Branch Manager, Provident Bank’ printed across the front. Scrawled across the back is a cell phone number and the message, ‘If you want to do this again sometime.’

Dom and Arthur set up a rotation of guest players for the game. Every week, the fourth player is changed: the first Thursday of the month is Yusuf, who is always extremely genial about losing his allotted five dollars in nickels, quarters, and dimes. The second week is filled by Hiram Cho, who tends to make big, bold plays that end in him sweeping the table or ending up with nothing. The third by Juana Hernandez, who plays conservatively, but steadily, usually ending up with the second biggest pot at the end of the night. And the last week is filled with Al Colefield, one of Dom’s college roommates, who seems to think he's some kind of poker savant, and always ends up arguing with Arthur over the rules. Out of the four, he is Arthur’s least favorite.

There are many reasons for this, ranging from Al’s tendency to call Arthur, ‘A-Rod, for the stick up your ass—get it?’ to the fact that he’s a grown man in his thirties still prone to dressing like some sad frat-boy. And he will not shut up about Arthur’s total lack of interest in sports.

“Come on, A-Rod, it’s an American tradition! You know—brewskies, babes, and football.”

“I’m more of a baseball and basketball fan,” Arthur replies, chilly. It’s not a total lie—he does force himself to suffer through games whenever Dom or a business contact want him to, and he keeps track of teams in the World Series in order to engage in the necessary water cooler talk at the office.

“Oh come on, it’s practically unpatriotic!” Al turns to Eames and Dom for support. “You guys know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Unless you’re talking about the actual sport of football, played with feet, I’m afraid I’ll have to bow out of this conversation,” Eames replies, putting on his snootiest accent. “Rugby, however, is a sport I can get behind.”

“Hehe, rugby.” Al sniggers. “Sounds like rugburn, which is something I can definitely get behind, if you know what I’m saying.”

Dom laughs, and Arthur shares a momentary look of shared disgust with Eames.

But the biggest reason why Arthur hates Al is his intense, vicarious interest in Arthur’s sex life.

“So what’s the dealio, A-Rod?” Al asks when the bartender delivers their drinks. “You giving it to some sweet piece of ass? Several sweet pieces of ass?”

Arthur folds his hands carefully in his lap. “I like to keep my private life private.”

“Oh come on, unclench a little,” Al says. “I’ve been stuck with the same ball and chain for the past eight years—I gotta live though someone's fucking escapades. And I bet the girls go crazy for your slick hair and shiny shoes.”

“I’d prefer not to discuss the matter,” Arthur says, and he can hear Eames stifling a snicker next to him.

“Unless you’re into dudes? Which, hey,” Al glances over at Dom and Eames, quickly, “nothing wrong with that.”

Arthur takes a long sip of his drink so he doesn’t give in to the urge to pull his gun and pistol-whip Al in the face with it. “Let’s get back to the game.”

“Hey, whatever happened with that girl—Vicky, was it?” Dom asks, getting in on the show too.

“We broke up,” Arthur says flatly.

Dom frowns. “How long ago was that? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Arthur shrugs. “Over a year ago, maybe. Nothing to say about it other than that it didn’t work out.”

“See, you need to get laid, A-Rod,” Al says. “I bet you’d be a hell of a lot more fun if you had more pussy in your life.”

Dom seems to pick up on Arthur’s eroding ability to restrain himself from acts of public violence and changes the subject. “The music here is shit. Seriously, what is this? Muzak?”

“It’s good of you to finally notice, Cobb,” Eames says, because he only refers to Dom as Dom in private. “The rest of us have been suffering through this shite for the past four weeks.”

“I guess it’s better than silence,” Al says, shrugging.

“Is it though?” Eames asks. “Really?”

“We should get some performers onstage,” Dom says decisively. “Some singers, a band. We could get Esteban’s sister—Abby-what’s-her-name—"

“Abilena,” Arthur says, not looking up from cutting the card deckk.

“Yeah, her. She does the singing at weddings and those, uh, quin—birthday parties—"

“Quinceaneras,” Arthur corrects. “She sings almost exclusively in Spanish, though. Are you sure—"

He’d seen Abilena perform, once, at this wedding Dom had been invited to--which Arthur had attended in his stead. It's important to make the rounds in the community, show up for important business partners. She had a powerful voice and an even more impressive stage presence, hypnotizing the entire audience as she swayed and sang about love that could span oceans. He’d made a point of speaking with her afterwards, bought a CD she’d burned from her garage recordings, and made the mistake of leaving it playing it in his apartment when Dom had stopped by.

As much as Arthur would enjoy seeing her perform again, he's wary. It would be unfortunate if Dom took an extracurricular interest in Abilena, given the amount of time he's already splitting between Mal and Eames. Plus, Esteban’s one of their most reliable shipping partners.

“No, hey, that’s fine,” Dom says. “My Spanish is crap but I can pick out a few words. Unless you guys have any objections.”

“I learned French in school,” Eames says as Arthur begins to deal. “About the most useless thing I picked up, and that’s including the Calculus. I’ve no objections.”

“Dude,” Al says. “You call the shots, I just suck the lime.”

“Looks like you’ll have to be our translator, Arthur,” Dom says as he picks up his cards. “Talk to Esteban.”

“I’ll make the call,” Arthur agrees, forcing himself to suppress a sigh.

“May I speak to Abilena Navarro?”

“Si, speaking.” Arthur hears the sound of a TV going in the background and, alongside that, children laughing.

“My name is Arthur Damrosch. I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met a few months ago at a wedding. I bought your CD.”

“A wedding—" The children are hushed and the volume lowered on the TV. “You--you work for Dominic Cobb, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies. “I would like to offer you a job. It involves singing every Thursday night at Perle Lounge. Are you familiar with the Perle Lounge?”

“Yes,” Abilena says. “But all Thursday night—I would need to get a sitter and—"

“You would be generously compensated, of course.” When she doesn’t reply immediately, Arthur adds, “Mr. Cobb wanted me to express to you how pleased he’s been with your brother’s work in the past. He is hopeful that their mutually beneficial relationship can continue as smoothly in the future.”

There’s a long silence. “When—when would you like me to start?”

“This week, if possible,” Arthur says. “But I understand that this is very short notice, so if you need another week to find a sitter, that’s fine as well.”

“Yes, of course,” Abilena says, voice soft. “Next week, then. Thank you, Mr. Damrosch.”

“Thank you, Ms. Navarro.”

“They’re called ‘legal highs,’” Dom says as they walk through the construction site, the sound of drilling and hammering nearly drowning his words out. “They’re these compounds that chemists make in the lab to mimic the experience of being on heroin or E or whatever, without having the same chemical makeup and actually being those drugs.”

“Sounds like a hell of a loophole,” Arthur comments, rolling up the blueprints he’d been half-heartedly thumbing through.

“Yeah. At least until the government catches up and passes a new law saying they aren’t.” Dom shrugs. “They’re all the rage in Europe.”

“Hm,” Arthur says.

“What?” Dom asks. “What is it?”

“Are you sure there’s going to be demand for that over here?” Arthur asks. “People are willing to pay for the real things. Why would they want the knockoff?”

“They’re supposed to have the same effects,” Dom says. “Maybe rich suburban kids will want the high but not the possible rap sheet?”

“Half the reason those kids do drugs is to experience the excitement of something illegal,” Arthur replies. “The ones that want to stay safe stick with prescription meds they get from their shrinks or steal from their parents.”

“Yeah.” Dom sighs. “I don’t love it either, but it’s either this or work with the Russians. And you know how I feel about the Russians.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t get a veto?”

“It comes straight from the top,” Dom says. “Sal called a couple of days ago. Told me I had to pick a plan to support.”

“You mean pick a side.” Arthur swears under his breath. “What if we pick the wrong one?”

“Then we pick wrong,” Dom replies. “And do our best to avoid the fallout.”

“Did you tell Sal we got the Feds breathing down our necks over here?”

“I did, but he wasn’t that sympathetic."

“Great,” Arthur says as they stop in front of his parked car. “More shit to deal with.”

“Yeah.” Dom sighs again. “One last thing. And I really wish I didn’t have to ask you this.”

“Yeah?” Arthur says, already wary.

“Mal’s started going through my things again. Listening to my messages, checking my calls, reading my mail—the meds have sent her into this fucking paranoid frenzy.”

The paranoia's not based on nothing. “Guess it's not just the Feds keeping an eye on you now.”

“I never realized I was so goddamned interesting," Dom says with a mirthless chuckle. "I hired a driver to take Eames to and from Perle, but the last thing I need is Mal catching wind of a driver on a Thursday night.” Again, is the unspoken word. Dom is a creature of habit; before Eames, there was Rosella, and before that, Marguerite, and before that, Chloe.

“You want me to make the arrangements?”

“The fewer people who know about Eames, the better,” Dom replies. “Could you pick him up? Most nights I’ll take him home myself, so you won't need to deal with that.”

Arthur considers saying no. But what reason could he use to justify the no to Dom? Because it's a long drive far as fuck away? Because Eames is trouble and knows it? He’s silent long enough for Dom to start talking again.

“You’re the only one I can trust, Arthur,” Dom says. “Please.”

“Sure, Dom.” Because really, what else can Arthur say to that?

“Okay, good, good.” Dom lets out a relieved exhale, but when he resumes talking, it doesn’t sound like he was ever really worried about Arthur refusing. “Just my luck though, right? First I got the Feds crawling up my ass, and now Mal.”

“You’re early,” Eames says as he opens the manor front door.

“I like to budget a generous amount of time for traffic,” Arthur replies. “Ready?”

Eames shrugs one shoulder as he finishes tugging a tight black T-shirt over his head. “I was going to sit down for a spot of tea, but if you’d prefer to leave immediately, I can skip that part.”

Arthur glances around the foyer and door that leads into the living room. The manor's furnished in a way that might be generously described as Spartan—otherwise known as a half-step above ‘college dormitory.’ Arthur vaguely remembers cutting checks to purchase this piece of property a few years back, Dom having made some noises about a summer home outside the city for his kids. But to Arthur’s knowledge, neither James nor Philippa have ever set foot inside this place, and Mal doesn’t even know it exists.

“I guess we have some time,” Arthur says, because it’s generally his policy to make nice—but not too nice—with all of Dom’s flings. They have the power to put Dom in spectacularly bad moods and make Arthur’s life that much more difficult for it.

Eames leads the way into the kitchen, which features two pieces of furniture (a single chair and a single stool), an electric teakettle, and not much else.

Arthur leans against the counter while Eames turns off the whistling kettle. “Care for a cup of Earl Grey?”

“No thanks.” Arthur watches Eames pour carefully into a large mug. “Did Dom tell you I’ll be driving from now on?”

“He may have mentioned something along those lines, yes.” Eames lifts the mug, and Arthur stares at his hands while he does. Notices for the first time—now that he’s looking for it—the thick scarring and the stump where the right index finger should be. “It’s rather rude to stare, you know.”

“Don’t they make prosthetics?” Arthur asks, not bothering to deny what he’s staring at.

“They make prosthetics for everything these days." Eames smiles humorlessly. “I wear it when I go out, but you caught me in a state of dishabille.”

“You’re very good at hiding it,” Arthur says, finally dragging his eyes back up to Eames’ face. “The tremors and the prosthetic.”

“And now you know my dirty little secret,” Eames replies smoothly, finishing off his tea.

“Just the one?”

Eames puts his mug in the sink. “Have you been checking up on me, Arthur?”

“Which identity? You've got quite a few."

Eames glances back over his shoulder, eyelashes lowered. "I'm flattered you took an interest."

"Purely professional." The words sound less than convincing aloud. At the faint twist of Eames' mouth, Arthur continues, "You’re a counterfeiter and forger that used to be based out of North Africa.”

Eames’ expression doesn’t change, but Arthur can feel the shift in the air. “Is that right?”

“You’re military trained—maybe special forces. But that’s not where you got the scars, or where you lost your finger.”

Eames crosses his arms over his chest and smiles blandly. “Don’t keep the audience in suspense. Where did I lose it, then?”

“That, I haven’t figured out,” Arthur admits. “But I’m working on it.”

“And why might you be telling me all this?”

“So you know what I know.” Arthur spreads his hands in front of him, palms up. “I did some preliminary research and that’s what I turned up. I don't want you to operate under the assumption that I have no idea who you are.”

“I see.” Eames narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you and I both work for Dom. It’s in both our interests to keep him happy, and I’m willing to work with you to make that happen.”

“Oh really?” Eames says. “Work with me in what way?”

“If there’s anything you want to know about me, if there’s anything—" Arthur pauses, considers how the words could sound. “Anything you want to know--ask, and I will try to answer honestly. If I can.”

“Quite the qualifier.” Eames studies Arthur for a long moment, and it feels like a vivisection. “Well, it wouldn't do to be late for the game. I need to take a piss, and finish making myself presentable to the world.”

“I’ll meet you at the car,” Arthur says, refusing to allow Eames to push him off balance.

While Eames disappears upstairs, Arthur goes outside and wishes he'd brought gloves. It’s a crisp autumn day, a slight sharpness to the air. Arthur leans against the car door and takes in the lush woods all around. Brilliant reds and oranges and yellows surround the manor, the last moments of exuberant glory before leaves shrivel and trees are laid bare.

When Eames appears, he’s wearing a leather jacket over his T-shirt. Arthur has to remind himself not to look.

“Anything off limits?” Eames asks as he gets in the car. "With regards to questions."

“Business. Dom’s family. Things too dangerous to talk about,” Arthur replies as he turns the ignition.

“That last category is rather broad.” At Arthur’s shrug, Eames smirks. “What’s your last name?”

“Damrosch."

“Arthur Damrosch. Have you and Dom ever fucked?”

Arthur refuses to blink. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Dom likes to keep his dance card pretty full.” Arthur can feel Eames watching him. “And then he got married.”

“Hasn’t stopped him, it seems.”

“I don’t do that."

“Is that why you’re not married?”

“So I can play the field?” Arthur chuckles, and thinks of Al. “No. I haven’t met anyone I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“Other than Dom, of course.”

“That’s not—" Arthur swallows. "We’re like family.”

“You’re not in love with him?”

“No.” Arthur adds, “Are you?”

Eames sputters a startled laugh. “I suppose that’s fair. And no, I’m not.”

Arthur turns his attention back to the road. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not lying to me,” Arthur says.

The rest of the ride is quiet, Eames staring out the window in thoughtful silence. When they arrive at the lounge, Dom and Cho rise to greet them. Eames slides into the booth next to Dom, which leaves Arthur with no choice but to sit on Eames’ other side.

The second player they introduced to the table after Yusuf was Hiram Cho, a hospital administrator at Caritas General. They’ve done good business together. Cho’s competent, intelligent, and has never tried to dick them over.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes, either; there had been a brief moment, years ago, when he’d first met Cho, that Arthur had thought something might happen. But then the one-time deal had turned into a series of transactions that ended up becoming a permanent arrangement, and that had been that. If there’s one rule to live by, Arthur thinks, it’s this: don’t shit where you eat.

They play a few rounds, drink some poorly prepared drinks (“Why is my fucking beer warm?” Dom demands at one point), and Arthur maintains a careful distance between himself and Eames. Dom, on the other hand, continues to drink in spite of his complaints, and get progressively drunker as the night goes on. By midnight, his hand is alarmingly close to Eames’ crotch—a fact the rest of the table is trying to ignore.

“I think I’m going to call it,” Cho says at last, eying the way Dom is draped over Eames. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” He promptly disappears out the door.

“Well, fuck,” Dom mutters as he staggers out of the booth. “Those were some shrong, stritty drinks.”

“We need to get a dedicated bartender for our table,” Arthur says, reaching out a hand when Dom trips.

“Easy does it there, love.” Eames gets there first, and steadies Dom on his feet.

"I should probably drive you back,” Arthur says. Eames loops an arm around Dom’s waist to keep him walking upright through the club and into the parking lot.

“Probably for the best,” Dom slurs, swaying every which way despite Eames’ best efforts. “I might be a little, ah, buzzed.”

“You’re in the barrel,” Eames says with some amusement as he helps Dom into the backseat of the car. “You should lie down.”

“Great idea,” Dom agrees as Eames sits up front and Arthur starts the car. “You’re always so full of great ideas. Arthur, do you know that Eames is full of great ideas?”

“I did not know that,” Arthur says, checking the rearview mirror to see if Dom has passed the threshold from uncoordinated-and-amusingly-honest-drunk to vomiting-all-over-himself-and-the-upholstery-drunk.

“He is,” Dom declares. “And did you know he used to be a coun—counter—forger. One of the best!”

“Did he?” Arthur says again. “Impressive.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Dom says before throwing an arm up over his forehead dramatically. “God, it’s good to talk to someone. All Mal does is cry and cry and cry. I do everything I can to make her smile, but it’s not—nothing’s good enough.”

“Dom,” Arthur starts.

“I used to be able to make her laugh,” Dom says, raw. “I’ve been trying, you know, but it’s like I can’t reach her. It’s like she’s not there anymore.”

“Maybe I should drop you off at home,” Arthur says. “I can drop Eames off after.”

“No, no.” Dom waves his hand in the air. “I told her I’d be out all night. I told her there’s this new shipping route I have to oversee overnight on Thursdays. I think. Is that what I told her?”

Arthur glances over at Eames, again, who is blank-faced and seeming unperturbed by weepy talk of emotionally-distant wives.

When they get to the manor, it takes a combined effort to convince Dom that the warm bed waiting inside is better than the backseat of Arthur’s car. They eventually get Dom mostly vertical, limbs draped across Eames. Arthur glances at his watch; it's ass o'clock and he's got a long drive home.

"Arthur, Arthur." Dom reaches out to grab Arthur's wrist. "You're my best friend, you know that?"

"Sure, Dom," Arthur replies.

"No, no, I mean it, I really--" Dom's slurring, but his grip is tight. "The day I met you, I knew. I said to myself, this kid, this kid is going to grow up to be something and the rest of the world doesn't have a fucking clue."

"I know," Arthur says. "I know. You're my best friend, too."

"Am I?" Dom stares into Arthur's eyes, searchingly sober for a moment before the haze slips back in. "Good. That's--you know, the best thing about you is that you mean it. I know you mean it, I can tell. And you're loyal, you're so--I know you'll never just change one day, just change into a person I don't know."

"We all change, Dom," Eames says, gently pulling Dom's arm until he releases Arthur's wrist. "Now I think it's time to let Arthur go. He has quite a drive back and it's late."

Arthur looks at Eames and can't read the expression he sees there. "I'll come get him in the morning."

"Better make it noon," Eames says when he has to practically catch Dom to prevent him from face-planting. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight." Arthur watches the two of them make their way into the house before getting in the car.

“Hey,” Arthur says when Eames comes to the door. “Dom still asleep?”

“No, he’s drowning himself in a pot of coffee,” Eames replies. “Come on in.”

“How’re you doing, Dom?” Arthur asks when he walks into the kitchen.

Dom winces, seeming more than a little green. “I’ve been better.”

“You want some breakfast?” Arthur holds up a bag of breakfast pastries he brought over.

“No food.” Dom flinches away. “I’m getting nauseous just thinking about it.”

“You want anything?” Arthur offers the bag to Eames, who reviews the selection and pulls out a croissant. “I’ll leave these on the counter. In case you change your mind.”

“I think I might be getting too old,” Dom mutters, dropping his forehead to the tabletop.

Arthur chuckles sympathetically. “We can leave whenever you want. You got anywhere you need to be?”

“No.” Dom shrugs moodily. “What’s the point, anyway? It’s like I can’t do a damn thing right when it comes to Mal.”

Arthur glances over at Eames, half-expecting jealousy at such candid talk about Mal. All he sees is placid boredom. “Like I said, it’s up to you.”

“Yeah.” Dom sighs. “Give me half an hour before I have to face the firing squad, okay?”

“Of course,” Arthur says. “I’ll go sweep the house for bugs.”

Arthur takes out his scanner. Walks through the spacious living room, family room, and dining room, trying to familiarize himself with the layout. When he’s done with the first floor and Dom still isn't done brooding, Arthur heads upstairs.

There’s a long hallway opening up to the seven bedrooms. All of them are completely empty except for the master bedroom, which has a King-sized bed, a nightstand, and clothing strewn all over the floor. Arthur sweeps all of the empty rooms to be safe, saving the master bedroom and its mess for last.

“Find anything of interest?” Eames asks, appearing in the doorway while Arthur scans the master bath.

“No,” Arthur replies, pocketing the device. “I don’t think anyone knows about this piece of property since it’s not in Dom’s name.”

“Let’s hope that applies to both your law enforcement admirers and Dom’s wife.”

“So you meant it when you said you weren’t in love,” Arthur says.

“Are you going to tell him, then?” Eames leans back against a wall. “Expose my pragmatic desire not to waste my deeper affections on a married man?”

“No,” Arthur says. “Love makes people unstable. I like to avoid messes.”

“How delightful,” Eames says. "As do I."

When they get downstairs, Dom’s still sighing, but at least has finished his coffee. “Time to climb back into the jaws of hell."

Arthur goes to start the car while Dom and Eames say goodbye.

“He’s really something, isn’t he?” Dom asks. At first Arthur thinks it’s a rhetorical question, but Dom's looking at him expectantly.

“Sure," Arthur says, carefully neutral. "He’s something.”

“I usually prefer women—you know. But there’s something about him. I don’t know what it is. The accent, the mouth.”

Arthur focuses on driving and not on Eames’ mouth. “How long's it been?”

“Five months? Six? You know I'm terrible at anniversaries and all that shit.” Dom flops back against the seat. “I think I’m starting to fall for him, though.”

“Yeah.” Arthur suppresses the urge to roll his eyes; Dom always gets like this over the ones that last more than a few months. Unless someone gets knocked up, in which case it's time to pack it in.

“His birthday’s coming up in a few weeks,” Dom says. “You gotta help me think of something to get him.”

"Sure,” Arthur replies.

Arthur’s in the middle of filing expense reports when his cell phone rings. After he checks his caller ID, he goes and shuts the door to his office. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Damrosch. I’m really sorry to bother you.” Oliver’s voice is staticky across the line. “There’s been an incident with your mother—"

“Is she alright?” Arthur asks, already shutting down his computer and putting on his jacket. “What happened?”

“She’s fine, she just—took a little unscheduled trip,” Oliver says. “Now she’s refusing to leave.”

“Tell me the address,” Arthur says, pen poised over a notebook. He puts it down again before Oliver finishes telling him the town. “I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

He hops in his car and gets onto the parkway, frowning a little at the traffic ahead and feeling the urge to start weaving through the cars that don’t seem to understand the concept of a passing lane. But this section of the highway is a speed trap, and the last thing Arthur needs is to get stopped for a ticket.

Even with the considerable restraint he exercises, Arthur makes it to Camden Park in record time. Arthur pulls up to the curb, shrugs out of his jacket and leaves it in the car, and steps out onto the dilapidated road.

He keeps his shoulders straight and a hand ready to reach for his gun as he scans the area for immediate threats. There’s a group of bored teenagers sitting on a stoop a few buildings down, but after a few minutes, they lose interest in him—or pretend to—and go back to texting and chatting amongst themselves.

Arthur walks onto the sidewalk and up the cracked stairs to 528 Canopic Drive, apartment building B, and pushes the door open. The lock’s broken, and seems to have been that way for a long time.

The interior of the building is dark, mildew growing up the along the edges of the faded wallpaper. He takes the stairs two steps at a time and stops on the fourth floor, where Oliver is waiting in the doorway of apartment 4C, blocking the inside from view.

“Mr. Damrosch,” Oliver says. “I’m really sorry about this. I tried to get her to leave, but she wouldn’t listen and threatened to fight if I touched her.”

Given that Oliver is six feet and two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and bulk, it wouldn’t have been much of a fight if he had gone to physically move her. “Thank you for calling me,” Arthur says. “What happened?”

“I left her alone for a minute while I went to use the bathroom. She seemed calm, happy as a clam eating her breakfast oatmeal,” Oliver explains. “I come out and she’s gone.”

“How did she get here?” Arthur asks, trying to block the flood of memories that come back when he catches a whiff of cigarette smoke in the hallway. “Even with a head-start, this apartment is too far for her to walk. And I took her keys away three weeks ago.”

“She stole my keys,” Oliver says, seeming embarrassed. “I always leave them in the same place so I don’t lose them and she must have noticed.”

“Fuck.” Arthur rubs his forehead and feels the beginning of a headache coming. “How did you find her, then?”

“I called and called, but she wouldn’t pick up. Luckily, the people in this apartment managed to get a hold of her phone and called me back,” Oliver says. “I didn’t think she’d driven so far at first, so I was just checking in with all the local places she likes to visit.”

“Is she inside, then?” Arthur asks, glancing at the open door.

“Yeah, she’s in there with the folks that live here,” Oliver replies. “She’s calmed down since I got here, but she still won’t leave and keeps muttering something about finding baking soda.”

“Baking—" Arthur stops and shakes his head. “Thanks. I’ll go talk to her.”

The inside of the apartment is the same as Arthur remembers and yet not, walls painted over in an inoffensive ivory instead of the greenish haze it had been, furniture that’s worn but not the broken-down crap that he had to fix up with duct tape every few weeks.

At the end of the hallway in the dim kitchen lighting, Arthur can see the silhouette of his mother frantically rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. Behind her stands a displeased looking couple in their early thirties, discussing whether they should call the police.

“Excuse me,” Arthur says as he enters the kitchen and captures their attention. “I’m Arthur Damrosch. My mother’s home attendant called me.”

“This is your mother?” the man says, accepting Arthur’s hand to shake after a pause.

“Yes, and I’m very sorry about this,” Arthur says, glancing over at where Lydia hasn’t noticed his entrance at all. “My mother has been ill recently, but she’s never done anything like this before. She isn’t supposed to drive, and I never imagined she’d end up—here.”

The man's expression softens. “It’s alright. She gave us a scare when she barged in, but so far she hasn’t caused any damage or threatened anyone. She keeps asking about baking soda and won’t listen when I tell her we don’t have any.”

Arthur glances over at Lydia, at the pale blue dress and mismatched socks, her graying hair long and unbound down her back. “I’ll talk to her.”

He takes a deep breath and approaches his mother slowly, reaching out a cautious hand to let her know he’s there. “Mom?”

She stops banging through the cupboards and turns to face him. After a moment of blankness, recognition dawns in her eyes. “There are you, Arthur.”

“Mom,” Arthur repeats, and steps closer. She’s wearing makeup, he notices, a little sloppily applied around the eyes. “I’m here to bring you back home.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lydia replies crisply. “We are home. I know you’re still upset because you had to leave all your friends in the other building, but this apartment, this area—it’s going to be better, you’ll see.”

“This isn’t our apartment anymore,” Arthur says as he pries away the salt shaker she’s holding. “It hasn’t been, not for years now.”

“You can be so stubborn.” Lydia sighs, pulls away from his grasp. “Fine, have it your way. But if we don’t live here, I’m certainly not going to help you with your model volcano project.”

The memory comes back as if it were yesterday: Arthur had tried, repeatedly, helplessly, to get the chemical reaction to work in front of the class, but to no avail; the volcano had refused to bubble and overflow the way his textbook had promised it would. It was only later, years later, that Arthur had realized that the whole humiliating experience of being stared down by bored classmates and pitied by the teacher had been caused by the use of baking powder, and not soda.

Lydia moves away to rummage through the refrigerator. “Now, do you want pasta or rice for dinner? And no, before you ask, you can’t have both.”

“I have a better idea,” Arthur says quietly. “How about we stop by the Apollo Diner and get some breakfast food for dinner?”

“Oh, honey.” Lydia closes the refrigerator door and then sags forward against it. “You know we don’t have the money for that.”

“No, it’s fine.” Arthur curls an arm around her waist and begins to guide her, a few steps at a time, out of the kitchen. “I’ve been saving up. It’ll be my treat.”

“But don’t you want to work on your model volcano?” Lydia asks as Arthur leads her out of the apartment. “It’s due next week.”

“It’s okay,” Arthur says as Oliver takes over and leads Lydia down the stairs. “We’re gonna get the scrambled eggs, pancakes, and bacon that you like first, and then we can come back and worry about the volcano.”

“You’re such a good boy,” Lydia says, voice distant and faint. “When we get back, I’ll help you win that science fair, I promise.”

“Hey, Arthur, you got a second?”

Arthur glances up. Starts when he sees Dom standing at the door to his office. “Sure, come on in.”

Dom pushes open the door and steps in. “Swank office. You get a promotion?”

“I put in a request for a change of scenery,” Arthur says, putting down his pen. “My old one had a better view, but here it’s quieter.”

Dom scans the room one last time before taking a seat. “Quiet is good. Sometimes you need it so you can hear yourself think.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Arthur asks. His office door is still half-open, and even if he and Dom both know there’s no bugs in the room, office gossip is nearly as effective at catching sensitive information.

“I actually just stopped by to say thanks. For the other day,” Dom says. “I know I was a little—I shouldn’t have had as much to drink as I did.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Arthur says as Eames comes to mind.

“It’s not just for that,” Dom says. “It’s been a rough past year. For me. I’ve been leaning on you, and I wanted you to know that I appreciate everything you do.”

Arthur blinks, not sure how to respond to this. “I—uh. Dom, that’s—"

“Sorry, I’m getting all afterschool special on you.” Dom smiles, and Arthur feels sixteen all over again, staring up at Dom from a hospital bed and wondering when that light beaming down on him was going to get turned off. “But all the stuff I said before about you being the one I count on is true. If there’s anything you need--I'm here.”

“Um.” Arthur stares down at his notepad. “Thanks. That’s—thanks.”

“So is everything okay with you?” Dom asks. “How’s your mother doing?”

“She’s—fine.” Arthur drags his gaze up to meet Dom’s, because Dom never believes him when he doesn’t look him in the eye. “Everything’s fine.”

“You know if she ever needs anything…” Dom’s voice is kinder, kinder than Arthur’s heard in a long while.

“I know,” Arthur says. “Thanks.”

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur says when he steps out of the car. “This is a surprise.”

“What? That I’m dressed this time?” Eames tosses his cigarette to the ground.

“Yes,” Arthur says while Eames gets in the car.

Eames snorts. “You are a very direct man, Arthur.”

“I try not to lie if I can help it,” Arthur replies, pulling out of the driveway. “The truth is usually simpler.”

“Is it?” Eames taps his fingers against the glass. “What do you do all day when you’re not driving me around?”

“Are we doing this again?”

“Playing the game where you fascinate me with the half-truths and omissions that form your livelihood? Yes.”

Arthur glances over, wary. “I’m an accountant. Other than that, I help Dom with whatever he needs.”

“And what might that include?”

“Shipping, logistics. Imports and exports.”

Eames smirks. “So accountants do more than merely keep accounts these days, hm?”

“I do what needs to be done.”

“Are you happy with this?”

Arthur frowns. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Not everyone enjoys shepherding errant mistresses about.”

Arthur's not sure he likes where this is going. Asks, “What brought you to the US?”

“Work,” Eames says, tone light. “I must admit to a deep and abiding affection for you Yanks and your accents—even if you are all upstart colonials too big for your britches.”

“Our accents,” Arthur repeats, skeptically.

“Dom can be a bit nasal for my tastes,” Eames says. “You, on the other hand, I could listen to for days.”

Arthur looks over at where Eames is sprawled out on the seat, something very close to a leer on his face. “Whatever you think you’re doing, you should stop.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Arthur slows to a halt at a stoplight. “Dom has a possessive streak and no sense of humor about it.”

“And what is there to possess in this instance?” Eames says. “He's the one with the less-than-loving wife and tiny tots, not I.”

Arthur shakes his head. “He expects your full attention. Your... loyalty."

"Loyalty," Eames repeats, rolling out all the vowels as if he finds them amusing. "What a notion. What a demand."

"And you’re not done with him until he’s done with you," Arthur says, abruptly uneasy. Dom's priors had been as obsessed with him as he had been with them; Arthur's not sure what to make of Eames' cavalier approach.

“And when he’s done, he’ll send you in to let me know, yeah?” Eames says. “Doesn't like the dirty hands to be his own.”

Arthur shrugs, but doesn’t disagree. “I don’t think that’ll happen for a while. He’s—"

“Rather taken with the way I suck cock.” Eames is staring out the window again.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

“You know, for a local crime lord, Dom really is shockingly vanilla in his sexual tastes,” Eames says.

“Excuse me?”

“Mind you've, I've never been kept before--nor the other man--so I must admit to not having firsthand knowledge as such.” Eames’ tone is back to being light, matter of fact. “Here I was, expecting to cater to the most depraved acts and desires possible--activities Dom could not possibly broach with his wife--but all Dom wants is doggy-style, some head, and then sleep.”

“I'm pretty sure sex with men isn't an activity Dom can broach with his wife."

"Right you are." Eames lets out a startled laugh. "But--"

"What’s this really about?" Arthur interrupts. "We both know that Dom doesn't come to you for the sex."

"No?" Eames smiles widely, fakely. "But I'm so very good at it."

"So are hookers," Arthur says. "And yet."

"I shall take that as a favorable comparison."

"What’s this really about, Mr. Eames?"

"It's just--" Eames stops, and exhales a shallow breath. "I guess I'm bored, is all."

Finally, Arthur thinks. The truth. "And why are you telling me this?"

Eames glances over at Arthur. "Because there's no one else for me to tell."

“My goodness, are you old enough to be in here?” Eames leans back in the booth and grins at the fresh-faced girl standing in front of the table. “Don’t you Yanks have laws about letting infants into establishments that serve alcohol?”

“Is he old enough to be in here?” the girl asks, jerking her head at Arthur.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Arthur says as he draws a deck of cards from his pocket.

“There, there, love, I promise I won’t tell.” Eames winks and the girl huffs.

“Look, Mr. Cobb hired me, so if you have a problem with—"

“Ariadne,” Dom says from behind them, walking in with Juana a few steps behind. “Good to see you. You take the orders yet?”

“Not yet, Mr. Cobb.” Ariadne flushes. “I was introducing myself to the table.”

“They weren’t giving you a hard time, were they?” Dom looks pointedly at Eames, who shrugs, unrepentant. “You let me know if they do.”

“Thanks, Mr. Cobb.” Ariadne smiles, and Dom nods, once, satisfied. Then his cell phone goes off and he frowns at the caller ID.

“Excuse me, I have to take this.” He walks away while Juana takes a seat. Probably Mal, Arthur figures.

“My name is Juana.” She holds out a hand for Ariadne to shake. “This is Eames, and Arthur.”

“I’m Ariadne,” she says, smiling gratefully at Juana. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“Ariadne,” Arthur echoes. “That’s Greek, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she replies, cautiously. “It comes from an ancient myth about the princess that saved Theseus from the Minotaur.”

“And you’re here to save us from shoddy beverages,” Eames drawls.

“Top shelf, strong, and well-mixed,” Ariadne promises.

“There’s a large Greek community over in Woodlake,” Arthur says. “You from around there?”

“Yeah,” she replies, relaxing a little. “I grew up north of here, but I have family in Woodlake.”

“That’s good,” Arthur says. “We like people from the neighborhood.”

“Arthur’s terribly parochial that way.” Eames smiles, though, and it’s a little kinder than before.

“Arthur’s not the only one who values roots in our community,” Juana says.

“Isn’t home where the heart is?” Eames asks flippantly. “Not where your past is buried?"

Juana raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t they usually in similar locations?”

“Not necessarily.” Eames shrugs, and Arthur notices a slight wince when he does, one hand coming up to rub at the base of his prosthetic. “Ariadne, if you would be so kind as to bring me a glass of good, strong Johnnie Walker?”

“Of course,” Ariadne says. “I’ll bring you the Blue.”

They all place their drink orders, and she seems relieved at the excuse to get away.

“It’s not a matter of being parochial or small-minded,” Juana says once Ariadne’s gone. “It’s a matter of practicality: if a person is not reminded of where they come from, they can be set adrift and lost at sea far too easily.”

“As long as they know how to swim, I see no problem with that.” The corners of Eames’ mouth turn up, but he bares his crooked teeth a touch too much for it to be a smile.

“But how long can a man swim alone before his arms grow weary, his head unclear?” Juana asks. “How long before the man forgets that water is not the only thing the world holds?”

“The instinct for self-preservation is a powerful motivator,” Eames counters. “In my experience, it's more than enough to stop a man from downing.”

“And when nothing is left but that instinct--does the man become an animal?”

“Better a free animal than a caged man,” Eames says.

“Do you consider family to be a cage, Mr. Eames?” Juana asks. “Love? Loyalty? Fidelity?”

“I think they’re the pretty words we use to pad the handcuffs society places on us from the day we’re born,” Eames says, and his gaze flickers to Arthur. “They comfort us whilst we waste our lives away in boredom and servitude.”

“That is a very bleak way of interpreting the most important parts of life,” Juana says. “If this is how you truly feel—then I am sad for you.”

Ariadne returns with the drinks, and with Dom. Arthur picks up his glass and holds it aloft.

“A toast to freedom,” Arthur says, meeting Eames’ eyes, and then Juana’s. “And to family.”

"Here here," Dom says.

“To freedom.” Eames says, his mouth curling into something secretive and shrewd. “To family.”

Chapter Text

Eames opens the door, shirtless. “I’m not ready.”

“I can see that,” Arthur says.

Eames turns on his heel and walks back into the house. After a moment, Arthur follows him in. He doesn’t watch the ripple of Eames’ shoulder blades as he walks, or the way his pants cling to his ass. Arthur concentrates, instead, on the bare walls surrounding them.

“I haven’t anything to wear,” Eames says. “And I'm not being cute when I say that. I mean literally, everything I own was due for a wash weeks ago and there's been no detergent for over a month.”

Arthur picks up a crumpled shirt hanging off the back of the couch. Half the buttons have been torn off. “Have you talked to Dom about this?”

“I brought it up a few times, but apparently buying detergent isn’t top of mind.” Eames crosses his arms; that’s when Arthur notices the tremors.

“Your hands,” Arthur says. “Is that what happened to this shirt?”

Eames tucks his hands into the crooks of his arms. “I thought I had another shirt, but everything is either stained or hopelessly wrinkled. I haven’t an iron, and Dom—"

“Dom will care,” Arthur says. “We could stop at my place, but I’m pretty sure nothing I own will fit besides some old sweats. And all the clothing stores will be closed by the time we drive back to civilization.”

“Perhaps you know someone in my size.”

“Eames.” Arthur takes a step closer and sees how tightly drawn Eames’ face is. “Are you okay?”

Eames looks away, and is silent for a long moment. When he speaks again, it's reluctantly. “The same aches and pains as always. But--ratcheted up to an eight on the pain scale instead of a four.”

Arthur checks Eames' expression carefully. “Is there anything you can take?”

“I usually have a Vicodin and call it a day, but I need to be sharp for the next few hours—not to mention functional for a while after that.” Eames sounds weary, resigned.

Arthur pulls out his cell. “Take the Vicodin. I’ll let Dom know you’re not coming.”

“What?” Eames looks up. “Are you serious?”

Arthur finishes texting Dom and takes out his wallet. “You mentioned you were out of clothing and detergent, and you don’t have an iron. Is there anything else you need that you can’t get through the home grocery delivery?”

“I—" Eames uncrosses his arms. “Well, I suppose actual plates and silverware might be nice.”

“You haven't been eating off—" Arthur pauses. “What exactly have you been eating, then?”

“TV dinners, mostly.” Eames shrugs. “Tea, fruit, and pizza--when Dom brings it. Can’t cook without pots, pans, and utensils.”

Arthur takes out a business card and writes his cell phone number on the back. “Here. You can call or text any time if anything else like this happens. I assume you still have a working phone and charger?”

Eames takes the business card. "One of the few things."

“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” Arthur asks, checking his calendar. “Around two?”

Eames lets out a breathy chuckle. “Darling, I’m free every day, all day.”

Arthur pauses. “So—what do you do in between--visits?”

“Aside from physical therapy?” Eames smiles thinly. “Not much. I go for runs, swim—though that's not an option anymore, sadly. Watch the telly, surf the internet, have a wank.”

“Do you have cleaning supplies?” Arthur glances around, suddenly reminded of how empty most of the house is. "Books?"

“I don't even have a working lamp in my bedroom. So no, no books."

"Damn." Arthur rubs his forehead and he clears his agenda for the entire next day. "We'll start by getting you new clothes and the essentials tomorrow, then work on the rest. I'll come get you at two."

Eames narrows his eyes. "I haven't the money for all that."

"I'll pay for it and expense it to Dom," Arthur replies as he texts Yusuf to see if he can be the fourth player for the night.

Eames sits down on the arm of the couch. "How generous of him."

"It's one of the perks of being in your… position," Arthur replies. "Don't worry, Dom knows the drill when it comes to paying for things like this."

"Does he now?" Eames raises his eyebrows. "I know I'm hardly the first to be—as you put it—in my position, but just how many others have there been?"

"There've been a few. Most stayed in apartments in the city—you're the first one out in the middle of nowhere."

"Lucky me," Eames says. "It would explain why there was nothing besides a lawn chair here when I first arrived."

"You shouldn't be living on paper plates and plastic utensils." Arthur shakes his head. "That's not—Dom wouldn't want that."

"And now you're going to help me realize the dream of being kept more fully, are you?" Eames smirks a little, but Arthur doesn't miss the trembling of his hands. "Shall I be dining on caviar and champagne every night then? Rolling about in the lap of luxury?"

"I wouldn't say lap of luxury," Arthur says. "But better than this."

Dom seems put out when Arthur shows up without Eames in tow, but after a brief explanation, nods. "Used to be worse a few months back. He'd be in pain for days and refuse to the take the Vicodin."

"I didn't realize it was that bad," Arthur says as he slides into the booth.

"The doctors says his recovery has been good—better than expected, actually." Dom takes a sip of his drink. "But he won't ever recover the full range of mobility in all of his fingers. Maybe any of them."

"Jesus," Arthur replies. He looks up at the stage to see Abilena approach the microphone—right on time.

"Five surgeries," Doms says as he turns to look at the stage too. "Shoulda seen him."

The music starts, and it's something mid-tempo and catchy. Abilena sways from side to side in time, the glitter of her sequenced white dress almost too much for Arthur's eyes.

"She sounds better than I remember." Dom turns towards Arthur, impressed. "Better looking than I expected, too. I thought you said she had kids?"

"She does. Two," Arthur replies, internally cringing; this is exactly what he was afraid was going to happen. "I hear she's also got a boyfriend--some gangbanger." He's heard nothing of the sort.

"Local gang or a cartel?" Dom asks. Thankfully, Al saunters over to the table before Arthur has to answer.

"Check out the pipes on her," Al says as he slides in next to Dom. "And her voice ain't bad, either."

"Arthur's discovery." Dom nods in Arthur's direction. "Glad you approve."

"You bet your ass I approve." Al turns to Arthur. "Tell me you're tapping the hell out of that shit. Please, A-Rod, I'm begging you."

"I don't mix business with anything else," Arthur says as he reaches into his pocket to pull out a deck cards.

"Oh come on," Al stares at Dom disbelievingly, who shrugs in response. "You're killing me, man. Killing me."

Arthur suppresses an eyeroll as Yusuf arrives at the table, out of breath, "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was--dreadful."

"Don't worry about it," Dom says expansively. "Glad you could make it on such short notice."

"Couldn't miss it if I wanted to." Yusuf swallows as his eyes flicker around the table. "I'm Yusuf, by the way."

"Al." They shake hands and take their seats.

Dom waves Ariadne over. "Yusuf," she says. "I wasn't expecting to see you in today."

"Duty calls," Yusuf replies with a wan smile. "Or in this case, Arthur."

"Eames isn't feeling well," Arthur explains. "And it's not much of a game with only three players."

"You guys know each other?" Al asks, glancing back and forth between Ariadne and Yusuf.

"We met in college," Yusuf says. "Friend of a friend."

"Yusuf was Ariadne's character reference." Dom smiles. "On the job performance has been stellar. Exceeds all expectations."

She smiles at Dom, briefly. "Thanks. I'll get your orders started."

After she walks off, Al turns to Yusuf. "So you and Ariadne—"

"What? Her?" Yusuf blinks. "No, never. That's—no."

"Okay, okay, if you say so." Al puts his hands up in surrender and then winks at Dom. "But methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Arthur rolls his eyes as he begins to deal.

The next day, Arthur arrives at the manor with a bag of the loosest clothing he could find in his closet. Eames is wearing the same tired pair of jeans from the previous night (and nothing else). Arthur busies himself with checking his text messages while Eames tries everything on. Eventually, he finds an outfit that almost fits and almost matches.

The drive to the mall is quiet. "Get whatever you want," Arthur says once they're surrounded by a sea of shirts and sweaters. "We can pick up underwear, socks, shoes--whatever you need."

"This might take a while," is Eames' only comment before he begins selecting clothing. He seems irretrievably drawn to patterns--but he doesn't ask for Arthur's opinion, so Arthur doesn't give it.

Eames works through the racks efficiently, coming up with a sizeable pile of clothing before they move to the dressing rooms to try everything on. Arthur checks his email until Eames emerges with most of what he went in with.

Before they go to pay for the clothes, Arthur says, "We should get you a coat. It's almost winter and it gets pretty cold around here."

"Winter?" Eames shakes his head. "How the time does fly. I suppose it was a sign when Dom had the pool closed off—over my extremely vocal protests."

"Not a fan of the cold?"

"God no." Eames shudders as he stops in front of an orange parka with a furry hood. "Why do you think I moved to Africa the first chance I got?"

Arthur watches Eames try the parka on, testing the zips and folding the hood over his head. "There were warrants out for your arrest all over the EU?"

"I suppose there was that," Eames says, by this point fully zipped and hooded in the fluffy parka. He strikes a mock-sexy pose, made all the more absurd by the fact that his face is completely obscured by the high collar and hood. "Do you suppose Dom will like this?

Arthur chuckles. "Probably not."

"I didn't think so," Eames says as he slips off the hood with a sigh. "I suppose he'll want something staid, reserved, and figure-flattering--like a drab black overcoat."

Arthur looks down at the black overcoat he has hanging over his arm. "You have something against black?"

"Oh, it's a lovely color—for a funeral." Eames takes off the parka and hangs it back up.

"We could always just get you two coats," Arthur points out. "One you like, one Dom likes."

"Hm, yes, I suppose excessive money spent on appearance is one of the highlights and lowlights of being kept, isn't it?" Eames says thoughtfully as he slips into a slim-fitting black overcoat. "Don't give me that look, Arthur. I wasn't always a housecat, you know."

"I wasn't going to say anything." Arthur takes the parka and walks to the register to pay.

After the clothing is done, they stop to pick up shoes, socks, belts, gloves and an assortment of underwear: plain white briefs, some colorful boxers with a smiley face print, and a three-pack of thongs. Arthur doesn't comment when Eames smirks at him with the last.

It occurs to Arthur as they're walking back to the car that he hasn't seen the tremors even once today.

"How are they?" Arthur asks, gesturing at Eames hands.

Eames massages his left palm. "Fine."

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"About a six," Eames says. "Hardly ideal, but bearable."

"You take a Vicodin?" Arthur asks.

"No," Eames says. "You would know if I had. I can hardly form a full sentence, I'm so incoherent when I'm on it."

Arthur frowns as he unlocks the car and throws some shopping bags in the trunk. "If you give me a list of the other stuff you need, I could take you back and finish on my own."

"No," Eames says quickly. "That won't be necessary."

"Are you—"

"Yes, I'm bloody well sure," Eames snaps. "I think I can decide for myself whether I need pain medication or not."

"Eames." Arthur closes the trunk. "I wasn't saying you couldn't."

Eames looks away as he fumbles out a pack of Marlboros. "I know."

Arthur crosses his arms as he watches Eames drop a cigarette, swear, then bend down to retrieve it. "We can do this another day."

"I don't want—" Eames stops, then shakes his head and takes a deep breath. "I'm fine."

"Okay," Arthur says, not wanting to argue the point anymore. "Let's get you some furniture, then."

It's a strange thing, walking with Eames through a department store and picking out furnishings for a house Arthur doesn't even live in. For the most part, he nods at whatever Eames points at. He has to veto a few things—like when Eames is fishing for a reaction with a choice like an stupidly expensive sofa in a hideous country rose print—and take things a step down in terms of price. He still has to keep an eye on the numbers, after all.

They pick up appliances, dishes, pots and pans, a few small (and inexpensive) pieces of furniture, and other household items like pens, paper. Eames pauses to look at a watercolor and paintbrush set, but moves on without saying anything.

In the checkout line, Arthur glances down at his watch and sees that it's already half past six. "Are you hungry?" he asks while the haggard cashier bags two carts worth of merchandise.

Eames seems startled by the question. "Ravenous, actually."

"I know this place," Arthur says as he pushes one of the carts towards the exit. "Excellent Italian food."

"Sounds fantastic," Eames replies. "Though to be fair, I haven't eaten anything besides TV dinners and the occasional pizza in the past six months."

"Do you have the number for pizza delivery?" Arthur asks as the roll the carts to the car and start loading it up.

"No. But even if I did, I haven't the means to actually pay them," Eames as he jams a lamp in the back beside the toaster.

"Hm." Arthur parks the empty carts in the cart stand. "So all you've been eating is the stuff you can order through grocery delivery?"

"That's about the size of it," Eames says. "But now that I've got a can opener and knives, a veritable cornucopia of new options is available to me."

Arthur takes Eames to a small, cozy restaurant called Il Mio Cuore that's located within a twenty minute drive of the manor. When Arthur steps inside, the hostess immediately straightens and says, "Mr. Damrosch."

"Seats for two, please, Meredith," Arthur responds. She leads them through the busy dining area to a corner in the back, quiet and far from the rest of the tables.

"I take it you've been here before," Eames says as he takes a seat.

"It's one of my favorite restaurants," Arthur says, opening the menu even though he has most of it memorized already. "Dom doesn't like their gravy, but I like that they make their own pasta."

"Do I have a price limit?" Eames asks as he skims the menu.

Arthur shakes his head. "Dinner's on me."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were taking me out on a date."

"Then it's a good thing you know better, isn't it?" Arthur replies without looking up.

The waitress stops by the table to drop off a basket of bread, and to take their drink orders. Arthur gets a glass of Chianti while Eames asks for a soda.

"Soda?" Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"I prefer not to mix prescription painkillers and alcohol," Eames says, and Arthur notices that he's rubbing his knuckles again.

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that, so he looks back down at the menu. "Do you know what you're going to order?"

"The veal," Eames says. "Though the pasta is quite tempting, I haven't had a piece of decently cooked veal in far too long."

When the waitress returns, they order, and Arthur adds, "Please prepare one of everything in the pasta section of the menu for takeout."

"One of—every dish?" the waitress repeats.

"Yes." Arthur closes the menu. "That will be all."

After she scurries off, it's Eames' turn to raise an eyebrow. "That's a good deal of pasta."

"I'm sure it'll be an improvement over the TV dinners," Arthur replies smoothly, taking a sip of his Chianti. "If you like the veal, I can get their takeout menu and have them set up a tab for you."

"Thorough, aren't you?" Eames takes a piece of bread and begins to butter it. "Always two steps ahead."

"You sound surprised."

"Mostly curious as to why you're doing all this."

"I'm not looking to take it out of you in trade, if that's what you're asking," Arthur says, unfolding and refolding his napkin in his lap.

"You've said as much before." Eames slouches back in his seat and presses his glass against his bottom lip.

"You don't believe me?"

"I don't know you, darling." Eames takes a sip of his drink. "How am I to gauge the purity of your motives?"

"They aren't pure," Arthur replies, a little too sharply. "They're completely self-serving. The more miserable you are, the more miserable you make Dom, and--"

"And so the daisy chain continues," Eames interrupts. "You've mentioned this before. What happens if the thing that makes me happy would simultaneously make Dom very unhappy, hm? What would you do then?"

"His well-being is my priority. I think that's obvious."

"Yes. I suppose it is." Eames smiles faintly. "So tell me: how many times have you done this before?"

"Done what before?" Arthur says, not sure he wants to keep going further into these little traps Eames keeps laying out for him.

"Oh, you know—entertained an unhappy moll, handled a hysterical mistress—stepped in when Dom had neither the time nor inclination to do so."

Arthur considers telling Eames to drop this line of questioning and move on, but he supposes he did offer to be honest. He didn't think Eames would actually take him up on it; none of Dom's others ever did. "Out of the ones that lasted more than two months—there have been five that I've personally dealt with. Maybe he had more, but I never met them."

"What were they like?" Eames leans forward, eyes sharp with genuine curiosity. The sincerity of it surprises Arthur.

"Female," Arthur replies. "The men never seemed to make it past a few weeks. Besides you, of course."

"Of course." Eames seems to be waiting for Arthur to say more, but he's spared from having to by the food arriving. The conversation—such as it was—lapses into silence as Arthur starts eating and Eames sets into his veal like a starving man.

"Good?" Arthur asks, eying the way Eames is devouring his meal.

Eames practically moans around his food. "It's bloody brilliant to be eating something that isn't microwaved."

"We can order more if you want," Arthur offers, flagging down the waitress at Eames' assent.

They order more food—some bruschetta to split and gnocchi for Eames—and eat in silence, aside from Eames' occasional ecstatic sigh.

Once they've finished with the meal, Arthur sets up a tab for Eames, and they walk to the car with several bags' worth of pasta. Eames sprawls in his seat, seemingly content, and clutches a bag of takeout in his lap.

When they arrive at the house, Eames and Arthur unload the car, making fairly quick work between the two of them. After all the shopping bags have been deposited and the food packed in the fridge, Eames turns to Arthur.

"I'd say that was a job well done," Eames says.

Eames is standing a bit too close, Arthur notices. "If you need anything else, you can call or text. I can pick it up and bring it for you next Thursday, unless it's an emergency."

"So accommodating," Eames murmurs, taking a step forward into Arthur's space. "However can I thank you?"

"You can divert all the gratitude to Dom." Arthur keeps his voice steady even as his cock twitches. "I'm only acting in his stead."

"Oh, of course. If Dom wasn't such a busy man, I’m sure he'd love to spend an entire afternoon with me, picking out china and curtains."

"I'm just doing my job." Arthur steps away.

"Including dinner?" Eames tilts his head to one side, but doesn't move forward this time. "And that tab you've set up for me?"

"Consider it a housewarming gift. Nothing more."

Eames leans back against the arm of couch and spreads his legs slightly, drawing Arthur's attention to the not unnoticeable bulge there. "And you're certain there's nothing I could do to repay you for your generosity?"

"I told you I'm not interested in a trade," Arthur forces himself to look away. It's more difficult than it should be. "That's not how this is going to work."

"Are you dictating those terms for my sake, or yours?" Eames asks, and his tone suggests he knows the answer already.

Arthur shakes his head and turns away, walking briskly towards the door. "I'll see you next week, Mr. Eames."

Arthur manages to maintain his composure until he gets to the car. Once inside the vehicle, he immediately pulls out his cell and scrolls down to the number listed as 'Balal.'

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't, really," Arthur says as he lights up a Marlboro. They're not his usual brand, and he tries not to think about why he decided to buy them at the store. "Every now and then I get in the mood."

"Oh?" Balal accepts the cigarette when Arthur offers it, and takes a thoughtful puff.

"Yeah." Arthur pauses. "My mom—she used to smoke a pack a day. She quit, but allowed herself to indulge once or twice a year. She used to call them her 'stress cigarettes.'"

Balal smiles as rolls onto his side of the bed. "Stressed, then?"

"I—" Arthur exhales a puff of smoke. "I guess I must be."

"Work or home?"

"Both." Arthur flicks the ash with a little sigh. "But currently, work is a little worse."

"Issues with your boss?" Balal asks.

"More like—a coworker," Arthur replies, putting out the cigarette in the hotel ashtray. His fingers itch for another one, but he folds his hands on his stomach instead. "I don't really know if I can trust him. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can't."

"But you have to work with him," Balal says and Arthur nods. "That's rough."

"Yeah." Arthur shrugs. "I'll get through it. Who knows how long he'll last, anyway."

"With this economy, it is an employer's market," Balal observes. "I guess I've been lucky. All my employees seem to get along. But then again, maybe they just play nice when I’m around."

"You like it?" Arthur asks, tipping his head back onto the pillow so he can look up at Balal. "Being a branch manager?"

"I do," Balal says, and smiles down at Arthur again. "The pay isn't the greatest, but I like my team and the hours are flexible enough for me to still be a part of Kat's—my daughter's—life. Can't complain."

"You know, Provident's my bank," Arthur says. "Well, one of them, anyway."

"We are the local leading blah, blah, blah." Balal winks. "I'm sure you don't need to hear the sales pitch again—you've already been sold."

Arthur chuckles. "That's right."

"You know I'm--I'm glad you called." Balal says touches his thumb to Arthur's cheek.

"Yeah?" Arthur says.

"Yeah. You're hot, you're funny, you don't cry after sex." Balal grins. "All good things in my book."

"Crying after sex?" Arthur raises his eyebrows. "Is that like—a thing with you? Leather, whips, chains?"

"Oh god no," Balal falls onto his back, laughing. "Me, I'm pretty boring. Get me in some handcuffs and call it a day. But there were a couple of guys who—oh man, one showed up in this complete leather daddy outfit with like, a mask that had fucking horns on it. And this other guy, he wanted me to beat him with this medieval flail and insult his parentage while I did it."

Arthur laughs. "Did you—did you do it with either of them?"

"The horn guy, yeah." Balal shrugs. "He turned out to be really sweet underneath the, uh, pound of dead cow he was wearing. The other guy—I tried, but he kept complaining that I wasn't hitting hard enough and that my insults sucked. We kind of gave up after a while."

"Once, I went to this guy's house expecting this really hot, rugged looking guy I'd seen in his pictures," Arthur says. "I got to his house and he opens the door, only he's wearing maybe the most hideous dress ever made, a blonde wig, and a clown's worth of makeup. After that, I switched to only meeting in public."

Balal chuckles. "Yeah, probably for the best."

Arthur props himself up on one elbow. "You still haven't told me the story behind the guys that cry."

"Oh, them?" Balal seems to think for a moment. "I guess they were mostly repressed, miserable guys. Most of them were married—even if I never saw them wearing a ring. They were smart enough to take it off, I guess, but I could tell."

"You could tell?" Arthur traces the smooth skin at the base of Balal's left ring finger.

"As a formerly married and now divorced man—yeah, I can tell." Balal lifts his left hand and waggles his fingers. "No one's ever as good at keeping their relationships as secret as they think they are. That's why most people know when their husband or wife has been cheating on them long before they get solid evidence to confirm it."

"Personal experience?" Arthur asks.

"Unfortunately." Balal's smile is sad. "We'd been having problems for a while and I knew—I knew something was off for months. But I didn't want to confront it, so I didn't—not until she left."

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, because it seems appropriate.

"You know, the funny—maybe sad—thing about it is—" Balal exhales deeply, "I'd still take her back. If she called me tomorrow and said, 'Balal, I want to come home,' I'd hire the fucking moving van myself. Not because I'm still in love with her, but because she's Kat's mother and I would give anything for us to be a family again."

When Arthur was twenty-one and started having random sex with women in bars because he could, there'd been one frantic phone call in the middle of the night that he can remember every word of--every quiet, desperate beat. He'd gone with the girl—Alice, her name was—to all her doctor's appointments, held her hand, and stared down the long, dark corridor of what his life could become. The last thing they'd said to each other as they walked out of the doctor's office was, "take care," because even after all they'd gone through together they were still just terrified strangers.

Arthur likes to think that if she'd wanted to keep it, he would have done the right thing by her. He'd have married her, bought a house, and resigned himself to his life being over for the next eighteen years. But then again, maybe he'd have ended up another one of those married men, bored and frustrated by a life-long commitment to someone bored and frustrated with them, sneaking out for illicit thrills provided by other warm bodies.

Balal smiles apologetically. "Sorry for the downer. Didn't mean to kill the mood here."

"It's alright." Arthur glances down at Balal's dick. "You ready for another round?"

"I could be in five minutes." Balal smiles as Arthur climbs on top of him. "Did I say five? Make that two."

"I got a meeting with Sal in three weeks."

Arthur looks up from his huevos rancheros. "You want me to go with?"

"I think it might be better if you sat this one out," Dom says, some of the lettuce falling out of his taco. "I got it."

"You mean Sal still doesn't trust me," Arthur says flatly. "After ten years."

"Don't feel too bad about it, seriously. He's not my biggest fan either. The only reason he agreed to this is because I swore I wouldn't do the deal without an actual sit-down."

"Let me guess: we still don't know fuck-all about what this deal is."

Dom brings the taco—which is shedding ingredients at a fairly rapid rate—up to his mouth. "Pretty much. We're gonna be moving product, but I don't know who, how much, or when. Sal did mention that we were gonna be dealing with Asians, though."

"Asians?" Arthur raises his eyebrows. "What, like the Triad or BTK?"

"No, not them. It's someone who wants to establish a bigger presence here—the Japanese one, I forgot their name."

"The Yakuza?" Arthur takes another bite of his eggs. "I didn't know they were operating in the US."

"Apparently, they've got a foothold in Hawaii and California," Dom says, glancing up when the door to the restaurant opens. A couple of teenage kids wander in, and the owner of the restaurant comes out to herd them into the kitchen. "They've been trying to do more in New York, but so far it hasn't been working out."

Arthur discreetly checks to make sure that the restaurant is still empty except for the two of them. Satisfied, he returns to his food. "I don't like this, Dom. We don't know them or how they work. And are they expecting us to make the sales once the product gets here, or have they got their own people on the ground?"

Dom shrugs. "Guess I'll find out when I talk to Sal."

"Oh good," Arthur mutters darkly. "This is precisely what we need while the Feds are circling us like sharks."

"Yeah." Dom purses his lips and looks into the distance. "Sometimes I think—I don't know."

"What?"

"Sometimes I wonder if Sal isn't trying to throw us over," Dom says. "Leave us out for the wolves so they'll get off his back and he can consolidate power."

"Shit," Arthur says, wiping his mouth. "You really think he'd do that?"

"I don't know. I don't know what he'd do, is the problem." Dom shakes his head. "It's been three years and we still don't have a real boss—you ever think that's odd? Sal's been informally in charge and maybe he's not looking for that to change."

"He's a bigger idiot than I thought if he thinks we're a problem he needs to get rid of. We make our numbers every quarter, and we don't make messes," Arthur says. "If anything, he should be targeting Ludovico and Romeo."

"Maybe he is." Dom picks up his last taco. "Anyway, I don't need to tell you this, but be careful, alright? It could be a good long while before all this shit is resolved, and I don't want you to get caught in the crosshairs."

"I'll step up my security."

“Oh and before I forget,” Dom wipes a smear of sour cream off his chin. “Thanks for helping out with Eames. I try to bring him stuff he'll like when I go over, but you've always been better with the practical stuff than me.”

“It's no problem.”

“He seems to be in a better mood these days," Dom says. “Do you know he cooks?”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “Is it any good?”

“Eh, you know.” Dom lifts one shoulder. “British food, so—can't really compare to Mom's pasta. Or Mal's, for that matter.”

Arthur shrugs; his mother was never much of a cook. “Glad I could help you discover his culinary mediocrity.”

Dom laughs. "I'm getting homecooked food without having to lift a finger. As long as I'm getting fed, who cares what it tastes like?"

"How is she?" Arthur asks as he takes off his coat.

"Not so good today," Carmen replies as she follows him into the kitchen and helps him unpack the groceries. "Oliver told me what happened, before."

"It was a fluke," Arthur says as he puts away the bread and the crackers. "Both of you should keep your keys on you at all times from now on."

"Mr. Damrosch, this is only going to get—"

"Without a car, my mother would not have been able to get anywhere near as far as she did," Arthur interrupts. "I don't expect you to not take bathroom breaks or anything like that, but you're going to have a keep a closer eye on her so these mistakes don't continue to happen."

Carmen says nothing while Arthur continues to put away the groceries. When all that's left is a bouquet of calla lilies, she puts a hand on his wrist and says, "You know I want to help, but she's not well. I hope you realize that."

Arthur stares down at the hand, then pulls away. "That will be all for tonight, Carmen."

"I—" Carmen doesn't follow him as he walks out of the kitchen, towards the stairs. "Goodnight, Mr. Damrosch."

“Come in,” Lydia calls out when Arthur knocks. He does, and finds her standing by the open window, a lit cigarette dangling in her left hand.

"I brought you flowers," Arthur says as he holds up the bouquet. Lydia stares at them for a moment before turning back to the window.

"You can put them in the vase with the rest." She waves her hand casually in the direction of the nightstand, where the wilted flowers from last week sit, and Arthur feels a slight twinge at her chilly reception.

After he replaces the flowers, he asks mildly, "Isn't it a little cold to have the window open?" It's barely 40 degrees out and Lydia's only wearing her nightgown and a thin robe.

"If you're mad about the cigarettes you should come out and say it," Lydia says, and Arthur frowns. Something about her voice is different—her accent, usually faint, is heavier. "And don't give me that speech that Mother and Father always do about the taint of the outside world."

"I wasn't going to," Arthur says as he walks over and shuts the window himself. After he stares expectantly at Lydia, she rolls her eyes at him and puts out the cigarette carelessly on the windowsill.

"There. Happy?" Lydia walks over to the bed while Arthur's frown deepens.

"Very." Arthur gets the trash can and brushes the remains of at least four cigarettes and the ashes into it. "Are these your stress cigarettes or is this something else I should be worried about?"

"Stress cigarettes?" Lydia gives Arthur a look like he's crazy and then shrugs, a forcedly casual movement. "I stole them."

She sounds smug, and Arthur sighs a little when he reads the brand on the box: Camels. That probably means she stole them from Oliver; Arthur's going to need to give him a pretty substantial bonus at the end of the year.

"We've talked about this before," Arthur says as he pockets the box.

"About what? Stealing?" Lydia sprawls backwards on the bed, knees bent and legs hanging over the side like a gangly teenager. "When did you get to be such a stick in the mud anyway? You used to be so much more fun."

Arthur inhales sharply. She's clearly not in her right mind and yet--it stings, a little. "What?"

"Oh, I know." Lydia's voice takes on a mean, sing-song edge. "It's been ever since you married that Rachel, isn't it? Now that you're married and trying to start a family you can't possibly do anything fun anymore."

"Mom." Arthur takes a step forward so she can see him more clearly. "Mom, it's me, Arthur."

But Lydia ignores him and presses her cheek into the bedspread. "I snuck out for the entire day today. Not that you'd know—too busy reading or spending time with your wife, of course. I met this boy, though, and he said his name was John McCullough. He had red hair and blue eyes—can you imagine?"

"Mom, stop it." Arthur walks to the side of the bed and puts a hand on her wrist. "My name is Arthur, I'm your son, and you can't be sneaking out of the house anymore. It's not safe. If you want to take a walk, you have to ask Oliver to come with you."

"That's your solution now? A chaperone?" Lydia sits up and tugs her wrist away. "It's not going to stop me. I'm going to find a way to get out no matter what, and nobody can stop me."

"Mom, you're scaring me," Arthur says softly. "Please, you have to remember that—"

"The whole world scares you!" Lydia shouts, and Arthur jerks back. "Don't you see? You and Mother and Father and all the others—you think of the rest of the world as something to be feared, as something corrupt and evil, but I have been out there and that is not what it's like at all! It's filled with wonderful people—people who know things that aren't in the Torah and do things besides pray." Lydia's voice softens as she takes Arthur's hand. "It's amazing, Aaron, if only you'd come with me."

"Aaron," Arthur repeats numbly. "Who is Aaron?"

"Don't be silly, Aaron, you are—" Lydia blinks as she looks into Arthur's eyes and goes quiet. "Aaron is—but you are Aaron, aren't you?"

"No, Mom." Arthur kneels beside the bed. "My name is Arthur, and I'm your son. Don't you remember?"

"I--" Lydia touches her fingers to her temple, and the confusion in her eyes clears. "I can't—of course you're Arthur. Who else would you be?"

"I don't know," Arthur says quietly. "I don't know."

Arthur pulls up in front of the manor and debates internally for a moment before pulling out his cell. "I'm here," is all he says, and a few minutes later, Eames emerges.

He looks good: clean-shaven and sharply dressed in a brand new grey shirt, black pants, and dark overcoat. Everything fits him within a centimeter. Arthur redirects his attention to his odometer; he's due for an oil change soon.

The ride to the club is quiet aside from Eames asking if Arthur would mind terribly if he smokes, ("That's fine," Arthur says, "as long as you keep it all out the window.") The traffic's light as well, with Eames only on his second cigarette by the time they arrive.

Perle is empty save for a few bored bartenders chatting in the corner. Ariadne hasn't arrived yet, and neither have Dom or Cho. Arthur's about to order a drink when his phone goes off.

'ABORT ABORT DO NOT BRING E!' the message says, and Arthur can practically see Dom frantically typing the message in his mind's eye. The text doesn't go on to state why or what's going on, though there's little question as to what the E in question is.

But just as he goes to collect Eames, Arthur hears an all too familiar voice from behind him.

"Arthur?" Mal says, and Arthur freezes before turning slowly around. "Arthur, is that you?"

"Mal," Arthur says as he steps forward into her embrace, and kisses her cheek. "It's been too long."

"It has," Mal agrees as she beams up at him. She looks radiant, vibrant--nothing like the thin, lifeless shade that lingering in the corner of Arthur's eye the last time he'd visited Dom. "It is wonderful to see you."

"Is Dom here with you?" Arthur says, making a small show of looking around.

"Oh no, no, of course not." Mal leans forward to murmur conspiratorially. "I decided to surprise him, tonight. Do you think he will hate it if I sit in on his poker game?"

"I can't imagine he would be anything but thrilled to have you here," Arthur replies. He extends an arm out to where Eames is standing, stance neutral and relaxed, but eyes watchful. "Eames, this is Mallorie Cobb. Mal, Eames."

"A pleasure, madame." Eames brushes his lips over her knuckles and Mal lowers her eyes, smiling. "Veuillez m'excuser, mais je ne pouvais pas m'empêcher de remarquer – vous parlez avec un accent si charmant."*

"C'est un Anglais qui parle français?" Mal replies, smile widening.

"Seulement pauvrement," Eames says. "Mais si je pourrais vous demander – est-ce que vous venez d'Orléans?"

Mal looks startled, but pleased. "Mais en fait, oui. Vous avez beaucoup voyagé en France?"

Arthur stares back and forth between them, but both seem preoccupied and not inclined to translate. Given Eames' expansive demeanor and the way Mal is reacting—which is with hair tosses and coy smiles—Arthur's pretty sure he gets the gist of what's going on, language barrier or no.

"Malheureusement, non, pas encore," Eames says. "C'était un coup de chance. Mon enseignante du français est venue d'Orléans et en a beaucoup parlé. Je veux toujours le visiter après avoir entendu tous ses histoires."

"C'est une ville merveilleuse," Mal agrees. "Promettez-moi que vous visiterez un jour. Je peux vous indiquer toutes les meilleures attractions de la ville et même où y manger."

"C'est sûr. J'ai certainement besoin de voir la ville qui a produit une telle beauté," Eames says. Arthur senses some lascivious intent in the tone, and can only hope that Eames knows what the hell he's doing.

Mal ducks her head and peers up at Eames through her eyelashes. "Vous êtes très charmant pour un Anglais qui prétend ne parler français qu'à peine."

"Mon enseignante l'aurait disputé. Mes accords l'ont toujours fait pleurer," Eames replies with an exaggerated shake of his head. "J'étais un horreur comme étudiant. Je ne faisais jamais attention."

"Alors vous étiez rêveur?" Mal asks. "Plongé aux mondes de votre proper création?"

"C'est juste que j'étais facilement distrait ces jours." Eames smiles, one sly corner of his mouth turning up. "Mais peut-être si j'avais une instructrice comme vous, je serais un meilleur étudiant."

"Les choses que vous dites!" Mal giggles, and turns back to Arthur. "Arthur, you never told me you had such charming friends."

"I had no idea, myself," Arthur says, throwing Eames a sharp look. "I don't think I need to tell you not to trust a word he says."

Eames clutches a hand over his heart dramatically. "The slings and arrows I must endure here."

Mal giggles again. "The two of you are too much."

Arthur is relieved from having to say anything more by the appearance of Dom, who hurries in, panting. When he sees Eames and Mal, he freezes. "Mal--"

"There you are, mon grand homme!" Mal turns to greet him with a sunny smile. "I was just being introduced to Arthur's friend, Eames."

The tension in Dom's face eases, a little. "Arthur's friend--yes, of course."

"Dom, this is Eames," Arthur says as Eames steps forward to shake Dom's hand. "Dom is Mal's husband."

"You are a very lucky man," Eames says, smile plastered across his face as Dom puts a hand on Mal's back.

"Yes," Dom replies as he presses a kiss to Mal's temple. "I am."

"We should sit," Arthur says, and Dom leads them all over to their usual table.

"Well, this is very nice," Mal says as she looks around the club. The lights are being dimmed as she speaks, and the band is setting up onstage. "I can see why you would like coming here every week, Dom."

"It's got some atmosphere." Dom leans back in the booth, the picture of forced casual. "Pretty good drinks and food, too."

Arthur glances up to see Cho approaching the table and says, "Hey, we have an extra player at the table tonight. Late addition."

"Hiram Cho." Cho slips out of his coat and extends a hand to Mal. "Nice to meet you."

"Mallorie Cobb," she replies, and to Cho's credit, he doesn't even blink. "I haven't decided whether I'll be playing tonight—I know how competitive men can get over even a friendly game."

"She only says that because she hates losing," Dom jokes, but judging by the way Mal's smile fades into a thin line, it's the wrong thing to say.

"Ah well, who doesn't hate losing?" Eames says with a bland smile. "I'm rather awful myself when there's something worthwhile in play."

Mal smiles at Eames—not too widely—but the tension eases. "I suppose the question is: what are the stakes?"

"Life and death," Cho deadpans. "Our eternal souls."

"The honor and glory of my nation," Eames offers. "The dignity of my queen."

"I have forty bucks." Arthur opens up his wallet. "Forty-three bucks."

"Whatever you want, honey." Dom's voice is more than a little cloying as he tightens his arm around Mal's shoulders. "We don't have to play for anything but fun."

"But what is the use of a game without stakes?" Mal opens her purse and withdraws from it first a small clip of money, and then what appears to be a tiny sheathed sword. Mal removes the blade from the sheath and upon closer inspection, Arthur can see that it's actually a letter opener, sharp, with an engraved mother-of-pearl handle. "A hundred dollars and this letter opener. It's sterling silver and an antique, so surely worth something."

Dom's staring at the letter opener with lips pursed. "Where did you get that?"

"I brought it with me from France," Mal says, with a lift of her chin. "It belonged to my mother."

Dom's clearly about to object, but Eames jumps in before he can. "I'm afraid I haven't much in the way of cash on me," Eames declares cheerfully. "But I've this positively tremendous overcoat I just picked up at the store last week—this is the first time I'm wearing it, in fact. It was worth a mint, if I recall correctly."

Arthur glances over at where Eames is dangling the black coat over his arm and stares down at his bare wallet. "Forty-three dollars and my watch," Arthur says.

"Arthur," Dom says sharply as Arthur unbuckles his watch and places it on the table. "That was a gift."

"Once you give something away, it is no longer your right to decide what's done with it," Mal says, eyes cutting over to Arthur with an inscrutable expression while Dom fidgets unhappily.

"One hundred and fifty dollars plus my cufflinks." Cho drops the gold, square-shaped cufflinks onto the tabletop beside the dollar bills. "They're monogrammed, but you could pawn them."

Dom shakes his head and huffs, before digging into his pants pocket and pulling out his wallet. "Six-hundred dollars," he says as he throws the money down. "Unless you'd like a pound of flesh instead."

The words aren't directed at anyone in particular, but Mal's lips thin further as she speaks. "I think what I'd like now is a drink."

As if summoned, Ariadne appears. "Hey guys, what can I get you?" Her easy smile fades when she meets Mal's gaze.

"Ariadne, this is Mal," Arthur says. "Mal, this is our waitress and bartender, Ariadne."

"Ariadne." Mal rolls the syllables, and the effect is seductive and slightly unnerving. "I am Mallorie Cobb."

"Nice to meet you," Ariadne says, and once again, her eyes don't flicker over to Eames. "I love your dress."

Mal blinks, and then cocks her head to one side. "Thank you. Your necklace is very pretty."

"Oh, thanks." Ariadne looks down and hooks a finger through the chain, allowing the charm in the shape of a bishop to dangle in the light. "My grandmother gave it to me."

Mal smiles, ever so slightly, and some of the tension recedes as she does. "Your grandmother had good taste."

"Yeah." Ariadne tucks the necklace away again. "She did."

"Drinks anybody?" Dom says. "First round's on me."

After drinks are ordered, Arthur takes out his deck of cards and begins to deal. They play a few rounds, all betting conservatively, and not too much happens aside from the sipping of drinks. Mal doesn't try to make conversation and neither does anyone else.

Until Abilena comes onstage and Dom comments nervously, "Hey, the music's finally starting."

Arthur sighs inwardly as Mal turns to look. "So this band has a singer."

"Yeah, you're really gonna like her, I think," Dom babbles, taking a swig of his drink. "Abilena's a phenomenal talent. Phenomenal."

"Oh she is, is she?" Mal's staring up at the stage with the burning intensity she'd had the last time she and Dom had fought—right before she'd shattered a vase against the wall.

As if finally realizing his mistake, Dom backpedals wildly. "Yeah, I mean, she's—Arthur discovered her, you know? He's the one that originally got me into her music."

Arthur considers trying to mount some sort of feeble defense and assist Dom with the hole he seems utterly incapable of digging himself out of, but then rethinks whether he wants to become more involved in this situation than he has to be. Cho's staring down on his cards, his best poker face on, while Eames surveys the scene—and Arthur—with the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"I'd like to go all in," Mal says suddenly, pushing the small mound of cash and her letter opener into the middle of the table. "No more holding back."

"I'll join you in that," Eames says quickly, and pushes in the few sickly bills he's collected. "I'd put my coat on the table literally, but I think it's better if we only keep it there metaphorically for now."

"All in," Cho says, pushing his cash and cufflinks forward.

Arthur glances up at Dom briefly before he pushes his watch and money to the center as well. "Me too."

"What the hell." Dom smiles, but it's sickly. "It's only money, right? All in over here, too."

After that, there's nothing left to do but to show the cards. Mal reveals a pair of tens, while Eames and Cho have nothing (Eames seems pleased while Cho is surprisingly unaffected). Arthur puts down his three Jacks, and everyone stares at Dom.

"You win, Arthur." Dom meets Arthur's gaze and lays down his pair of threes. "Congratulations."

Arthur reaches out to sweep the pot towards him and hesitates. "You know, if you want—"

"Congratulations, Arthur," Mal interrupts, effectively ending the discussion. "Well-played, as always."

"Thank you," Arthur replies, and begins counting the money, smoothing it until it fits neatly into his wallet.

"So many handsome men here tonight." Mal's gaze trawls over Arthur, Cho, and lastly, Eames. "Perhaps I should come to these games more often."

"That's—" Dom stops. "You're always welcome, of course. But it gets pretty dull after a while. You know, guy talk."

"Sure," Arthur says. "Sports. Work. Boring."

"Oh I don't know." Mal glances around the club again, coming to rest on the stage. "I think I could find a few things to pay attention to."

There's an awkward pause before Cho says, "I should be getting home. Ainsley will be expecting me."

"Tell him we said hello," Dom says. "Mal, Ainsley is—well, he and Cho are—"

"It was nice meeting you," Cho says. "And Dom, I'll tell him you say hello."

As Arthur gets out of the booth to make room for Cho to slide out, he catches Cho's wrist discreetly and drops the cufflinks into them. "Monogrammed gift, right?"

Cho stares down at the cufflinks and then nods, once. "Thank you. Ainsley—he wouldn't be happy to know I lost these in a poker game."

"Good thing you didn't lose, then," Arthur says as he puts on his watch and pockets the letter opener.

"We should probably get going too," Dom says. "It's been—a long day."

"Yes," Mal says. "I'm very tired now."

There's a round of goodbyes. Once Dom and Mal are gone, Arthur turns to Eames. "You ready to go?"

"Let me finish this," Eames replies as he gulps down his whiskey. "Alright, I'm ready."

As they walk outside, Arthur offers the coat to Eames. "You know this isn't going to fit me."

"You can keep it as a reminder of the night I met the woman whose home I'm wrecking," Eames says as he gets in the car.

"At least she doesn't seem to suspect you." Arthur turns on the car as Eames shivers. "Could have been worse."

"Could have been better." Eames rubs his hands together and blows on them. "Is Dom always this bollocks at lying to his wife?"

"Sometimes. Varies," Arthur replies. "That's why we like to have plausible deniability on our side. Better than the straight lie."

"Makes me wonder how he's survived so long in this world."

Arthur frowns. "Business and personal are different, Eames. Dom does what he has to do, when he has to."

Eames huffs out a chuckle. "Business and personal are rarely so different as many like to think."

Arthur adjusts the temperature setting in the car. "Dom knows how to compartmentalize."

"I'm sure," Eames says, seeming relieved by the heat. "Perhaps he needs to learn to do it better, though."

"You've never had a person in your life you didn't want to lie to?" Arthur asks. "No one you wish you could be totally honest with?"

"Seems like a dreadful liability to me." Eames holds his hands in front of the vents. "Particularly in our lines of work."

"Sometimes it's nice," Arthur says. "To feel like someone knows you for who you really are and still gives a shit."

He expects another cynical response, but nothing comes. When he looks over, Eames is simply watching him, expression thoughtful.

"You haven't told Dom about what we talked about," Eames says slowly, with no transition. "Any of it."

"Why would I?" Arthur frowns. "What we talk about has nothing to do with him."

"Except when it has everything to do to him." Eames cocks his head to one side. "You're not going to go running off to squeal about how I flirted with his wife."

"It was an act of self-preservation," Arthur says. "If I thought you had actual designs on Mal—well, I wouldn't stop you, but I'd sure as hell get out of the way of that Chernobyl waiting to happen."

"And you're not going to make me keep the coat." There's a tinge of genuine surprise in Eames' voice.

"I won it in a poker game, remember?" Arthur replies mildly.

When he looks over, he catches a hint of a smile as Eames goes to light a cigarette.

"That was a shitshow if I ever saw one," Arthur says.

"Good afternoon to you too, Arthur," Dom says as he gets in the car. "Though I guess I can't really disagree."

"You couldn't have given me a little more warning that Mal was about to fucking spring on me?" Arthur demands as he pulls out of Dom's driveway. In the corner of his eye, he can see Mal standing at the window, watching them go. "And does she know where you're off to now?"

"What? Of course not. She thinks you and I are going to the gun range to blow off some steam. If anyone asks Vinnie, we were there all day." Dom says. "And I'm sorry, alright? I had no idea she was coming until the babysitter texted me asking when we'd be back that night."

"And you couldn't have seen this coming?" Arthur snaps. "You wouldn't have maybe thought, oh, I wonder if Mal, who is already paranoid as all hell, might want to drop by the suspicious poker game I go to every week at a dark nightclub?"

"I knew she'd been snooping around but I didn't think she'd go this far," Dom says. "At worst, I figured she'd hire a private investigator, not go after me personally."

"Yeah, because that's so much better," Arthur mutters.

"She's only tailed me a couple of times," Dom continues, seemingly oblivious to how jacked-up the situation is. "And only for a little while. Luckily, it's always been to work things, but I'm gonna have to be extra careful about when I go see Eames.”

“Oh great, she's stalking you, too." Arthur checks the rearview window, but doesn't see anything out of the ordinary. "She and the Feds should organize an info dump, share some resources while they're both watching us like hawks."

"Watching me," Dom corrects. "She trusts you."

"Maybe, but it is not like she thinks I wouldn't cover up for you."

"Yeah." Dom visibly deflates. "Well, I guess you'll have to be extra careful then, too. Not that you aren't already."

Try as he might, the expression on Arthur's face refuses to stay as neutral as he wants it to be.

"What?" Dom says. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Arthur replies. "I didn't say anything.”

"You're thinking so loudly I can hear it all the way from here," Dom says. "So spit it out already."

"I guess I don't really get why you're doing all this," Arthur says at last. "Is Eames really worth it?"

Dom goes quiet and Arthur winces internally; Dom always thinks he can handle the truth, but he never can, really. Finally, Dom starts, "I love Mal."

"I wasn't saying--"

"No, I know, just hear me out." At Arthur's nod, Dom continues. "I love Mal, and marrying her was the best decision I ever made. If I could do it all over again, I would in a heartbeat and there's nothing that will ever change that."

"Yeah."

"But we've been married eight years, and were together two years before that." Dom shakes his head. "Hell of a long time to be with someone, to get to know them inside out. When we first started dating, being with her used to be an adventure every day--we'd have sex all the time, laugh together, drive up to the city and do whatever we wanted till the sun came up. But now it's like, I come home from a hard day of work and you know what we talk about? Babysitters and nannies. Which school we're sending the kids to. Bills. And that's assuming we even talk at all, which depends on whether Mal or the baby start crying halfway through dinner or not."

"Dom--" Arthur starts, but he honestly doesn't know what to say.

"Last week, one of my fraternity brothers sent me this email asking about some funny T-shirts we'd made back in the day. Brought back some memories, so I went to go find them." Dom pauses. "It reminded me of good times, you know? Partying, having random sex, going to class hungover—and I just wanted, I don't know. It was stupid, but I wanted to remember that for a little while, savor the memories, so when I found one of those T-shirts, I put it on.

"Anyway, so I'm wearing it when Mal comes home from shopping or doing whatever the hell she was doing, and the first thing she says to me is: 'that shirt is too leetle for you, you look ridiculous.'"

Arthur looks over at Dom, who is toying with his cell phone. "Yeah."

"It's only a T-shirt," Dom says. "But she always makes me wonder--is this it? Is being a Dad, having a mortgage, driving kids to school, and counting myself lucky if I get laid more than once a year all I've got left?

"But Eames makes me feel like I could be anything and kick ass doing it. He doesn't nag, or roll his eyes at me, or force me to read a million pamphlets on private schools that all cost the GDP of a small country and sound exactly the same." Dom smiles. "I can be myself around him and know that it's enough."

Arthur tries to reconcile the Eames he knows—guarded, smirking and moody—with the person Dom seems to be so enamored with. Still, if seeing Eames with Mal the previous night taught Arthur anything, it's that Eames is a man of many, many masks. “I get that.”

"I know it sounds--" Dom huffs out a chuckle. "I know how it sounds. Maybe you haven't seen that side of Eames yet. But yeah, he's—it's worth it."

"Okay," Arthur says as he turns the car onto the last long, winding stretch of road to Eames' manor. "If you—" He's cut off by a large bang as the front tire of his car rolls into a pothole, causing him and Dom to both to lurch forward.

"Whoa," Dom says as he grabs a handle on the door. "Shit, that's a deep one."

"Motherfucking--" Arthur scowls as his rear right tire gets caught in the hole too before bouncing back out. "That probably blew my alignment straight to hell."

"Better get it checked out," Dom agrees as he peers out the window. "The drainage on the road isn't worth shit—one heavy rain and this place is gonna be totally flooded. And forget about snow."

"You think they'll plow all the way out here?" Arthur asks as the manor comes into view.

"I hope so," Dom replies. "Otherwise I'll have to get Joey or Ricky to do it."

"Go with Joey," Arthur advises. "I don't trust Ricky with heavy machinery. How many DUI's has he gotten now?"

"Too damn many," Dom says. "The kid's a menace on the road. Maybe a menace, period. He's gonna drive my aunt Sofia into an early grave with his bullshit."

"Anna still giving her trouble too?" Arthur asks.

"Anna was born trouble and will die trouble." Dom sighs. "Oh, which reminds me—Mal and I are hosting the family Christmas party this year. You're coming, right?"

"Of course. But you're planning for Christmas already?" It's over a month away.

"Yeah, well, Mal's parents just sprung on me that they're not going to fly in for Thanksgiving this year. Which means we all gotta fly out to France for Christmas, and I gotta start dealing with my family and everything else before we leave," Dom says.

"Seriously?" Arthur says. "They're not coming to even to see the baby?"

"Well, Miles has been coming by in between his teaching whenever he can, but Marie's been in some kind of chronic bad mood the past few months." Dom shakes his head. "I mean, she's always hated my guts but I think there's something else going on—trouble on the home-front, maybe. Mal's refusing to talk about it, but last I heard, Miles moved out of the house."

"That sounds like a fun Christmas with the in-laws," Arthur comments.

"You're telling me. The only good thing about it is that I might be able to convince Sal to let me push back this deal into next year instead of trying to shove it all in now."

"You think he'll go for it?"

"The man's got a family too, so I sure fucking hope so," Dom says as the car slows to a halt and he gets out.

Eames opens the door before Dom can knock, and greets him with a wide smile and solicitous kiss. As they head indoors, Eames casts a glance over his shoulder back at Arthur, and Arthur allows himself to wonder—for a split second—what it'd be like to have that smile directed at him.

Arthur is locking his car and heading towards Perle when he sees Ariadne at the other side of the full parking lot, waiting patiently for a car to leave the only available space. As he watches, some asshole in a SUV cuts in front her and takes it instead.

"Hey!" Ariadne rolls down her window. "I was here first!"

"Oh yeah?" The driver—a big guy with an ugly, self-satisfied smirk—leans out his window. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Ariadne shakes her head and mutters something, clearly about to drive off and search for parking on the street. But Arthur's by the SUV now and he calls out, "Hey."

SUV guy gets out and crosses his arms. "Yeah?"

"She was here first," Arthur says as he comes up to the guy—who has a good three inches on him, at least. "That's her parking space."

"And I saw it first." The guy uncrosses his arms, takes what's clearly meant to be a menacing step forward. "I don't see how this involves you, so why don't you take your fancy little three-piece-suit and walk away?"

Arthur doesn't waste more time with words; he delivers a swift punch to the gut and a blow to the nose—enough to cause a nosebleed but probably not break it. Before SUV guy can react, Arthur's got him pinned to the side of his car, arms pulled up painfully behind his back. "Drop your keys," Arthur says as he slams the man against his vehicle.

"What the fuck!" the guy shouts, jerking ineffectually against Arthur's grip.

"I said, drop your keys." When the man does, Arthur stoops to retrieve them without releasing his arms. "Now, I want you to start walking. Walk all the way down to the end of the street. I'll meet you with your car, and don't even think about starting something."

"You're fucking crazy, man!" the guy says, still wriggling a little. "I'm calling the cops!"

"If you call the cops, me and my friend—the one you tried to fuck over—are going to have to explain how you got out of your car and started harassing her. And how when she politely told you to get lost, you started threatening her. Then we're going to explain how I was forced to step in and break your arm after you pushed her to the ground."

"But I--" the guy glances over at Ariadne, as if searching for assistance.

"Just get the hell out of here," Ariadne says, and Arthur twists the guy's arm in warning before pushing him away from the car.

"Walk and don't look back," Arthur says. Arthur starts the SUV and meets him at the end of the street. When he hands over the keys, says mildly, "You should get that nose checked out. And maybe find yourself a new club to go to."

The guy scurries into his car and drives away. Arthur walks back to the parking lot where Ariadne is waiting for him.

"You didn't need to do that," Ariadne says. "I was going to spit in every single one of his drinks."

"Your spit is too good for that scumbag," Arthur says as they head inside. "Besides, I don't like bullying."

"Well—thanks, I guess. For that." She walks behind the counter. "The least I can do is fix you some drinks, then. Spit-free and on the house."

Arthur smiles faintly as he takes a seat at the empty bar. "Thanks."

"Dos Equis, right?" He nods, and Ariadne pops the top off a bottle. "Think you'd like something harder too?"

"No, I have work to do after this," he replies. "Thanks, though."

"That reminds me—what are you doing here on a Wednesday afternoon?” She sets the beer down in front of him. "Dom thinking of moving the game night?"

"No, nothing like that." Arthur takes a sip. "Just thought I'd do a quick inspection of the premises, that's all. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Is this something you do a lot?" Ariadne leans against the counter. "Surprise inspections? You checking for health violations or something?"

"Something like that."

"You mean nothing like that. Does this have anything to do with what happened the other week with Mal?"

“Mal?" Arthur repeats, not sure what she's talking about.

"I mean, she seems kind of intense." Ariadne traces a pattern in the condensation on the counter. "And I know it isn't any of my business, but it's not like Dom keeps Eames a secret around here."

"What are you getting at?" Arthur takes another swig of his drink.

"I guess I'd be worried that she might hire a private detective or something. Someone to follow Dom around and take photos or--" Ariadne pauses. "Plant hidden cameras and stuff? To catch him in the act, I guess."

Arthur chuckles. "You watch too many movies."

"That's what my friends always tell me." She smiles. "That, and I'm too curious for my own good."

"They might be right."

"Sorry if I'm, like, annoying you with all my questions and stuff." Ariadne seems embarrassed. "I'll shut up now."

"It's fine, don't worry about it. A little curiosity's not such a bad thing," Arthur says, and then adds, "it's cute."

Ariadne ducks her face away and smiles.

"¿Cómo va el trabajo?" Arthur asks. "¿Es que todo funcione según el calendario previsto?"***

"Sí, Señor Damrosch. No problemas o retrasos," Pedro, the foreman, replies.

"Everything's good?" Dom asks as Pedro walks back to the crew. "We don't have to worry about any delays?"

"Everything's on schedule," Arthur replies, gazing at the skeleton of the building in front of them. "If the weather holds out, we should be done by the beginning of next year."

"To pretty much everyone in town's great dismay," Dom says wryly. "You know how many angry letters the company has gotten over this? Not that I blame them—nothing makes property values go down quite like public housing. And landfills."

"I grew up in public housing," Arthur says as they walk to a vantage point on top of a small mound of dirt at the edge of the construction site. "Wasn't in half as nice an area as this, though."

"That's right—you did, didn't you?" Dom shakes his head. "I always forget that you didn't grow up in that house. How come you never brought me around back in the day?"

"A sweet old grandma lived next door to us," Arthur says, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. "Her less sweet grandkids ran a crack den out of her living room whenever she wasn't home—which was pretty much always, since she worked three jobs."

"Ah," Dom says. "Well, good thing you guys got out of there, then."

"Yeah," Arthur agrees.

The first thing he'd done once he'd saved up enough money from the odd jobs Dom gave him during college was move his mother to an apartment in a different town. It was a cramped two bedroom and had hardly a kitchen to speak of, but at least it got them out of Canopic Drive and into a condo complex filled with young, nice families who liked it quiet.

Once Arthur graduated and starting working at Wolgin & Parrota, he bought himself a beat-up old Toyota Camry to get around. Then a cozy house in New Vale for his mother. She cried the day he presented it to her, furniture already unpacked by the movers. He let her pay for his dinner, and then stayed over to help her decorate.

“Speaking of which, how is your mother?" Dom says. "It's been a while since we've all had dinner together."

Arthur pauses for a second too long before saying, "Fine," and Dom seizes on it.

"Arthur," Dom puts a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "You know I love your mother as if she were my own flesh and blood. Tell me."

"It's--" Arthur stares at the ground, the reddish-brown dirt beneath him. "She's been getting confused. More and more often. And it wouldn't be a problem except she keeps sneaking out, giving Oliver and Carmen the runaround. She hasn't gotten into anything serious, but one of these days--"

"Shit, Arthur, I'm sorry," Dom says, and squeezes Arthur's shoulder gently. "She's that bad along?"

"Apparently," Arthur replies softly.

"You know, before my Nana passed, she used to get confused all the time. Luckily or unluckily, her bum leg made it hard for her to go very far, but your mother--"

"She's perfectly healthy except for—" Arthur closes his eyes, and can't bring himself to say it.

"Yeah," Dom says quietly. "You brought her to the doctor?"

"She refuses to go. Doesn't trust them." Arthur lets out a shaky laugh. "Although that's not new. You wouldn't believe the hell she raised when she got the flu one year."

"Your mother's a stubborn woman," Dom says with a fond smile. "What are you gonna do?"

"Carmen and Oliver have been warning me about this, saying they can't keep up with her anymore," Arthur says wearily. "Carmen gave me a list of—shit, what do they call them now? Assisted living centers, I think."

"Any you have your eye on?"

"I've looked into some of them," Arthur rubs his eyes, briefly. "But the ones with half-decent reputations have all got a wait-list nearly a year long and--"

"Let me get someone on the horn and see if we can't get your mother to the top of those lists." Dom pulls out his cell phone and starts scrolling through his contacts. "We'll take care of this."

"Thanks, Dom," Arthur says quietly as he looks away. "I really appreciate this."

"Nothing but the best for your mother," Dom says with one last squeeze of Arthur's shoulder. "And if there's anything else she needs—you let me know."

Chapter Text

Arthur opens the door with his key when Eames doesn't answer the bell or several knocks. "Eames? You there?"

When there's still no response, Arthur walks in and closes the door behind him. A mess of empty beer cans and crumpled napkins lie scattered across the living room floor.

A moment later, Eames comes down the stairs, stark naked and holding a baseball bat. He lowers it when he sees Arthur. "What are you—shit. The game."

Arthur averts his eyes, but it's too late to erase the image seared into his mind: Eames' soft, curved cock, surrounded by damp pubic hair that trails up to his navel. "You didn't answer your phone."

"I was in the shower."

"You should get dressed." Arthur can see the darkening sky through the sliding glass doors at the other end of the room; clouds are gathering.

"Should only take a minute." Arthur hears the creak of stairs, and then, "Make yourself at home."

Arthur gingerly clears a space for himself on the couch, pushing fifteen or twenty wadded-up napkins aside. It isn't until one of them falls open on the floor that he realizes they aren't actually dirty, but covered in small ink sketches. Arthur stoops down to study one, but he can't make out what the drawing's supposed to be.

He leaves the napkin on the floor, digs out the TV remote wedged between two couch cushions. Animal Planet comes on, some documentary about the mating patterns of animals living in captivity versus out in the wild.

Eames comes downstairs towards the end of a segment on the use of stud horses and bulls. Arthur flicks off the TV. "I'm all gussied up now," Eames says. "Terribly sorry about the delay. Took a nap, hopped in the shower, lost track of time."

As they walk out together, Arthur catches a hint of beer on Eames' breath. "Have you been drinking since you woke up?"

"Does it matter?" At Arthur's frown, Eames adds, "Fine, you caught me out. I may have had a sip or two earlier today. But I've sobered up, and am perfectly capable of performing all my duties tonight."

Arthur starts the car and considers pressing the issue. But Arthur's job here is to get Eames to the club, in a condition that allows Eames to—as he so delicately put it—perform all his duties. That's all. "Take it easy tonight. And try not to pick a fight with Juana if you can help it."

"That killjoy's coming?" Eames says. "Why does Dom keep inviting her to these games?"

"Because she's a valued business partner. And--" Arthur's lips twitch. "Dom wants to sleep with her."

"What? That old bird?" Eames sounds almost scandalized. "But she's nearly double my age and has three children."

Arthur shrugs. "She used to babysit for Dom, way back. Guess some fantasies die hard."

"Cho and Yusuf—even Al, I can see," Eames says. "But Juana? I don't know what to say."

"Better to say nothing at all."

Eames chuckles. "And you would know, wouldn't you? Has Dom managed to land anyone at our table besides me?"

"Yusuf and Al seem to be inflexibly straight, and--in Al's case--married," Arthur says. "Juana's also been married as long as I've known her, and Cho's been with his partner—Ainsley--since they first started working together at Caritas General. As far as I know, Dom's never seriously pursued any of them."

"And you?" Eames raises his eyebrows, and Arthur wonders what question he's really asking.

"I haven't slept with anyone at the table," Arthur replies neutrally. He waits for Eames to ask the follow-up: do you want to?

But Eames doesn't. "Should I be worried?" he asks instead, and though the corners of his mouth are turned up, his eyes are serious. It's a genuine question. "About Dom's attention wandering, specifically."

"I can't say for certain about anyone else Dom knows, but regarding the players at our table--I doubt it," Arthur says. "There's sex that's just sex, and then there's sex that's something else. You don't fall into the first category."

"No, I suppose not," Eames says. He's staring out the window, and Arthur wrestles with himself a moment before asking,

"Are you okay?"

"Positively spiffing." Eames doesn't look back at Arthur, and he doesn't even bother trying to make the lie convincing. It's unsettling, frankly, but there's no the point in probing further; Arthur doubts he'll like whatever else Eames might have to say.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence, with Eames watching the scenery roll by and Arthur glancing over periodically. Eames doesn't seem to be in any physical pain, at least.

When they meet up with Dom, a wide, happy smile appears on Eames' face and stays put, faltering barely at all throughout the night.

They're an hour in when Juana takes out her cell and excuses herself from the table. She returns a minute later, "My apologies. I told my daughter not to call unless there was an emergency, and she seems to think that telling me all about the sad puppy she saw at the pet store qualifies."

"No problem," Dom says. "I take it you're not a fan of dogs?"

"Oh no, I love dogs," Juana replies as she takes her seat. "I got one back when my son promised me he would love, care for, and feed it. Of course, once he got tired of playing with the puppy—guess who really ended up taking her for walks."

Dom chuckles. "And isn't Elena heading off to college in a year, too?"

"Precisely. She swears up and down that she'll take the dog with her when she goes, but I know better than to trust a teenager's promises about the future." Juana taps her cards. "Be careful, Dom. Do not let your children convince you that a pet is the key to their happiness."

"I'll keep that in mind." Dom laughs. "You know, I had a dog back when I was a kid too—a Rottweiler named Sparky. Although, come to think of it, I don't remember taking him out for too many walks either."

"It's like having another child to take care of," Juana says. "Only their needs are a bit more straightforward."

"What about you, Eames?" Dom nudges Eames with his shoulder companionably. "You ever have a pet?"

"When I was about ten, I found a stray pup on the side of the road," Eames says. "God knows how it survived, seeing as the mother and its litter mates were nowhere to be found. In any case, I hid it in my room, where it proceeded to chew, scratch, and shit on just about everything I owned."

"You still loved it though, didn't you?" Dom asks.

"I did," Eames agrees, and his smile slips, a little. "A bit ridiculous, really."

Juana curses under her breath when her phone goes off again. "Excuse me," she says as she gets up.

"I think I'd like a smoke whilst we wait," Eames says, sliding out of the booth when Dom nods.

Dom waves at Ariadne to refresh their drinks. "You never had a dog, did you, Arthur?"

"Not much space for one in apartments," Arthur replies. "Besides, I prefer cats."

"Of course you do," Dom's tone is fond. "Dogs too high maintenance for you?"

"I don't mind high maintenance," Arthur says. "But I like that cats are... clean."

"How about you, Ariadne?" Dom asks while she clears the empty bottles and glasses from the table. "You a dog or cat person?"

"Gotta go with Arthur on this one," Ariadne says. "I grew up with two of the best damn cats the world ever saw."

"Blasphemers," Dom says as Juana returns. "Everything okay?"

"I'm shutting off my phone for the night," Juana declares.

"Hey, Arthur, can you go and get Eames?" Dom asks. "I'd go myself, but it's cold as fuck out and I forgot my coat."

Arthur nods and goes out the back. There's one weak streetlight that ends up casting more shadows than light at the juncture where the alley opens onto the street.

Eames is leaning up against the wall, the streetlight and cherry of his cigarette illuminating the planes of his face. He's clean-shaven today, like he usually is when he sees Dom. Without the broad smile plastered across his face, he looks weary. Worn.

"Eames," Arthur says as he approaches. Eames looks up, but his expression doesn't change. "What happened when your parents found out?"

"Come again?"

"You said you hid the puppy in your room," Arthur clarifies. "What happened when they found it?"

"Oh." Eames looks down at his cigarette before letting it fall. "They took her away. Never saw her again."

Arthur watches Eames straighten up and put his hands in his pockets; he's wearing the bright orange parka. "Dom says it's time to get back to the game."

"Lead on." Eames steps on his cigarette butt, and follows Arthur back inside.

As soon as they get to the table, Eames' smile reappears.

"I ordered you a gin and tonic," Dom says; Eames has been drinking water all night.

"Magnificent," Eames replies as he slides in close to Dom and puts a hand on his knee. "That's precisely what I'm in the mood for."

"Is something up, Dom?" Arthur asks as he approaches the familiar BMW. "Did something happen?"

"We've got appointments to check out the top three assisted living centers in the state," Dom says as he rolls down the window. "Hop in."

Arthur blinks, then makes his way to the passenger side door. "You don't want me to drive?"

"Nah, I got the addresses all up here already." Dom taps his temple. "Take a load off—I got it."

Arthur gets in, a little uncertain, and buckles up. "Top three?"

"I know you were thinking about White Tree," Dom says as he turns onto the highway. "But I made a few calls around to see what their main competition is. Nothing but the best for your mother, right?"

"Right," Arthur echoes, settling back into his seat and still feeling slightly off-balance. It reminds him of how Dom used to unexpectedly stop by Arthur's apartment when Arthur was a teenager--tell him to hop in the car so they could hit a bar, go to a concert, drive up to the city. It occurs to Arthur that it's been almost fifteen years. And it still feels a little like yesterday.

The first nursing home is called Sunny Skies Senior Center, a small complex with cheerful paint, skylights, and well-maintained grounds. The owner is a kind but harried woman that appears after ten minutes of waiting to give them the tour.

"Sorry about the wait," she says. "Urgent patient situation."

"Not a problem." Dom smiles his shark smile—the one that says he smells blood in the water.

She takes them on a brief tour of the lobby, the cafeteria, the sun room, and then the recreation room. In the middle of her rambling speech about the amenities, Dom says, "So what's the staff-to-patient ratio?"

"I—pardon?"

"How many staff members are here to take care of patients during the day, and how many at night?" he asks, making a show of looking around the crowded recreation room. "Because I know I see a hell of a lot of patients, but not too many people wearing uniforms."

"Well, we like to offer patients the best possible balance between supervision and independence," she finally stammers, and Dom raises an eyebrow.

"Thank you," Dom says. "I think that's all we need to see today."

The second facility is a juggernaut of a complex set in a sprawling green campus. Two people in grey suits are standing at the door to meet them, both carrying clipboards and glossy literature.

Jane—the manager—and Shawn—the head of the nursing staff—greet Dom and Arthur with smiles as starched as their suits, and lead them down the wide, well-decorated corridor to a spacious and immaculately clean bedroom.

"We here at Silver Mountain Incorporated pride ourselves on providing the highest level of comfort and care to all of our residents," Jane says as she leads them into the tiled bathroom. "All our rooms come installed with safety handles, ramps, and a twenty-four hour Call button in case of emergencies."

"What's the staff-to-patient ratio?" Arthur asks, and Jane doesn't bat an eye.

"One staff member per five clients during the day, and one per ten during the evening," Jane replies. "Industry standard is one to twenty, but we strive to provide only the highest level of excellence for our residents."

Dom raises his eyebrows as Jane leads them through the gym, pool, and other recreational facilities—all of which are completely empty.

"Where is everybody?" Dom asks as they walk through a quiet cafeteria.

"Typically our tour would be held during a time in which guests would have a chance to observe our residents engaged in various recreational activities, but since you insisted on selecting this block of time—" there's some strain in Jane's professional smile now, "I'm afraid it's a bit of a lull in the action. It's a part of the day when our clients are taking quiet time in their rooms."

"Or engaged in other activities such as reading and watching TV," Shawn adds.

"All of them?"

"All the residents adhere to a consistent schedule," Shawn explains. "We find it helps to give them some structure and focus in their day to day lives."

"Can we speak with any of your residents?" Dom asks.

"Speak to—" Jane starts.

"Yeah, we'd like to take a moment and chat with someone. See if they like the schedule and the place." Dom raises an eyebrow. "It's the middle of the afternoon—you can't tell me they're all asleep right now."

"Protecting the privacy of our residents is paramount," Shawn replies. "We can't simply—"

"Jane," Dom says, and there's a warning in his voice. "We'd like to speak to one of your residents."

"This is highly unorthodox—" Shawn says, but then stops when Jane gives him a look.

Shawn takes them to the end of a hallway and knocks before unlocking one of the doors with his keycard. The patient is an elderly man sitting by the window, and he seems surprised to see visitors.

"Is it time for dinner already?" he asks, and Shawn shakes his head.

"Frank, these are a couple of visitors who'd like to ask you how you're enjoying your stay at our facility," Shawn says. "Please, feel free to be candid about your feelings."

Frank looks over at Jane and Shawn—who don't leave the room--and then clears his throat. "It's excellent. Wonderful facilities, great staff, amazing care. I couldn't ask for anything more."

There's a pause when Frank glances furtively at Jane and Shawn again, and then Dom says, "I think that'll be it for today."

The last center they visit is called White Tree Assisted Living, and its facilities are somewhere between the size of Sunny Skies and Silver Mountain. There's a man in a pressed black suit waiting for them who introduces himself as Omar.

This time, Arthur asks about the staff-to-patient ratio as soon as they start, and Omar replies easily, "One to eight during the day, one to fifteen at night."

They take a tour through the clean, spacious facilities, which all seem to be occupied with a fair number of residents and sharp-eyed nurses. The speech and explanation Omar gives is nothing new, and at the end of it, Arthur asks to speak with some of the residents. They're standing in the recreation room, and after a look from Dom, Omar says, "Of course. Let me introduce to you to the ladies in the Bridge Club."

Omar leads them to a cluster of four older women sitting around a card table near the windows and says, "Excuse me, but if I could trouble you for a moment of your time, these guests would like to speak with you about your experiences in White Tree."

"Visitors?" the one introduced as Edna puts a hand to her short, bluish-white hair. "But I'm just a wreck today."

"Oh, hush—it's not as if such handsome young men care what a bunch of senior citizens like us look like," the thin woman with a severe expression next to Edna—Agnes—says.

"Senior citizens?" Dom repeats as Omar slips off discreetly to handle something on the other side of the room. "I was just about to ask what a bunch of young ladies like you are doing in a place like this."

This produces a flurry of titters, with one of the ladies—a woman in heavy makeup called Bertha—saying, "Such a flatterer you are."

"Married, too, I see." The last woman—Margaret, with a rather prominent nose—says. "I hope that poor wife of yours knows the trouble she married into."

"Trouble?" Dom shakes his head. "Maybe before we married, but I promise my wife's made a civilized man outta me."

This inspires a round of chuckles at the table, and then Agnes says, "So I'm sure you didn't come here today to listen to us prattle on. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

"We can talk about whatever you want, sugar," Bertha interjects as she gives Arthur an appreciative once-over.

"I was actually wondering how you like it here," Arthur says, careful to direct his attention to the entire table.

"Aside from having to deal with these old harpies day in and day out, it's not too bad," Margaret says, to a chorus of indignant squawks from the others.

"The food's so-so, but the staff are good people," Edna asserts. "And when you get to the age when one bad fall could be your last—suddenly, gourmet meals don't seem quite so important anymore."

"Don't listen to her, she used to be a food critic," Agnes says, pitching her voice above Edna's protests. "I think the food is delicious."

"That's because she likes bland food," Margaret says in a stage whisper. "If anything that tastes like anything—suddenly, she doesn’t want a bit of it."

"Are you boys considering checking yourselves in?" Bertha asks with an expression probably best described as a hopeful leer.

Arthur clears his throat. "Ah, no—actually, I was considering this center for my mother."

"And you came all this way out to see how it is before checking her in," Edna coos. "What a sweet boy. If only my own son were half as thoughtful."

"Oh, your mother would get on famously here," Bertha says. "And you could come visit as often as you like."

"So no complaints?" There's a smothered laugh in Dom's voice.

All the women shrug and shake their heads. "It's no Four Seasons," Margaret says. "But then what is?"

"Thank you for all your help," Arthur says. "I think that's all I need."

"A pleasure," Bertha says, leaning forward into Arthur's space. "If you have any more questions, feel free to come by anytime."

"Not a word," Arthur says as Dom struggles not to laugh when they walk away. "Not one word."

"Is there anything else you'd like to see while you're here? Anything else I can help you with?" Omar asks when they rejoin him.

"Not for now," Arthur says. "It's been very informative."

"If you think of anything, please call me anytime." Omar passes them both business cards. "And as you both know, usually there is a wait list for this facility of at least a year. But given your, ah, special circumstances, in this case the wait will be waived if you should decide that White Tree fits your needs."

"Thank you," Arthur says. "I'll be in touch."

As they walk back to the car, Dom asks, "So what did you think?"

"I think my mother needs to never ever talk to Bertha—" Dom laughs. "But otherwise, it was—not bad. I guess. Better than I thought it would be, anyway."

"I know it's still hard." Dom puts a hand on Arthur's shoulder, briefly, before getting into the car. "But at least in a place like this, she can have twenty-four hour care and maybe a community to interact with instead of being stuck in the house all alone."

"Yeah." Arthur slumps back in the seat. "I know. I just—I feel like I'm letting her down. Like I should be doing more."

"You're doing right by her, Arthur," Dom says as he starts the car. "Two aides--plus, how often do you see her every week? She needs more than you have left to give."

"Maybe." Arthur looks out the window. "How'd you know where to go and what questions to ask, anyway? You been reading up?"

"Oh, that—I just called your girl." At Arthur's blank look, Dom adds, "Carla? Carly?"

"Oh, Carmen," Arthur says. "You called her?"

"Well, I figured she would know." Dom shrugs. "She was real sweet on the phone. You giving it to her?"

"What?" Arthur chokes. "She's my mother's aide."

"I'll take that as a no then." Dom shrugs. "Well, she sure wishes you were."

"What? No."

"I'm serious. She even offered to take today off to come with us."

"She--" Arthur sighs. "Jesus."

Dom chuckles. "You should go for it. She seems nice, she's good with your mom..."

"Are you serious?" Arthur gives Dom a look. "You're serious."

"What?" Dom says. "I'm just saying. It's--I mean, it's been a while since you've been with anyone and she seems like a good girl. Sounds like the type who'd could cook you dinner, all that stuff."

"I can cook my own dinner," Arthur replies. "I'm fine."

"No, sure, sure," Dom says. "It's just--I know things between you and Vicky were kind of serious and now--"

"Now she's in California," Arthur says flatly. "And it's not--it wasn't a big deal. The breakup was mutual."

"So you're not bringing anyone to this year's Christmas party, is what you're saying." At Arthur's glare, Dom lifts one hand in surrender. "Alright, Mal was wondering and I'll let her know she doesn't need to make the extra food."

Arthur leans back in the seat. "No plus one this year."

"Okay, well," Dom glances over, and his eyes are kind. "Mal's not the only one that worries about you, you know?"

Arthur closes his eyes and exhales heavily. "Tell her not to worry. I'm doing great."

There's a pause. "Well, the ladies seem to think so," Dom says. "Even the ones old enough to have given birth to you."

Arthur snorts. "So says the guy who wants to sleep with his former babysitter."

"Juana's still got a great figure," Dom replies, grinning good-naturedly. "And you don't know what she used to look like. Man, her hair and those legs—went on forever, I tell you."

"Okay, Dom." Arthur laughs. "Whatever you say."

"So I was thinking…" Balal starts while Arthur arches into a lazy, full-body stretch on the bed.

"Hm?" Arthur settles back, feeling loose and warm. He contemplates taking a nap. The bed's not too disgusting, and he could even stay the night instead of making the long drive home. The hotel's paid for already.

"Maybe we could start meeting up in other places," Balal says. "Besides this hotel."

"You don't like it?" Arthur rolls over to blink at Balal sleepily.

"Well, it's not so much the hotel as—" Balal pauses. "It's just starting to feel like I should be leaving a stack of bills on the dresser when I leave. Or that you should be leaving me one, I'm not sure which."

Arthur chuckles. "You telling me I'm so good I shoulda been charging this whole time?"

Balal throws his head back and laughs. "Yep. You've been missing out on some serious cash. Sucker."

Arthur grins. "So where do you want to meet up, then? Your mom's basement?"

"We could do that." The corners of Balal's eyes crinkle up. "Or maybe your place? My place? I don't live too far from here."

Arthur thinks back to his apartment with a trace of longing that quickly turns into vague annoyance; he can't take work calls there anymore, and it's hardly relaxing to be at home when home is being recorded by overly inquisitive local authorities. It doesn't help that it's also an obnoxiously long drive from everything except his office—a place he barely spends any time at, these days.

"Lance?" Balal says, and Arthur shakes himself out of his thoughts.

"We could try it at mine," Arthur says, watching a broad smile spread across Balal's face. "Right after I finish moving."

"You're moving?"

"Yeah," Arthur says. "My old place is a dive."

"Arthur, I need you to second me on this," Dom says as he gets in the car. "Gotta make a house call."

"Sure, Dom. Where to?" Arthur asks as he starts the car. When Dom reads off the address, Arthur frowns—that's Nash's old territory. "Isn't Ravelli covering that now?"

"Yeah, he's been collecting on all the accounts except for one holdout," Dom replies. "The name's Fischer. Never been a problem before, but apparently the business has been passed onto his son, Robert."

"So, what--he thinks because there's a change in management that our deal is up for renegotiation?"

"Who the fuck knows," Dom says, shaking his head. "But it's been going on for a while now. I checked into things and it turns out Nash hadn't been collecting from Fischer for six months. Can you imagine that?"

"Incompetent and a traitor," Arthur mutters. "Dead or alive, he's useless."

"You're telling me," Dom says.

They pull up in front of a modest storefront with most of the lights off and a 'Closed' sign hanging in the window. The parking lot is empty except for one beat-up old Cadillac from the 70's.

They step inside the deli, and there's a slight young man—handsome, with dark hair and light eyes—conversing in low tones with a pimply-faced teenager wearing a yarmulke.

"Robert Fischer?" Dom calls out, striding forward.

"I'm Robert Fischer," the slight man says, and then to the teenager, "David, you can go."

"Are you sure?" David looks back and forth between Dom and Arthur suspiciously. "Because I could—"

"It's fine." Fischer shakes his head. "Please."

With one last, narrow glance at them, David disappears out the back. Arthur goes to check that he's really gone and locks all the doors while Dom asks whether there's a room they can talk in.

Fischer leads them to a narrow back room with no windows and a small desk, and Arthur closes the door behind him.

"I think you know who I am," Dom says.

"Dominic Cobb," Fischer says, voice steady. "We spoke on the phone."

"This is Arthur Damrosch," Dom says, and Arthur nods. "Now that the pleasantries are over, let's talk business."

"I can tell you what I told Ravelli: I don't have your money," Fischer says. "This business is running on fumes and my personal credit line alone. I would pay if you I could, but there's nothing to pay you with."

"When your father was alive, he paid on time every single month for fifteen years," Dom says coldly. "Now he's gone and suddenly you're telling me the money has dried up?"

"My father—" Fischer lets out a brittle exhale. "Despite how supposedly successful this place was, my father was shit with money. I flew in from California to sort out his estate, and a year later I'm still here--because my father had been up to his eyeballs in debt and never bothered telling anyone."

"We checked the records and it seems you haven't made a payment at all in the past six months," Arthur says. "Seems there was some fancy accounting done to get that by us all this time, but that ends now."

"Rich—I mean, Nash--understood my situation and agreed to extend me some extra time to get everything in order. He—"

"Is Nash here?" Dom asks, taking an aggressive step forward. "Do I look like Richard fucking Nash?"

"No it's just—" Fischer's jaw tightens. "You can take whatever's in the register. There sould be about two hundred and change. The petty cash drawer has about a hundred, and I think I have twenty in my wallet."

"Three hundred and twenty?" Dom says. "Are you trying to piss me off here? Do you know how much you owe?"

"I'm telling you that's all there is." Fischer's hands tighten into fists. "We're two months behind on the rent for this place and I've already maxed out all my credit cards keeping the light and heat on. I'll write you a personal check for whatever figure you want, but I can tell you right now that it's going to bounce."

"Everyone's got a sob story," Dom says. "You think I care about your problems with other bill collectors?"

"Right, because this business is going to generate more revenue if the store is so cold customers won't come in and my cashiers won't work because I can't pay them."

"Save your lip for Saturday night stand-up," Arthur says. "We're not here to negotiate."

"Oh right, you're here to persuade me with threats of violence, right?" Fischer shakes his head. "Well, you can make all the threats you want—your goon Ravelli certainly did his best—but that doesn't change the truth: you can't get blood from a stone, and I don't have your money."

"You're putting us in a difficult position here, Fischer," Dom says. "Let's say I believe you. What happens when word gets out that I'm suddenly in the business of granting extensions? What happens when everyone else who owes me decides not to pay?"

"I swear on my father's grave that I won't tell anyone," Fischer says when Arthur takes a step forward. "I'll—I can put something together if you give me thirty days. Two thousand."

"Five thousand, and that barely covers the interest," Dom says.

"Three thousand," Fischer says, face pale. "That's all I can get in a month. And if you kill me, I guarantee there won't be anyone left to pay you."

Dom seems to be considering the offer, and then demands abruptly, "What hand do you use to jerk off with?"

"What?" Fischer stares at Dom. "What does that have to--"

"He wants to know whether you're a righty or a lefty," Arthur interjects.

"A--a righty, I guess," Fischer replies uncertainly.

"You guess, or you know?" Dom says. "What are you, a fucking eunuch? You don't even know which hand you touch your dick with everyday?'

"My right!" Fischer snaps. "And if you're going to—to—"

"No one's interested in your broke ass," Dom says. "Now walk over to the door and open it. Don't get any ideas about running."

Arthur steps aside and Fischer does so, going even paler.

"Now put your cell phone on the desk and your left hand on the doorframe, fingers spread."

Fischer gives Dom a disbelieving look and Arthur says, "Do it."

Fischer shudders minutely as he does. His fingers are elegant and white against the stained wood of the doorframe. "You don't have to do this."

"You're in here after hours," Dom says quietly. "You're all alone and you don't know how it happens, but you have an accident. A terrible accident."

Arthur walks over to stand in front of where the door is slightly ajar, and mentally calculates the best way to get this over with in one swift motion.

"Don't do this," Fischer says softly, and looks at Arthur. "Don't."

"I need to know whether you're a man of your word, Fischer," Dom says. "Are you a man of your word?"

Fischer is silent for a long moment before he closes his eyes and nods.

"Arthur," is all Dom needs to say.

The force needed to slam the door shut isn't a particularly large one, and the low kick Arthur delivers does the job effectively. It bounces off Fischer's fingers neatly, and there's the sharp crack of bones breaking before Fischer drops to the floor with an anguished howl. Arthur is vaguely impressed that Fischer didn’t move his hand at the last minute and force him to break it the old fashioned way.

There are tears streaming down Fischer's cheeks as he curls into a fetal position and cradles his disfigured hand against his stomach. The marks across the skin and the shaking conjure up a surprising sense of familiarity; it takes Arthur a moment, but then he finally thinks back to Eames.

"I'm going to call 911 now," Dom says as he puts on a pair of gloves and picks up Fischer's phone. "I'm going to put this phone by your ear and you're going to tell them what happened here."

"Do you remember what happened?" Arthur asks.

"An—an accident," Fischer chokes out. "A—alone."

"Very good," Dom says, and begins to dial.

"Carmen," Arthur says when he steps in the kitchen. "What are you still doing here? You were supposed to get off hours ago."

"I know, Mr. Damrosch, but I just wanted to stay to help your mother make the stuffing," Carmen replies, wiping her damp hands on her apron.

"It's already seven o'clock," Arthur clears some of the trash off the counter, making room to put down his groceries. "Really, you should be with your family."

"It's no trouble." Carmen helps him unpack the pumpkin pie, bread, and store-bought roast chicken. "I wanted to."

Arthur sighs a little when he stares down at Carmen's earnest, upturned face. She would be a good wife, he supposes—sweet and patient, undemanding. She wouldn't want him to change, not like Victoria had. And she'd know better than to ask questions, to expect things from Arthur that he can't give.

"Thank you for everything, Carmen," Arthur says as he leans down to kiss her cheek. "That'll be all for tonight."

Once she's gone, Arthur walks into the dining room where Lydia is laying out the place settings.

"Arthur," she says, eyes warm and clear. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Mom," Arthur replies as he kisses her cheek as well. "Happy Thanksgiving to you too. The food smells delicious."

"All Carmen's doing, I'm afraid," Lydia smiles as she accepts the bouquet of calla lilies Arthur presents to her, and goes to fetch a vase.

When all the food and the flowers are on the table, Arthur and Lydia sit. Today seems like a good day--Lydia focused and attentive as she asks Arthur about work.

"It's good," Arthur replies as he brings a scoop of mashed potato up to his mouth. "I got a new office. It's bigger than my old one."

"And how about your hours?" Lydia replies. "Have you spoken with Dom about that yet? You know it's not fair for him to ask you to come into work at night and on weekends."

"It's fine," Arthur says. "I like my job. I don't mind the extra time."

"He works you too hard," Lydia says. "I'm sure he doesn't realize—"

"Everything with work is fine, Mom." Arthur reaches across the dining table to cover Lydia's hand. "If it weren't, I'd talk to Dom about it. I swear."

Lydia sighs, and then squeezes Arthur's hand. "Okay."

Arthur lets go of her hand, picking up his fork again to eat a piece of stuffing. "There's actually something I—I need to talk to you about."

"Anything, honey," Lydia replies.

"There's a place called White Tree Assisted Living," Arthur says, taking a deep breath. "And I've been thinking about how it isn't good for you to be shut up in this house all alone every day—even if you have Carmen and Oliver." Arthur continues in this vein for a little bit, explaining where White Tree is, what the grounds are like, all the carefully composed reasons he'd prepared before coming over.

At the end of the speech, all Lydia says is, "Alright. If that's what you think is best."

Arthur opens his mouth and then stops. "What?"

"You're right—I have been lonely, and it's not right for me to demand that you come over to see me more than you already do," Lydia says. "And if you tell me that this White Tree Assisted Living is the best place for me to go, then of course I'll believe you."

"Mom." Arthur stands and walks around to the other side of the table. "You have to know I don't want to have to do this."

"I know, Arthur," Lydia says, taking both of Arthur's hands in her own. "But it's Thanksgiving, and you shouldn't be here, eating dinner with me all alone—you should be with your own family, in your own house."

"No," Arthur says as he kneels down and crushes his face into her shoulder, like he did when he was small. "You're all the family I need."

"I'm not." Lydia strokes his hair. "I'm holding you back."

"You're not," Arthur replies, words muffled. "I want to be here."

"Oh, honey." Lydia kisses the top of his head and hugs him tighter. "I know. I know."

"His name's Saito," Dom says as he pushes Phillipa on the swings. "According to Sal, he's the real deal over there—some billionaire with serious pull and worldwide ambitions."

Arthur scans the rest of the playground for any adults who aren't accompanied by children; he doesn't see any, but pitches his voice low all the same. "Glad we've got a name at least. We know anything more?"

"Straightforward ship and sell," Dom replies as Phillipa kicks delightedly in the air. "They manufacture, pass to us, and then we—and our partners—push to market. We'll be doing a few test runs with them to work out the logistics, but it shouldn't be a problem. If it can make it past customs, we'll start importing in quantity."

"Are we taking on all the risk for this?" Arthur asks. "I know you said it's big in Europe, but what if it flops here?"

"Saito's willing work with us on consignment for now," Dom says. "As a gesture of good faith. Once we've established some solid numbers for the market, we'll meet to renegotiate."

"Daddy, push me harder—I want to go higher!" Phillipa says, and Dom smiles indulgently.

"Anything you want, pumpkin." While Phillipa's distracted with her upward trajectory, Dom continues, "Saito also doesn't want to seriously start until the New Year—which works out for me, and gives you time to do your research too."

"Sal give you any numbers or hard information on this?"

"Encrypted flashdrive," Dom replies. "I'll give it to you later and forward you the decryption program."

Arthur makes a mental note to add projections and research to his to-do list. "Any direct contacts or are we still communicating through Sal?"

"A name, an email, a phone, and a Skype account," Dom says as Phillipa seems to tire of the swing and asks him to stop pushing. "Haven't tried any of them yet, but you should probably check them out."

"Will do," Arthur says.

"Good." Dom follows Phillipa as she wanders away from the swings and over to the jungle gym. "One last thing."

"Okay, but we'd better make it fast." Arthur glances around, and it's hard to ignore the stares he's drawing from all the moms in the playground. "People are going to start thinking we're life partners or that I'm gonna be the next guy to show up on To Catch a Predator."

Dom snorts. "Okay, well—I'll be quick, then. I need to get Eames a birthday present and I'm stumped. I'm gonna be in France from Christmas to New Year's, and god knows how busy the next few weeks will be--I need to buy myself some goodwill to get through the holidays."

"Okay.” Arthur's not convinced Eames is going to give a shit about any of those things, but he's going to keep that opinion to himself. "What ideas have you got so far?"

"Normally, I'd go to Tiffany's and call it a day. Obviously, that's not going to work in this case. But I have no other ideas, none. You know me, Arthur—I'm useless at gifts that aren't jewelry." Arthur has to admit that both parts of that statement are true; to this day, his mother still wears the diamond necklace that Dom picked out. "And this has gotta be good. Something that he'll love, something that makes him think of me every time he looks at it."

"Would you like it to shit rainbows and dance too?" Arthur asks dryly, and Dom laughs.

"You gotta help me," he says as Phillipa starts chasing some boy around the playground. "If you can't think of anything, I swear to god I'll end up giving him a diamond tennis bracelet."

"Why don't you get him a watch?" Arthur asks. "I like the watch you got me."

"Because it says business and not romance," Dom replies. "Nothing says romance less than practicality."

"Hm," Arthur says, and raises an eyebrow when Phillipa gets the hapless boy she's been chasing in some form of headlock. "Are you going to do something about that?"

"Yeah, guess I should." Dom sighs, and starts forward when the boy starts crying.

"As you can see, our apartments are all brand new, furnished, and feature fresh out of the box appliances," the landlady walks over to the large window overlooking a dim view of the parking lot. "And you get lots of natural light."

Arthur circles the room slowly, not really listening to her chatter. It's a small, one bedroom apartment with a decent sized kitchen and bathroom, though the living room is decidedly cramped. It comes outfitted with all the most basic furniture: bed, couch, lamps, dining table and chairs. The asking price is also laughably inflated given the area, but Arthur figures he can probably negotiate the figure down to something reasonable if he decides to take it.

"The bedroom comes with a king-size bed and mattress, which should make move-in a snap," she chirps. "And look at all the closet space! Plenty of room to store dress shirts, jackets, and pants without worrying about wrinkles."

He doesn't give a shit about the closet space; what he needs is an overnight crash pad. The location is ideal for weekends: closer to Bellevue and White Tree, not too far from Perle or Wolthingham.

He lets her continue with her spiel as he scans the apartment for any kind of leverage. "And the bathroom has a full shower and bathtub," she says. "All new, top of the line fixtures and plumbing."

"Hm," Arthur says as he bends down to inspect the bathtub faucet. "Is the water on?"

"That's—" She turns the faucet knob, but the dripping water persists. "Obviously, that'll be fixed by the time you move in, if you decide to."

"I would need to move in immediately." Arthur straightens. "Now let's talk about the kind of numbers you have in mind."

"Eames," Arthur says as he shakes Eames' bare shoulder. "Eames, wake up."

"What?" Eames rolls over onto his side, bleary, covers dipping low to reveal nothing but smiley face boxers. "What going on?"

"I'm here to take you to the game," Arthur says curtly. "Which we'll be late to if you don't get up right now."

"And so what if we are?" Eames yawns. "Will the world cease spinning because Arthur Damrosch is late to an engagement with his baggage?"

"Dom misses you when you aren't at the table."

"How sad for him," Eames replies without any particular inflection.

"No, sad for me," Arthur corrects sharply. "I'm the one that has to deal with him after."

"Let's not be overly dramatic here, darling," Eames yawns again, and Arthur catches the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath, stronger than last week. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Arthur throws back the covers. Tthe smell of alcohol hits his nose with sudden--and unpleasant--force. "You stink of whiskey."

"Whiskey and beer," Eames corrects after a small, undignified yelp at the cold. "Must always give credit where credit is due."

"You need a shower. Get up."

"And what if I don't?" Eames gazes defiantly at Arthur. "Will you move me bodily? Strip me down and clean me yourself?"

Arthur takes a step back from the bed. "No. You can go greasy and smelling like a keg."

"Greasy? I may be sweaty and unwashed, but greasy—that stings." Eames rolls out of bed and hooks his thumbs under the elastic of his underwear. Arthur turns just in time to avoid getting an eyeful, and walks to the other side of the room.

It's a wreck, as always, and there's an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor alongside empty beer cans, but the crumpled napkins from last week are conspicuously absent.

There's only one wadded up piece of paper in the far corner of the room, and Arthur checks to make sure that Eames has gotten into the shower before he smooths it open. The paper is covered in nothing but a series of hand-drawn circles, some shakier and rounder than others. Most are scratched over, and the last one on the page is barely even half-drawn.

Arthur hears the shower stop running, and drops the paper back into its original position on the floor. When Eames comes out, Arthur is laying out an outfit on the sheets: plain white briefs, black pants, and a blue shirt.

"Get dressed," Arthur says. "I'll be waiting in the car."

"Don't you ever get tired of this, Arthur?" Eames asks as Arthur turns to go, and he stops. "A man of your intelligence and ability reduced to herding about an errant mistress that isn't even his?"

Arthur doesn't turn around. "And what do you know about my intelligence and abilities?"

"Enough." Arthur hears the rustle of clothing as Eames continues, "So I must ask: why are you still doing this?"

"I like my job," Arthur says, forcing his voice to stay level. "I have a good life."

"You're telling me you like being Dom's personal assistant and occasional thug?"

"I'm not--" Arthur should cut this whole discussion off, walk to the car, get in and drive in total silence until Eames gets the hint. But he doesn't. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're sharp, capable, and probably the only reason Dom's marriage hasn't already come tumbling down about his ears," Eames replies. "What I don't know is why you bother. What in the world did Dom do to deserve you?"

"It's a long story." Arthur huffs out a laugh. "Not that I'd expect you to understand anything involving loyalty."

"Loyalty is an illusion," Eames says, suddenly close enough for his breath to ghost across Arthur's ear. "All you ever need ask is whether you'd kill Dom or let him kill you—and there you have your answer to the fable of loyalty."

"I'd take a bullet for Dom," Arthur says, breathing hard and heavy.

"I'm sure you would. But would you take Dom's bullet?" Eames puts a hand on Arthur's elbow and before he can blink, Arthur has him pinned up against the wall, forearm to his throat. Eames smirks even as he coughs. "Or maybe—maybe what's motivating all this isn't loyalty—but garden variety lust? Men will go to absurd lengths to realize their most cherished fantasies."

Arthur doesn't push harder against Eames' throat, but he doesn't pull back either. "What?"

"I could bring it up with Dom, you know," Eames murmurs, eyes gleaming. "I could ask him about his fantasies, his desires—what he wants from every single player at our friendly little poker games. I could get you the piece of Dom you've been waiting for all this time."

Arthur blanches and releases Eames. "You have no clue what you're talking about."

"Imagine the possibilities, Arthur," Eames persists, voice a rough growl. "You and Dom and me in any configuration you prefer, sucking and fucking, getting fucked--"

"You think I haven't tried it already?" Arthur snaps back before he can think, and his face burns as soon as the words leave his lips.

It had happened when Arthur had still been in the throes of glassy-eyed hero worship—a few months after his eighteenth birthday, when Dom started taking him out to bars and teaching him how to pick up women.

("The trick is confidence," Dom said. "Walk into a bar like you own it and know everybody in it, and find the most beautiful woman there. As soon as you spot her, walk straight up and say hello. If she's staring you down and smiling as you approach, you're so in you could probably fuck her right then and there. If she isn't paying attention, get her attention and introduce yourself. You're a good-looking guy, Arthur, so all you need to do is let her know that she's lucky to be talking to you. If you just believe that, pussy will follow.")

Dom had been talking about something or another when Arthur put one sweaty palm on Dom's thigh. It was only the second gay bar they'd been to, but Arthur felt it was time. "I've been thinking," Arthur started.

"Arthur," Dom said slowly, and covered Arthur's hand with his own for one glorious moment. "You're my best friend."

"Which is why I think--" Arthur faltered at the way Dom's expression stayed blank. "I think we could be really—really great, maybe. Together."

"Sometimes things are better when they don't change," Dom said as he took Arthur's hand and placed it on the counter. "You know? Sometimes that's the only way they last."

Arthur doesn't remember what he said after that, but Dom went back to his previous topic of conversation like nothing had happened at all, and the night continued on. He does remember, however, the face of the guy Dom went home with later that night: it had been someone lithe and pale, with dark hair and dark eyes.

Arthur ducks his head at the memory and curses internally, but when he catches a glimpse of Eames' face, he isn't laughing or smirking like Arthur thought he would be; instead, he's regarding Arthur with a mixture of puzzlement and cool calculation.

"Well, now that you have the answer to your burning curiosity," Arthur says, "get in the goddamn car."

Eames, shockingly enough, acquiesces, and they drive off without further ado. He spends the ride chain-smoking out the window while Arthur fucks with the radio until he settles on some Latin dance music.

When they arrive at Perle, Dom is already there and apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I won't be able to drive you back after the game tonight," Dom says, touching Eames' wrist briefly. "Phillipa's got a field trip tomorrow and I'm chaperoning—starts at the crack of dawn and I gotta drive."

"I understand," Eames says, all signs of his previous drunkenness and disagreement with Arthur gone. "I'll miss you dreadfully, of course, but at least I get to see you now."

"You're the best." Dom squeezes Eames' elbow before addressing Arthur. "Are you okay to bring him back home? I know it's a drive."

"I like to drive," Arthur says, which is true. "It's no problem." That part is less true.

Dom opens his mouth to say more, but is interrupted by Al ambling up to the table, red-faced and panting. "Hey guys."

"Hey, good to see you." Dom stands up to shake hands while Arthur and Eames stay put, echoing somewhat less enthusiastic hellos. "Everything okay? You seem a little out of breath."

"Everything's great. In fact, everything's fucking phenomenal." Al beams and then takes a dramatic breath. "Sandy and I just got back from the doctor, and you guys are the first to know after our parents: we're gonna have a baby!"

"Damn, congratulations!" Dom claps Al on the shoulder and then pulls him into an awkward half-hug across the table. "That's amazing news, holy shit."

"Congratulations." Arthur offers his hand out to shake and winces when Al drags him into an awkward bear-hug as well. "That's great."

Eames wisely stays sitting without offering his hand. "Congratulations, mate."

"How far along is she?" Dom asks, and Arthur is reminded that Dom has gone through this already—twice.

"Four months," Al says. "We wanted to wait before we said anything—we've had so many false alarms and situations that didn't—anyway, we wanted to be sure."

"I know you guys have been wanting this for a long time now," Dom says gently. "And I'm really happy for you, man. Seriously. You're gonna be a great dad."

"Yeah." Al takes a deep breath and scrubs a hand over his eyes. "Six years and finally—finally, it's all coming through for us. It's a fucking miracle, is what it is."

"It sure is," Dom says earnestly while Eames makes a gagging face that only Arthur can see. Arthur tries not to snicker in response, but he probably fails.

The rest of the night is filled with tedious talk ranging from baby names to kid stories to planned afterschool activities. Arthur battles the urge to roll his eyes nearly constantly, and tries to ignore the faces Eames keeps pulling; despite the fresh mortification that wells up every time he so much as thinks about Eames, in a conversation dominated by a topic so loathsome as childrearing, Arthur finds himself comforted by the presence of company in misery.

One thing Arthur does envy, however, is Eames' ability to escape periodically for smoke breaks. Meanwhile, Arthur is trapped after he runs out of fake phone call excuses.

And there's the fact that at some point, Eames and Dom disappear to the bathroom at roughly the same time, and when they return, Dom seems in a more jovial mood while Eames' lips are redder and more swollen than ever.

When the night draws to a merciful close, Arthur's momentary joy is stripped away by the realization that he has hours of driving ahead of him: first taking Eames back to Bellevue, and then the hour back to his home.

"Give my regards to Sandy," Dom says as they walk out to the parking lot together. "If you need any girls' baby clothes, we have a ton of stuff from Phillipa." Which Arthur will probably end up having to pick up and drop off.

Once they're on the road, Eames says, "I do believe I almost missed Al's fascinating meditations on bestiality and two girls, one cup. Clearly, the apocalypse is upon us."

Arthur snorts out a laugh in spite of himself. "Don't speak too soon. Al'll probably be back to old form next month, after the news has worn off."

"Something to look forward to," Eames replies dryly. "And you never did answer my question."

"Which question?" Arthur keeps his eyes forward and plays dumb.

"Why you continue to do this," Eames says as he pulls out a cigarette. "Why you aren't running your own show."

"Running my own show?" Arthur turns to stare at Eames. It's a full moon, and bathed in the silvery light, Eames manages to look both closed off and totally open.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," Eames says. "You're resourceful and work hard enough. You never think you could do this better than Dom?"

"I haven't really thought about it," Arthur lies. "And besides, Dom has a boss too."

"Doesn't have to answer much to him though, does he?" Eames observes shrewdly. "I've never cared much for affiliating with larger groups myself, but isn't one of the benefits of an organization the possibility of upward mobility?"

"That's not really in the cards for me," Arthur says, and his fingers tighten on the wheel. "The only reason I even got in was because Dom vouched for me. Had to go so far as to fake a DNA test proving my father was Neapolitan."

The first thing Sal had ever said to Arthur was, "So you're the Jew that Dom's been talking nonstop about." And then, "We do deals with Jews sometimes. Rabbis, mostly. You got a Rabbi, Arthur?" Arthur did not, but Sal hadn't seemed to believe him.

"He wasn't?" Eames says.

Arthur shrugs. "No fucking clue. Never knew him." He vaguely remembers a dark haired man standing over him in a kitchen, walking out the door years and years ago—but he has no idea if those are real memories or something his kid mind cobbled together from too much TV, or even if the man that walked out had been related to him at all.

"So, what, you're simply going to stay Dom's glorified personal assistant for the rest of your life?" Eames says. "Because it's a little difficult to get ahead?"

Arthur narrows his eyes. "It's not that simple."

"No?" Eames says. "Seems that simple to me. At least Dom'll be pleased."

"Fuck you," Arthur mutters. "Even if I wanted—they'd never accept me as a leader. Not really."

"And it's much safer not to try than find out for certain."

"You're running your mouth about something you know nothing about," Arthur says, warning creeping into his voice. "Drop it."

But Eames doesn't, of course. "No, no, this explains so much, really. Who needs ambition or challenges or excitement when you could have a nice little life playing poker, settling accounts, and wiping your boss' bloody arse?"

"This coming from the man being kept like a Chihuahua in a lady's purse," Arthur snaps back.

Eames' eyes widen for a second before his expression closes off. "Touché."

The car is quiet the rest of the way, until Arthur pulls into the driveway of the manor and shuts off the engine. "You know what I think?" he says as he steps out. "I don't think this is about me or my career choices at all."

"Oh?" Eames says as he steps out too, shutting the door behind him with a touch too much force. "Do enlighten me, then."

Arthur walks around to the back of the car and pops open the trunk, pulling out the lamp he'd been meaning to install in the manor and kept forgetting about. "I think this is about you feeling sorry for yourself."

"Excuse me?" Eames puts his hands on the trunk and slams it shut, narrowly missing catching Arthur's fingers in the gap. "What did you just say to me?"

"I'm saying it's more than a little sad that a grown man has to find some outside target because he can't deal with the fact that his life has changed," Arthur says.

"Fuck you," Eames says very, very quietly. "Like you have any idea—"

"You have nine fingers, working hands, and you're alive," Arthur replies, not backing down. "You still—"

"Oh sure, I can't drive, I can't pickpocket worth a damn, I can barely sign my own goddamn name without dropping the pen—"

"So what?" Arthur can hear his voice rising, but he can't stop it. "You can relearn how. You can get a new signature. You can—"

"Relearn how?" Eames takes a stunned step back. "I was a goddamned forger, Arthur—I painted Titians and Poussins that made art critics weep. I played the piano. I could shoot and kill a man at eighty meters."

Before Arthur even knows what he's doing, he reaches back, pulls his sidearm from the holster, and slams it down onto the trunk of the car. "Then learn how to shoot with your other goddamned hand, Mr. Eames."

Eames freezes, staring at the gun, and a tense moment passes before Arthur speaks again. "I know you didn't lose your finger or break your hands in some tragic accident—someone did those things to you deliberately. Whether it was to torture or threaten or—"

"They were sending me a message," Eames interrupts, voice low. "They didn't much appreciate the work I was doing, and wanted me to stop."

"They wanted to humiliate you, make you give up--and they succeeded, didn't they?" Eames' nostrils flare, and Arthur continues, "You want me to feel sorry for you and your broken hands? I don't. Whatever happened, happened, and you can either get the fuck over it or not. Your choice."

"You'd let me shoot your gun?" Eames says, and he's still staring at it. "I could kill you and steal your car. Run away with your wallet."

"You could try," Arthur replies evenly.

"You're serious about this?" Eames drags his eyes up, finally.

"When I was sixteen years old, I was stabbed in the lung and left to bleed out on a sidewalk," Arthur says, and he can feel a twinge where the scar is. "For the six months after my surgery, it hurt to breathe. For the six months after that, it still hurt to move."

"You started young."

"I wasn't in the business yet," Arthur says. "Just unlucky. Or lucky, considering I lived. I should have died, but I didn't."

"So that's what Dom did," Eames says softly. "He saved your life."

"He called 911 while the mugger ran off, and went with me to the hospital." Arthur shakes his head. "I didn't even know what was happening at that point. One minute I was on my back on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky and this blond guy, the next I was half-awake in a hospital bed, barely able to move."

"How long were you in the hospital?"

"I don't remember," Arthur says. "To me, that year is nothing but a haze of painkillers and my mother crying at my bedside. But I lived, I did my physical therapy, and I fucking got through it."

Eames is staring at Arthur, something new in his eyes. "And Dom stayed to see you through all this?"

"Dom paid all my hospital bills because my mother and I—we didn't have any insurance." Arthur looks out at the darkness of the woods around them, the trees cutting dark shadows in the moonlight with their leaves shriveled and ready to fall. "He paid for my physical therapy. He helped my mother get a better paying job so she could quit the two shit places she was working and come visit me every day."

Eames cocks his head to one side. "So this is why."

"Yeah." Arthur picks up his gun and re-holsters it, then thrusts the lamp into Eames' arms. "That's why."

"You're early," Eames says when he opens the door the next day. "Even for you."

"I brought a gun for you to practice with," Arthur says without preamble.

"You're serious about this." Eames steps back to let Arthur inside.

"You thought I was joking?"

"Nothing personal, darling," Eames says as he watches Arthur pull a Glock from his duffel bag, check the empty magazine, and put in a snap cap. "I've simply learned it's best not to put too much stock in promises made in the heat of the moment."

Arthur glances over at Eames and his expression is completely serious—wary, even, as he eyes the gun. "We'll start with dry-fire exercises. Just to get you used to having a gun in your hands again."

"Shooting an empty gun, eh?" Eames smiles faintly as Arthur gives him the Glock. "Why, Arthur, don't you trust me?"

"Do you trust me?" Arthur responds, and Eames inclines his head to one side in a way that's neither a yes nor a no.

Arthur watches as Eames holds the gun carefully in both hands, handling it with obvious experience and yet strange clumsiness—like a child fumbling with a toy gun for the first time. It occurs to Arthur that the nerve and muscle damage Eames suffered must have been—extensive.

It takes Eames a few moments before he's got the gun gripped steadily in his right hand, middle finger hovering near the trigger instead of the index; he's not wearing his prosthetic today. He's got his left palm bracing the butt of the gun to help keep it steady, and when he points at the gun at the couch there's an audible click.

"How's it feel?" Arthur asks after Eames pulls the trigger a few more times.

"Strange," Eames says, putting the gun down on the end table and massaging his right middle finger. "I hadn't bothered learning to shoot with any finger besides my index, so the muscle memory isn't there."

"So you've practiced shooting left-handed, then?"

"A bit. Not enough to achieve anything remotely resembling accuracy." Eames picks up the gun again, this time switching to dry-fire with his left hand.

When Eames lowers his gun again, Arthur says, "Are you ready for more?"

"There's more?" Eames' eyebrows go up.

"I brought a target and ten rounds," Arthur says. "We can set it up outside and you can work on your accuracy while I supervise."

"You'd trust me with a loaded firearm, then?" Eames asks, and there's nothing playful or teasing in his voice at all this time.

"I'll have my own loaded firearm on you the whole time," Arthur replies. "And I'm a very good shot."

"Of course," Eames says, but he doesn't seem offended. "Shall we, then?"

They go outside through the back door, walking past the deck and the pool to where the woods start and continue on for miles in every direction. Arthur tapes the paper target up on a tree and gives Eames a pair of earplugs and earmuffs before putting them on as well.

Arthur pulls out his gun, aiming it squarely at Eames' chest before passing him the ammunition, and then the unloaded Glock. There's a moment when Eames finishes loading that Arthur tenses and waits; it's a moment where Eames could swing around quickly and get the jump on him at such a short range, before Arthur can register the attack and react. Arthur could probably get a kill shot off immediately after, but still—getting shot in the middle of the woods miles from the rest of civilization for being an idiot is an experience he could do without.

The moment passes though, and when Eames straightens up, he turns immediately to face the tree. When he takes his first shot, the sound is shockingly loud in the quiet all around them, and a flock of birds flutter into the sky overhead. Arthur takes his eyes off Eames for a second to glance at the target; the shot barely grazed the edge of the paper.

Eames goes through five shots slowly, taking care to adjust his stance and take aim before pulling the trigger. The bullets get closer and closer to the center of the target until one goes totally wild and Eames swears, transferring the gun to his left hand. The remaining five shots scatter across the surface of the target nearly randomly.

Once the bullets are all gone, Eames lowers his gun and shakes his head.

"Not bad," Arthur says as he lowers his gun too, re-holstering it.

Eames stalks over to the target and rips it down, staring at the pattern of bullet holes. "There's no need to lie. I know it's pathetic."

"I'm not lying," Arthur says as he removes his earmuffs and earplugs, stuffing them back into his duffel bag. "Given the extent of your injuries and your recovery time, your aim and stability are better than I expected."

Eames says nothing, but passes Arthur the Glock and ear protection without protest.

As Arthur packs everything away, Eames asks, "Will you come back? To practice more?"

Arthur pauses in zipping up the bag. Truth be told, he hadn't thought that far ahead; he'd mostly been concerned with making it through the day without getting a bullet to the brain. "Maybe. Do you want to?"

"Do I—" Eames cuts off. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Okay," Arthur says. "Well, we might be able to fit in a little dry-fire before the games on Thursday, but I think it'll be too dark for target practice. I'll have to check my schedule for that."

"Right," Eames says, and looks down at the paper he's clutching.

As they head inside, Eames asks, "Why are you doing this?"

"Eames—" Arthur starts, though he doesn't know what he'd say.

"Is there something you want in return?" Eames asks, and he seems genuinely agitated now, nearly desperate for an answer. "You know I haven't anything on offer besides sexual favors, and you've already made it clear that's not what you're looking for. Unless—"

"Mr. Eames," Arthur says sharply, cutting him off. "I told you before it's not like that."

"No?" Eames stops by the pool, all covered up in dark plastic. "What is it like, then?"

Arthur takes a deep breath and then looks upward, where the sky's still blue but in the way that's filtered through a grey haze of clouds; the sun's there, somewhere, but he can't see it. "You don't have to be miserable here."

"There's a world of difference between miserable and—" Eames gestures half-heartedly with the paper, and that's when Arthur notices the tremors that run from his hands up to his arms.

"Your hands," Arthur says. "They're shaking."

"It'll stop eventually—always does." Eames moves to cross his arms and tuck them away, but before he can, Arthur takes Eames' right hand in his.

Eames goes still.

"Do they hurt?" Arthur asks as he studies the thick red scarring, the stump that the prosthetic usually covers up. He should let go—but he doesn't. "When your hands shake, I mean."

"Sometimes." Eames doesn't pull away. "Not always."

As Arthur stares down, he can feel that Eames' face is only inches from his, breath hitting his right cheek. "Now?"

"No," Eames replies, voice so low Arthur wouldn't hear at all were it not for their proximity. Then he says, "Not very pleasing to the eye, are they?"

There's something in Eames' voice, and Arthur glances up to see a twist of mouth as Eames ducks his head away. "I never even notice," Arthur says honestly.

Eames looks back at Arthur then, eyes as penetrating as ever. Arthur doesn't turn away, and wonders what he sees. "No—you wouldn't, would you?"

Arthur lets go of Eames' hand and takes a step back. "I should go."

Eames lets him walk away. "Goodbye, Arthur."

"Goodbye, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, almost to himself.

"This is nice," Balal comments. "Very minimalist bachelor pad."

Arthur smiles as he hangs both their coats by the door. "The place came furnished and all the rest of my stuff is in storage. Haven't really gotten the energy to load the stuff and move it all in yet."

"Oh, that reminds me." Balal reaches into his shopping bag and withdraws a tiny green cactus along with a six-pack of beer. "These are for you. Happy housewarming."

Arthur accepts the cactus. "Are you implying I'm such a bachelor that I can't even keep a real houseplant alive?"

"I was actually thinking that the cactus kind of reminded me of you. Prickly on the outside, but succulent and warm on the inside." Balal winces. "Okay, I didn't realize in my head how terrible that would sound out loud. I apologize and retract that statement."

Arthur snorts a laugh and pulls two beer cans out of the rings, tossing one to Balal. "Your statement retraction has been accepted. You want to check out the bedroom?"

"God, yes." Balal pops open his can and takes a swig. "Let's go have sex before I start reciting poetry or do something equally horrifying."

"Did you bring it?" Dom asks.

"Yeah, in the back," Arthur replies.

Dom's eyes widen when he gets in the car with a bottle of champagne. "Wow, that's. Creative."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "I also got him an engraved lighter if you'd prefer to give that."

"No, no, it's fine. If you think he'll like it, I trust your judgment." Dom gives one more baffled look at the backseat before turning around again. "Why not a puppy, though?"

"I don't think Eames wants to deal with training a puppy," Arthur replies as he turns down the road; they're not too far from Bellevue.

"What kind of dog is she?" Dom asks. "Not a purebred."

"Some kind of big mutt," Arthur says. "The volunteers at the shelter threw out a few possibilities for parents—Labrador, Golden Retriever, and Great Dane, among others."

"Well, she is huge," Dom says, glancing in the rearview mirror this time. "And pretty mellow, it seems like."

"She's domesticated and lived with humans before she ended up at the shelter," Arthur says. "She's been vaccinated, and I have all the dog food and other supplies she needs if Eames wants to keep her."

"And what if he doesn't?" Dom asks, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lip.

"I guess I'll... I'll take her back to my place, then," Arthur says. The thought had occurred to him, and he'd assumed he'd take her back to the shelter—they were no kill, after all—but he found himself surprisingly reluctant to, now.

"Really?" Dom seems surprised. "I thought you didn't like dogs."

"Well, she's not so bad, I guess." Arthur glances back at her. "Like you said, she's very—mellow."

"Arthur the softie." Dom grins. "Don't go anywhere near my kids with this, you hear? The last thing I need is Phillipa falling in love with Uncle Arthur's dog and wanting one of her own."

"Hopefully, Eames likes it," Arthur says as the manor comes into view.

"Yeah. Oh, and by the way, Mal's coming again this week," Dom says. "Bring Eames."

"Shit," Arthur replies. And then, "Really?"

"I know—that's what I said. But she specifically asked about 'Arthur's funny English friend' and I couldn't think of a reason to say no."

"Funny English friend," Arthur repeats. "Yeah, okay."

"Thanks." Dom leans back in his seat. "Let's hope this goes better than last time."

"I'm pretty sure anything will be better than last time," Arthur says, and Dom chuckles.

"Maybe, but this time I got plans, Arthur," Dom says as he claps Arthur on the shoulder.

"You need me to do anything?"

"Nah, I got it," Dom says, and relaxes back into his chair with a self-satisfied smile. "I talked to Abilena already and we've worked it all out."

Arthur chooses not to comment on that; he can only hope that there was no sex involved. "Her name's Dusty."

"What?"

"The dog," Arthur clarifies. "Her name is Dusty. You got her from a no kill animal shelter where one of the volunteers found her on the side of the road. She'd been hit by a car and abandoned. She has a noticeable limp in her right hind leg, but she's still mobile."

"Huh. Okay." As they pull into the driveway, Eames opens the door and steps out, bundled up in his parka. "God, that coat--too bad he couldn't have lost that. You ever consider giving back his good one?"

Arthur hums noncommittally. "I'll think about it."

Dom gets out and says, "Happy birthday, baby."

"Thank you." Eames greets Dom with a kiss. "Champagne? You shouldn't have. Thirty-three isn't one of the exciting ones."

"That's not the real present," Dom says as Arthur opens the door. "I hope you like her."

"Who—" Eames halts when Dusty climbs out of the car and lets Arthur lead her to him, friendly and inquisitive.

Dom waits expectantly as Eames stares, face blank in surprise. As the silence stretches on and Dom's smile starts to fade, Arthur says, "Her name's Dusty."

"Do you—" Dom is visibly nervous now. "Eames, what do you think?"

"Dusty," Eames whispers as he lets her nuzzle his hand. "This is—I—"

"As soon as I saw her at the shelter I thought of you," Dom says as he hooks a hand around Eames' waist and kisses his cheek. "Happy birthday."

Eames pets Dusty with an expression softer than Arthur's ever seen on him, and then kneels down to let her tentatively lick his face. When he looks up, it's not Dom he's looking at, but Arthur. "Thank you, Dom. She's perfect."

Arthur picks up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's Ariadne. Sorry to bother you at work." Her voice crackles across the line. "But I found something at Perle you might want to see."

Arthur closes out the spreadsheet he'd been working on. "I'll be right over."

When he arrives at Perle, Ariadne's waiting in the parking lot. "Hey, thanks for coming," she says. "I found something that looked a little weird and you said to call, so…"

"It's no problem," Arthur says as he glances at the door. "What is it?"

"I was scraping the gum off the undersides of the tables earlier today—" At Arthur's expression, Ariadne cracks a crooked smile. "Hey, my job's not all glamour and glitz."

Arthur chuckles. "I guess no one's is."

"So I was cleaning under the table you guys usually sit and my scraper hit something that definitely wasn't a piece of gum," she says. "I wasn't sure what it was, but it seemed like it was made out of plastic and kind of roundish? I couldn't get a good look without a flashlight, and I didn't want to go poking around if I didn't know what it was."

"Okay," Arthur says. "Don't worry, I'll check it out."

Ariadne nods, and then leads him inside. When they reach the table, she ducks underneath and points at what is indeed a small, plastic object fixed to the table; another bug, Arthur thinks, and inwardly swears. It's decidedly less sleek than the Exelon models currently residing in his apartment.

Arthur hasn't got his Polaroid camera with him, so he goes back to the car to pick up one of his disposable cell phones, and takes twenty or so photos of the thing from every angle.

After he's done, he nods at Ariadne and they walk outside again. "You did the right thing, calling me."

"What do you think it is?" Ariadne asks. "It's not a bomb, is it?"

Arthur's lips twitch. "I doubt it. In all likelihood, it's a microphone and a transmitter, meaning someone's trying to listen in on the conversations that take place at that table."

"Oh my god." Ariadne's eyes widen. "What are you going to do?"

"I'll have my tech guy look it over, confirm what it is," Arthur says. "In the meanwhile, can you get someone to swap all the tables in the club? Move them however you want, but make sure the old table ends up near the stage and give us a clean table in the back. Don't touch the bug."

"Okay," Ariadne replies. "This is—wow."

"It's going to be okay," Arthur says, and pats her reassuringly on the back. "Thanks for letting me know, seriously."

"Sure, Arthur." Ariadne smiles up at him. "No problem."

"I have some photos for you to look at," Arthur says when Yusuf lets him in.

"You're thinking another bug?" Yusuf says when Arthur hands him the cell phone. "Not the Exelons again?"

"Totally different model," Arthur replies. The place is an even bigger mess than it was before—empty boxes of takeout on the tables, computer parts strewn across the floor, and an open chess set with a half-played game on the workstation.

When Arthur nearly trips over a pile of wires, Yusuf glances up from his computer. "Sorry about that. Haven't had much time to clean."

"Been busy?" Arthur moves some of the crap out of the way with his foot.

"Yeah," Yusuf replies as he downloads the images onto his computer.

"You working with someone new?"

"Actually, it's this long term contractor I've had," Yusuf says. "Turns out the project they hired me for is going to take a lot more work than I expected."

"And that's a problem?"

"It's—it's less than ideal. Not really what I thought I was getting into when they hired me." Yusuf gives Arthur a wan smile. "But what can you do. Anyway, yeah—this thing's a Coresar 768. A bit old school, but it gets the job done, if what you're looking to do is listen in on a conversation. Where'd you say you found this?"

"Perle."

"I'm not sure if this model would be capable of picking our conversation out of all the ambient noise of the club," Yusuf says. "I haven't seen any of these babies in six or seven years."

Arthur's brow furrows. "Not the Feds then?"

"Nah." Yusuf hands the phone back to Arthur. "The US government doesn't work with this manufacturer."

"Local police then?"

"All the police in the state buy from Chemtex," Yusuf replies. "Overpriced pieces of crap in my opinion, but hey, that's the PD for you."

"So, what, it could be anyone?" Arthur's mind whizzes through the list of parties who might be interested in hearing what gets discussed at the game every week. The list is considerable. "Gangs, competitors, or any old crazy stalker?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Yusuf says. "I can do some more research into the model and see who might like these things, but I'm afraid it's a bit of an open field."

"Alright, thanks," Arthur says. "Can I get a scrambler for the club then? I've already moved the table with the bug, but you never know what else might be hiding out."

"Sure." Yusuf shuffles through a pile of seemingly random junk and emerges with a black plastic box. "Should cover all of Perle."

"Alright." Arthur slips the device into his pocket, and then heads out to call Dom.

When Arthur pulls up to the manor, Eames opens the front door immediately. He's wearing a grey and white striped shirt with enough buttons open to reveal pale chest hair, and his pants appear to be ironed, for once. Dusty comes to the door beside him, and he scratches her behind the ears idly while Arthur parks.

"I heard we'll be entertaining the Lady Cobb tonight," Eames says as he makes room for Arthur to come inside.

"You heard correctly," Arthur replies as he puts the black duffel bag on the end table and opens it up. He pulls out a small blue ball and tosses it gently at Eames. "This is for you."

Eames catches the ball, fumbling a bit, and then holds it up for examination. "A Squeeze Ball?"

"You may already have one from your physical therapy," Arthur says. "But this will help improve your grip and the squeezing motion needed to pull a trigger."

Eames smiles down at the ball for a minute, squeezing it gently in his left hand, before pocketing it. Arthur passes him the unloaded Glock with a snap cap, and watches while Eames takes aim at the couch again.

While Eames is practicing, Dusty comes over to bump against Arthur's legs, and Arthur smiles a little as he reaches down to pet her. "You're going to get dog hair all over my suit," he says as she licks his hand. "And probably slobber all over my shoes. But I still like you. Why is that?"

When Arthur looks up again, Eames is watching him, gun lowered, expression unreadable. "Something wrong?" Arthur asks.

Eames puts down the gun. "No. We should probably get going."

Arthur checks his watch. "Right."

Eames goes to get his coat while Arthur puts away his things. "Do you know what the weather's going to be like tonight?" Eames asks. "Should I anticipate freezing my tits off after the game?"

"Should drop down to the forties tonight, Fahrenheit," Arthur replies. "I don't know what Celsius equivalent for that is."

"Above freezing?" Eames reappears in his orange parka.

"Yes." Arthur says as he opens the front door. "Thirty-two is freezing. Although—why would you be cold after the game? You're not going to be outside, are you?"

"I've discovered—much to my immense delight—that the heating in this house leaves much to be desired." Eames gives Dusty a quick goodbye pat before closing the door. "There are drafts practically everywhere and the only room that gets warm with any consistency is the bathroom. I've actually started considering laying down sheets in the tub."

Arthur frowns. "Do you have anything heavier than sheets?"

"Well, it was warm enough up until a few weeks ago," Eames replies as he gets into the car. "Didn't seem necessary."

Arthur makes a mental note to stop by the mall over the weekend. "I can get you a space heater and comforter. Now that it's winter, it's only getting to get colder."

"Does it snow around here?"

"Usually, yeah. But the weather's been erratic lately, so it might only be rain for now." Arthur shrugs. "Global warming, I guess."

"Damp and chilly—brings back such lovely memories of London," Eames says as he looks out the window.

Arthur watches Eames out of the corner of his eye. "What's it like? London, I mean."

Eames turns his attention back to Arthur. "Perpetually cold and rainy. If you see the sun for more than ten minutes at a time, it's a minor miracle."

Arthur smiles a little. "Not your favorite place?"

"Tourists like it well enough, I suppose." Eames shrugs. "But I'm not a tourist."

"Fair enough." Arthur hesitates, briefly. "I haven't traveled much."

"No?" Eames says. "Why's that?"

"Never really had the time or occasion to, I guess," Arthur says. "I went to Mexico a couple years ago. But all we did was sit on the beach or by the pool in the resort. It wasn't like we really—you know."

It had been Victoria's idea—like most things in their relationship had. And she'd liked it: lying around in a bikini, drinking fruity drinks with umbrellas, fucking in their suite lazily throughout the day. Arthur had liked it because she had, but he can't remember anything that struck him as particularly non-American about the experience; everyone even spoke English.

"When's the last time you took a vacation?" Eames asks. "Scratch that—when's the last time you had a bit of fun?"

"I have fun," Arthur says automatically.

"Oh really?" Eames replies, eyebrow raised. "Tell me all about the last time you had fun."

"I--" Arthur struggles to think of a recent day that wasn't just another in the endless string of: get up, work, go home, rinse and repeat. "Sometimes I--there are some days where I enjoy work."

"Oh, now that's simply tragic, darling." Eames is sprawled across the seat, arm resting along the bottom of the window and legs parted as he regards Arthur with an expression that's half-pity and half-amusement. "Let me give you another chance to answer that question properly."

"Sex," Arthur says, thinking of Balal. "Sex is fun."

Eames laughs unexpectedly. "Well I should hope so."

Arthur looks over at Eames curiously, who is still grinning. But he doesn't seem to be laughing at Arthur.

When they arrive at Perle, Mal is standing near the stage.

"Alors nous nous retrouvons," Eames says, smiling as he tips his head at Mal.

"Bonjour, monsieur Eames," Mal says demurely. "Est-ce que vous continuez à pratiquer vos accords?"

"Tous les jours." Eames' smile widens. "Mais je profiterais peut-être des leçons particulières. Vous ne connaissez personne qui pourrait m'aider?"

Mal ducks her head and giggles. She's about to say something more when Dom returns.

"Hey, Arthur. Eames." Dom nods at them both. "Wanna grab a seat?"

As they slide into the booth, Arthur notices Eames run a palm across the surface of the table. "Everything okay?" Arthur asks, pitched low so Mal and Dom can't hear.

"All the tables have been moved," Eames says. He quirks an eyebrow at Arthur. "Your idea?"

Arthur doesn't answer, and instead looks up to greet Yusuf as he arrives. "Yusuf. Good to see you again."

"Yusuf," Dom says. "This is my wife, Mal."

"Very nice to meet you," Yusuf says as he takes a seat beside Eames. "So we have a fifth in our game tonight?"

"Yes," Mal's voice is sickly sweet. "Though my dear husband tried his hardest to convince me not to come."

"Jesus, Mal, that's not what I—" Dom stops, and starts again. "I just figured it'd be boring for you, listening to us guys talk shop and sports all night—"

"Oh, is that what you talk about?" Mal says. "Sports with the Englishman who, I'm sure, loves American football and basketball? Discussing the work that you're so secretive about out in the open, in the middle of a nightclub?"

"Are you accusing me of something here?" Dom demands. "Because if you are, you might as well come out and say it."

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Dom," Mal replies. "I am only pointing out that I am not so stupid as you seem to think I am."

As the conversation escalates, Arthur inches away from Mal, Eames busies himself with squeezing the resistance ball he pulls from his pocket, and Yusuf simply stares with a slack, dumbstruck expression on his face.

“I think I need a smoke," Eames says when Dom and Mal's voices start getting progressively louder. "Yusuf, care to join me?"

"Absolutely," Yusuf replies without hesitation.

Arthur watches longingly as they both bolt from the booth, and tries to focus his attention anywhere besides Dom and Mal. The argument seems to have come to a momentary cease-fire, but the tension's so palpable that it's almost worse.

"So, Arthur," Mal says, abruptly turning the full force of her attention onto him. "How are you?"

Arthur clears his throat. "Good. And you?"

"Wonderful," she says, and it's like the snap of a whip. "Dom tells me that you're not bringing a date to the Christmas party."

Arthur's gaze flickers over to where Dom is slumped over, sulking. "Well, I haven't really—had the chance to date much."

Mal tuts disapprovingly. "A man your age should be thinking about settling down, getting married. It's not good to be alone for so long."

"I guess I haven't met the right person yet," Arthur says, but it sounds weak to his own ears.

"Oh, Arthur, really." Mal's hand comes up to cup his cheek, expression fond and exasperated at the same time. "You're a gorgeous accountant whose dimples could make a woman's heart flutter and man's cock swell in less than ten seconds."

"Mal!" Dom chokes.

"Well, it's true," Mal tosses over her shoulder. "If you tell me no one good enough wants you, I'll believe you. But if you tell me no one wants you at all—then I'll say you're more full of shit than James' diaper."

Arthur coughs a bit when Mal lets his face go. "There are people that I'm seeing. But they're not serious enough for me to introduce around, you know what I mean?"

Mal narrows her eyes a bit. "But if there was someone special—"

"You'd be the first to know." Arthur gives her his most placating smile. "Scout's honor."

Mal seems willing to accept that as she settles back, and her attention flickers to where Abilena's just taken the stage. "This singer again, hm?"

"She's very good," Dom says after an awkward pause.

"Is she?" Mal turns back to Arthur. "Have you thought about dating her?"

"She's not really—my type," Arthur says.

"No?" Mal says as Eames and Yusuf return to the table, reluctantly. "Dom told me you are a fan of her music. But not of her?"

Arthur doesn't know which would be be worse to say: that she has two children and he doesn't want to be a stepdad, or that he doesn't want to sleep with her and then see her every Thursday for the next year. Instead he says, "I think she might have a boyfriend."

"But you do not know for certain?"

"Come on, Mal, ease up on the guy," Dom intervenes. "If he doesn't want to date her, he doesn't. No need to give him the third degree about it."

Ariadne chooses that second to stop by the table, smiling apologetically. "Sorry I'm a little late, guys. Car trouble."

"Better late than never," Eames says. "I'll have a whiskey straight."

The rest of the table orders except for Mal, who seems preoccupied with the stage. When Dom asks her what she wants, she replies, "Oh, a glass of wine I suppose. Merlot."

After Ariadne goes to fetch their drinks, Dom chuckles a little nervously. "Honey, you seem awfully distracted by the music. Everything okay? If you don't like it, we could always ask her to sing something different."

"No, no, it's fine," Mal says. "I was merely thinking—what is she singing about? Everything she sings is in Spanish."

"Ah, well." Dom puts an arm around Mal's shoulder. "Arthur's Spanish is pretty good. Do you think you can translate a song for us?"

Arthur blinks and then straightens, trying to focus on what Abilena's crooning into the microphone. "En la plaza de toros todos están fascinados, porque han venido a ver la matadora, y saben que va ser la campeona. Mira la matadora, aquí esta la campeona."

"All the spectators in the bullfighting arena have come to see her," Arthur translates. "The female Matador—they've all come because they know she will be the champion."

"Y con su baile de capa, cautelosa enfurece al toro."

"And with her cape dance, she enrages the bull." Arthur pauses, and then glances around the table. All of Dom's attention is focused on Mal, who stares up at the stage, barely listening to Arthur. Yusuf's nodding at Ariadne, who has returned with their drinks, while Eames—

"Go on, Arthur," Eames says, and his voice is low.

"En el camerino esperan turno los otros toreros, y el odio se siente en el aire porque conocen bien la matadora, y saben que va ser la campeona. Y con su baile de capa, cautelosa entierra la espada. Matadora ha tumbado al toro."

"Backstage, the other bullfighters are waiting, and there's hatred in the air. They know she'll be the champion." Arthur tears his gaze away from Eames, but the heat of his gaze is almost physical. "With her dance, she thrusts her sword and knocks down the bull."

Abilena slips into a refrain and the rhythm of the music drives forward. Dom looks up at the stage while Mal turns her head to stare at the side of his face, expression shifting into something almost sad.

At the other end of the table, Yusuf sips his drink and checks his cell phone while beside him, Eames watches Arthur with an unwavering intensity.

"Does she escape the ring with her life, this Matadora?" Eames asks, too quietly for anyone else to hear underneath the music.

"Aquí está la campeona," Abilena sings. "Mira la matadora, aquí está la campeona."

"I don't know," Arthur says as he meets Eames' gaze head on. "But they say she's the champion."

"And we all know what unlucky fate befalls the bull," Eames murmurs. "But there are worse ways to die, I suppose, than being seduced and speared by a beautiful woman."

"No one ever said she was beautiful," Arthur replies as the song comes to an end.

When the last notes of the song fade away, Arthur looks back at Mal, whose smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you, Arthur," she says.

"I didn't even know they had female bullfighters," Dom says as he makes some sort of signal to Ariadne across the room.

"I'd imagine they're rather rare," Eames says, voice normal and pitched to carry again.

"Probably," Mal says quietly, wearily. "But now, I suppose, all of you will be wanting to get to your game, yes?"

"Actually, Mal, I have a question for you." Dom puts a hand over hers. "Do you remember how we first met?"

"Yes." At Dom's expectant gaze, Mal continues slowly. "We were in the bookstore. I was looking for a dictionary to help me improve my English since I had just moved here."

"I saw you across the room and knew instantly that if I let you walk about of that bookstore without at least introducing myself, I'd be making the biggest mistake of my life," Dom says. "I got up the courage to walk up to you, but could not think of a damn thing to say."

"So you asked me about the dictionaries." There's the hint of a smile now. "You held up two dictionaries and asked me which one was better."

"Not realizing, of course, that I was holding up two copies of the same dictionary." Dom chuckles. "I don't know why you even kept talking to me after that."

"Because you were not so smooth." Mal cocks her head to one side. "When I first saw you across the room, I thought, that man--he is too handsome. I can't trust a man that handsome not to play with my heart. But then you asked for my opinion on the same book, and you stumbled when you were walking towards me and I thought, perhaps he does not know how handsome he really is."

Dom laughs as he leans in closer to press a kiss to her cheek. "Do you remember what song was playing when we met?"

The music in the club tapers off, the fast salsa song that the band had been playing fading away. Onstage, Abilena walks back to the microphone and begins to sing something smooth and slow. "Non, rien de rien..."

"Dom," Mal whispers. "You didn't."

"It's our song," Dom says as he slides out of the booth and extends a hand. "Mal, will you do me the honor of having this dance with me?"

"Dom," Mal says, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the dance floor. "I can't believe you remembered."

"Non, je ne regrette rien, ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal," Abilena sings. "Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien. C'est payé, balayé, oublié, je me fous du passé."

"He's quite the ladykiller, isn't he?" Eames comments as Mal sways forward to rest her head against Dom's chest.

"Don't let him fool you," Arthur replies. "Dom's a romantic. He loves this shit more than they do."

"I suppose he does," Eames says. "I wonder what sort of inanity Dom's going to deliver to make this evening up to me. More roses? Jewelry? A candlelit dinner?"

Arthur laughs in spite of himself and then takes a sip of his iced tea. "Might be all of the above."

The song comes to an end eventually, bringing Dom and Mal back to the table in a much better and more peaceable mood than before.

They play a game of poker with no stakes--not even the jar of change that they usually play with—and Mal laughs once or twice. Eames and Yusuf take a few more long cigarette breaks, and Arthur contemplates joining them towards the end of the night. But then the visual of Eames with his lips wrapped around the long cylinder of the cigarette springs to mind, and Arthur thinks better of it.

When the night finally draws to a close, Mal kisses everyone goodbye a bit sloppily, and leans heavily against Dom as he leads her out of the club.

"See you next month," Yusuf says to Eames, who replies,

"Cheers, mate."

On the ride back, Eames sags back into his seat, left hand massaging his right. When he takes out his pack of cigarettes, Arthur says,

"Must be convenient. Having an excuse to get away whenever you want."

"You have no idea," Eames replies as he lights a cigarette and rolls down the window. "The marital discord at the table was more than a little suffocating."

"You stayed out there a long time with Yusuf," Arthur says. "Don't tell me you guys need twenty minutes to smoke a single cigarette."

"What if I told you we have a series of quickies?" Arthur doesn't crack a smile. "Honestly? We play chess mostly. He has an app on his phone."

"Chess?" Arthur checks to make sure Eames is being serious; he is. "Really?"

"Passes the time." Eames shrugs. "He's not a bad bloke, Yusuf. Turns out we've been to a few of the same places in Kenya. Small world and all that."

"Hm," Arthur says. "Well, I shouldn't need to tell you this but—as long as you're with Dom, he doesn't want you to fuck around with anyone else. Especially not people at the table."

"Oh?" Eames responds, and there's something off in his tone. "Is that right?"

Arthur watches the red light turn green. "I wouldn't—obviously, I wouldn't say anything, but—"

"All that matters to you is what's in my best interests. Or wait—make that Dom's best interests," Eames says. "How difficult it must be when they aren't the same. Oh, and where do your interests fit into the picture, exactly?"

"They don't." Arthur's grip tightens on the steering wheel. "I have no horse in the race. I'm just saying—"

"I know exactly what you're saying," Eames interrupts, and there's an edge to it.

Then that makes one of us, Arthur thinks. He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

The next thirty minutes are spent in silence, the last dregs of companionable good mood dissipating with every mile. It isn't until the manor's in sight that Arthur says, "I can come by this weekend with the space heater and a comforter. Is there anything else you need?"

"You needn't make the extra trip," Eames says, words clipped. "Just bring it on Thursday."

"I can also bring the equipment for target practice," Arthur says. "If you want."

Eames doesn't say anything for a long time, and Arthur finally looks over. "Is this how we're going to play it then?" Eames asks, and he sounds tired. "You'll dangle treats in the air for my good behavior too?"

"That's not—" Arthur stops. "I'm not trying to punish you."

They pull up in the manor driveway, and when Eames goes to open the door, Arthur says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that about Yusuf."

"You can say whatever you want to, Arthur." Eames exhales heavily. "But I can't play the game if you keep changing the rules on me."

"There is no game," Arthur says. "You can be friends with whoever you want. It's not my business."

"Of course it's your business." Eames climbs out of the car. "I'm your business."

"Dad! I'm home!"

Balal jerks away from Arthur. "Oh shit."

"What's--" Arthur blinks, disoriented, and wipes some of the spit from his mouth. "Is that--"

"Kat. Shit. She was supposed to be staying late at a friend's place tonight." Balal scrambles off the bed and fishes his pants off the floor. "We need to--she can't find you here, like this."

"Uh." Arthur sits up, still a little hazy from the oxygen-deprivingly good makeout and groping session they'd been engaged in not thirty seconds ago. "Yeah, okay. Let me--"

"Here." Balal tosses Arthur's pants onto the bed along with his suit jacket. "This is--god, I can't believe this is happening. This was a terrible idea, I never should have suggested this, I--"

"Balal, it's gonna be okay," Arthur says, getting off the bed and gingerly stuffing his semi-erect dick into his pants. "It's not a big deal. I'm sure she's old enough to--"

"What? No, Lance, she's thirteen." Balal's standing at the mirror now, smoothing his hair back frantically. "Her mother--oh god, if Nina finds out about this--"

"You've been divorced for two years," Arthur says. "She can't reasonably expect you to never see anyone else ever again."

"A girlfriend is one thing, but a strange guy in my bedroom in the middle of the day while my daughter--" Balal presses a fist to his closed eyes. "I could lose custody of Kat over this."

"Hey, no, hey," Arthur says, and puts a hand on Balal's waist. "That's not gonna happen, okay? We'll--I'll play this however you want to play this. Whatever you want to do."

"Okay, maybe you can..." Balal casts around the bedroom. "Get in the closet. Then you can climb out the window while I go downstairs and distract Kat."

"Are you serious?" Arthur stares at Balal, who stares back, and then says, "Okay, I'm definitely not doing that. First of all, the neighbors could call the cops and then we're both screwed. Second of all, I'm not a teenager in some bad eighties movie."

"Okay, no, you're right." Balal inhales deeply. "You're a TV repair guy. Or--"

"A traveling salesman," Arthur supplies. "I'm up here using the bathroom. You go down first, talk to your daughter, and then I'll come down and you'll tell me no, you're not interested in purchasing any insurance today."

"Yes, alright, yes." Balal takes a few more deep breaths while Arthur rubs his back soothingly. "I'm going to go do that now."

Arthur waits for about five minutes in the room after Balal is gone, checking his appearance in the mirror idly and glancing around. It's a nice house--small, but warm and lived in. He can hear the low murmur of conversation downstairs as well as the sounds of a kid clattering around, doing whatever it is kids do when they get home from school.

Once a sufficient amount of time has passed, Arthur checks his fly in the mirror one more time and then heads downstairs. Balal's sitting on a stool in the kitchen and his leg is bouncing up and down, but otherwise he's acting normally. There's a young girl with frizzy hair that Arthur recognizes from Balal's photos drinking a glass of orange juice. She blinks up at Arthur owlishly behind her round glasses, and doesn't say a word.

"Everything okay?" Balal asks.

"Great, thanks. You have a very beautiful home," Arthur says. "Are you sure you wouldn't be interested in taking out any sort of fire, blizzard, or hurricane policies to ensure your peace of mind? We live in a dangerous and unpredictable world--anything could happen."

"No, I think we're okay for now." Balal gives Arthur a tight smile.

"Okay, well, you have my information if you ever change your mind," Arthur says.

"Let me show you out." Balal gets up and escorts Arthur to the door. Out loud, he says, "Good bye, traveling salesman."

"Goodbye, Mr. Chatterjee," Arthur says, trying not to laugh as he turns to go.

Before he does, though, Balal catches his arm briefly and mouths, "Thank you."

"I got you an umbrella," Arthur says as he puts the umbrella on the end table and the space heater on the floor. "This is the space heater, and the comforter's in the trunk."

"You must stop spoiling me so." Eames' tone is flat, but he traces the smiley face pattern of the umbrella with his left index finger, nevertheless.

When Arthur comes back inside with the comforter and duffel bag, Eames is kneeling on the floor, scratching Dusty behind the ears. "Let's do the dry-fire exercises outside as well," Eames says. "I don't want to scare her."

Eames dry-fires for about fifteen minutes, and his grip is noticeably surer and steadier than it was before. After he hangs the target, Arthur steps back and takes out his gun, but points it at the ground near Eames rather than directly at him.

Another ten bullets, and this time all the bullets make it onto the paper.

"You're improving," Arthur says as he puts the equipment away and Eames goes to pull the target off the tree. "How are the tremors?"

"Still a problem. But I've been doing more forearm and shoulder exercises to compensate," Eames says as he scans the bullet hole spray.

"Good," Arthur says stiffly. "That's—good."

Eames glances up with a hint of a smile. "Still think I'm a just pathetic wanker drowning in self-pity?"

"Well maybe not just," Arthur says, and the corner of his mouth tugs up.

Eames huffs a laugh as the folds the paper over. "I suppose that's a start."

Arthur watches Eames' hands, which don't shake today. "The guy who did this to you—"

"What of it?" Eames' tone is light, forcedly casual.

"Well, where is he?" Arthur asks. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"What am I going to—" Eames gives Arthur a disbelieving look. "This is a man who had me lured to the United States, kidnapped, and tortured for three days. Do you know the absurd amount of money and artifice he employed to do all this?"

"So you know who's responsible."

"Of course I know. He's some higher-up in a South American drug cartel. Has several impenetrable fortress homes in Peru, Colombia, and Uruguay, and summers in Europe."

"You pissed off someone in a drug cartel?" Arthur squints at Eames. "How?"

"Does it matter?" Eames brushes past Arthur as he starts towards the manor. "He exacted his revenge quite neatly."

"You're going to let him get away with it?"

Eames halts, and turns back. "Get away with it? He already has. Have you seen my tremors?"

"Then what the hell is the point of all this?" Arthur demands. "What the hell am I even doing here?"

"I have no bloody idea. You're the one that keeps showing up!"

"This guy drags you to a foreign country, ruins your life and you're just going to let it ride?" Arthur says. "You're going to let him humiliate you like this?"

"First, I don't believe I let him do anything," Eames says. "Second, what do you propose? I hunt him down and break his hands as payback?"

"So he can live another day and hunt you down again?" Arthur shakes his head. "No."

"You think I should kill him," Eames says, and there's a note of awe in his voice. "You crazy fucking bastard—you think I should try to kill a drug kingpin?"

"Anyone can be killed, Mr. Eames," Arthur says as he walks inside the manor. "And everyone's got a weakness. All you have to do is find it."

"Have we got all the boxes?"

"Yeah, Mom." Arthur touches Lydia's wrist before she can start counting again. "We counted them three times already. Twenty-two boxes."

"Oh." Lydia frowns as if she doesn't quite believe him, and then nods. "Alright. It's just that after all the time we've spent packing, I don't want to have left anything behind."

"We haven't," Arthur promises. "And if there's anything you need, you can always talk to Omar, or call me and I'll bring it to you."

"But I don't want to bother you, Arthur," Lydia says.

"Mom, it's no bother. Really."

Lydia smiles, and then walks over to the window. "Isn't this a lovely view? I can see the pond from here."

"They said it was the best room in the center." Arthur inspects the walls critically. "I thought it'd be bigger, though. How will you—"

"It's fine," Lydia says, and this time it's her tone that's soothing. "It's a wonderful room in a wonderful facility."

"Are you sure? Because I could—"

"Arthur," Lydia says, affectionately, and he stops.

"Well, once you get settled in, we can take a tour of the place together and get you introduced to some of the residents and staff—" Arthur scrubs a hand over his face.

"That sounds great," Lydia says. "Maybe I'll finally make some friends my own age."

"Mom—"

"Oh, honey, don't look like that," Lydia says at Arthur's expression. "I'm going to be fine. I'm going to love it here."

"I just wish we didn't have to do this," Arthur says gruffly, and Lydia cocks her head to one side.

"I know, honey, I know." Lydia puts her hands on Arthur's cheeks. "But things are going to be better now—you'll see."

“Arthur,” a woman says next to Arthur in the canned food aisle, and it takes him a moment to put a name to her face.

“Dahlia,” he says, putting down a can of tomato soup. “How are you?”

“Hanging in there.” She’s got her hair pulled back in a messy bun, face drawn and worn. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it’s been—" Arthur thinks back to the last time he’d seen Dahlia—at some holiday party Nash had thrown at his apartment. Mal hadn’t wanted to go, so Arthur had been sent in the Cobbs’ stead to make nice. Dahlia had seemed happier, then. “Almost a year now. How's Josefina?” Arthur nods at the solemn four-year-old sitting in the grocery cart quietly.

“She’s doing as good as can be expected, I guess.” Dahlia strokes back Josefina’s flyaway hair. “We’re doing what we can.”

“Well,” Arthur says, and turns to go. “It's good to see you.”

“Arthur,” Dahlia says, before he makes it out of the aisle. “Can I ask you something?”

Arthur turns back to Dahlia reluctantly, already dreading where this might go. “Yes?”

“It’s about Richard—"

Richard. It takes Arthur a moment to place the name: Richard Nash. “I can’t talk about that,” Arthur says.

“I know that you and Richard can’t talk about work and I’m not asking for details.” She picks at the label on a can of black beans. “Richard told me there’d be times when he’d have to leave without telling me where or for how long but—but it’s been over three months and he hasn’t called and that’s not. That’s not like him.”

Arthur stares at Josefina, and he remembers how Nash had carried her throughout most of the Christmas party on his shoulders, the way she’d giggled and smiled every time he tried to hold a conversation while pretending she wasn’t sitting on top of him, playing with his hair. “I—"

“It’s been three months, Arthur.” Dahlia swallows, and when she lifts her eyes to look at him, they’re pleading. “A few months ago, we were talking about moving down to Florida, be closer to my mother now that she’s getting older. We even bought this condo together and I really thought—"

“Dahlia,” Arthur says, throat so dry it hurts to speak. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

“Please, I—" Her lip trembles. “It’s been over three months and I need to know—I need to know what I should, if I—"

“I—" Arthur wants to turn away. “I don’t know where Nash might have gone. But if it’s been three months and you haven’t heard anything from him, then maybe--for your daughter’s sake--it’s best if you moved forward with your life.”

Dahlia presses a hand to her mouth. “I see.”

“Do you—" Arthur searches for something to do, something to say. “Do you need money, or—"

“No.” Dahlia takes a step back. “No.”

“I know someone who can help you move,” Arthur says. “I could make a call—"

“Please don’t,” Dahlia whispers, and there are tears in her eyes as she picks up Josefina. “Please just—don’t.”

Arthur watches her leave the store. He stands there, in the canned food aisle, for a long time after that—long enough for one of the bag boys to come over and ask, “Um, mister? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies. “I was debating the merits of black beans versus refried beans in the burritos I’m making tonight. Makes all the difference in the flavor.”

“Um,” the teenager says. “Yeah. Whenever you’re ready to pay, the checkout line’s over there.”

“You’re quiet tonight,” Eames says after he gets tired of fiddling with the radio.

“I’m always quiet,” Arthur says automatically. He can feel Eames watching him too closely, but Eames says nothing else and resumes jumping from station to station on the radio.

“Everything okay?” Dom asks after the third time Arthur’s misdealt the cards.

“I’ve got a splitting headache,” Arthur says. “Maybe you should deal tonight.”

“Long night?” Eames says on the drive back. “And don’t give me that headache rubbish either.”

“Long day,” Arthur finally concedes, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. He'd been looking forward to the short drive back to his quiet apartment in Weston, pouring himself a drink, and maybe getting to sleep before four AM on a poker night. But all those plans had been shot to hell when Dom got a call from Mal about some emergency with the baby, causing him to kiss Eames apologetically, clap Arthur on the shoulder, and sprint home.

So here Arthur is now, stuck driving Eames all the way back to Bellevue, fielding his questions and pointed comments--and really, Arthur's too tired for this bullshit.

"Arthur—" Eames starts, and Arthur cuts him off.

"I'm not really in the mood tonight, Eames. So whatever you want to ask or talk about—save it for next week, alright?"

There's a pause as the words sink in, and then Eames says, quietly, "All I was going to say is that you look exhausted."

"Yeah, well." It should be surly, but Arthur hears the exhaustion, now, too. "I am."

Eames doesn't say anything for the rest of the drive, but when they pull up to the manor, he says, "Come inside. You look like you could use a drink."

Arthur's brow furrows at the invitation; this is new. This isn't part of their script. "I should get back."

"One drink," Eames says. "Besides, I want to show you something."

Arthur wonders whether this is yet another thinly veiled come on—but when he glances over, Eames isn't leering or doing anything flirtatious at all. The car is stuffy and dry from the heat Eames had put on, full-blast, and a drink before Arthur has to go all the way back to Weston does sound appealing. "One drink."

When they step inside the foyer, Arthur glances around the empty room, and beyond that, into the bare living room as well. "Where's all the furniture?"

"Moved it," Eames answers as he emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. "Let me show you."

Eames leads the way to a room set off in the back of the building, a rectangular space dominated by a large, wood-burning fireplace. The couch, end table, and coffee table have all migrated in front of the fireplace, along with the lamp that Arthur brought over a few weeks ago.

"Have a seat," Eames says as he puts down the Chianti and glasses and goes to light the fireplace. "I discovered this the other day, hidden behind an astoundingly moldy bookcase. The damn thing practically fell to pieces when I went to move it."

Dusty comes up to the side of the couch to sniff at Arthur's knees, tail wagging happily when he goes to pet her. She licks his hand and then settles on the floor, a few feet from where Eames gets a small fire going.

Arthur settles down on one end of the couch and accepts the glass that Eames offers him. "Thanks." He watches Eames warily, still not sure what sort of game this might be.

"It's not poisoned," Eames says as he sits down beside Arthur and takes a sip of his own drink. Almost as an afterthought, Eames leans forward to press his mouth against the rim of Arthur's glass, reaching out to tip the base so a trickle of liquid slips through Eames' parted lips. "See?"

Arthur stares at Eames' wine-reddened mouth and then moves to stand. "This isn't a good i—"

Eames' hand on Arthur's thigh, steady and firm, stops Arthur. "It's only a drink, Arthur. Nothing more."

When Eames' fingers slip away, Arthur tries not to think about the lingering heat. "As long as it stays that way," Arthur says.

Arthur sits back down again, but doesn't allow himself to relax back into the cushions. He takes a long gulp of his wine and watches the fire in the hearth, acutely aware of Eames watching him in turn.

"Do you like the wine?" Eames asks, voice pleasant but otherwise devoid of expression.

"Yeah, it's—" Arthur savors the oaky taste of it against his tongue, the slight tartness. "It's good."

"Good," Eames says as he pours more into Arthur's glass.

Arthur accepts it, but thinks: after this, no more. "You don't have to stay up with me. I can show myself out."

"I assure you that I'm used to being up far later than this," Eames replies, with a hint of amusement. "Stay as long as you like—I know you've got quite the drive back."

"Not that long. Anymore." At Eames' quizzical expression, Arthur clarifies, "I got an apartment about a half hour from here."

"A pied-a-terre?" Eames says. "Very convenient. Congratulations."

"Thanks," Arthur says, and sits back, letting his heavy eyelids sink closed.

"So what happened?" Eames asks, some indeterminate amount of time later. Arthur may have dozed off; he's not sure.

Arthur rouses himself and glances over at Eames, who is watching him patiently. "What?"

"You mentioned you had a long day," Eames reminds, gently. "What happened?"

Arthur stares down at his wineglass, and then takes another sip. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," Eames says, seeming willing to let it go as he reaches over to refill Arthur's glass.

"What is this?"

"2001 Chianti Classico Valiano," Eames replies.

"No, I mean—" Arthur waves a hand at the bottle and then at Eames. "This? Asking me about my day. The fire."

"If you'd prefer we drink in silence and cold, I suppose that could be arranged." Eames raises an eyebrow. "I'm merely making conversation."

"You've never shown any interest in my days before."

"Ever the suspicious one." The corner of Eames' mouth turns up. "But you should know that I've always found you quite fascinating."

Arthur's not sure whether he's being made fun of or not; he suspects he shouldn't care what Eames thinks of him at all, but he can't quite muster the indifference. "I bet."

"Arthur," Eames says, and his voice is soft, soothing. "What happened today?"

Arthur brings his glass up and empties it before speaking. "I killed a man, a while back. Or—I would have, if someone hadn't gotten there first." Eames waits patiently for the second half of the story, refilling Arthur's drink until he's ready to continue. "I ran into his wife and step-daughter at the grocery store today."

"It must have been strange," Eames says, and it's not mocking.

"It was. It was like—" Arthur halts, then shakes his head. "I don't know what it was like."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing." Arthur rolls the bowl of the glass in his palm. "She asked me about him. If I knew anything."

"The kind of work we do," Eames says, and Arthur realizes then how close Eames is right now, how warm his body is, "it's dangerous and liable to blow up in our faces at any moment. That's why it's best not to get attached—or let others get attached to us."

"Yeah," Arthur says, watching Eames pour the last of the bottle into Arthur's glass. "I mean it's—irresponsible to have a family you could leave behind."

"Especially a child," Eames murmurs, shifting to sling one arm over the back of the couch. "That's a special kind of hardship—a single mother and a child against a dangerous world."

Arthur thinks of his mother, the long years where all they'd had was each other. He takes another drink from his glass, and it's nearly empty. "Yeah."

"Arthur," Eames says, putting his wineglass on the coffee table; it's more than half-full. "Would you like me to open another bottle?"

"No." Arthur shakes his head and leans forward to put his empty glass on the table. He feels warm from the fire, and drowsy. "I've had enough."

"Are you sure?" Eames asks, and there's something in his voice, something that makes Arthur look up from the couch cushions, at his devastatingly handsome face. It's a mistake, of course, but Arthur allows himself a single, sharp moment of pure desire; he lets himself wonder what the taste and feel of Eames' rosy lips would be, the way he'd smell covered in sweat and exertion, the way he'd groan Arthur's name with that indelible accent. He's so close that Arthur could reach out and take it—take it all, and more.

Arthur takes a deep, steadying breath, and prepares to move away from this dangerous proximity. "I should go outside, sober up. I don't think I can drive like this."

"Perhaps you needn't drive at all." Eames' hand curves around the back of Arthur's neck, eyes hooded as he leans in.

"Eames." Arthur snaps back before their lips make contact. "Eames," he repeats, jerking out of Eames' hold. "What the hell are you doing?"

Eames pours himself against the back of the couch, the motion graceful and sultry, eyes still hooded and dark. "This could be whatever you'd like it to be."

"You're serious." Arthur stands up—too quickly, it seems—and the world spins around him, slightly.

"Deathly." Eames stretches indolently, shirt sliding up at the waist to reveal tanned skin over pure muscle.

"This must be some kind of joke," Arthur says, trying to get his mind to clear and focus over the haze of arousal building. "You couldn't have thought this would actually work."

Eames sits up. All of the seductive sexuality drops away. "This isn't a joke. Or a game."

"No? Because it sure seems like one to me." Arthur pushes the hair back from his face from where it's come loose. "Let me guess: you think about me all the time—especially when you're alone, in the shower, or in bed."

Eames' lips thin to something less pleasant, though somehow that still fails to make Arthur's cock less interested. "You don't believe me? You may be all wrapped up in your three-piece suits, darling, but I've seen how your body moves and you really must give yourself more credit."

"I have no doubt you would like to fuck me," Arthur says, never more thankful than now for the length of his jacket, falling loosely down past his crotch. "But who else are you trying to fuck here? Dom? Trying to play us off each other?"

"You paranoid son-of-a—" Eames stands. "This has nothing to do with Dom."

"That's why you don't get it." Arthur's jaw tightens. "Dom is my best friend. And you're the guy he thinks he's in love with."

"The way he thinks he's in love with his wife?" Eames sneers. "Or is that only when he hasn't got my dick up his arse?"

"Don't bring Mal into this," Arthur says sharply.

Eames takes a step towards Arthur. "You can't tell me you don't want this, too."

"Want what?" Arthur steps back. "To be played, to be used like a patsy the way you use Dom?"

"I'm not—"

"Cut the crap," Arthur snarls. "You get a house to yourself, all your groceries, TV, and physical therapy paid for, and even a goddamn dog to keep you company now—"

"Yes, it's all a wonderful dream, isn't it?" Eames interrupts, expression hardening. "How ungrateful of me to fail to notice that."

"You just want to use me to get out," Arthur says. "Once I'm done paying for your new home, your grand fucking escape, you'll get bored with me too--and move on."

"Fuck you," Eames says. "If you want to stay loyal to some prick who treats you worse than garbage because he happened to do you the courtesy of not letting you die like a rat in the street—fine. But if you think Dominic Cobb is ever going to really see you for the brilliant, infuriating, and gorgeous creature you really are, you're sadly mistaken. Because there's only one thing Dom cares about—and that's himself."

Arthur watches, stunned, as Eames whirls around and storms out. Dusty raises her head with concerned whine and then trots off after him, leaving Arthur alone, sweaty and out of breath.

"Motherfucker," Arthur mutters. He leaves the room--no sign of Eames anywhere in the lower level of the house--and heads outside. The cold air is like a sobering slap to the face, and he takes a few deep inhales once he gets behind the wheel.

Everything's fine up until Arthur gets onto the highway—which is dark and empty, save for the cop car that flashes its lights at Arthur until he pulls over.

"Shit, shit," Arthur mutters as he digs into his pocket for his wallet, fishing out his license and Patrolmen's Benevolent Association card. He un-holsters his sidearm and buckles it into the holster under his seat, then reaches over to get his vehicle registration from the glove box. As the cop—some young kid, fresh out of the Academy most likely—walks over, Arthur hurriedly pops a piece of gum in his mouth and smooths his hair back.

The police officer knocks on the window and shines a flashlight in. When Arthur rolls down the window, the cop asks, "Sir, do you know why I pulled you over today?"

Arthur schools his expression into something blank, hoping the intense irritation doesn't bleed through. "No."

"You were swerving pretty wildly on the road back there," the cop says. "Were you aware of that?"

"No," Arthur says again, gritting his teeth.

"Have you been drinking tonight, sir?"

"Does it look like I've been drinking?" Arthur snaps before he can stop himself, and the cop's eyebrows shoot up.

"I'm going to need to see your license and registration."

Arthur hands over his license and registration with the PBA card on top and says, "Why don't we just call it a night, okay?"

The cop stops looking at the cards. "Excuse me?"

"We both know how this goes: you give me a friendly warning, I drive off, and you go back to fighting traffic crime and eating donuts on my tax dollars," Arthur says. "Everyone wins."

The cop takes a step back and keeps the flashlight focused on Arthur's hands within the vehicle. "I'm going to need you to step out of the car."

"What?" Arthur stares uncomprehendingly at the cop's dull, moon-round face.

"Sir, please step out of the car."

Arthur stares at him for another beat before clicking off his seatbelt and getting out. "This is fucking bullshit. Are you going to grope me and call it a frisk?"

The cop shines the light directly into Arthur's eyes, causing his to flinch and blink away. "Sir, you're clearly too intoxicated to be driving a motor vehicle. You're going to need to come down to the station with me."

"I told you I wasn't—"

"I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here, Mr. Damrosch," the cop interrupts. "Now, are you going to come peacefully or not?"

Arthur sizes him up—he's tense, he's young, and Arthur could take him down with little issue—but on the other hand, he's already seen Arthur's real name and Arthur doesn't need the drama that beating the shit out of a rookie cop would bring to his life. "Fine."

When the cop goes to grab handcuffs from his waist, Arthur shoots him a warning look. "Don't touch me."

The cop backs off at that, and lets Arthur get into the back of the squad car without any further intervention. They drive fifteen minutes to the station, where a sleepy police officer behind the front desk straightens up at their arrival.

They confiscate all of Arthur's things and throw him in a dingy jail cell after he's done making his phone call. There's a man that smells like day old urine sleeping on one of the benches, and Arthur sits down on the bench furthest from him. He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, the effects of the Chianti finally seeming to fade.

Nearly an hour later, Arthur opens his eyes to the clank of the jail door opening, a heavyset, middle-aged man in uniform standing behind the bars. "Arthur Damrosch? You're free to go," he says, and leads Arthur out of the station. In the parking lot, he motions for Arthur to get into the passenger side seat of his squad car.

"Thanks, Reggie," Arthur says, once they're safely away from the station and back on the road. His head is pounding.

"No problem. I was already on duty," Reggie says. "Uncle Tommy, though—he was pretty pissed about being woken up at three in the morning."

Arthur exhales deeply. "Yeah, fuck. Sorry."

"I gotta say—I'm a little surprised," Reggie says. "When I got the call, I figured it was Dom that'd ended up in the drunk tank, not you."

"It's been kind of a shitty twenty-four hours," Arthur replies, rubbing his temples. "And speaking of Dom, do you think you could—you know."

"Nah, this'll stay between you, me, and Uncle Tommy," Reggie says. "No worries."

"Thanks," Arthur says. "Are you gonna drive me back to my car?"

Reggie gives Arthur a look. "I'm bringing you back to a place where you can sleep this off. You can pick up your car tomorrow."

Arthur sighs, but knows better than to fight it. "I have a place over in Weston."

When Reggie stops in front of the apartment complex, he says, "I'm gonna see you at the Christmas party, right? Mary's bringing her world famous casserole this year."

"Of course," Arthur says, as he opens the car door. "And thanks again."

"Anytime, Arthur," Reggie says. "You take care of yourself now, and stay out of trouble."

"Wow," Balal says as Arthur flops onto the bed beside him. "That was--"

"Yeah." Arthur rolls over onto his back and drapes his arm over his forehead. "Good job."

Balal laughs as he peers at Arthur. "I think in this case, all the credit should go to you. But I appreciate the sentiment."

Arthur smiles a little. "Thanks."

"Hey," Balal says as he reaches over to move Arthur's out arm gently off his face. "Is everything okay?"

"What?" Arthur blinks at the sudden influx of light.

"It's just--you seemed a little bit intense. Back there." Balal's voice is kind. "Is something going on?"

"I--everything is fine." Arthur glances over at Balal, and there's no judgment in his expression. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I--" Balal hesitates. "I know we don't know each other that well, but. If you ever wanted to get coffee or lunch sometime—I'm always here, if you want to talk."

"Really?" Arthur scans Balal's face for deception or calculation, but there's none there.

"Really," Balal echoes as he reaches over to brush some hair from Arthur's face. "If we do lunch again, maybe we can even actually eat some food this time."

Arthur chuckles. "Sounds pretty ambitious."

"I'm an ambitious kind of guy." Balal winks, and Arthur laughs.

"Seriously, though." Balal's expression grows serious again. "Is there everything okay?"

"Yeah." Arthur says. "Yeah, absolutely. I'm doing great."

Chapter Text

"Anything here you wanna keep?"

Arthur glances at where Dom is pointing and shakes his head. "Nah. You can toss it all."

Arthur finishes tying up a black trash bag and drags it outside to sit next to all the others waiting for collection; they ran out of actual garbage cans to put the bags in hours ago.

When Arthur walks back inside the spare bedroom with a fresh bag, Dom says, "You weren't kidding about this being an all day gig, were you?"

Arthur surveys the piles of clothing, knick-knacks, and god knows what other crap strewn over every surface of the room. "Every time I came over it got worse. I wanted to throw out more, but you know my mother—she was dead set against it."

Dom tosses the last of a collection of empty jars into the recycling and then heads over to the closet. "Don't tell me there's more trunks in here," he says, dismayed. "And—toilet paper. Boy, she sure was stockpiling the stuff."

"It was one of her things." Arthur rubs the back of his neck. "She used to have this weird phobia about running out—even when I was a kid she was always scouting for toilet paper sales and had extra around the bathroom. It got more extreme over the years though."

Dom clears some space on the floor and hauls a trunk out of the closet, unleashing a cloud of dust into the air. After they're both done coughing and sneezing, Dom throws open the chest and peers inside. "What is this? Buried treasure?"

"More like buried junk," Arthur says as he pulls out a moldy old shoebox and opens it. "Pictures," he adds as he pulls out a slightly tattered photo of him and Dom and his mother, all grinning at the camera.

Dom laughs over Arthur's shoulder. "Is that your—"

"My high school graduation," Arthur finishes wryly. He traces a thumb over the hideous green and orange ensemble he'd been forced to wear--a stark contrast to Dom's sleek suit and his mother's neat blue dress. Dom's hair had been longer, then, and Arthur had been suffering from an unfortunate constellation of acne across his nose and cheeks. "You had such a babyface."

"And you never grew out of yours," Dom replies.

"Shut the fuck up," Arthur says, laughing. "I don't still look like this."

Dom snorts, but doesn't reply directly. Instead, he reaches into the trunk and pulls out some macaroni art on faded yellow construction paper. "I think this discovery calls for a drink."

Fifteen minutes later, they've got beers in their hands and most of the contents of the trunk spread out on the floor around them—relics of Arthur's childhood and adolescence on display for probably the first time in decades.

"Would you take a look at that hair?" Dom crows in between swigs of his beer. "What was that—a bowl cut?"

"Hey," Arthur protests as he takes the offending yearbook photo out of Dom's reach. "That was not my idea. My mother wouldn't let me cut it when I tried."

"Did you go to prom like that?" Dom asks as he digs through a pile of photos. "Shit, now I need to see your prom photos, STAT."

"I didn't go to prom," Arthur says. "I was too busy being stabbed and hanging out in the hospital."

"Oh yeah," Dom says as he puts down the photos. "What about senior year, then? Were you sufficiently recovered by then?"

"Yeah, but then I became known as the kid that fainted in class all the time." Arthur takes a swig of his beer. "Made me a real hit with my classmates."

"Damn." Dom squints at a series of photos that Lydia had, apparently, taken while Arthur was asleep in the hospital bed. "How come I don't remember this?"

"You were off at Princeton by that point, I think." Arthur holds up the graduation photo again. "Although apparently you came back for this."

"Course I did," Dom says. "One of the biggest days of your life—I had to come."

"I wasn't even going to go to graduation," Arthur says contemplatively. "Didn't see the point. But my mother wouldn't let me out of it."

"It would have broke your poor mother's heart if you hadn't gone," Dom says. "She was so goddamned proud of you she was bawling all through the ceremony saying, 'that's my baby.' I thought my hand would fall off, she was squeezing it so hard."

"I don't remember much of it. Seemed kind of boring and pointless at the time," Arthur says. "You know what I remember? How I spent that night puking my guts out in some parking lot."

Dom starts to laugh. "Shit, I remember that. I should have stopped you after four, but you kept insisting that you were fine. I shoulda known better than to trust the word of a kid who'd never gotten shitfaced before."

"We'd gotten drunk before then," Arthur protests.

"But not like that," Dom says, and Arthur is forced to concede that's true. "I was always real careful before—the last thing I needed was for the pretty-faced, recovering-from-a-stabbing-teenager I was hanging out with to get alcohol poisoning."

"That was some night," Arthur says. "God, it was like my insides were going to climb up my esophagus and into my mouth."

"It wasn’t all bad," Dom says. "You remember how I convinced that girl at the bar to show you her tits? I had to tell her it was your birthday, graduation, and that your motherfucking grandmother died to get her to do it."

Arthur snorts into his beer. "You shouldn't have bothered. They weren't that great."

"They weren't that—" Dom stops and shakes his head. "The first set of titties you ever laid eyes on and you were already a critic."

"I have discerning taste, okay?" Arthur says. "And they weren't the first, anyway."

"Speaking of firsts," Dom says. "You remember that time we went down to Atlantic City?"

"Which time?" Arthur asks. "Not that it matters--they were all terrible."

"They weren't all—" Dom pauses. "Alright, maybe they were all terrible. But we had some good times."

"Yeah." Arthur laughs. "Remember that crappy weed you got off that guy? The one with the hat?"

"Oh yeah." Dom snorts. "Man, that was some shit ass skunk. He ripped us off."

"And it was laced with—something. Jesus." Arthur scrubs his hand over his face, reliving the memory. "I thought my eyeballs were going to explode in my head."

"You were groaning and moaning for hours. I thought you were just being dramatic because it was your first time." Dom takes a swig of his beer. "Why'd I even—oh right, that was after the girl—"

"You mean hooker?" Arthur interrupts. "The one that smelled like McDonalds? The one you forced on me?"

"I wasn't about to let you leave AC without becoming a man, alright?" Dom replies. "What kind of friend would I be if I let you do that?"

"The kind that wouldn't trap me with a woman that smelled like funky cheese and a Big Mac?" Arthur suggests. "Besides, I was already a man by then."

"No shit." Dom cranes his head around to stare at Arthur disbelievingly. "I never heard about this."

"It was before we met," Arthur says. "Back when I was just some generic loser kid and not the needs-an-oxygen-tank loser kid."

Dom chuckles. "So, what happened?"

"Nothing." Arthur shrugs. "It was over so quick there's literally no story to tell. I got my dick out and she barely touched it before I popped all over her thighs. She was so grossed out she never spoke to me again."

Dom laughs. "Sounds like my first time. Mine was worse, though."

"Worse than a girl offering a ride and then not being able to hold out long enough to get there?"

"Worse like ultimate nightmare scenario. This chick—Cindy Masterson, her name was—she told me she was going to give me the best head of my life. And hell, I was 14, what the fuck did I know—I believed her.

"I get my dick out and I'm so hard I'm ready to bust a nut because this is the first person besides my parents and my doctor who are getting to see it. I close my eyes because I can't take it and bam—it's all over as soon as her tongue makes contact." Dom shakes his head. "Squirted all over her face."

"Oh fuck," Arthur says, doubling over as he begins to laugh. "You didn't."

"I open my eyes, and there's this girl, sobbing and howling because I got spunk up her motherfucking nose, and I start freaking out because what the fuck do I do?" Dom takes a swig of his beer before continuing, "I couldn't tell my parents or, god forbid, her parents. I couldn't take her to the hospital, either, because I figured they'd ask all kinds of questions there."

"So what'd you end up doing?"

"Got my sister to help me out. She snuck Cindy down the hallway and helped her do—well, whatever the fuck it was that got Cindy to stop crying." Dom shakes his head. "God, was Alicia pissed. I didn't hear the end of it for months."

"Okay," Arthur concedes as he slowly stops laughing. "You win. Worse than my first time by a long shot."

Dom holds up his bottle in salute. "So whatever happened with the over-a-million-served girl?"

"Same thing as my first time." Arthur shrugs. "I barely got in before I blew my nut. Easiest hundred bucks she ever made."

Dom leans back against the side of the bed. "Those were the days, huh? Getting drunk, doing whatever the fuck we wanted."

"Getting gouged on shitty weed, getting rolled by hookers, getting thrown out of nightclubs…"

"Goddamn was Uncle Tommy pissed when he heard about that." Dom drops his voice an octave. "'What the hell is wrong with you two? Just how much stupid shit do you intend to pull before it gets through your empty skulls that you aren't invincible? I should leave you with your dicks flapping in the wind someday and maybe that'd knock some sense into you.'"

"I always thought that vein on his forehead was going to burst and splatter all over the front of my shirt." Arthur says. "It's been a long time since I've seen him that pissed."

"Yeah," Dom says, and nudges Arthur with his shoulder. "You know he cried on my wedding day."

"No shit." Arthur takes a sip of his beer. "Really?"

"He said he was overjoyed at the end of the three AM phone calls from the can," Dom says. "But you know how he is. Talks a good game."

"Yeah," Arthur says. "Guess you did settle down after that, though."

"No more hookers or wild weekend trips for me," Dom agrees. "You ever miss it? But what am I talking about—you're still single. I bet you just don't tell me about the crazy shit you get up to, now. Dick."

"I don't want my life to be that exciting anymore," Arthur says.

"Liar," Dom says affectionately. "You loved it."

"Yeah, well." Arthur takes a deep gulp of his beer. "Isn't really the same without a partner. Then you're just that sad guy who drinks too much and goes to strip clubs to avoid feeling lonely."

"You'll never be that guy," Dom says, and reaches out to squeeze Arthur's chin. "Look at that face."

"Oh fuck you," Arthur replies, laughing and slapping his hand away.

Grinning, Dom reaches down to pull another photo out of the hundreds spread in front of them. "Hey, when was this taken?"

Arthur's smile fades. "This must have been—a while ago. When my mother first—when I introduced her to Victoria. I didn't know she took this."

"A couple of lovebirds, huh?" Dom says. It's a candid shot, Victoria reacting to something off-frame and Arthur watching her while she does. He's smiling. "You guys seemed happy."

"Yeah," Arthur says, putting the photo down and tucking it behind some others. "I mean, I guess we were."

"Arthur," Dom says slowly. "You never told me what happened between you two. I mean, one day you're talking about ring-shopping and the next day it's like she never even existed."

Arthur shakes his head and looks away, focusing on the corner of the room where the floral wallpaper is starting to peel. "She moved to California."

"Yeah, but I bet she would have stayed if you'd asked," Dom says, and Arthur closes his eyes.

He remembers the way she'd told about the job in California, talking excitedly about all the opportunity a new state could provide them: better weather, a chance to practice his Spanish, a fresh start for them both. Lydia could move out too, stay with them until they could find a place for her. Victoria was nothing if not a thoroughly prepared salesperson, and her pitch was bulletproof except—

Arthur's life was here. His job was here. Everything that he'd been working towards since he was sixteen was here.

She'd been halfway out the door before Arthur said, don't go, to which she replied, I'll be here until the end of the month if you change your mind. But he hadn't, and she hadn't, and there'd been nothing to do but watch her walk away.

Arthur opens his eyes. "What happened was that she changed her mind. Said she wanted kids."

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Dom says. "I know how much she—well, you know."

"It's fine." Arthur brushes off his pants and stands. "I'll have to ask my mother what she wants us to do with these photos. We should just put them back in the trunk for now."

"Sure, Arthur," Dom says, and his voice is kind. "Sounds good."

As soon as Eames gets in the car, Arthur says, "Are you going to tell Dom about what happened last week?"

"Why hello, Arthur, and a fine day to you as well," Eames replies, an edge to his voice. "And no, I wasn't planning on it. Were you?"

"No," Arthur leans back in his seat and relaxes fractionally. "I don't need to tell you what would happen if Dom ever found out about—that."

"Contrary to carefully cultivated popular belief, I'm not an idiot--and I'm perfectly aware of the catastrophe that lies in wait," Eames says.

Arthur tightens his fingers on the steering wheel. "Then that's settled."

When they arrive at Perle, Dom and Al are already there, happily chattering away about baby things, and Arthur suppresses the urge to bash his own skull in.

Arthur finds himself automatically looking to Eames, his natural ally in this situation, but he is of no help tonight. Eames is wearing the fake smile that's starting to set Arthur's teeth on edge, and has effectively draped himself all over Dom.

"Hey there," Dom says, sounding a little puzzled, but pleased. "Feeling frisky tonight?"

"Always," Eames says, and his voice drops. "It's been too long."

"Yeah?" A broad smile spreads across Dom's face. "You been missing me?"

"Every hour of every day," Eames replies, almost huskily. "I go to sleep thinking of you and wake up wondering where you are."

Al hoots. "Throw some ice on it, guys." He grins and winks. "We're in public."

Arthur glowers at Eames, but Eames doesn't so much as glance his way. "Let's start the game," Arthur says.

The rest of the night passes agonizingly slowly, with Eames slobbering all over Dom, and Dom soaking it up with a goofy, smug smile. Al periodically tells them to cool it when the groping starts to get a little too overt, and Arthur finds himself nearly grateful for Al—a feeling he never thought in his wildest dreams would come to pass.

The only upside to the whole debacle is that the borderline pornographic atmosphere seems to deter any further discussion of childrearing.

"You're bringing me home tonight, aren't you?" Eames asks while Arthur is dealing, Eames pressing up against Dom solicitously.

"Course I am, babe," Dom says as he rubs Eames' shoulder. "Been looking forward to it all week."

"Wonderful," Eames murmurs, not quite low enough to keep everyone else from hearing. "I'd like to show you precisely how much I've been missing you."

"Hey, A-Rod," Al says, suddenly and loudly. “Hottie checking you out at ten o’clock. Your ten."

“Hotties are always checking me out,” Arthur replies, clenching his cards.

“Great rack, though,” Al says. “This one’s worth it, I promise.”

Arthur puts his cards down and glances discreetly in the direction that Al indicates--which is not his ten o’clock at all. The woman that Al is staring at, however, is indeed stunning. When Arthur makes eye contact with her, she smiles.

“So whaddya think?” Al waggles his eyebrows. “You gonna go do something about it?”

“Dom, you need me tonight?” Arthur asks.

“Nah, you’re free.” Cobb waves a hand indulgently. Eames, beside him, is no longer smiling. “Go have fun.”

“Thanks.” Arthur finishes his drink and slides out of the booth. He heads towards the woman without hesitation.

“Hello,” Arthur says when he reaches her. “My name is Arthur.”

“Hello, Arthur,” she replies, and her voice is low, sultry. “I'm Melanie.”

“Melanie,” Arthur repeats. “It’s lovely to meet you. Is this your first time here?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Melanie says, leaning forward so he can get a better view of her cleavage.

“I thought so,” Arthur says. “I would have remembered seeing you here before.”

Melanie tosses her hair over her shoulder. “So you come here often, then?”

“I like to play a hand or two with my friends.” Arthur glances back at the table where Dom and Al are laughing about something. Eames isn't participating, and all traces of his previous flirtation and good mood are gone.

“I love the music here,” Melanie says, her hand brushing across Arthur’s arm as she sets her empty glass down. “It makes me want to dance.”

Arthur beckons towards the dance floor. “I have to warn you, it's been a while since I last had a chance to Salsa.”

Melanie climbs off her barstool, and her shoulder grazes Arthur’s chest as she proceeds onto the dance floor. “Don’t worry.” She grins. “I won't tell.”

Arthur can feel Eames’ eyes boring a hole into his skull as he takes Melanie’s hand and touches the small of her back. She presses in close to him, however, and Arthur smiles down at her as he executes the few steps he remembers from the dance classes he’d taken with a college girlfriend. It’s basic: some turns and over-the-head-arm movements, but Melanie smiles at pretty much everything he does and comes in close enough for Arthur to smell her hair.

At the end of the song, Arthur spins her out and pulls her back in again, ending in a dramatic dip that she bends back easily into. Arthur looks up over the curve of her chest to catch Eames' gaze, his mouth set in a thin line.

“Want to get out of here?” Arthur asks, gathering Melanie near to him and not breaking eye contact with Eames for a second.

“Absolutely,” Melanie responds, breathless.

As Arthur leads her out of the club, he doesn’t need to look back to know that Eames is watching him the whole way.

"A dog park," Arthur repeats.

"Yeah, it's—you know. A park. Where people bring their dogs." Dom says, as if that's somehow more helpful.

"Eames practically lives in a park," Arthur says as he walks around a giant pit in the construction site. "There are trees and bushes and all the grass a dog could possibly want to crap on."

"Look, I don't know either." Dom sighs. "But Eames has been harping on this for weeks now--he won't stop talking about how dogs need to socialize with other dogs and yada yada."

"Since when do dogs need friends?"

"I dunno. Since when do dogs need sweaters and those little beds?" Dom shrugs, and kicks a stray rock out of his path. "Not that Eames has asked for those, thank god. I'm just saying he's been really into this."

"So why don't you just give it to him?" Arthur's trying not to let the impatience bleed through, but it's hard. This isn't a good idea—on so many levels. None of which he can discuss with Dom.

"I promised a couple weeks back that we'd go this weekend for a few hours. But then I remembered I also promised Mal I'd go with her to this brunch thing with one of our neighbors." Dom sighs again. "Eames has been so excited about this that I can't let him down. He doesn't ask for much."

Arthur tries to imagine which is worse: being stuck at a brunch with Dom's inane neighbors or following Eames around in a park filled with dog shit. It's a close race. "Can't you reschedule?"

"To when? I'm booked solid for the rest of this month before I leave for France, and I can't keep breaking plans with Eames." Dom looks at Arthur pleadingly. "Please, Arthur. You don't have to do anything but drive him. You can even wait in the car."

Because that's so much better, Arthur thinks. But out loud he says, "Yeah, okay. Fine."

"Great." Dom smiles brightly. "Oh, one last thing."

"Yes?" Arthur says, already wary.

"I invited Sal, Giuglio, Mazzone, Puglisi, and Romeo to the Christmas party." Dom keeps his face turned fastidiously towards where the cranes are moving. "Thought I'd give you a heads up."

"That's—" Arthur wants to ask why, but Dom still won't look at him. "Something going down that I should know about?"

"Arthur, you worry too much." Dom claps him on the shoulder with another bright smile. "I know that's what I pay you for, but I got this, alright?"

"Sure," Arthur says, as he watches Dom head over to where the foreman is making notes on his clipboard. "Whatever you say."

"I'm really glad you called," Carmen says as she smooths down the front of her dress, over her knees. She looks nice, different from when she's in scrubs.

"I'm glad you picked up," Arthur says, smiling over at her. "Do you have a particular kind of food you'd like? I was thinking this American place over on Montrose."

"American sounds great," Carmen says. "I'm open to all kinds of food, really."

"Great," Arthur replies as he pulls onto the highway. "I like the steak there, but they also have good burgers, chicken—whatever you like."

"Great," Carmen says brightly. "I'm sure it'll be—great."

They make small talk in the car as they drive: what's on the radio, the weather ("I hear there's a big warm front that's coming," Carmen says. "I don't know what that means, though."). Once they arrive at the restaurant, the hostess seats them immediately, and the busboy has water on the table practically before they sit down.

When the waiter comes, Carmen orders the Caesar salad and Arthur orders the T-bone steak and a glass of red wine.

"You want an appetizer?" Arthur asks as he hands the menu over to the waiter.

"No, I'm fine. I love salad." Carmen closes her menu too. After the waiter's gone, she says, "How is your mother doing?"

"The White Tree facility is good," Arthur says as he takes a sip of water. "Dom told me he spoke to you."

"Oh, well, I was happy to help." Carmen flushes. "I'm just glad that your mother can get all the care she needs now."

"I know she wasn't always the easiest patient to work with," Arthur says. "And I appreciate everything you did for her."

"It's nothing, really." Carmen ducks her head. "I actually—I've always admired how dedicated you were to her. Not many men are so willing to care for a sick parent like that."

"Well, it's—" Arthur pauses. "She's the one that raised me. She's all I have."

"Oh, Arthur." Carmen reaches across the table to touch his hand. "I'm sure that's not true."

"It's okay," Arthur says, and resists the urge to pull his hand away. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are. I didn't mean to imply—" Carmen exhales, and then lets go of his hand. "You're such a good man. I wish I'd been as—" She stops.

Arthur raises his eyebrows while he waits for her to continue. "You wish…?"

"Nothing." Carmen looks away and then back again with a forced smile. "Nevermind. Anyway, I hope your mother likes White Tree."

"A bit early to tell, but we'll see," Arthur says. "So what do you like to do for fun?"

"Oh, you know the usual," Carmen says. "I like to read, watch TV, see some movies."

"Read anything good lately?" Arthur takes another sip of his wine.

"Oh, um—" Carmen's cheeks pink. "Nothing you've ever heard of, probably."

"No?" Arthur asks. "Something too obscure for me?"

"Not—exactly." Carmen coughs. "It's stupid, that's all. You know, the stuff you see in grocery store checkout aisles."

"Ah." Arthur tries to remember what sort of books those might be and he has no idea—all he can think of is the gum racks. "Well, it's funny you should say that because all those books are on my to-read list, right behind War and Peace."

Carmen laughs a bit too loudly, but the joke does the trick: the conversation segues into TV, movies, and other pop culture stuff that Arthur only has the barest familiarity with. He admits to not having seen a movie in theaters in close to three years, while Carmen cops to being an avid TMZ follower. When she mentions a movie that just opened featuring a celebrity with three names that Arthur can't keep straight, he agrees that it might be nice to see the inside of a theater again at some point in the near future.

There's a lull in the conversation when they get their food, and Carmen breaks it by saying, "What made you decide to go into accounting?"

"I guess I've always been good with numbers," Arthur says. "When I got to college I had no idea what to go into, though—what would lead me to a job or would be worth studying. My mother never went to college, so."

"Didn't the guidance counselors at your high school have any recommendations?"

Arthur starts blankly at Carmen for a moment. "I don't think we had those at my high school. I didn't go to—well, it wasn't a very good school."

"Wow, that must have been—" Carmen stops and shakes her head. "At least you made it out okay, right?"

"Right." Arthur shrugs. "Anyway, my best friend—Dom, actually—he studied Econ and Poli Sci a few years back and actually suggested Accounting to me. Said it would be practical, so I signed up for a course and that was that."

"Do you like it?" Carmen asks.

"Yeah, sure. Pays the bills." Arthur wipes his mouth. "What about you? Why nursing?"

"It's, uh, it's kind of a long story," Carmen says, picking at her salad.

Arthur waves a fork over his half-eaten steak. "I've got time."

"Yeah." Carmen laughs a little. "Well, I guess it started when I was a kid, too. You know how when you're young, everyone keeps things from you and it drives you crazy because you think you can handle it?"

"Sure," Arthur says. "People are trying to—protect you."

"Yeah." Carmen looks down at her lettuce. "When I was young, I used to be kind of—I was a handful. A really pissed off teenager, you know?"

Arthur studies Carmen, in her pale pink dress and pearl earrings. "I can't really imagine it."

"People change, I guess." Carmen smiles ruefully. "But you know how when you're a teenager, everything in the world is about you, and every problem you have is the end of the world?" She chuckles again, and doesn't wait for a reply. "Anyway, it makes you miss things, sometimes. Important things."

"Yeah," Arthur says. "I get that."

"Anyway." She clears her throat. "The only one who was ever straight with me when I was a kid was my mother's nurse, and I'll never—forget that."

They finish dinner and Arthur takes Carmen to see a movie. It's inexorably dull—though Carmen seems enraptured—and Arthur amuses himself by imagining what an orgy involving the female lead, her best friend, the love interest, and the random arch-nemesis would be. Probably filled with too much tedious banter, but at least everyone would be hot.

After it ends, Arthur drives Carmen home while she rhapsodizes about how touching the final reunion scene was. Arthur had kissed her forehead while staring down at her chest at that point, so he doesn't have much to add.

They pull up in front of her house, and Arthur gets out to walk her to the front door.

"I had a good time tonight," Carmen says, turning her face up to smile at him. Arthur leans down to give her a careful kiss and then pulls back, ready to go. But then she puts a hand on his chest and says, "Would you like to come inside? I could—I could put on a pot of coffee."

Arthur glances back at the car and then mentally calculates how early he'll have to leave in the morning. "I could go for some coffee," he says after a moment, and Carmen smiles as she lets him in.

"You probably won't need that," Arthur says, jerking his chin at the smiley faced umbrella Eames climbs into the car with. "Forecast says it should only be a persistent fog, not rain."

"I suppose it's the lingering London in me," Eames says as he tucks the umbrella across his lap. "Bring the umbrella regardless of what the weather might first appear to be."

"The weather here is pretty much what-you-see-is-what-you-get," Arthur says, careful to keep his voice level and calm. Normal. "If it's sunny, it stays sunny. If it rains, it rains nonstop. The only thing that's been weird lately is the temperature."

"Here I was led to believe there'd be mountains of snow gracing the landscape for all the wintry months," Eames says, staring out the window. "And so far, not a speck of it."

"Warmest fall and winter we've had in decades," Arthur says, and it feels like it did months ago, when he and Eames first met and spent all their time talking about nothing. "It's strange."

Before Eames can reply, the phone rings and Arthur digs it out of his pocket. "May I speak with Arthur Damrosch?" a vaguely familiar female voice asks.

"Speaking," Arthur replies, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

"My name is Dr. Shapiro, and I'm calling from White Tree Assisted Living," the woman on the line says. "You left very specific instructions regarding the care of Ms. Lydia Damrosch--"

"Is she alright?" Arthur doesn't wait for a response before pulling over to the shoulder of the road and throwing on his hazard lights. "Did something happen?

"Ms. Damrosch has been very upset for the past eight hours," Dr. Shapiro says. "She's been, well--saying that she's pregnant."

"I--that's—" Arthur takes a deep breath. "That's not possible. My mother--she hasn't, she wouldn't--"

"No, we suspected not," she says. "We attempted to verify the truth of her claim but Ms. Damrosch has been refusing to let any of our staff near her. Your instructions indicated that we should call you before resorting to the use of medication—"

"I'll be there in half an hour," Arthur says. "Don't do anything until then."

Arthur hangs up and turns back onto the road, trying to work out what might have happened. If someone at the facility touched her--

"Change of plans?" Eames asks, and Arthur starts; he'd forgotten about Eames altogether.

"We're taking a detour," Arthur says as he goes to text Dom. "When we get to the facility, I can call a cab to take you to Perle."

"No need," Eames replies. "I can wait." Arthur expects him to say more or maybe ask further questions, but Eames says nothing else, leaving Arthur to his thoughts in peace.

When they get to White Tree, Eames says, "Would you like me to wait in the car or—"

"Honestly, Eames, I don't give a fuck what you do," Arthur says, halfway out of the car already.

There's a blur of conversation with the receptionist and Arthur is dimly aware of Eames' continuing presence as they walk through the facility, but everything simply falls away when he catches sight of his mother's room.

All that's upright is the furniture; everything else that wasn't bolted down or too heavy for his mother to lift is lying upturned on the floor. In the center of the chaos is Lydia, pacing frantically back and forth as she mutters indistinctly. She looks up when Arthur arrives, and something like relief washes over her features.

"Thank God you're here," she says as she crosses the room. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Mom," Arthur says as he takes her hand in his; it's cold, clammy. "What's going on? Did something happen?"

"I have to leave, I have to get out of this place," Lydia says. "You have to come with me."

"Yes, of course, we'll do whatever you want," Arthur replies. "But you have to tell me what happened."

"I--" Lydia's lip trembles, and she turns away from him. "You're going to be so disappointed in me."

"I won't," Arthur says, dread growing inside. "It can't be that bad."

"You have to promise that you'll come with me," Lydia says, her back still to Arthur. "I know you hate it here as much as I do, and this could be our chance. I've been saving up money and I met someone who could get me a job, help me find an apartment--"

"I--" Arthur pauses, and then says, "Yeah. I promise."

"It's going to be hard," Lydia says as she turns around. "I will miss Rachel and Hedi and Ezra, too, but we must be strong. Maybe together we can make Mama and Papa see that it doesn't have to be this way--that our lives could be better than they are. Surely, God would want this for us?"

"Mom," Arthur says. "What are you--"

"I met a boy," Lydia blurts out. "He's handsome and kind and makes me laugh and I--he promised he'd help, he promised he'd take care of the baby when it's born--"

"Mom, stop, I'm Arthur, I'm your son." Arthur scrubs a hand across his face when she stares blankly at him. "What do you think--who do you think you're talking to?"

"Aaron, please." Lydia's face crumples. "You promised you would understand. You promised you wouldn't tell Mama and Papa."

"Aaron?" Arthur repeats back. "You think I'm--I'm your brother?"

"Aaron, why are you acting like this?" Lydia draws back, suspicious. "Who else would you be? Why else would you be here?"

"Mom, I--" Arthur takes a deep breath. "I need you to snap out of this. I need to know what's really going on, I need you to remember that I'm your son, I'm Arthur Damrosch, and you are Lydia, Lydia Damrosch--"

"Lydia?" Lydia blinks. "How did you know what I--Aaron wouldn't know that." Her voice begins to rise. "Who are you? What are you doing here? You've come to bring me back, haven't you?"

"What?" Arthur shakes his head. "What? I'm not here to take you anywhere, I'm here to visit you. This is your new home and--"

"No." Lydia backs away, voice taking on a hysterical edge. "No, I don't believe you. I don't know who you are, but you need to leave right now. I'm not going back there and you can't make me."

"Take you back where? What are you--"

"Get out," Lydia spits. "Get out of here right now or I'm going to scream. I'm not going to let you take me back--"

"Mom, please, calm down," Arthur says as Lydia backs away. When he moves towards her, she makes good on her promise and begins to shriek at the top of her lungs. "Mom!" Arthur shouts again, trying to be heard, but she won't stop, slapping and flailing at him when he goes to touch her. "Mom, stop it!" Arthur yells again, but it's no use; her scream is ear-piercing, horrible--maybe the worst sound he's ever heard.

He tries to reason with her but it's of no use, her hysteria only increasing with every moment that passes. Arthur shouts until he feels out of breath, lightheaded--and it isn't until strong arms pull him away from her, and a low voice murmurs in his ear, "Arthur, stop, she can't hear you," that he stops.

"Mr. Damrosch." Dr. Shapiro appears by the door. "Would you like us to sedate her?"

"I--" Two other staff members enter the room and attempt to calm Lydia, but she grabs a lamp from the floor, brandishing it like a weapon. "I don't want--"

"Arthur," the voice says, gentle, and Arthur realizes it's Eames. He's holding Arthur by the arm. "She's not herself right now."

Arthur looks away, across the trash and upturned furniture on the floor to rest on a bland painting of a basket filled with wildflowers. The frame is cracked. "Don't hurt her."

"We would never," Dr. Shapiro says and nods at one of the staff. "As soon as she's sedated, we can do a medical examination and make sure everything's alright."

"Right," Arthur says, sagging. "How long will it take for you to determine if she's..."

"No more than an hour." Dr. Shapiro's voice is kind. "You're welcome to wait in the lobby, if you wish. I can call a cleaning crew--"

"No." They tranquilize Lydia with a shot, and one of the staff members carries her limp body from the room. Arthur closes his eyes. "No, I'll stay in here. I'll clean up."

"I'll leave strict instructions that you are not to be disturbed, Mr. Damrosch," Dr. Shapiro says. "One of our staff will be just outside if you need anything. We'll let you know as soon as we know something."

"Thank you," Arthur replies, numbly.

Once the doctor and staff leave, Arthur realizes he's still leaning against Eames, who is quiet beside him.

"That--" Arthur pulls away and straightens. "You weren't--"

"Let me help you clean up," Eames says as he stoops down and picks a piece of clothing up off the floor.

Arthur rubs his eyes while Eames has his back turned, weary. "I can call a cab--you can still make it to the game."

"Tonight's Juana's night," Eames says as he continues to clean, straightening the furniture and righting the lamps. "And I wasn't in the mood for her lectures anyway."

Arthur considers saying something else, but there's a bone-deep exhaustion that's setting in--sapping his energy to form more protests, more words. He bends down to pick up the painting with the cracked frame and props it up against the wall.

Between the two of them, Arthur and Eames make short work of the bedroom and even the bathroom, dumping most of the items broken beyond repair into the trash, all the scattered clothing into the laundry hamper.

When they finish, Arthur sits down on the bed, heavily. A few minutes later, Eames sits down next to him, a few inches away. He doesn't say anything, for which Arthur is grateful.

All Arthur wants is to sit in silence. All he wants is--

"I guess I have an uncle," Arthur says, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "And maybe a father who used to give a shit."

"You didn't have either before?" Eames asks, and it's a serious question.

"My mother told me they were all dead. Gone." Arthur shakes his head. "I believed her because--why wouldn't I have ever met them, otherwise?"

"Parents lie to protect their children," Eames says, voice hushed. "Or themselves."

"I tried to find out who my father was when I was a teenager," Arthur says. "Even though the bastard walked out on us, I wanted to know. But I was just a kid then, so I didn't get very far."

"Have you tried since?"

"What's the point?" Arthur shrugs, and then straightens his shirt-cuffs. "I have a life, a job. What do I need from some asshole who couldn't bother to stick around?"

"Fathers--both biological and figural--are overrated," Eames says. "That's something every son learns in the end."

"And what about uncles?" Arthur says, cutting a glance over at Eames. "What about entire undiscovered branches of your family?"

Eames doesn't say anything for a moment. Then he stands and walks to the window. "Can I smoke in here?"

Arthur scans the room for a smoke detector, but doesn't see one. "Probably not."

Eames holds up an opened pack of cigarettes that had been hidden near the window. "Care for one?"

Arthur shakes his head, but waves Eames on. "Just crack the window."

Eames glances at the closed door and then opens the window as far as it'll go--which is not very far at all--before pulling out a cigarette. "When I was young, I had an uncle who would come round once or twice a year. He was terribly exciting--he smoked, gambled, drank, drove fast cars, and did everything the rest of my proper family disapproved of." Eames lights a cigarette. "He amazed me. Taught me how to do magic tricks, sleight-of-hand, and how to misdirect an audience. My parents hated him, of course."

Arthur tries to imagine Eames as a child filled with wonder and excitement over a quarter appearing from behind his ear, but he can't quite reconcile it with the man standing before him. "Sounds like fun."

"He was." Eames exhales a ring of smoke. "The world dazzled when he was around to point it out to you. And when he walked away, it was as if some of the color in the world left with him."

"Do you still--" Arthur pauses. "Is he still in your life?"

"The last time I saw him was over ten years ago," Eames says, face impassive and turned towards the window. "So no, I wouldn't say he was still in my life."

Arthur frowns. "What happened?"

"All that smoking, gambling, drinking, and driving of fast cars caught up to him," Eames says, and shrugs. "At least, that's what my mother informed me. He was in a car accident. Killed a family of three, along with himself."

Arthur watches Eames finish off the rest of his cigarette and put out the butt in a blue candy dish doubling as an ashtray. There doesn't seem to be anything to say.

There's a knock on the door and Dr. Shapiro's voice, "Mr. Damrosch?"

"Come in," Arthur says.

"We examined your mother, and--" Dr. Shapiro halts when she sees Eames. "If you'd prefer, we could speak in my office."

"No, it's fine." Arthur shakes his head, too tired to even move from where he's sitting on the bed. "He can stay."

Her gaze flickers between Arthur and Eames, lightning-fast, before she resumes speaking. "Your mother is not pregnant. We suspect that this was merely an episode brought on by her Alzheimer's."

"That's--" Arthur takes a deep breath. "She's been having--memory problems for a while now."

"Yes, I saw that noted in her chart," Dr. Shapiro says. "She's in the infirmary right now. We'll keep her there for the night for observation and return her to the room when she's ready."

"Can I see her?"

"She's sleeping," Dr. Shapiro says, face filled with sympathy. "It's been a long day for her, and I think it might be best for her to get some uninterrupted rest."

"Yeah." Arthur swallows, but a tiny part of him sighs in relief. "I don't want to--upset her more."

"Difficulty recognizing loved ones is not uncommon amongst people suffering from her condition," Dr. Shapiro says. "Wild mood swings, forgetfulness, cognitive impairment and even violent episodes are all symptoms of the disease. What happened wasn't your fault."

Arthur nods, but it's mechanical. "What does that mean for her?"

"We can put her on a more aggressive medication regimen to try to treat and slow the symptoms," she says. "But I'm afraid there's no cure. I'm sorry."

"I should--" Arthur stands, jerkily. "We should go."

"Of course," Dr. Shapiro says. "We will call you if anything else arises."

They leave White Tree and it's late, too late for there to be any point in driving to Perle. Arthur calls Dom to tell him they won't be coming, and Dom replies that he'll meet Eames at the manor.

Arthur drives Eames back in silence, the windows shut and radio off the entire way. When they pull up in the driveway, Dom's car is there and the lights are on in the house.

Arthur puts the car in park and waits for Eames to get out. But because Eames is Eames and can't seem let anything be, he says, "Arthur."

"What you saw—" Arthur starts, but he finds he doesn't know how to continue. He tightens his fingers on the wheel and thinks he can make out Dom's figure, moving through a room downstairs.

"I won't tell Dom," Eames says, and Arthur lets go of a breath he didn't even know he was holding.

"It's not a secret," Arthur says. "It's just—"

"He doesn't need to know," Eames supplies, and Arthur risks a glance out of the corner of his eye. There's no smirk, or leer, or predatory calculation.

"I told him I had car trouble," Arthur says. "I don't know exactly what kind yet, but I can—"

"The alternator malfunctioned," Eames says. "You stopped so I could buy a pack of cigarettes at the convenience store and when we returned to the car, it wouldn't start. After being towed to a mechanic, the alternator was diagnosed as the culprit. There was an hour wait for a half-hour long installation, and by then the night was already over."

Arthur stares at Eames for a minute, and then says, "Yes, that's right. The alternator malfunctioned."

Eames inclines his head to one side before getting out of the car. "Goodnight, Arthur. Drive safely."

"Goodnight, Mr. Eames," Arthur replies, and watches him go.

"I'm glad you managed to fit me into your busy schedule," Arthur says as he sets about zipping up his pants and straightening his shirt.

"Yeah, well, when someone says, 'I wanna come over and blow you,' that's not a proposal you say no to." Balal opens a desk drawer and takes out some antibacterial wipes. "Wipe?"

"Thanks." Arthur cleans off his hands as he glances around the cluttered—but mostly organized—office. "Have I got anything on my face?"

"Well, you do have a little something—" Balal walks around to the other side of the desk and hooks an arm around Arthur's waist, before giving him what's probably a completely gratuitous kiss. "Got it."

"Are you sure?" Arthur asks, grinning.

"Pretty sure, but it never hurts to double-check," Balal says, giving Arthur one more thorough kiss before stepping back. "Anyway, thanks for fulfilling a lifelong fantasy. Desk-head—it's every bit as awesome as I thought it would be."

"You've never had desk-head before?" Arthur smooths a hand down the front of Balal's shirt.

"Married ten years and you'd have thought at least once, but no." Balal shakes his head. "Wife never went for it. Figures."

Arthur coughs, and goes to pick up his jacket off the back of the chair. When he turns around, Balal looks chagrined. "Sorry, that's—a huge load of not your problem, I know." Balal rubs his forehead ruefully. "And I mean ex-wife, of course."

"It's complicated, I get it," Arthur says as he shrugs into his jacket. "Especially when there's a kid involved."

"Yeah." Balal rubs his forehead. "Actually, that reminds me. I don't know if you do anything in particular for the holidays, if you go to visit your family or—you know, hang upside down from the ceiling of a cave somewhere—" Arthur cracks a smile at that, "but I won't be in the area around Christmas. My ex-wife gets the holidays with Kat, and this year she invited me along so I could meet her new fiancé."

"You traveling far?" Arthur asks, making a mental note in his calendar. It's a little inconvenient, of course, but nothing he can't work around; holidays tend to be a lonely time of year for lots of people.

"Only upstate New York, but you know, it's still a stupidly long drive on poorly paved roads to the middle of nowhere," Balal says. "Far enough that I can't—you know. Get away."

"Well, good luck," Arthur says, buttoning up his jacket. "With the new guy."

"Thanks." Balal sighs. "He's a lawyer, too, and I know she's going to rub my nose in how much more compatible they are, how their values align--all that bullshit."

"Whose values align with a lawyer's?" Arthur asks. "Unless your ex-wife is a lawyer, too?"

"Hole in one," Balal replies gloomily. "Did trusts and estates, or, as I liked to call it, helping rich people write wills and evade taxes. Legally, of course."

"Lawyers," Arthur says.

"Yeah," Balal says, and for a moment he sounds sad. "She met him at work, her fiancé. Not that she could have met someone anywhere else -- that's where she spends every waking moment, after all."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "Not a fan?"

"There's work that's a job, and then there's work that defines you," Balal says. "Me? I go to work, I go home, and I leave it all behind me so I can help my daughter with her homework, go to my neighbors' barbeques, maybe go sailing a little bit when I have some free time. But my ex—" Balal snorts and shakes his head. "I guess I should have known what I was getting into with someone like that, but everyone thinks they're the exception. Everyone thinks their situation is unique."

"It's her loss," Arthur says, truthfully. "I mean, hell, she lives in upstate New York right now. I don't think I need to say more than that."

Balal lets out a small chuckle as he takes Arthur's hand, briefly, and squeezes it. "Thanks, Lance. I'll try to remember that when she takes me on the grand tour of her palatial mansion--complete with butler, maid, and douchebag future husband."

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asks as he arranges the calla lilies on Lydia's nightstand.

"Better." Lydia smiles wanly from the overstuffed armchair she's sitting in; it's new, but otherwise the room looks exactly the way it did before, all hints of what had happened before wiped away, reset. "The nausea's not nearly as bad today."

"If you want to switch medications--"

"I'll speak to the doctor if I do," Lydia gently interrupts. "I can handle myself. There's no need for you to worry like this."

"I just--" Arthur lets his hands fall away from the flowers, fingertips coming to rest on the table on either side of the vase. "I want you to be okay."

"Sweetheart." Lydia's voice softens. "I'm fine. Sometimes I get a little confused, but I'm not pregnant, I'm not hurt, and everything is fine."

You keep telling me that, Arthur wants to say, but we both know that's not true. Instead he says, "I need to ask you a question."

"Anything."

Arthur bows his head, enough to catch the faint scent of the lilies against his nostrils. "Who is Aaron?"

There's a beat of silence and then, "Who?"

Arthur turns so he can face Lydia, and she's sitting in the armchair still, face neutral, impassive. "Aaron. You've mentioned him twice, now. You thought I was him."

"I--" She folds her hands carefully in her lap. "How silly of me. Those names do sound similar, I suppose. Sweetheart, please forgive me. You know how I--"

"Mom." Arthur takes a step towards her. "Please. Who is he?"

Lydia looks away, gaze fixing on something just over Arthur's shoulder. "He's someone I knew a long time ago."

"My--" Arthur clears his throat. "My uncle?"

"I suppose he would be, yes." Lydia's face is blank, unmoving.

"You told me everyone else in our family was dead," Arthur says. It comes out high, fast--like an accusation.

"He is. And they are." She finally looks at Arthur again, and it's almost defiant. "They all died a long time ago, shortly after you were born."

"Then how come you never brought me to their graves or--"

"Bring you to the graves of people you've never met before?" Lydia says. "You never knew them, and what's the point in holding on to bad memories? It's better to move on, get on with your life."

"Did they--did they know my father?" Even forming the word 'father' sounds strange in Arthur's mouth, raw. He thought he'd stopped caring about things like that a long, long time ago.

"Aaron and your father met briefly," Lydia says, after a moment of hesitation. "They didn't like each other. And then your father left."

"And after that, everyone else dropped dead in some kind of freak accident," Arthur says, and he doesn't recognize the tone in his own voice. It sounds bitter, angry--resentful in a way he hasn't felt since he was a teenager.

But Lydia doesn't react the way she used to, back when he used to try to broach the topic of his father all those years ago; there's no pleading, "Arthur, honey," or teary eyes. Now, she simply looks at him steadily and says, "Yes."

"There's nobody else?" Arthur watches her, and waits. "No one besides Aaron and my grandparents? All of whom are dead?"

"No." Lydia doesn't flinch. "There's no one."

"Do you have directions to the park?" Arthur asks while Dusty climbs onto the blanket in the back seat.

"I do," Eames says as he settles into shotgun. "It's not too far from here—about a half hour or so."

"Alright," Arthur says. "I know the way, but it's good that you came prepared in case I miss a turn."

Arthur can feel Eames watching him. "You still don't trust me, do you?"

"What reason have you given me to trust you?" Arthur starts the car. "After all these months, I still don't even know you."

"Have I betrayed any of your confidences?"

"Not yet." Arthur glances in the rearview mirror. "But for now, our interests align. What happens when they don't?"

"I imagine you'll take all steps necessary to protect yourself," Eames replies.

"And you will do the same." Arthur huffs a soft laugh. "What better foundation for trust is there than that?"

Silence falls, filling out the bumpy ride down the winding road leading away from the manor. Arthur assumes the conversation is over, but then Eames starts again.

"I suppose it'll come as no surprise to you that I used to be a con man. Even before I was a forger." Arthur glances over at Eames, quickly, but he's staring out the window. "I started out with inglorious, short-term scams in pubs full of drunken idiots and was as likely to walk out with a black eye as any actual quid. But one fateful evening, I stumbled upon a woman who took more than a passing fancy to me, and she turned out to be exorbitantly wealthy."

"How convenient," Arthur says. "You scammed her?"

"I suppose I did, in the end," Eames says. "But not before I conned everyone else in her bored socialite circle first."

"Of course," Arthur replies. "So you ran around being—what, the neighborhood pool boy?"

"You'd be surprised by the variety in what people crave: friends, brothers, lovers, confidantes." Eames shrugs. "My speciality was making myself into whatever people wanted me to be, and my roles were many."

"And now you're what Dom wants you to be," Arthur says.

"I would venture to say that we are all what Dom wants us to be."

Arthur keeps his eyes straight-ahead and on the road."And what do I want you to be?"

"Come now, Arthur," Eames says, tone nearly reproachful. "If I knew the answer to that, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?"

"And forging?" Arthur asks, determined to ignore all of Eames' traps. "How did you get into that?"

"Many of the ladies—and gentlemen—I wooed had a certain fondness for art. As did I." Eames taps out a restless rhythm against the car door. "One of them helped me secure legal employment at an auction house. Through the connections I made, I secured myself some less legal employment as well."

"You could have lived off other people's delusions forever," Arthur says. He doesn't add, you still can.

"You, of all people, should understand the cost associated with being kept like a jealously guarded secret," Eames says. His tone isn't angry, but there's something else in it that Arthur can't name. "To sleep because our master bids us and feign sleep when he doesn't--all to preserve the illusion that the choices we make are still ours."

Arthur pulls the car into a parking lot at the edge of the park. There's a row of trees blocking the view of the rest of the grounds, and the sound of barking in the distance. "You could leave."

"Could I?" Eames opens the door and steps out. "Could you?"

Arthur doesn't reply. Eames cuts a striking figure as he leads Dusty away, in spite of—or perhaps because of--his puffy orange jacket. A maroon knit scarf thrown casually over his shoulder completes what should be a hideous ensemble, and yet Arthur can't tear his eyes away.

He remains seated in the car and locks the door after Eames is gone. It takes only fifteen minutes for Arthur to get through his voicemail and email—certainly setting some kind of record. Determined to be productive, he finally gets out of the car and walks around to the back.

It's cold outside, but the sunshine is warm on Arthur's cheek. The air is crisp with autumn leaves, and the indistinct murmur of voices weaves through the rustling of the trees.

Arthur sighs as he pulls out a few manila folders and shuts the trunk.

He finds Eames standing next to Dusty, surrounded by a crowd of what seem to be utterly enraptured admirers. He can't quite make out what Eames is saying, but it's easy to guess when Eames gestures at Dusty's hind leg and every female in the group swoons as one. A few husbands and boyfriends look sourly on, but most seem every bit as enthralled as their female counterparts.

As Arthur takes a seat on a bench, he can't stop himself from smiling a little at the proceedings. He shouldn't be surprised--what audience wouldn't love Eames? He even has the perfect female assistant to show off to the crowd.

Arthur settles in to read the files he brought, glancing up occasionally to see women cooing at Dusty—and Eames. He seems to be in his element, charming everyone around him and grinning in an easy, wide-open way that Arthur doesn't recognize; it's hard to know whether it's an act or genuine.

He's careful not to stare for too long or too blatantly, but at this point it's impossible for Eames not to have noticed him. Unfortunately, Eames is not the only person's attention Arthur has caught. Two women approach his bench, despite his best efforts to appear surly.

"I love coming here on days like this, don't you?" One of them—in a puke-green coat—says loudly. Arthur doesn't make eye contact or reply, but she doesn't take the hint.

"Which one is yours?" the other woman asks Arthur more directly.

"None of them," Arthur says flatly. "I don't have a dog. I just like to watch."

There's an awkward moment of silence before they back away, murmuring excuses about their dogs needing them. Behind him, Arthur hears Eames snort out a laugh.

"You're scaring the gentle townsfolk," Eames says as he drops onto the bench beside Arthur.

"That's the point," Arthur says.

"Of course it is." Arthur doesn't need to look over to know that Eames is smiling. "Do you ever stop working?"

"Sure," Arthur replies. "I sleep sometimes."

"Do you?" Eames says mildly. "I suppose some things must be seen to be believed."

Dusty trots over to nose at Eames, and then Arthur's knee. Arthur obliges her by scratching her behind the ears. "Has Dusty had enough of showing off, running around, and being admired by all the other dogs?"

"Yes, Dusty's a bit tired now," Eames says as Dusty gazes up at Arthur adoringly. "She's not accustomed to this much excitement in one day."

"I can imagine."

"I never properly thanked you." Eames reaches forward to scratch behind Dusty's ears. "For her."

"Dom was the one that—"

"Arthur," Eames interrupts. "If you can tell me with a straight face that Dom hatched the idea of gifting me a dog of all things, I'll eat the Frisbee those hooligans are tossing about over there."

"I hope you like the taste of plastic," Arthur says, and Eames chuckles. "Even if—and I'm not saying I did--I had anything to do with Dusty, it doesn't matter. The gift was from Dom, and I was just doing my job."

"Your job," Eames echoes. "Of course. That explains the startling lengths you've gone to in seeing to my needs and wants."

Arthur watches Dusty walk back into the middle of the park, beginning to sniff curiously at a few other dogs. "When you're happier, Dom is happier."

"Do you expect me to believe these makeweight justifications?" Eames cocks his head to one side. "Have you started to believe them yourself?"

Dusty walks slowly alongside a few other dogs, most half her size and three times her speed. They stop every few seconds to glance back at her curiously, as if unable to comprehend why she isn't keeping up. "You wouldn't understand."

"No?" Eames says. "Then make me understand."

"I can't. It's not how you operate." One of the dogs, a shrill little terrier, begins barking and running circles around Dusty frantically. "Everything about you is fake, calculated. A con."

"No man can live a con continuously without becoming it," Eames says. "And I have no desire to become any of the parts I've been forced to play."

Dusty pushes the terrier away with one paw when it butts up against her too insistently. It seems startled, but returns to her side a few seconds later.

"I thought we could be—friends." Arthur takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. "That's all."

"Friends," Eames repeats, as if he's not sure whether Arthur's joking or not. "Friends with your best mate's mistress?"

After a few more pushes aside, the terrier seems to finally calm, falling into step beside Dusty as she wanders the park. A few other dogs join them, but lose interest at their placid pace and run off again.

"I knew you wouldn't understand." Arthur shakes his head. "Forget it."

"Arthur." Eames touches Arthur's shoulder, then pulls away. "It's not--I want to understand."

Arthur looks down at the files in his lap and begins to close them. "We both do what we need to do. We both do what Dom needs us to do. That's all."

"You were friends with the others," Eames says slowly. "His other companions."

"Not all of them," Arthur says. "A few. Anyway." He stands. "Our situation is different. Obviously."

Eames stands, too, and calls for Dusty. She returns with terrier in tow and Eames says, "Garnered yourself an admirer, have you?"

Dusty, of course, does not reply. But she licks Eames' hand.

"It's getting late. We should go," Arthur says as he starts towards the car. Eames and Dusty trail behind him, and the terrier begins to bark.

"Welcome, welcome!" Dom exclaims when he throws open the door.

Between his legs, Phillipa dashes forward, squealing, "Uncle Arthur!"

"How's my Philly?" Arthur asks as he bends down and holds out a gift-wrapped box. Phillipa shrieks in delight, snatching it from his hands before running back inside.

"She's going to be so spoiled by the end of today," Dom says after she's gone. "Already gotten five million presents and it's not even Christmas yet."

"And here I thought I was special," Arthur says as he stands up again. "So much for Uncle Arthur."

"If you want a hug or kiss, always ask for it before you tip your hand," Dom advises as he lets Arthur in. "After you've given her what she wants, it's too late."

"I'll keep that in mind." Arthur holds out a bottle of red wine. "A Cabernet, for Mal."

"You always know exactly what to get," Dom says. "She was raving about your Merlot for months last year."

As if summoned, Mal appears in the foyer in a flurry of perfume and glittering jewelry. "Arthur," she coos as she kisses him on both cheeks. "I should have known as soon as I saw Phillipa running past."

"Mal, you look beautiful," Arthur says, because it's true.

"Thank you." She smiles up at him and takes his coat. "And you look very handsome yourself. Now, if only you could teach this one to dress like you do…"

"Hey now." Dom puts one hand on Mal's waist while the other lands on Arthur's shoulder. "I taught this kid everything he knows."

"This kid?" Arthur repeats.

"He is so stuck in the past," Mal stage whispers at Arthur. "It makes me fear how he will be when our children wish to grow up."

"Don't worry—I'll hold him back so he doesn't follow them all the way to college," Arthur says.

"My two favorite people in the world," Dom sighs dramatically, "conspiring against me. But I guess this is what I get for loving so much."

Arthur raises an eyebrow at Mal, who shrugs very slightly in response; Dom's clearly more than a little drunk already. "Mon grand homme," Mal says. "Arthur is in need of food and drink, yes? Come, let's not keep him in the cold foyer."

"Oh yeah, there's pasta, London broil—all the works," Dom says as he lets them both go. "And try the eggnog—I made it myself."

The doorbell rings, and Dom goes to answer it while Mal takes Arthur's arm and guides him towards the kitchen.

"I don't actually have to try the eggnog, do I?" Arthur asks.

"Oh mon dieu, no!" Mal replies, seeming slightly alarmed by the prospect. "I would be a terrible hostess if I let all my guests die of food poisoning."

Arthur laughs as they step into the spacious kitchen, filled to the brim with steaming trays of food and what seems like every single one of Dom's female relatives.

"Arthur!" All of the women look up from tending the stove and arranging the food, and there's a flurry of hugs and kisses and one slightly alarming butt grab (likely Dom's great-aunt Louisa, who is too old for Arthur to say anything to).

He makes idle chitchat with everyone as he fills his plate. Dom's mother, Carmela, gets him a generous glass of wine and holds it hostage while she pinches his cheeks (the ones on his face this time) and says, "You're too thin, you're practically wasting away!"

"You say that every year," Arthur replies as he edges towards the door.

"Because it's true!" Carmela exclaims, following him. "Really, what you need is a nice young woman to fatten you up a little. Such a shame about Victoria, she seemed like a very sweet thing."

Sweet is not the first adjective to come to mind when Arthur thinks of Victoria--particularly in the context of Dom's family, whom she described as, "Nosy, overbearing, and stuck in the 1950's," but luckily Carmela seems not to have caught onto any of that.

"I think I heard Dom calling for me," Arthur says, backing away. "I should—go."

He manages to pry the glass of wine from Carmela's grasp and beats a hasty retreat into the dining room, where more of Dom's family members are milling around. More greetings are exchanged—kisses on the cheek for the women, handshakes and half-hugs for the men—and Arthur ends up with a seat at the table, grunting and giving monosyllabic responses to the inane chattering of Dom's cousin Ricky, who refuses to take a hint or go away.

Arthur eventually gets up to refill his wine glass and runs into Reggie, Uncle Tommy (somehow, Arthur will never stop thinking of Tommy without the 'Uncle'), and Dom's father, Joey, ("Arthur, my boy, how the hell are you?" "I'm good. How's Boca Raton?" "Beautiful, fucking beautiful. Next Christmas we oughta have the family party there—cold weather is for the birds.").

"Arthur."

Arthur goes still at the familiar voice. "Sal," he says, turning around slowly. "How are you?"

"Good," he says as he leans in to give Arthur a perfunctory handshake, the powerful odor of his cologne clogging Arthur's nostrils. "Good to see you. It's been a while."

"Yeah, a few years now," Arthur replies, willing himself not to be cowed by Sal's steely gaze; he's not twenty-two anymore, for Christ's sake. "Dom mentioned you'd be coming."

"Did he?" Sal's smile is shark-like, unnaturally thinning his thick lips. "Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were his go-to guy."

Arthur's not sure what to say to that. "Are any of the other amici coming?"

"Nah, just me." Sal finishes off his glass of wine and sets it down on the table. "Actually, that's something I wanted to talk to you about. Take a walk with me." It's not a request.

"Sure," Arthur says as he finishes off his wineglass too. "I could use the fresh air."

They step outside, the evening crisp and cold. The neighborhood around them is quiet, dark except for the white lights edging the houses and the tasteful ornaments adorning the impeccably groomed lawns.

"Seems like the federales are taking a night off," Sal says as he scans the parked cars under the guise of lighting a cigarette. "Or maybe they've finally picked up the fine art of subtlety."

Arthur buttons up his coat but says nothing. Better to wait and hear what Sal wants.

"As I'm sure you know, there've been a lot of questions about the future of this thing that's so very dear to us," Sal says. "And we've had a lot of good ideas pitched, a lot of people stepping forward as candidates for the helm of this organization."

"Sure," Arthur says, wondering where this is going.

"And I want you to know that I recognize you and Dom's decade of service." Sal takes a drag of his cigarette. "But there have been concerns about… judgment. More specifically, Dom's."

"Judgment?" Arthur glances over at Sal, the evening making the juts of his craggy face especially harsh. "What—"

"Dom's always had a bit of a problem with discretion." Sal exhales a messy puff of smoke, and a bit of it wafts into Arthur's eyes. "His father was the same way, and probably his father before him. That's just how he was raised, and I know you can't control that. "

"That's—" Arthur coughs. "I'm not sure—"

"A man's personal life is his own business, but when he goes around flaunting certain things, acting certain ways in public…" Sal pauses. "Rumors get started, you know what I'm saying? People talk. Me, I think that where a man likes to spend his free time and where he likes to stick his dick are matters between him and God."

Eames, Arthur thinks dully. Of course Sal knows about Eames; Dom's never bothered to make it a secret at Perle.

"But some of our amici—Mazzone, Giuglio—they're men of religious conviction," Sal continues. "And they consider certain—practices—to go against the laws of nature, the way things are supposed to be. Do you get my meaning, Arthur?"

"I—think I do," Arthur says, voice carefully muted and blank.

"For a long time, some of the guys actually thought you and Dom were—well, I always told them that it wasn't right to judge a man based on the quality of his menswear or how he keeps himself, but you know how these things can be," Sal says.

"Sure," Arthur says. "I—appreciate that."

"The bottom line is," Sal stops in front of a lawn with a Nativity scene and crosses himself, "we've decided that now is not the best moment for a change in leadership. Not with the economy being the way it is, and everything being so up in the air."

"So…" Arthur stares at Sal, but he's never been someone Arthur could read.

"So things are going to be staying the same for the foreseeable future," Sal says, and turns to look at Arthur, finally. "I understand you're probably disappointed, and that Dom was really hoping for the opportunity to move up, but the amici and I are in agreement that the two of you have been doing a bang-up job where you are. Your numbers are solid, you consistently deliver results, and of course, you'll be handling the big deal with our foreign friend next year."

Dom made a bid to become the next boss, Arthur thinks, somewhat dizzily, and he didn't tell me. "I see."

"I'm going to have a sit-down with Dom later tonight, once the party's quieted down a bit," Sal says, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's state of shock. "I think it'd be best if you didn't tell Dom that we had this little chat—he'll probably want to break the news to you himself."

"Yes," Arthur says. "I'm sure."

"Alright then?" Sal claps Arthur on the shoulder briefly. They've made a complete lap of the neighborhood and are standing in the driveway of Dom's house again. "We square?"

"I appreciate you taking the time," Arthur picks his words carefully, "to speak with me."

"It's Christmas," Sal says as if that's explanation enough, and tilts his face up towards the sky. "Looks like clouds are starting to roll in."

"Yeah, looks like," Arthur says.

"I hear a storm's coming," Sal says. "Better get inside."

Arthur stands in the driveway for a few minutes after that, wishing he could get in his car and leave. But Dom or Mal would surely notice, and then there'd be questions—questions Arthur couldn't answer.

Arthur steels himself and goes inside, making a beeline for the wine. Unfortunately, Dom's in the kitchen refilling, and he cheerfully offers to pour Arthur another glass of Yellowtail before he can flee.

"Where you been all night?" Dom asks as he passes an overfull wineglass to Arthur, a little bit splashing over the lip.

"Oh, here and there," Arthur says, drinking deeply. "Catching up with Uncle Tommy, your father."

"My father." Dom sighs dramatically. "All he talks about Boca Raton this, Boca Raton that. I tell him that if I wanted to sit around in some purgatory, I'd just kill myself and be done with it."

"I hear the weather's nice," Arthur says.

"I bet it is. I bet it is," Dom says solemnly as he hangs an arm around Arthur's shoulders. "You know Sal's here?"

"I saw," Arthur says, watching Dom's face carefully. "We talked a little."

"Yeah." Dom sighs again, seeming almost not to hear Arthur. "He told me we're having a sit-down later—god knows about what. I don't even remember why I invited him. Guess it must have seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Guess so," Arthur says, and Dom's expression betrays nothing. He smiles genially, and Arthur feels his gut clench. "You think he's here to talk business? It's a Christmas party."

"It would not surprise me in the least," Dom says, nodding. "I bet he's here to nag me about that deal we're doing next year. The man never takes a break."

"That's probably it," Arthur says, and forces himself to smile. "You know I—I went on a date with Carmen the other night."

"Did you?" Dom blinks at Arthur. "That's great! How was it? You get a little something something?"

"It was good," Arthur replies. "I ended up staying the night."

"Hell yeah!" Dom whoops right in Arthur's ear and he winces. "I knew you could do it. Just gotta get right back on that pony."

"Yeah." Arthur downs the rest of his wine and then disentangles himself from Dom. "I gotta take a leak," he says by way of explanation.

"Go, go," Dom says. "Use the one in the master bedroom—it should be empty. And probably cleaner."

Arthur nods and heads upstairs. He makes his way into the bathroom, flips on the lights and trips over a pair of high heels which lie discarded on the floor. Once he recovers his balance, he finds the owner of the shoes sitting barefoot on the edge of the bathtub, clutching what appears to be a crumpled-up paper towel.

"Mal?" Arthur squints at her. "What are you doing in here?"

"Sitting," she replies, and her accent makes the word sound nearly profound.

"Oh." Arthur shakes his head and the world tilts a little bit. Possibly he's drunker than he originally thought. "Well, I really need to piss."

"Go ahead." Mal waves in the direction of the toilet but doesn't move otherwise.

"Uh." Arthur waits. "You're just going to sit there?"

"I was here first," Mal says, as if the answer to that question should have been obvious. "Unless you have stage fright?"

"No, I—" Arthur suspects there are reasons why he should be against this, but nothing comes to mind and his bladder stopped giving a shit about anything ten minutes ago. So he unzips his pants and lets go.

After he flushes, Mal says, "Impressive."

"Thanks." Arthur tucks his dick back into his pants. "I worked really hard at growing it."

Mal lets out a startled burst of laughter, and then immediately stops. "Shame on you," she says, scolding. "Making me laugh when I am trying to wallow in sadness."

"Is that why you're in here?" Arthur squirts some lavender-scented soap onto his palm and works it into a foamy lather. "You're… wallowing in the dark?"

"Is it not obvious?" Mal asks with a tremulous smile, and when Arthur looks more closely, he can see the smear of makeup down her cheeks, the puffiness of her eyes. "Ten years, now, and still Dom's family looks at me like old gum on their shoe."

"They—" Arthur's not sure if he missed some transition in the conversation, or if there simply wasn't one. "I'm sorry."

"You wouldn't know, would you? You are like their third son." Mal shakes her head. "Me? I am a stranger, an intruder, a goddamn Frenchie."

"You—" Arthur scours his brain for the last time he heard one of Dom's relatives say something positive—or at least not negative—about her. He comes up short, unless, she's got a nice rack, but a little mouthy counts. "They didn't always love me."

"No?" Mal says. "I find that hard to believe."

"It's true." Arthur puts down the cover of the toilet seat and sits down heavily. "They didn't get why Dom kept bringing some fragile teenage kid around. Thought it was weird, that maybe it was some phase he'd grow out of."

"But now they love you," Mal says. "Now you are one of them."

"Does it seem that way?" Arthur chuckles. "Sometimes it's like torture, coming to these things. I know everyone's names and just enough about them to make ten minutes of small talk before it gets awkward. Then I have to make an excuse to get away and the cycle starts all over again with some other third cousin."

"That's more than I get." Mal bows her head. "Nothing is ever good enough for Carmela—not my cooking, or my home, or my children who say Maman instead of 'Mom.' Dom's father barely speaks to me, and his brother and sister treat me like I am contagious and will infect their perfect little families with some European disease."

"Give it another decade," Arthur says. "Maybe they'll warm up or have died by then."

She laughs. "I look forward to it."

"Mal," Arthur says, and stands up. "Have you talked to Dom about this?"

"And what would I say?" She smiles, but it's small, sad. "He wants me to love them as much as he does. How can I tell him that I can't? How can I tell him that sometimes I feel so alone I want to scream?

"I'm sure he—" Arthur breaks off. "Well, I'm sure he'd try."

"Yes, I'm sure he would," Mal agrees, softly. "I never thought it'd be like this, coming here. My friends, they would laugh at me and my American fascination, say I would meet a cowboy and speak English for the rest of my life. I laughed too, but I didn't really think—" she stops.

"American fascination?" Arthur repeats, raising an eyebrow.

"I've always admired Americans, your confidence—and the conviction with which you believe that you are right, even when you are not," Mal says. "Americans do not doubt themselves, and you have a—a will to act."

"I don't know that that's always true," Arthur says. "It's not like we're all cowboys."

"Perhaps," Mal says, "but what other nation would rush into so many wars? What other nation would not hesitate to unleash two atomic bombs on their enemies?"

Arthur stares at her. "That was done to end a war."

"That is what my professor said, many years ago. I could not understand what he meant when he asked, est-ce qu'il vaut mieux lancer des menaces, ou agir?" Mal says. "Is it better to threaten, or is it better to act?"

"But now you do?"

Mal stands up, and cocks her head to one side. "I am beginning to."

Arthur steps into the deli and walks up to a girl in a long jean skirt fixing one of the displays. "Hello. I'd like to place a special order—is there any way I could speak to the manager?"

The girl puts down a box of matzos. "Um, sure. Let me go get him."

"Tell him it's Arthur Damrosch who's come to see him," Arthur adds.

The girl goes to the back while Arthur peruses the various meats on sale, and comes back a few minutes later. "He said he'll see you in his office," the girl says, seeming a little bit puzzled. "You can follow me."

She leads Arthur into a familiar back room where Fischer is sitting, his left hand resting in a heavy cast on the desk. "Thank you, Dvorah," Fischer says. "Please close the door and tell everyone I'm in a private meeting."

"Okay, Mr. Fischer." Dvorah gives them one last confused look before walking out and shutting the door.

"Arthur Damrosch," Arthur says. "We met some time ago."

Fischer laughs bitterly. "I remember. And if you came to break my other hand, I can tell you right now that it won't get you your money any faster."

"I didn't come here to collect. I came to offer you a chance to clear some of your debt," Arthur says. "Five thousand dollars worth, to be exact."

Fischer's eyes widen. "In return for what?"

"You find someone for me. Discreetly." Arthur withdraws a slip of paper from his pocket and drops it on the desk. "His name is Aaron Damrosch, and if it isn't already obvious, we're probably related. The problem is, he's practically off the grid—I think he lives in one of those all Jewish places where they stone cars if you pass through."

"So, what, he's Hasidim? Orthodox?" At Arthur's shrug, Fischer shakes his head. "Is he even in the state?"

"Probably," Arthur says, though he has no idea.

"How am I supposed to—" Fischer stares down at the paper. "Look, I'm barely even Reform. I haven't been to synagogue since my father's funeral. I don't know anything about black hats or how to track one down."

"Then ask one of your customers. Or, hell, one of your employees." Arthur takes a few steps forward to balance a hand on the desk and lean over Fischer. "If this was easy, why the hell would I be paying you?"

Fischer looks away. "You'll forgive the five thousand?"

"Once I confirm it's the right guy, yes." Arthur backs off. "Send the phone number, address, and whatever else you can dig up to the email I gave you. Don't tell anybody else about this."

Fischer puts down the paper. "Right."

Arthur turns to leave, but then Fischer asks, "Why do you do this?"

Arthur stops, and looks over his shoulder. "What?"

"They're animals," Fischer says. "The men you work for. Low-life scum that get by on intimidation and violence. Are you really telling me that gets you off too?"

"You don't know the first thing about me," Arthur says, voice low and steady. "And I'd be careful about saying whatever the fuck it is you think you know."

"Then maybe I just don't get how you could do this to one of your own," Fischer says, visibly angry now. "You don't think we get shit on by the rest of society enough without doing it to each other?"

"I am not one of you," Arthur turns. "So don't talk like 'we' are anything like."

"Oh right--because you're one of them," Fischer says, and his voice is mocking. "Europe's finest Italian imports except—oh wait, you've never been there. And neither have they."

Arthur's hands ball into fists, and he turns on his heel before he does something less than prudent. "Goodbye, Mr. Fischer."

As Arthur walks out the door, Fischer calls out, "Mr. Damrosch, you may see yourself as one of them--but they never will."

When Arthur gets to Perle, Dom and Eames are already in the booth. Dom's on the phone arguing—probably with Mal—while Eames sits beside him, picking at his nails. He looks good today, clean-shaven and wearing a navy button-down shirt, one that shows off the width of his shoulders. Arthur knows that what's underneath the shirt is even better, but he pushes that thought—like so many others to do with Eames—away.

Dom says goodbye, forcefully, and then, "Hey, Arthur."

"Dom," Arthur says as he slides into the booth. "Eames."

"That's some rain out there, isn't it?" Dom says as he stretches his arm out along the back of the booth. "I could barely see a foot in front of me when I was driving."

"Yeah, it's really coming down." Arthur props his umbrella up under the table. "Flood advisories all over the state."

"Yeah." Dom sighs, and takes a sip of his drink. "Look, do you think you'd be up for bringing Eames back? I know I said I'd take care of it, but Mal's been flipping out over the rain and insisting I come home early. You know how she gets."

"Of course," Arthur says automatically, not looking over at Eames. "Whatever you need."

"Thanks." Dom squeezes Eames' shoulder. "Sorry, baby. You know I'd love to stay with you longer, but—"

"Duty calls," Eames fills in. "I'm simply grateful for the time we do have together."

Arthur tries not to gag at the moony look Dom gives Eames at that. Further simpering back and forth is cut off--to Arthur's immense relief--when Cho arrives.

"You get caught in the storm too?" Dom asks, even though the answer is obvious.

"Unfortunately," Cho replies as he pulls his dripping peacoat off. His clothes are soaked, clinging to his body pretty much everywhere. It's not a bad look. "Ainsley didn't want me to come at all."

"Tell me about it," Dom replies. "Mal threw a fit."

Cho grimaces at the puddle he's created on the floor. "I'm going to try and dry off in the bathroom."

"I'll hold the deck till you get back," Arthur says. He watches Cho depart and reminds himself of his policy regarding the mix of work and pleasure.

"Dom, when will I see you next?" Eames says in the intervening quiet. "Promise me you'll come by before you leave the country and my lonely heart behind."

"I'm leaving the twenty-second, baby," Dom says. "I can stop by the day before I go, but it's already so busy what with packing and the kids--"

"A few hours are hardly enough, but I suppose they'll have to do," Eames coos, and Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. "And when will you be returning?"

"A couple of days after New Year's," Dom says, voice laden with regret. "I hate to leave you all alone for the holidays, but my family—"

"Family comes first, of course," Eames says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You'll bring me back a souvenir to let me know you thought of me, won't you?"

"Of course," Dom says as he kisses Eames lightly on the lips. "The best French wine I can find."

Arthur waves Ariadne over the moment he spots her, and that puts a stop to the kissy-faces. "A hell of a lot of water outside," she says when she gets to the table.

"Sure is," Arthur says. "One Dos Equis for me. You guys want anything?"

"Nah, I should take it easy tonight," Dom says, and Arthur supposes that's for the best; drunkenness in addition to being out all night probably wouldn't endear Dom to Mal any further.

"Anything for you, Eames?" Ariadne asks.

"Surprise me," Eames says, and she cocks her head to one side.

"You may not like what you get."

"A chance I'm willing to take," Eames says, and winks—to Dom's great amusement.

After Ariadne's gone, Dom nudges Eames on the arm. "Hey, no corrupting the innocent staff."

"Just a bit of harmless flirtation, love," Eames says. "Besides, you know I only have eyes for you."

Arthur rolls his eyes and leans forward when Cho reappears. "Ready to start the game?"

"As ready as I'm going to get," Cho says, resignedly.

The rest of the night proceeds from there: Dom and Eames making cloying kissy faces at each other, Ariadne bringing Eames a large pink margarita that he drinks with a flourish, and Cho getting up periodically to mop up some of the water he's dripping. The night ends with Arthur tired, irritable, and not particularly in the mood to drive through the hurricane, much less take Eames all the way back to the manor on top of it.

After an unnecessarily drawn out goodbye between Dom and Eames, Arthur and Eames hurry to the car. Arthur's wet just from the sprint—even with his umbrella—and Eames is only slightly better.

"Handy, this," Eames says as he folds up the smiley face umbrella and buckles himself in.

"Perhaps you'd like a bottle of French wine instead." Arthur means it as a joke, but it comes out strained, awkward.

Eames raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment as the rain picks up force, hammering against the sides of the car. "How long is this supposed to last?"

"All night," Arthur says as he starts up the car. "Some of the roads are already flooded."

"A veritable tempest," Eames observes, peering out the window.

Visibility is shit and though the windshield wipers fight bravely it's clearly a losing battle. The roads are treacherous, the soil filled to capacity already and ill-equipped to handle yet more precipitation. Arthur narrowly avoids swerving or being swerved into at least four times, and for most of the way he's driving through alarming levels of water on the ground.

But it isn't until they reach the final winding stretch of road back to the manor that they run into serious problems.

"Shit," Arthur says as the car plows through what has to be nearly a foot of water, and a tire bounces off a pothole. There's an ominous clicking sound coming from the engine, and the acceleration is becoming steadily less responsive.

"What a wonderful noise," Eames says, staring at the dashboard as well.

"There isn't any chance that this is what my engine is supposed to sound like in the middle of the apocalypse, is there?" Arthur grinds down on the acceleration pedal, but it's no use.

"If by that you mean, this is a sound which intimates that we're about to be stranded without an ark, then yes," Eames replies.

They make it halfway down the mile-long road before the car dies completely, engine going out with a faint wheeze. Arthur tries to start it multiple times—to no avail—and is forced to concede defeat when smoke starts to huff from underneath the hood.

Arthur sighs. "Anything you can do?"

"Not in this weather," Eames replies. "Could be any number of issues, but I can't diagnose if I can't open the hood."

"Goddamnit," Arthur says, removing the keys from the ignition. "We're gonna have to walk."

"Splendid," Eames says as he unbuckles his seatbelt. "What a delightful jaunt this will be."

As soon as Arthur leaves the car, he's instantly soaked—umbrella or no. There's water up to his knees, and he resigns himself to ruining his leather loafers in the swirling mixture of mud, leaves, and god knows what else around his ankles. Once he has his flashlight and umbrella pointing in the right respective directions, they set off.

They trudge for about fifteen minutes, the wind and rain continuing to buffet them from all sides. By the time they reach the house, Arthur's ready to collapse, and Eames looks about as miserable as Arthur feels.

"I need a shower," Arthur says, dumping his umbrella by the door and kicking off his shoes.

"My thoughts exactly," Eames says as he does the same. Dusty comes over to greet them, but immediately backs away upon discovery of water. "At the end of the hallway upstairs there's a guest bath."

"Great." Arthur peels off his socks and outermost layer of clothing, tossing them over the banister as he heads upstairs.

The guest bathroom hasn't seen much use by the looks of it; there's one limp towel lying on the ground and not much else. Arthur squints at it for stains before deciding, ultimately, that he can't be bothered to give a fuck. He gets out of his clothes and stops to take out his Glock and tuck it underneath the bathroom counter, safely out of sight.

The water takes a few minutes to heat up, but once Arthur steps under the spray, all the tension in his body releases. He sighs and turns his face up, relief settling in and water hot against his chilled skin. There's no soap so he rubs himself down, dislodging most of the grit and sand that's found its way into uncomfortable places.

Arthur turns off the tap before wiping himself briskly with the towel. He steps out of the shower to find Eames standing in the bathroom, a pile of wrinkled clothing in his arms. His hair is damp, and he's wearing a grey T-shirt that clings, hugging the clearly defined muscles of his arms.

Arthur is suddenly conscious of the fact that every shred of clothing he had is lying on the floor, sodden, and that the towel he's holding loosely in front of him barely covers his groin and nothing more.

Eames notices this too, if the way his eyes rake up and down Arthur's body is any indication. Eames opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out. There's a lightning-fast swipe of tongue against that improbably full lower lip, and the temperature of the bathroom, already sauna-like, seems to ratchet up even higher.

There's a long moment where they simply stare at each other, unmoving, until Eames drops the clothing in a haphazard pile on a counter and says, "Look at you."

With four quick strides, Eames is crowding up against Arthur, and he hasn't—can't—move. Eames stops, hovering close, but not quite touching. "Look at you," he repeats, voice almost a caress Arthur can feel across his chest, his abdomen, his dick. Arthur stares into Eames' grey-green eyes, pupils dilated but focused, so focused, and makes a decision.

The towel falls to the floor.

"Arthur—" Eames starts as Arthur closes the distance between them, fingers curling into the meat of Eames' biceps and mouth crushing against Eames' lips. It's not a kiss, not really—more a collision, a painful jolt that only spikes the want curling in Arthur's gut even higher. Eames seems frozen in place, unresponsive, but Arthur doesn't stop—only drags him closer, jeans and cheap cotton rough against Arthur's shower-tender skin.

It isn't until Arthur scrabbles his hands underneath the hem of Eames' T-shirt, lifting up to spread his fingers over solid muscle that Eames finally seems to come alive, lips moving in the shape of what might be words before he angles his head to one side, searching for a way to deepen the kiss.

When they find the right angle Arthur nearly moans with how good it is, with how Eames' lips are on the border of being too plump, too soft—a jarring contrast with the taste of cigarettes and tequila, the unyielding muscle everywhere else.

Arthur feels lightheaded, dazed as Eames surges forward to press him back against the shower door, the wet chill of the glass sharp against bare skin. Eames' hands move restlessly over the top half of Arthur's body while his thigh comes up to press against Arthur's dick. The denim is rough, almost uncomfortable, yet Arthur can't help but push into it.

"Fuck," he hisses as Eames grinds up slowly, his hands trailing down Arthur's arms, pressing them back against the glass as well. "Eames, wait," Arthur says, and that's enough to stop Eames, cause him to loosen his hold. Arthur throws his weight forward as he pulls his arms free, and Eames staggers back.

Before he can regain his balance, Arthur catches Eames' wrist and spins him around until he's the one pressed up against the shower door. Arthur wastes no time in pinning both of Eames' wrists to the glass on either side of his head, and Eames laughs--a sharp, defiant sound. He wriggles and tests Arthur's grip, but doesn't try to escape, eyes hooded and dark as he reaches out to capture Arthur's mouth with his own.

Arthur slots their legs together and Eames' hips roll against Arthur's thigh in a manner that's positively obscene. The fabric scratches again at Arthur's skin, pulled tight across Eames' crotch in an unmistakable bulge. Arthur wants to sink to his knees, mouth at Eames' cock through his jeans, his underwear, suck it down to the back of his throat—but to do any of those things, he'd have to let go of Eames' wrists, let go of the rabbit-fast race of his pulse--and he's not quite prepared to do that. So Arthur contents himself with pressing his leg in tight circles against Eames' crotch, reveling in the low grunts Eames makes while his hips shudder forward and back convulsively.

Arthur lets go of Eames' lips to kiss down his jaw to the side of his neck, licking and biting lightly at the column of his throat. Eames groans and begins to rut in earnest at that, the motion of his leg brushing against Arthur's cock like the best and worst tease.

"Arthur," Eames says as his thrusting becomes more erratic, his head dropping forward to catch Arthur's lower lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to draw forth a sharp exhale of pain.

Arthur can feel the moment when Eames comes, mouth going slack as he jerks forward and back, and the strength of the thrusts catches Arthur off-guard, throws him off-balance enough to catch himself on Eames' thigh, the rough of it dragging over Arthur's cock like a series of exposed nerves. It's too much and not enough, but the sound of Eames' moan vibrating along the shell of Arthur's ear shoves him straight over the precipice, the heat of it racing from his ear to his cock and up his spine.

"Ah fuck," Eames mumbles as he sags against the shower door. Arthur's legs are shaking, unable to bear the burden of both their weight, so they slide down together until Arthur's knees hit cold tile.

Arthur sways and releases Eames' wrists, and Eames' hands come immediately around to stroke down Arthur's back, his sides, his ass. Eames pulls Arthur in closer again, mouth nearly gentle as he sweeps over Arthur's cheek, his chin, and up to his lips. Arthur loses himself to the sensation, licking into Eames' mouth, nearly forgetting to breathe as he goes.

He doesn't know how long they kiss like that, splayed out on the bathroom floor like worn rag dolls. They stop only when the bathroom grows cold, steam turning to condensation and goosebumps rising across all of Arthur's body.

"I always wondered what you'd be like underneath those suits," Eames whispers as he pulls away enough to stare down the front of Arthur's body. "You're bloody perfect."

Arthur hasn't wanted to keep mindlessly kissing someone this badly since high school. He cards his fingers through Eames' damp hair and smirks, a little. "Am I?"

"We both know the answer to that. Come on." Eames stands, and holds a hand out to Arthur. "It's freezing in here."

Arthur doesn't take the hand, opting to get up on his own, legs stiff from kneeling on the floor for so long. His crotch and stomach are a disgusting mess, and when he wipes up with the towel he'd discarded before, he contemplates another shower. But then there's the way that Eames is still staring at him—hungrily--and Arthur decides against it.

"This isn't the bathroom where the heat reaches, is it?" Arthur asks.

"Unfortunately not," Eames says, and winces as he unzips his jeans and steps out of them, leaving him in nothing but damp and sticky underwear. Arthur tries to focus on donning the wrinkled clothing Eames brought in, but it's no use. The corner of Eames' mouth quirks up when he catches Arthur looking. "I haven't come in my trousers since I was fifteen," he says as he slips out of his underwear, and Arthur doesn't bother hiding his stares anymore. Eames' dick has mostly softened, and Arthur wants nothing more than to slide back onto his knees and suck him until he's hard again.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Arthur aims to keep his voice nonchalant, and isn't sure if he succeeds. He finishes slipping into a T-shirt and sweatpants, which are too loose but at least fit length-wise. When he looks up, Eames is bending down to gather all the discarded laundry, and as Arthur takes in all the smooth, tan flesh of his back and round, firm ass, he realizes: Eames has no tan lines.

Jesus.

"Take it however you'd like," Eames says, voice cool. He extracts a pair of gym pants that appear to be mostly clean and dry, and slips into them. They're a fraction too tight, and show off every curve of his ass and dick lovingly.

"I shouldn't--" Arthur starts, and then stops. He shouldn't--what, exactly? Stay? Go? The rain is still thundering down on the roof, his car is down for the count, and no taxi is going to come get him with the condition the roads are in.

"I'm going to throw these in the wash," Eames announces, apparently indifferent to what Arthur does or doesn't do. "And then I'm going to make myself a bite to eat."

Arthur watches Eames go and then sighs, pushing the wet hair back from his face. Fuck, he thinks. All that carefully maintained distance, all that endless self control shot to hell because of--what? A little rain?

Arthur closes his eyes. There's nothing he can do at the moment to mitigate this, nothing he can do to unwind what happened or erase it from memory. Eames has proven surprisingly trustworthy--or at least, willing to cooperate when it's in his own best interests--for months now, but that's not going to be enough. Arthur needs to ascertain at what point in the future he can expect Eames to become a liability, and start to prepare for that.

He opens his eyes and heads out into the hallway, downstairs. Arthur has never been a slave to his dick, had always rolled his eyes at men who claimed they were helpless before their stupider impulses. Sex is cheap--sex can be had anywhere, for whatever price a person is willing to pay. This was just--

"Eames," Arthur says, walking into the kitchen to find Eames stirring a pot of what appears to be tomato soup. "What happened--"

"Did something happen?" Eames replies mildly as he takes the pot off the flame. "All I recall is that you took a shower and changed into fresh clothing."

"Good," Arthur says, after a beat. "That's what I remember too."

"Marvelous." Eames' voice is calm and even. Arthur doesn't know why he expected anything different. "I made up the couch for you to sleep on."

"Great," Arthur says stiffly. "Goodnight, then."

He leaves Eames in the kitchen, still stirring, and walks to the back room he and Eames had their first sexual near-miss in. The fire's going and there's a blanket spread across the leather couch, along with a single pillow.

Arthur lays down and tries to get comfortable—the couch isn't nearly long enough—and watches the fire, waiting for sleep to come.

Arthur comes awake with a jolt of adrenaline, body tense in an instant. His back hurts, and so does his neck, contorted into a strange position from sleeping on something other than a bed. He sits up and squints at the dying fire, the events of the previous night coming back in a dizzying rush.

He stands up and stretches, popping his aching joints and wincing when his bare feet hit cold wooden floor. Once his body's protests die down sufficiently, Arthur walks out of the room and back into the foyer of the house, stopping to slip his feet into mangled and not-quite-dry shoes.

When he steps outside, it's to a grey and overcast day. There's no rain, but also no sun in sight.

Arthur walks down the driveway to the bottom of the slight hill the manor is situated on. Spread before him is a completely flooded road; in the distance, he can see the outline of his car in a sea of broken tree branches and more than a foot of water.

He turns around and goes back inside. After he takes off his shoes, he scouts around for what appears to be an active heating vent to lay them by, and then heads into the kitchen. He opens the cabinets until he finds an open box of pancake mix and syrup (Dom fucking loves pancakes, but Arthur tries his best not to think about that).

He's transferring a freshly cooked pancake from the pan to a plate when he hears the sound of footsteps, followed by a pair of familiar arms encircling his waist.

"Good morning," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear, stubble grazing against his jaw, and it occurs to him that Eames' hold would very hard for Arthur to break free of. Not impossible, but difficult.

"Morning," Arthur replies, dick taking an interest in the warm, hard body behind him, regardless of said body's ability to incapacitate. "I made pancakes."

"I noticed." Eames sounds amused. His palms skim up Arthur's stomach and over his chest in a crude sort of pat-down.

Arthur tests the heft of the pan when he goes to flip a pancake, and thinks that with a swift elbow to the gut, he could probably get Eames to fall back enough for Arthur to swing around and knock him out. Provided Eames doesn't slam him forward into the stove and burning-hot pan first.

"I made enough for you, too," Arthur says. He can feel Eames' erection nestled against his ass, rubbing very lightly between his cheeks. Eames' hands slide up the inside of Arthur's thighs to cup his cock—briefly—before moving back to grip Arthur's hips.

"How considerate of you," Eames hums into Arthur's hair, not moving away.

Arthur turns off the stove. "I was hungry."

Eames nips at the side of Arthur's neck and then steps back, all of the strength coiled around Arthur's body suddenly gone. "Let me make the coffee, then."

They eat breakfast in silence, Eames' gaze flickering between his pancakes and Arthur, but cutting away before they make actual eye contact.

When they're done eating, Eames deposits all the dishes in the sink while Arthur sips his coffee. It's good—dark and strong with only a hint of milk.

Eames comes to stand by Arthur's side, and he touches Arthur's hair, which is now loose and falling in his face. His fingers move unsteadily against Arthur's scalp.

"Something you need?" Arthur asks, looking up from his coffee. His nose ends up in Eames' palm, which is warm, calloused, and smells of soap.

"Perhaps," Eames says before tipping Arthur's face into a kiss. The kiss is startlingly soft, sweet with the maple syrup in Eames' mouth, and when they pull away for air Arthur is fully hard.

"Is this another incident you're going to forget?" Arthur murmurs as he swivels around on his barstool, hands coming to rest on either side of Eames' neck.

"There's something about you which does awful things to the mind." Eames' eyes are heavy-lidded as he boxes Arthur in with his arms. "I can barely think."

"Then don't," Arthur replies as he begins to exert some downward pressure against Eames' shoulders. The corners of Eames' mouth quirk up, but he sinks down willingly enough, pressing his face forward into the front of Arthur's pants without hesitation.

Eames breathes over the shape of Arthur's dick, open-mouthed, and Arthur bites his lip to choke off a moan. Eames' hands push Arthur's knees apart further, move down to caress his ankles, and then cup the bare skin of his feet, before trailing back up to pull at the elastic waist of his pants. Arthur shimmies free, and his dick curves back to slap lightly against his stomach.

"You're a wet dream," Eames says as he stares at Arthur's cock, voice already hoarse.

Arthur reaches one hand down to stroke his cock lazily while the other smooths Eames' hair back. "You've thought about this?"

"Haven't you?" Eames asks before he leans in to lick delicately at Arthur's balls. At Arthur's sharp gasp, he begins to lap, and then finally takes them into that luscious mouth of his.

"Fuck," Arthur mutters as he throws his head back, the warmth and suction amazing in and of themselves, but also a tantalizing hint of what's to come. "Fuck, you should—"

Eames releases Arthur's balls with a parting kiss, and trails his lips up the underside of Arthur's cock to lick at the bottom of the head. Arthur watches Eames tease with his slightly parted lips, the tip of his tongue, and thinks that no fantasy could have ever prepared him for this—for the slight rasp of stubble between his thighs, for the intensity of Eames' gaze, the way he flirts with Arthur's cock.

When Eames finally slips Arthur into his mouth, it requires all of Arthur's willpower not to come from the visual alone. Eames doesn't take too much in at first, bobbing back and forth while tonguing the head, sinking gradually downward with every suck. Arthur keeps his fingers light in Eames' hair, knowing that even though he wants nothing more than to thrust forward, as soon as he does it'll all be over too soon.

Eames takes more and more of Arthur's cock into his mouth, hands coming around to stroke Arthur's balls' gently. When the head makes it down Eames' throat, Arthur shudders and says, "I'm gonna—"

Eames pulls off, moving to mouth at the side of Arthur's shaft, and when Arthur finally lets go it's like yesterday all over again—heat roaring through his veins, shocks of pleasure curling his fingers and toes.

He opens his eyes to Eames standing, watching him, lips parted and wet. Arthur reaches out to press a thumb to the center of Eames' lower lip, and sucks in a shaky breath when he bites down.

Eames' pants are down and his dick is out, Arthur realizes after a few unsteady moments, watching Eames lick the tip of his thumb. He reaches out to cover Eames' hand—which is flying up and down frantically—with his own, and looks Eames in the eye.

Eames' prick is hot to the touch, smoldering heat, and his gaze is growing steadily more unfocused, eyelashes fluttering with every stroke. Arthur rubs a thumb over the slit of Eames' dick, and then presses again, maybe too roughly, while Eames jerks and moans. His mouth goes slack, Arthur's thumb slipping from his lips when he comes, and Arthur watches his face, fascinated.

Eames falls forward to pant against Arthur's shoulder, heavy, sweating. It's been a long time since Arthur's been with someone this built, and the reality of it continues to be better than even the most hopeful fantasy—much to Arthur's continuing disbelief.

Arthur clears his throat. "So we had breakfast," he says, "and then went outside to check the road."

"You had breakfast and went to check the road," Eames corrects as he eases himself back. His voice is husky, rough, and Arthur's dick takes more than passing notice. "I slept in."

"You slept in," Arthur agrees, grabbing a napkin to dab at the jizz that's cooling on his thighs and the bottom of his shirt.

"You should call Dom," Eames says as he watches the process without pretense. "He might attempt to visit tonight."

"Really?" Arthur strips off his shirt and climbs off the stool. "That's not in his schedule."

"Dom tends to find the time when he and Mal are fighting." Eames also takes his shirt off after a beat, and uses it to clean his dick and stomach.

"Great," Arthur says. "So he could come by any time before he's scheduled to leave for Paris?"

"Yes, although that's not much of a concern with the way the road is at the moment." Eames balls up his shirt and Arthur averts his eyes.

"Let's hope my cell still works." Arthur walks into the foyer before he can yield to the desire to lick every inch of Eames' bare chest, and fishes his phone out of his mostly-dry jacket pocket. It seems to have fared better than his wallet, which he lays out next to his shoes.

"The rain's stopped, but the road is totally flooded," Arthur says when Dom picks up. "It's not safe to drive out here."

"Yeah, it's flooded as hell down here too." Dom sighs. "I was really hoping—well. I'm not sure whether I'm going to be able to get away after today."

"I'm sorry," Arthur says. He's starting to get cold; he needs to go find more clothing and maybe take another shower. "Any messages for me?"

"Just the three words. You know the ones," Dom replies.

Arthur hangs up and wanders back into the foyer just as Eames ambles down the stairs with Dusty. He's put on a new shirt—this one white and thin enough for Arthur to see the outline of his nipples, the shadows of a tattoo.

"What'd he say?" Eames asks as he fastens Dusty's leash.

"He says I love you and I’m sorry I can't come see you," Arthur says. "Do you have another shirt I could borrow?"

"I think I rather like you this way." Eames gives Arthur an appraising once over. "But if you simply must be clothed, I might have left a few things in the guest bath from yesterday."

Arthur returns to the guest bathroom and picks through the pile of wrinkled but clean-smelling clothing. He's got a green shirt halfway on before he thinks better of it and jumps into the shower.

He emerges feeling cleaner, calmer--more in control. Being around Eames makes it difficult for Arthur to think, but now they've fucked around and the worst of it should be out of both their systems. After the water recedes, Arthur thinks, no more.

He heads into an empty bedroom and spends the next five hours checking his email, making calls, and handling the minor crises that have arisen as a result of the flooding. All the construction sites are shut down, of course, and god knows how much structural and property damage there might be.

Unfortunately, there's only so much he can do remotely; even if he did go get his laptop, his ability to get any meaningful work done is still limited.

Once he's finished doing everything that he's able to, Arthur heads downstairs. Eames, as far as Arthur knows, is upstairs doing his physical therapy (he'd heard the creak and whir of exercise equipment through the wall, and allowed himself ten minutes to imagine Eames doing lunges, covered in sweat, before returning to work).

Arthur walks outside and takes a look around. The ground is muddy, the road still flooded, but the water level seems to have dropped. Resigning himself to further destroying his shoes, Arthur wades out to his car and attempts to start it. As he suspected, it has absolutely no interest in doing so, and after ten or so tries, he gives up and heads back inside for dinner.

He finds a microwavable meal in the freezer and heats it up. There's no sign of Eames downstairs, so Arthur wanders back to watch some television on the couch that's currently doubling as his bed.

He turns on the news and watches footage of the previous night's storm, video of loose garbage floating on top of high water, and interviews with cranky people complaining about flooded basements.

"On a happier note," the blonde reporter chirps, "most of the water should be due to evaporate overnight thanks to the unseasonably warm temperatures we're expecting tomorrow!"

It'll be as if today never happened, Arthur thinks as the news report moves onto a segment about an award-winning cat named Miffy.

"I took a look at your vehicle," Eames says, appearing in the doorway with Dusty at his heels. "You'll need to call a tow service."

"There's nothing you can do?" Arthur finishes eating the last of the limp string beans on his tray and wipes his mouth.

"I don't have the proper tools to do much more than inspect and make a few educated guesses," Eames replies as he pushes off the doorframe and takes a few steps forward. "And there may be some parts that need to be replaced due to water damage."

"Okay." Arthur slides the tray off his lap and onto the coffee table. "I'll call AAA first thing in the morning. Most of the water will probably have evaporated by then." Eames nods, and Dusty comes over to snuffle at Arthur warmly.

"I—" Arthur glances back at the TV, where the reporter is interviewing someone whose farm flooded. "Thank you. For checking the car and—everything else."

Eames' expression doesn't change. "My pleasure."

"Anything good on right now?" Arthur clears his throat, and stops petting Dusty. After awaiting further pats for a second or two, she seems to lose interest and wanders out of the room. "I never watch when I'm at home."

"There's a series on Animal Planet that I'm rather partial to." Eames walks over to the sofa and his hand comes to hover above Arthur's on the remote. "It's called Predators of the Deep."

Arthur isn't sure whether he's joking or not. "It's all yours."

Before he can move, Eames covers Arthur's hand with his own and presses the numbers with Arthur's fingertips. "Forty-six," he murmurs in Arthur's ear, and the image of a hammerhead shark flickers onto the TV screen.

"In addition to the five senses of hearing, smell, touch, taste, and sight, sharks have the unique ability known as electroreception, or the ability to detect fluctuations in the electrical fields they swim through," the narrator on the TV intones. "This allows them to locate the heartbeat of any potential prey, even when they lie hidden in the sand…"

Arthur catches Eames' arm and brings the skin of his wrist up to kiss, then the heel of his hand, and finally the pad of each finger. Eames' lips fall open slightly, and Arthur can feel faint tremors against his mouth.

"I've wanked to this, you know." Eames comes to stand in front of Arthur, thumb coming to rest in the center of Arthur's lips. "Your mouth around my prick, sucking me down and begging for more."

"What makes you think I care what you fantasize about?" Arthur asks, breathing on Eames' thumb but careful not to let it slip inside.

"You're saying it doesn't make you hard to imagine me on a bed, fucking myself with my fingers and imagining it's you?" Eames leans forward until his face is only inches away, breath ghosting over Arthur's cheek. "Or pulling my prick in the shower, wishing you were there watching me come all over the walls?"

Arthur's heart begins to pound as the images race through his mind, a blur of fantasies and ideas that somehow manage to pale in comparison to the reality. "If I blow you," Arthur bites his lower lip and notes Eames' sharp intake of breath, "what do I get?"

The answer comes swiftly and without hesitation, "You can take that big, beautiful dick of yours and fuck me into the bloody mattress."

"Fuck yes," Arthur hisses as he gives Eames a single, bruising kiss, and then slides to his knees on the floor.

It's only a matter of seconds before Eames' pants—no underwear—are on the floor, dick hard and shiny with precome. Arthur gets his mouth on Eames' cock, and it's no hardship, not when he hears Eames stutter and moan above him. Arthur tongues at the foreskin curiously, which Eames seems to like, and when Arthur feels a touch to the back of his head he begins to bob up and down, sucking in earnest. After a minute or so, he gathers enough coordination and focus to look up, and Eames is watching him, murmuring--something too low to hear.

Arthur wets a finger and traces behind Eames' balls, past his perineum into the cleft of his ass. Eames doesn't seem to notice until he gets the finger all the way in, bucking up into Arthur's mouth when he makes contact with that spot.

The third time Arthur brushes up against Eames' prostate, he comes without warning, and Arthur only manages to pull off after a jag of come goes straight down his throat.

Most of the jizz ends up on Arthur's shirt, and a bit makes its way onto his chin. After Eames finishes coming, Arthur takes off his shirt and cleans himself up, waiting for Eames to open his eyes.

"Terribly sorry about that, darling," Eames says, but his smirk is too languid and satisfied to be convincing. "You caught me a bit off-guard."

"I guess I'll live." Arthur stands, knees aching slightly from the cold wood floor. "As long as you're still up for being fucked."

Eames puts both hands on Arthur's bare chest, fingernails scraping lightly over his nipples. "Have you ever made a man come from your cock alone?"

"So greedy," Arthur comments. "And—" he leans forward to bite Eames on the earlobe, "yes."

They end up on the bed, Eames' ass in the air and his hips propped up by pillows. Arthur pauses to take in the view: Eames' spread legs, his high, round ass, the pink pucker of his hole. Arthur runs a thumb teasingly across it as he lubes up his fingers, and Eames stretches languorously.

"I'm going to fall asleep," Eames announces after Arthur's worked his third finger in. "If you don't get on with it."

"By all means." Arthur twists his fingers until Eames gasps. "Don't let me keep you."

"You kinky fucker," Eames says, with a breathy laugh.

"We had a deal," Arthur replies mildly, putting a palm between Eames' shoulderblades and letting his cock slide between Eames' cheeks. "And as I recall, you were the one gagging for my big, beautiful dick."

"Can't blame a fellow for being impressed." Eames twists around and catches the back of Arthur's neck, bringing him down for a kiss. "Provided, of course, you know how to use it."

Arthur only smiles as he eases back, rolling a condom on and getting into position. The first push in is dizzyingly good, and Arthur has to fight the impulse to shove forward all at once. Measured thrusts and careful control are the only way he's going to last in this sweltering, tight tight heat. He eases forward slowly, inch by inch, until he bottoms out and takes a moment to breathe, rubbing a circle into Eames' lower back absently.

"Arthur," Eames says, beginning to fidget. "Darling, please."

Arthur gets a hold of Eames' hips and begins to thrust, experimenting with the angle until he finds the one that produces a shocked moan. He picks up the pace then, trying to keep his breathing and rhythm steady, even as Eames groans and everything in Arthur's body wants to fuck forward with wild abandon.

"Oh god, right there, oh god--" Eames starts babbling, his fingers digging claw-like into the covers. His back is arching as his feet scrabble for purchase, trying to find enough traction to push back against Arthur. It all goes straight to Arthur's dick, frays at the delicate edge of his control, but if the way Eames is keening is any indication, they're almost there, almost—

Arthur can barely hear Eames shouting over the roar of the blood in his ears, but he feels it in the way Eames clenches around him, frantic and tight enough to push Arthur over in less than three thrusts.

The orgasm rips through him like a solar flare, pleasure traveling from his spine to the base of his skull. Sweat pours off his body as he collapses on top of Eames, too spent to summon the energy necessary to roll off—even with the uncomfortable amount of heat they're both producing. Eames, still panting beneath him, doesn't seem to mind.

"Wow," Arthur exhales. "Fucking hell."

"I'm attempting to think of a witty rejoinder, but none of my brain cells appear to be functioning." Eames shifts his weight until Arthur rolls off him, and then kicks away the jizz-stained pillow between his legs.

"I guess this is where you'd say, 'good show,'" Arthur says, doing his best British accent. It's probably pretty lousy, but Eames doesn't seem offended.

"Indeed." Eames chuckles as he squirms onto his side facing Arthur. "Very well then: good show."

Arthur reaches down to pull off his condom, ties it up and drops it over the edge of the mattress. "Sounds better when you say it."

"Oh?" Eames slides closer. "Do go on."

Arthur reaches out to slide a palm over Eames' bicep, up his shoulder and neck, reveling in the feel of nothing but smooth skin and corded muscle, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. "Everything about you is a ridiculous distraction."

"And what have I been distracting you from?" Eames' voice is surprisingly soft.

"From work. From my life." Arthur traces the intricate swirls of the tattoo across Eames' chest—a tree, Arthur thinks, now that he has the time and ability to look closely—and runs his fingers down the definition of Eames' abdominal muscles. "You make me feel like—like I could forget everything and do whatever stupid, crazy thing I wanted."

"It's not me, darling." Eames cups Arthur's jaw until he looks up. "I think you've always wanted to do these things--but nobody ever told you that you could before."

Arthur gets up a little after dawn, slipping out of bed without waking Eames and going outside to inspect the car. The roads are still wet but the water's gone down enough to drive safely, so he calls AAA.

He returns to the house to clean up all the rooms he's spent the past day in: the TV room, the guest bathroom, and finally the master bedroom. He changes back into his wretchedly wrinkled clothing and tosses what he was wearing into the laundry, starting the cycle and then going outside to wait for the tow truck.

Arthur finds Eames still asleep, but he wakes up immediately when Arthur touches him, eyes focused in less than ten seconds. "What time is it?" Eames asks.

"Early." Arthur steps back, the smell and heat of Eames' bare body already too alluring. "I have to go. Dom's flying out tonight, but he might want to say goodbye in person. I put most of the clothes I wore in the laundry machine, but remember to also wash the sheets and anything else we might have—used."

"Of course," Eames replies, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"You don't need to get up," Arthur says, awkwardly, but Eames is already tugging on some pants and a shirt from the floor.

"Fancy a cup of coffee before you go?" Eames asks as they walk downstairs together.

Arthur glances at his watch. "I already called a cab. Should be coming soon."

"Alright." Eames stops to scratch Dusty under the chin before opening the front door and stepping outside. "Warm out."

"Yeah." Arthur takes off his wrinkled—likely ruined—jacket and folds it over his elbow. The grass is muddy and there are large puddles scattered across the driveway, but in the distance, the road is clear and unblocked. "It is."

Eames pulls out a cigarette from his pants pocket and lights it. "What now, then?"

"Now I go back home, change, and rent a car for the week," Arthur says, not looking over at where Eames stands, only a few inches away. Dusty ambles outside and goes to sniff some of the earthworms that have made their way onto the pavement.

"I see." Eames blows a ring of smoke out.

"Obviously, nothing happened between us while I was here," Arthur says. "I slept on the couch, you slept in your bed. We didn't even eat together."

"Obviously," Eames echoes. He lowers his cigarette and whistles for Dusty to come back inside. "Very good, then. If that's all, I'll just be—"

"Eames, wait." Arthur grabs Eames by the waist and kisses him, tasting morning breath and cigarette smoke and somehow not caring. Arthur doesn't know why he does it.

"Arthur." Eames smooths the hair back from Arthur's face before gazing over his shoulder. "Your cab is here."

"Right." Arthur takes a step back and straightens his shirt. "That’s—I should go."

He turns and marches to the end of the driveway where the taxi is waiting, careful not to look back. After he gives the driver the address and slips into the back seat, Arthur tips his head back and closes his eyes.

All the things he has carefully not thought about over the past two days crowd into his mind, filling him with a sick sense of dread. He rubs his eyes and resolves: no contact with Eames for the next two weeks. No games, no temptation—and by the time Dom returns, the temporary insanity that possessed Arthur will have passed. He's sure of it.

He gets back to his apartment and tosses his ruined clothing in the trashcan, changing into a fresh suit and tie. It's a short walk to the Hertz nearby, and he has a plain blue Camry less than an hour later.

After a quick stop for a bagel and coffee, Arthur starts feeling more like himself again.

That is, until he reaches into his jacket for his wallet and realizes that he's not wearing his holster, which means he's not carrying his gun.

Which means he left it back at the manor, hidden under the counter in the guest bathroom.

"Fuck me," Arthur says. "Fuck."

"Arthur, hey," Dom says when he picks up the phone. "Everything okay?"

"I'm good. I was reviewing some records and I was wondering if you had a free moment." Arthur tries his best to sound apologetic. "I know you're busy, what with the travel preparations, but I've noticed some irregularities you might want to take a look at."

"Shit." Arthur hears Mal's voice in the background, and then the sound of a door shutting. "Now's not really a good time. Mal's been frantic with getting the kids ready and making arrangements with her parents—apparently, they can't even be in the same airport together."

"I'm sorry, Dom," Arthur says. "There are a few discrepancies, but I could probably just—"

"No, no, you're right." Dom inhales deeply. "Okay, yeah. I'll be there in a bit."

Dom arrives about an hour later, and Arthur begins walking him through all the records he's flagged in the past month or so. Most of them are probably rounding errors, and none of it is pressing business that couldn't be dealt with after New Year's, but when Dom sees the accounts he frowns.

"These seem like they should be naturally occurring mistakes but there's definitely a pattern here," Dom says. "The intervals are too constant—almost predictable. You see these weeks here?"

Arthur takes a closer look at what Dom's pointing at and begins to frown too; he's right. "Yeah, no, I see it. What does it mean?"

"The fuck if I know," Dom says. "But something's up."

They wind up poring over the records for hours, trying to guess at what the hell is going on and who could possibly be trying to screw them and how. They make little headway, unfortunately, because the list of possibilities is longer than either of them can vet in a day, and when Dom glances down at his watch he swears. "Fuck, I gotta go."

"Hm," Arthur replies. The numbers are trying to tell him something, but he's can't put his finger on what. "You need a ride?"

"No, I got it," Dom says, running a hand through his hair tiredly. "When I get back we can go over this again. Maybe it'll make more sense then."

"I'll keep an eye out for more."

"Yeah." Dom puts on his coat. He claps Arthur on the shoulder, then pulls him in for a hug. "Thank you, Arthur. For another good year."

"Dom—" Arthur says, something unpleasant beginning to well up inside.

"No, I mean it. You're the oil that keeps this whole engine running. God knows where I'd be without you." Dom puts both hands on either side of Arthur's face, leaning in to drop a kiss on both cheeks. "Maybe you think I don't notice, but I know how much you do for this organization, and everything you've sacrificed. I appreciate it, just like I appreciate your friendship."

"Thanks," Arthur says, the sick feeling inside him growing. "Thank you for—giving me a chance, all those years ago."

Dom takes an envelope out of his coat and then presses it into Arthur's palm, putting both his hands on either side. "You're family, Arthur. And family's what matters. Never forget that."

"I won't," Arthur says, numb.

"Merry Christmas." Dom cradles Arthur's cheek in his palm for a moment before he goes. "And Happy New Year. Here's to many more."

Once Dom's gone, Arthur opens the plain white envelope. Tucked inside is a letter on White Tree stationary which simply states, "Thank you, Mr. Dominic Cobb. Your prepayment for all of next year has been processed."

"Arthur," Eames says, seeming genuinely surprised. "Dom's left then, has he?"

"Yes." Arthur shifts his weight from foot to foot, searching for the best way to phrase his request. "I think I might have left something here."

"Rather sloppy of you," Eames says, leaning against the doorframe. "Uncharacteristic."

"Sometimes you make it difficult for me to—" Arthur stops. "Yes, sloppy."

Eames smiles, just a little one, and it takes Arthur a moment to realize that it's genuine. "And here I gussied up expecting Dom," Eames murmurs, reaching out to caress Arthur's jaw. "This is a decidedly welcome turn of events."

Arthur leans into the touch almost instinctively. "Eames—"

"There's something about the way you say my name," Eames says, and his smile widens, the tiniest bit.

"Is it even your real name?" Arthur asks, though he knows the answer already.

"No," Eames replies. "But I like it better than my real one."

I want to know everything real about you, Arthur thinks, I want you to promise that none of this is an act.

But of course Eames could promise anything in the world and Arthur would never know if any of it was true; Eames' previous marks never did, and Dom still doesn't. Arthur knows all too well, now, how easy it is to get caught up in the way Eames makes the blood sing and the body come alive.

Arthur pulls away.

"Everything that happened was a mistake," he says, taking a step back. "It shouldn't have happened, and it won't happen again."

"A mis—" Eames stops, and his smile fades. "I see."

"Good." Arthur swallows. "So it's settled."

"Very neatly." Eames' expression is absolutely blank. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Eames." Arthur reaches out to grab Eames' elbow as he turns to go.

"What?" Eames tries to shake him off, but Arthur holds on, and for one wild moment, he wants to take it all back. "I'm sorry," he wants to say, "I didn't mean it," and, "can I come in?"

Arthur swallows the words down. "My gun."

Not a muscle twitches in Eames' face as he jerks his arm from Arthur's grasp, disappears inside the house, and reappears with gun in hand. For a second Arthur thinks Eames might shoot him, but instead he holds out the butt of the gun.

The gun is shaking.

"If that'll be all," Eames says, words clipped.

"That'll be all," Arthur echoes, and Eames slams the door in his face.

Chapter Text

Arthur goes to work.

The office is deserted except for him, all the lights off and doors closed. He catches up on some back paperwork, files his expense reports, and reviews the accounts he'd looked over with Dom. No matter how he orders the figures and how many different algorithms he puts them through, they stubbornly refuse to yield any new insights.

He gets back to his apartment in Weston sometime in the evening, and waters his cactus. As he looks around the empty space of his living room, it occurs to him that he should get a TV. A flatscreen, maybe.

Arthur drives to the mall and spends half an hour perusing the selection, ignoring the harried masses of last minute Christmas shoppers rushing around the store. He picks out something that he likes well enough—and will also fit in his Camry—and waits in the checkout line for about an hour.

The installation is quick and easy, and as he surfs his limited cable package the cactus catches his eye again. Balal's probably already in New York, engaged in terse conversation with his ex-wife, desperately trying to keep up the façade that everything's A-OK in front of their daughter. Dom's probably in Paris stuck between miserable kids, Mal, and two fighting in-laws. Compared to circumstances like those, Arthur's the lucky one, really.

He makes himself a grilled cheese for dinner, jerks off in the shower while carefully not thinking about anyone in particular, and goes to bed by ten o'clock.

"She's a bit woozy today," one of the nurses explains as she leads Arthur to Lydia's room. "She had a bad reaction to the medication the other day, so Dr. Shapiro prescribed something new."

He finds Lydia sitting in the armchair, staring out the window with eyes that are unfocused, placid.

"Hey," he greets her quietly, so as not to startle her.

Her response is slow, head turning and expression blank for a long, frightening minute. "Arthur."

"Mom." He leans down to press a kiss to her cheek, relief washing over him as he does. "How are you?"

"Tired," she says, after a long moment of silence. "It's like—swimming upside down."

"What?" Arthur goes to change the calla lilies in the vase by her bed. "What do you mean?"

"When I was a little girl, our whole family went to a lake so we could all learn how to swim." Her tone is casual, as if her childhood memories were something she spoke to Arthur about regularly. "I used to race with Aaron to see who could swim the fastest to the other side. The others were too young then, and stayed only in the shallow parts by the land.

"I used to stare down through the water, trying to see all the way to the bottom, but I never could. So one day, I raced Aaron to see who could touch it first." She pauses. "He gave up halfway down and turned back, but not me. I had to know."

Arthur takes one of her hands in his. It's cool, dry. "Did you make it?"

"I don't—" she trails off, eyes going unfocused again. "I—"

"It's okay," he says, and squeezes her fingers. "It's not important."

"But you were there, weren't you?" Her brow furrows. "You remember."

"I—" Arthur swallows. "Yes, I do. You swam and swam, but saw that there was nothing at the bottom after all. So you came right back up again."

"Did I?" she turns her face up at him, wonderingly. "I gave up?"

"You realized that sometimes it's best to let things go," he says. "Even things you really want. Because that's the only way to avoid drowning."

"That doesn't sound like much of a life to me," she replies, and Arthur feels his gut clench. "But then you were always the careful one, weren't you?"

"Mom—"

"I've missed you so much," Lydia bursts out, and the grip on his arm tightens. "There are so many things I have to tell you—about my life, about my son, about how hard it's been being away from you and everyone else. How—lonely I've been."

"You can tell me." He swallows thickly as he kneels beside her. "You can tell me anything."

"I will." She smiles, wide and happy. "Arthur—my Arthur, he is such a beautiful little boy, so sweet and kind and good. Every day he amazes me, but I—I often think I cannot be a good enough mother to him. I cannot be with him as often as I should."

"I'm sure he understands. I'm sure he knows how much you—you want to be there."

"Perhaps," Lydia says, seeming unconvinced. "But why are you here, Aaron? What has brought you here after all this time?"

Arthur pulls a clumsily wrapped package from his coat. "I brought you a gift, for Christmas."

"But we don't—"

"The family doesn't," he says as he presses the present into her hands. "But you do. It's for you."

She stares down at the package, expression blank, until he finally rips off the red and green paper himself.

"It's a picture of us. I mean—of you and Arthur, your son," he says as he holds up the framed photo. "We—you took this at his college graduation, remember?"

"This is—" Lydia strokes her thumbs over their smiling faces. "This is me, but when did this happen? I don't--"

"Mom, please," he whispers, willing even the tiniest flicker of recognition to appear. "Please just—try to--"

"I look so old," she says, shaking her head. "When did I get to be so old?"

"Mom," Arthur says, and she looks up at him with faint surprise. "Don't you remember me?"

"I'm sorry," she says as she touches a curious finger to his cheek. "Should I?"

"Eames," Arthur says when Eames finally opens the door after ten minutes of knocking. "Hey."

Eames raises one eyebrow, unimpressed, and crosses his arms. He's in sweatpants and hoodie, hair un-brushed, jaw unshaven. He's the best thing Arthur's ever seen.

"Can I come in?" Arthur licks his lips, nervous. "Can we talk?"

Eames scans Arthur's face for a moment before his gaze slides off to the side and into the distance, over Arthur's shoulder somewhere. "Is there anything to talk about?"

"Come on. I—"

"No, Arthur, you come on," Eames says, lowering his voice in a rough approximation of Arthur's accent. "Unless Dom's returned to the country or there's an impromptu poker game I absolutely must attend, I've no idea why you're here."

"It's Christmas Eve," Arthur says, and there's more pleading in his voice than he'd intended, but he can't bring himself to stop it. "Please, I—"

"It's Christmas Eve, your bed is empty, and what seemed like such an awful idea a mere two days ago is suddenly marvelous again." Eames' voice is cold, maybe the coldest it's ever been towards him.

"I'm not asking you to—" Arthur inhales deeply. "I didn't come here for that."

"And yet you can't tell me what you are here for." Eames snorts when Arthur simply stares at him helplessly. "What, no response?"

"Can I come in?"

"You have the key." Eames' lip curls. "I can't stop you." With that, he spins on his heel and walks away, leaving the door ajar behind him. After a moment, Arthur follows him in.

Eames goes TV room, sits down to eat a microwaved dinner on the couch while BBC America plays softly in the background. Dusty lifts her head from the floor when she see Arthur, but Eames doesn't acknowledge him at all.

Arthur gingerly pushes away the trash on the other end of the couch—napkins, papers, an empty beer bottle—to make room to sit. Eames doesn't look away from what seems to be a thoroughly engrossing life insurance commercial.

"I don't know why I came," Arthur says, staring at the side of Eames' face.

His only response is to pick up the remote and increase the volume.

They sit like that for some indeterminate amount of time, watching the news (and commercials) together. Arthur glances sidelong at Eames periodically, having abandoned hope of any conversation, but if Eames notices, he makes no sign.

Eames finishes his meal and gets up, shutting off the TV without a word. He walks out of the room and Dusty gets up to follow him dutifully, leaving Arthur to sit in silence until he realizes Eames isn't coming back.

Arthur walks back into the foyer and finds Eames setting down a fresh bowl of water for Dusty. "Eames."

"If you have something to say, you should simply come out and say it," Eames says as he watches Dusty lap at the water.

"I don't want things between us to be—strange," Arthur starts. "When Dom comes back."

"They won't be," Eames says, not missing a beat. "I'll play my part and you'll play yours. No one will be the wiser."

"It's—" Arthur stops, voice tight. "Dom is—"

"Your best mate, your pseudo-father figure, the guiding light of your life, etc, I know," Eames interrupts. "Believe me, I'm fully aware of the extent to which your lives are inextricably bound up together."

"I was going to say he's the jealous type." Arthur clenches his jaw. "Things won't go well for—for either of us if he finds out."

"If you're seeking to extract further promises from me regarding the confidentiality of our ill-advised trysts, I should point out that there's very little for me to gain and everything for me to lose should he find out."

"Can you ever have a real conversation or is that just beyond you?" Arthur snaps, and Eames finally looks up.

"Real?" he repeats. "What given value of real are you employing?"

"You're always doing this, always trying to string me along on bullshit, all the while hiding behind a bunch of smoke and mirrors," Arthur says. "I've been ferrying your ass around for four months and I still can't get a straight answer from you."

"Right, because you've shown such an immense interest in really getting to know me up until this point," Eames replies, taking a step forward.

"I let you shoot a gun, I bought you all the things you said you needed—"

"Ah yes, you let me do so many things, didn't you?" Eames snarls. "How can I ever express my undying gratitude? I know Dom likes it when I suck his cock—shall I do that for you too? Oh wait."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Arthur says, voice rising. "What do you want me to say here?"

"Nothing." Eames puts a palm in the dead center of Arthur's chest and pushes him back a half-step. "I don't want anything from you. Not with the strings that are inevitably attached."

Arthur grabs Eames by the wrist and yanks him forward until they're flush against each other. "I don't think that's true," Arthur says as he reaches a hand down to cup where Eames is half-hard through his sweatpants.

"I want to fuck you because you're bloody gorgeous," he hisses. "But I don't need you."

"Because you don't need anyone," Arthur says, and lets go of him. "People are just a convenience to you, another means to an end."

"And what end do you serve, then?" Eames asks as he starts towards Arthur again, backing him up against the wall.

"You want a way out," he says, fingers reaching out to claw under the edge of Eames' sweatshirt, seemingly of their own volition. "Nothing I buy will ever be enough because all you want is a goddamn plane ticket out of here."

"And will you be on that plane with me?" Eames asks, baring his teeth a little. "Or will you stay here, dancing to Dom's infernal fiddle for the rest of your life?"

"Everything you do is a lie." Arthur's hand slides down Eames' back to grab at his ass. "At least Dom is honest."

"To whom? Certainly not himself." Eames grinds his hips forwards against Arthur, rough, his lips tantalizingly close. "Not to the family he professes to care so much about."

"Family is—" Arthur falters when Eames thrusts up against him, friction and heat that's sweet, punishing.

"Your life is a prison, Arthur." Eames leans forward to whisper harshly in his ear, "And your family is what's holding you captive."

Arthur growls as he digs his fingers into Eames' ass, attacking Eames' mouth with his own at the same time. The kiss is rough, bruising, and every bit as heady as the others had been barely three days ago.

They make it to the bedroom in a blind flurry of groping and panting, buttons being undone and shoes being kicked off along the way. When they reach the bed, Arthur shoves Eames onto his back and crawls up to mouth at his cock through his sweatpants, Eames putting a hand on the back of Arthur's neck to force him down further.

Arthur drags the pants down and pauses to suck a finger into his mouth. He slides it against Eames' hole at the same time as he takes Eames' dick into his mouth, and Eames groans, jerking up.

Arthur's stops at two fingers this time, pulling off before Eames can orgasm. "Turn over," Arthur say as he slaps Eames' thigh. "On your hands and knees."

"You're a goddamn cocktease," Eames replies but he goes, his pants still tangled awkwardly around his ankles, restricting his movement.

Arthur reaches around him to get condoms and lube from the nightstand, putting on the condom and slicking them both up quickly.

"Come on, come on," Eames huffs. "Before I change my bloody mind."

"As if you could possibly pass up the chance to come on my dick," Arthur replies as he pushes in, the hot slide just this side of heavenly. He squeezes the base of his cock to stop himself from coming immediately, and beneath him Eames is already panting.

"Hurry up and fuck me," he says. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Arthur slaps him on the ass as he pulls out, and then shoves back in hard enough to make him groan. "You're not calling the shots here."

But Arthur starts to pound into him anyway, hips shuddering forward and back, sharp enough to make Eames tremble and nearly mewl. Arthur loses himself in the mindless back and forth, the slap of balls against ass, flesh against sweat-soaked flesh filling his ears and crowding out all thought.

He feels the crescendo building, the sensation and sound too perfect to last for long. He grips Eames' hips hard enough to leave marks and snaps forward one last time before the heat rolls through him, coursing from his dick to his ass and up his spine. Below him, he thinks he hears Eames saying something, but it doesn't seem important.

When Arthur's brain starts working again, he finds himself sprawled on top of Eames, softening cock in his ass. Eames is lying flat on his stomach—presumably having come—and Arthur sits back, letting his cock slip out.

He staggers into the bathroom and guzzles a glass of water. He catches sight of himself in the mirror—flushed, dazed, hair sticking up every which way—and averts his eyes.

When he goes back into the bedroom, Eames rolls onto his side—off a considerable wet spot—and blinks blearily at Arthur. "Well," Eames says, voice slightly hoarse. "Now that you've gotten what you wanted."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your reason for coming over here in the first place." He rolls away so his back is to Arthur. "Congratulations."

"I didn't have some kind of agenda when I came here." Arthur grabs his pants off the floor, sliding into them and wincing when the fabric brushes up against his oversensitive cock. "I wasn't hoping to—"

"Arthur, I can't go another fifteen rounds of this horseshit with you," Eames says, and he sounds tired. "We've fucked. Now go."

"You don't know the first thing about what I want," Arthur says, glaring at his back and wishing he would turn over, yell, do fucking something. But he doesn't.

"You're right," Eames says. "And I'm tired of trying to guess. You know the way out."

Arthur stares at the curve of his back a moment longer, picks the rest of his clothing up off the floor, and leaves.

Christmas Day, 6:30 AM

Arthur wakes up and goes for a run through the neighborhood. He comes back, takes a shower, and ignores his half-hard dick the whole time.

He's halfway down the street to pick up his usual coffee, bagel, and paper when he realizes that the deli's not open. Not much of anything is, in fact.

After a thorough search, the barren cabinets of his apartment reveal some potato chips, Cheerios, and expired milk. He smells the last, decides that it's not off to the point of being undrinkable, and takes the plunge.

Once he's finished eating and washing out his bowl and spoon, he glances at his watch; it's too early to call his mother to check if she's awake, and next to nothing will be open on Christmas Day, including his gym.

He sweeps his apartment for bugs and, finding none, sits down with his laptop to do some work. There's not too much to be done—even factoring the email that's being forwarded from Dom's account to his—and Arthur finishes replying, deleting, and organizing before noon.

11:46 AM

"I just tried calling Lydia Damrosch's private line but she doesn't seem to be picking up," Arthur says. "Is there some kind of scheduled activity going on? Is she at lunch already?"

The receptionist goes to check and returns with a regretful, "I'm sorry, Mr. Damrosch. I'm afraid she's still sleeping, but if you'd like to leave a message I'll be sure to pass it on."

"No, that’s fine," he replies. "I'll call back later."

After hanging up, he fidgets on the couch. He could go visit her in person, spend the day speaking with a stranger who wears his mother's face and doesn't trust him. Or she could be having a good day, and he could spend the hours dreading the sea change that would inevitably come, swift and without warning, ready to capsize any boats unlucky enough to still be out on the open water.

Instead, he picks up his phone and sends a text message: Merry Xmas. A few minutes later, the phone rings.

"Hey," he says, startled.

"Saw your text," Balal says, voice warm and familiar. There's the thump of a door closing somewhere in the background. "Thought I'd use this as an excuse to escape the horror that is my ex-wife and her parents."

"That fun, huh?" Arthur leans back into the sofa, feeling his stomach settle, his shoulders relax.

"Yesterday, all my ex-mother-in-law did was make snide little remarks comparing me to Nina's—my ex-wife's—new fiancé. I'm sure you can imagine how the comparisons went," Balal says. "But that was before Luke got a call about some huge development in the case he's working on."

"Let me guess: he hasn't been able to stop talking about it since."

"Even better: he left for the office this morning and hasn't come back." Balal chuckles. "Nina's been on the warpath, and I am vindicated as the guy who may not be rolling in money but at least bothers to stick around on Christmas."

"Luke sounds like a douchebag."

"He is." Balal sighs happily. "He really, really is."

Arthur laughs. "Have your ex-parents-in-law conceded to this fact yet?"

"Pretty much. It's impossible to deny now," Balal says. "Anyway, what about you? Any big plans for the day?"

"I'm—going to a dinner with friends and family later," Arthur lies, and thinks back to last Christmas, when he and Lydia had gone to spend the day at Dom's house. Lydia had played delightedly with Phillipa while Mal—who'd still been pregnant—made dinner. Dom had asked him to be James' godfather and said, there's no one I trust more than you. "My friend's wife makes this amazing roast—thing. She's French, so I have no idea how to pronounce the name."

"Ooh la la," Balal says, and Arthur can practically see him grinning through the phone. "Sounds fancy."

Arthur chuckles. "Super fancy."

"Sounds better than what I'll be eating tonight. Nobody on Nina's side of the family is much of a cook."

"I kind of can't believe you even agreed to go back there. Driving all the way to upstate New York to deal with your ex, her family, and bad food?"

"It's not exactly my idea of a good time, but when you have a kid with someone you're kind of tied to them for the rest of your life," Balal says. "And I know that even if she won't admit it, Kat misses her mother. Skype and phone calls aren't the same as living with someone, even if they're only a state away."

"Yeah." Arthur pauses. "You're a good father, Balal."

"I—" Balal sounds startled. "Thanks. But I just do my best, I guess. Same as anyone else."

"As someone whose dad skipped out when I was a kid, I'd say you do it better than most." Arthur runs his fingertips across the pattern of creases in the leather material of the couch. It's cool to the touch.

"Lance," Balal says, quietly. "Your dad was a piece of shit and it was his loss, missing out on having a son as great as you. I hope you know that."

"Yeah." Arthur swallows. "That's—thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. It's true."

"Yeah, well—" Arthur clears his throat. "Anyway, I just wanted to—to check in and wish you a good one."

"Thanks for texting. It was really nice complaining at you."

Arthur chuckles. "Anytime."

"Merry Christmas, Lance." Balal says. "I'll give you a call the next time I get a free minute, alright?"

12:50 PM

The guy's ten years older and at least twenty pounds heavier than his photo. Arthur seriously considers turning around and calling the whole thing off, except—well, he really wants to get laid, and if he's honest with himself, this guy is probably the best he's going to get on his terms on such short notice. Everyone he picks up on the internet can't be Balal.

"Hey," he says, and the guy looks up from his drink. "Are you John?"

"Y-yeah." The guy does a painfully obvious double-take and nearly falls off his barstool. "Are you Lance?"

"That's me." Arthur's gaze lingers on John's pasty skin and thin lips. Disappointing. "You wanna head upstairs?"

"Oh yeah, definitely." The guy downs the rest of his drink in one go and follows Arthur obediently up to the room. They don't talk until the door closes behind them with a quiet click, and then he says, "You're really hot. Like—really."

"Thanks," Arthur says, eying the bed and wondering whether he wants to take his clothes off or not. Probably not; it might encourage John to do the same and he's not particularly interested in seeing more than he has to at this point. "So I was thinking you could blow me with my pants around my ankles. You up for that?"

"Hell yeah." John drops to his knees eagerly, and Arthur nods.

He takes a seat on the bed and pushes his pants down, John bending forward eagerly to take Arthur's mostly soft cock into his mouth. It takes a little while for hiim to get fully hard—the visual's not doing much for him—but John is clearly enthusiastic and seems happy to be there, so that's marginally hot in its own way.

Arthur closes his eyes and tries to imagine something erotic to speed up the process. Unbidden, Eames creeps in with his cocksucker lips and gorgeous ass, but Arthur resolutely pushes all of that away and calls to mind Balal: Balal with his generous smile, his kind eyes, and the way he rides Arthur's dick like he was born to do it.

After Arthur comes, he opens his eyes to find John pawing at his own erection through his pants, still kneeling on the floor. "You want to get on the bed?" Arthur asks. They'd agreed beforehand he would simply watch, but he's in a fairly generous mood now and could be persuaded to lend some manual assistance.

But John shakes his head and continues working himself through his jeans, which can't be terribly comfortable. Arthur raises an eyebrow, then slips a foot out of his loafers and presses it to the center of John's chest, pushing him a little. "Flat on your back," Arthur says. "I want you to lie on the floor, take your dick out of your pants, and come all over yourself."

John lets out a sharp exhale as he promptly does so, breathing growing heavy as he works himself off with his fist, eyes still fixed on Arthur's softening cock. Arthur watches with mild interest until John comes, and then tucks himself back into his pants.

"Thanks for that," Arthur says as he puts his shoe back on and stands.

"No, thank you," John says, seeming dazed.

"You can stay in the room as long as you'd like," Arthur says. "Check out's at noon and it's all paid for."

Then he steps over John and walks out.

3:17 PM

Arthur knocks for fifteen minutes and calls Eames twice on his cell for god measure, but unsurprisingly, there's no answer. He gives up on getting Eames to come to the door and pulls out his spare key, following the faint sound of the television to the back room.

Eames doesn't look up when Arthur enters, nor does he make any move to indicate he's noticed Arthur at all. He's wearing another sweatshirt, and the scruff from yesterday is maturing into a beard.

"Eames," Arthur says. Eames doesn't reply, silently stroking Dusty. "I'm sorry."

"This isn't going to be a repeat of yesterday night," Eames says, flatly. "So you should leave."

"Yesterday night shouldn't have—" Arthur stops. "I didn't come here to fight. Yesterday or today."

"Of course not," Eames says, but he's forced to stop petting Dusty when she leaps off the couch and pads over to greet Arthur.

"Hey, girl." Arthur bends down to scratch between her ears, watching her tongue loll out the side of her mouth in contentment. "Miss me?"

Eames increases the volume of the TV and the hostess of the cooking show says brightly, "Today, we'll be learning how to prepare our own Feast of Seven Fishes, also known as festa dei sette pesci or La Vigilia."

"Will you—" Arthur walks around to the other side of the couch, until he's standing between Eames and the TV. "What happened between us wasn't—that wasn't what I came over to do. I was a dick, and I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Eames echoes. "Oh, well, that does make everything better, doesn't it? Here, unbutton your fly and we'll be all squared away."

"Eames, god, stop," Arthur steps back when Eames reaches out for his belt buckle. "Can you listen to me for one second? I didn't come here for us to—to start getting into it again."

"I believe it's listening to you that's landed me in this situation to begin with," Eames replies, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now you're here to tell me what is already patently obvious—that is, you're a arsehole—and, I can only assume, to attempt to get a Christmas shag out of the deal. But of course this time will be the last time, truly, I'm certain of it."

"I—" Arthur lets his shoulders slump. "I know you have no reason to believe anything I say, but I didn't come here for another one-off fuck." When Eames doesn't reply, Arthur takes a deep breath. "I came because I can't stop thinking about you."

"Right." The sides of Eames' mouth drag downwards as he closes his eyes. "If I suck your dick, will you leave already?"

"No." Arthur slides to the floor in front of Eames and touches his ankle, tentatively. "No."

"Fuck me, then. I'll bend over the back of this sofa and you can—"

Arthur crawls closer when Eames doesn't kick or move away, and settles into the v of his legs, trailing hands up his calves. "That's not what I want."

"A handjob," he says, eyes still closed. "Or I can eat you out, I can finger you till—"

"Eames—"

"I'll—" Eames lets out a shaky breath. "I'll fuck you, I'll make you feel so good you'll see God, I—"

"Eames," Arthur murmurs, a ripple of heat clenching up his abdomen, stirring his cock. But he keeps his hands steady, trailing up Eames' unmoving arms to his shoulders, his neck. "I want to do everything with you. Anything. But not like this."

"Props, then? Toys? I—"

"I want to be with you." Arthur presses a tiny kiss to the side of Eames' jaw. "I don't want to fuck and walk away again."

"You don't even know what that means," he says, but he doesn't pull away.

"I know how I feel when I'm with you." Arthur chances another kiss along his jaw, then another. "It's like I've been sleepwalking my entire life, and now I'm finally waking up."

"Arthur—" Eames' eyes stay resolutely closed.

"Please." Arthur kisses the corner of Eames' mouth and brushes over the fullness of his lips, not allowing himself to get lost in them. "I don't want to wake up alone."

"Darling, darling." Eames finally brings a hand up to Arthur's face, calloused thumb dragging along his eyebrow, down his cheek. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I'm asking you to come with me. Come with me to my apartment, come with Dusty and stay with me." Arthur presses his forehead to Eames', and feels breathless, dizzy. "That's what I want. Please."

"For how long?"

"For as long as you can take it," he says, holding his breath until he feels a slight nod. When he opens his eyes, he finds Eames' are open, too. "Yes?"

Eames' expression is unreadable as he stands and holds a hand out to Arthur. "Yes."

He stares at the hand for a moment before taking it, allowing Eames to haul him up with the ease and strength so carefully hidden beneath layers of misdirection. Standing eye-to-eye again, it takes all of his self-control to let go and step back, to free himself from the seductive heat of Eames' body.

Arthur goes to get Dusty's leash and the rest of her things while Eames disappears upstairs to pack. Arthur expects it to take a while, but Eames is ready with two packed duffle bags in less than ten minutes.

The drive to the apartment is silent, Eames smoking out the window and the radio off. At a traffic light, Arthur glances over at the striking line of Eames' profile, and thinks about reaching out to touch his arm, maybe his knee.

Then the light flashes green and Arthur hits the acceleration, fingers curling into the wool of his pants.

They park in front of his building and get out, Eames shouldering his duffle bags and surveying the neighborhood. It's quiet out—as always—and getting to be late in the afternoon.

He makes no comment as Arthur leads him into the apartment. He merely sizes up the place—quickly, efficiently—and drops his bags by the door. Arthur leaves his keys on the dining table and takes a deep breath.

"You said there was a dog park nearby?"

Arthur nods. "It's a few blocks' walk from here. I can show you."

The dog park in Weston is smaller than the one they'd visited previously. It's a cold day, overcast, and there aren't too many other walkers out.

Arthur watches Eames unclip Dusty's leash and tries to think of something to say. He hadn't thought this far ahead, and hadn't even been sure they'd get here. "Do you miss it?" When Eames raises an eyebrow, Arthur elaborates. "You grew up in London, didn't you? Do you miss—Christmas with your family?"

"Of course," Eames replies without hesitation. "Every year, I woke up at some absurd hour of the morning, rushed down the stairs howling at the top of my lungs that it was Christmas Day. I'd be halfway done ripping through my presents by the time my barely conscious parents joined me. After everything was opened, we'd tuck into a delicious breakfast and watch the Queen's speech together."

Arthur studies Eames' face, which is animated, expressive. "The Queen gives a speech on Christmas?"

"Every year like clockwork," he replies, beginning to walk along the pedestrian path.

Arthur falls into step beside him. "Have you seen this year's speech already?"

"I have. Very moving. Reminded me to count all my blessings and such."

Arthur watches Dusty wander through the dog park, away from them, and wonders how much of what he just heard was true. The part about the Queen's speech probably was. "Sounds great."

"Isn't it strange what can conjure memories even decades later?" They pause to allow a greyhound cross in front of them, the lines of it sleek and elegant as it moves across the grass. "And how were your Christmases spent?"

"When I was eight, my mother bought one of those miniature plastic trees that can be disassembled and put away for the rest of the year," Arthur says. "Every year, we'd put the tree up and underneath there'd be a present wrapped in the comics section of the paper. Usually it'd be practical stuff—a new pair of sneakers, a winter coat."

"And when it wasn't?" Eames is watching him closely, his eyes the same grey as the sky up above.

"One year, I got a truck. It was yellow and blue, and the first new toy I'd gotten in years." Arthur pauses. "I played with it for hours, and waited up late—past my bedtime—to show my mother the tricks I'd learned to do with it."

Eames smiles. "Was she impressed?"

"I'm sure she would have been, but I didn't see her for three days after that." Arthur shrugs. "She came back from work after I'd gone to sleep. By the time I woke up, she was gone again. All I saw were the notes she left." There'd been variations, but the same basic refrain: I'm going to be at work all day. There's a sandwich in the fridge, and some cereal and macaroni in the cabinet. I love you.

"You spent Christmas alone?" Eames' hand brushes the length of Arthur's forearm, almost as if by accident, but not quite. "Fending for yourself?"

"She worked a lot, back then. The graveyard shift at a diner, and all day in a motel at the edge of town. Neither closed on Christmas."

"Doesn't sound like much of a childhood--taking care of yourself for all those years."

"It wasn't so bad." Arthur squints up at the clouds overhead, and imagines he can make out the shape of the sun behind them. "She wanted to be there. She just—couldn't."

"Of course," Eames says, and his knuckles graze the back of Arthur's left hand in a touch so fleeting and feather-light that Arthur wonders if he imagined it.

"I watched a lot of TV growing up," he says. "Someone once left a beat-up old CRT in one of the apartments we lived in, and we kept it, hauling it around to every new place we moved to. The picture quality was crap and the audio would constantly slip into static, so I ended up making up half the dialogue of whatever was on anyway. There'd be constant reruns on because we didn't have cable, and I'd act out all the scenes of the movies and show episodes I'd memorized. I liked to pretend that I was a part of things, having adventures or sitting down with a big family to talk about school and homework. Anyway, I--" He swallows, and realizes he's rambling. "I used to do that a lot with Christmas movies, because they replayed them a million times."

Eames doesn't laugh, or roll his eyes, or smirk like Arthur had half-expected him to. Instead, he says, "I wasn't allowed to watch too much telly as a child. But I'd find a way somehow—sneaking in while my parents were watching so quietly that they didn't know I was there, or begging my au pair to let me sit with her as she did. Every movie and show was a revelation, a grand escape: I could be someone else, in some other place, and I'd be free."

Arthur sees Dusty at the other side of the park, sniffing and being sniffed by the greyhound. "And you did it. You escaped."

"That I did." Eames halts in front of Arthur, hands in his pockets. He's barely a foot away, a white cloud escaping his mouth every time he speaks. If Arthur took a single step closer, he could feel the warmth of it against his cheek. "Lucky me."

"Is it everything you'd hoped it would be?" Arthur asks. "Leaving your past behind?"

"It's better," Eames says. "Better than anything a scared little boy could have ever dreamed of."

7:21 PM

They eat dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant. Arthur asks Eames to translate some of the French words on the menu, even though Arthur already knows what he's getting. Eames smiles as he shapes his mouth around the vowel sounds and touches his leg to Arthur's underneath the table.

Afterwards, Eames takes Dusty out for a walk while Arthur runs to the only convenience store open in Weston. He returns to find Eames examining the cactus on the windowsill.

"Prickly," is all Eames says as Arthur puts away the food and miscellaneous household supplies.

"It was a housewarming gift," Arthur replies as he joins Eames by the window, holding the last shopping bag, uncertainly. "And I—this is for you."

"What's this then?" Eames cocks his head to one side as he accepts the bag. "A Christmas…" The words trail off as he pulls out a ten-pack of pencils, a plastic watercolor set, and a pad of un-ruled paper.

"I wasn't sure what you use," Arthur says, hesitantly. "It's shit quality, obviously, but we can visit an art supply store tomorrow and get something better."

"I haven't drawn in over a year. I don't—"

"I saw the sketches," Arthur says. "I know you do. You want to."

"Those were nothing more than trash. Pathetic doodles of the infirm, the incompetent—"

"You relearned how to shoot a gun. You can—"

"This is different." Eames sinks onto the sofa, watercolor set still clenched tightly in his left hand. "This isn't merely developing the strength to pull a trigger, this is fine motor control, coordination, years of muscle memory all wiped out with a single—"

"Then relearn." Arthur takes Eames' hand in both of his. "Practice."

"I have permanent nerve damage," Eames says, staring down at where their fingers are joined together. "In some of my fingers, I'll never recover full mobility."

"Then you'll learn to draw and paint a different way." Arthur brings Eames' hand up to his mouth and brushes a kiss over every scar. "You'll be even better than you were before."

He stoops down to kiss Eames on the lips, losing himself in the rhythm of it—powerful and dizzying still, but without the frantic rush of all the kisses that had come before. Eames' beard scratches roughly against his cheeks—a sensation that's strange, but not entirely unpleasant. (Balal never goes without shaving; leads to too many terrorist jokes, he once said).

Arthur twines his arms around Eames, hooking his thumbs under the hem of the sweatshirt, burrowing underneath the layers to stroke against warm skin. How long has it been since he last had Eames spread out and naked before him? Barely a day, but it feels like centuries, and his cock gives an urgent jerk.

"Let's—" Arthur disengages with Eames' mouth long enough to stand and lead him towards the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. It's austere as far as bedrooms go: one King-sized bed with a nightstand and a lamp, a small desk to do work at in the corner, a mostly empty closet and a door that leads to the bathroom.

They kiss and kiss, but they're not panting or rutting against each other, not yet. Eames is hard against Arthur's thigh, and he's caught between wanting to grind more purposefully against it and backing off so they can get closer to skin-on-skin contact. Eames eventually makes the choice for them, easing back enough to pull his sweatshirt over his head.

"You're gorgeous," Arthur says, and thinks back to that day at the pool, Eames golden and wet and dangerous in the summer sunlight. "I know you know that already but I can't—fuck, I thought I'd be used to it by now."

"Used to me?" He murmurs as he takes off his undershirt.

"Yeah," Arthur says, running his hands over Eames' chest, dropping down to his waist. "And your voice. Sometimes all I can think about is how you say my name."

"Is that all you imagine me saying?" Eames drawls as he sits down on the edge of the bed, reclining back, muscles rippling as he does.

"Well," Arthur climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs. "Maybe not the only thing."

Arthur kisses a trail downwards, starting from Eames' neck. He detours to suck and redden nipples, first one and then the other, using only the slightest hint of teeth and noting when Eames gasps. Then Arthur continues on, kissing and licking down his abdomen, tracing the outline of the tattoo just under Eames' pectorals. They're black-inked French words, a sentence of swirling cursive that Arthur can't begin to guess the meaning of.

Eames' stomach jumps when Arthur kisses his navel, and he blows an experimental raspberry to hear Eames laugh. Arthur rests his chin on Eames' stomach and catches his eye. "Ticklish?"

"Ever so slightly," he replies. "You're not going to take advantage, are you?"

Eames smiles, almost coyly, and a flurry of questions hit Arthur like blows to the sternum: how many times has Eames used that line? How many defenses has he slipped past with this exact combination of lowered lashes and pouty lips? And then, has he used this on Dom?

Arthur sits back, good mood dissipating. The playful expression on Eames' face is wiped away and replaced with wary concern almost as quickly.

"Arthur?" Eames starts, but Arthur shakes his head and looks away. There's a black ball of tension rising up from his gut and seeping into his chest, suffocating and heavy. He crawls over to the edge of the bed and inhales deeply, palm pressing instinctively over the scar on his chest. It's difficult to breathe.

"Arthur," Eames repeats, mattress shifting as he sits up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Arthur replies, not turning around. "I'm fine. Just—give me a minute."

He focuses on the steady expansion and contraction of his lungs, the constant reminder of everything he's survived, everything he's capable of. After what feels like ten seconds but is probably closer to two minutes in real time, he straightens his shoulders and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"Everything alright?" Eames asks when Arthur begins undoing his belt.

"Everything's great," he replies as he shucks off his pants and underwear. His cock begs to differ, however, and he gives it a few rough jerks before turning back around.

"I can't fix the problem if you won't admit there's a problem to begin with," Eames says, not moving when Arthur straddles him again.

"There's no problem." Arthur starts to undo Eames' fly.

"You and I both know that's not true," Eames says in a low voice, lifting his hips up to help Arthur slide his pants and underwear down.

"You and I both know that there are a lot of things between us that aren't true." Arthur meets his gaze again and manages a ghost of a smile. "But that's part of what I signed up for, right? The performances, the pretty Christmas stories."

His only reaction is a blink, but that's confirmation enough for Arthur. "I forget sometimes," Eames says, voice stripped of all smoky breathiness, "that you've spent your whole life being lied to."

"I'm ready now," Arthur says. "Whatever you're in the mood for. Your choice."

Eames rubs Arthur's thigh with his thumb and forefinger gently, but doesn't move to touch him anywhere else. "We don't have to keep going."

"You're still hard." Arthur fists Eames' dick, but he isn't distracted much at all. "You could fuck me." He's is studying Arthur instead.

"Christmas with my family involved my parents drinking themselves into a stupor and forbidding me from doing the same," Eames says. "The year I told my father I was joining the military, he threw his whiskey in my face."

Arthur sits back. "And the Christmas tree, the gifts?"

"There was a tree and it was always magnificent," Eames says, voice free from any inflection. "No presents, though. I asked my mother about it the Christmas after my first year away at school, after hearing from all my classmates about the bounty that awaited them every December. And my mother replied, 'what on earth have you done to make you think you deserve presents?'"

Arthur releases Eames' dick. "Never?"

"I was the crowning disappointment of her entire miserable existence," Eames replies, still toneless. "Why reward someone who fails to meet expectations in any conceivable way?"

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and lies down next to Eames, on his side.

"Isn't the lie better?" Though his voice is smooth, there's a tremor in the hand Arthur picks up.

"Not for me." Arthur curls up close enough to kiss Eames' temple and leaves his head there, resting on the edge of the pillow.

Eames doesn't say anything else. Eventually, Arthur pulls the covers up over them both and they fall asleep like that, not quite touching, but not quite apart either.

Arthur wakes up with Eames' head on his chest and an arm flung over his waist. Arthur gently disentangles himself, and when Eames stirs, murmurs, "It's okay, go back to sleep."

He goes for a run in the bitter cold and darkness, dry air rasping through his lungs. He gets back, pokes his head into the bedroom to find Eames still asleep, and hops in the shower. Arthur's starting to shampoo his hair when he hears a sound, freezing instinctively until he recognizes the footfall.

Arthur resumes lathering just as Eames pulls back the curtain. "You're up early," he says as he steps in, voice gravely with sleep. His breath smells like Listerine.

"Went for a run," Arthur says, rolling his neck and letting the water wash away all the suds.

"At six-thirty in the morning?"

Arthur shrugs and squeezes a dollop of conditioner onto his palm. "I like to get an early start."

"Of course you do," Eames says, and the words are amused, not mocking. As Arthur applies the product to his hair, Eames adds, "Let me help you with that."

Arthur's about to reply that he doesn't need assistance with washing his own hair, but then Eames' fingers come up to massage his scalp and the protests die away. It's not sexy, not really, even with Eames' morning wood pressing up against Arthur's ass. It's not gentle either, though Eames takes care not to tug too hard. It's something else—something on the rough edge of soothing, maybe, and after a minute, Arthur lets himself relax into it.

When Eames is done and the last of the conditioner is washed away, Arthur turns to kiss him and take both their dicks in hand. He lets Eames press him back against the wall, and they kiss until they can't anymore, until all they can do is pant roughly into each others' mouths as they come.

They return to bed afterwards, and Arthur wakes up for the second time when Eames goes to take a leak.

"Morning. Again," Arthur says as he shuffles into the bathroom and grabs his toothbrush.

"Good morning," Eames replies, flushing the toilet. He smiles at Arthur—a small, slight one—and retrieves a toiletry bag from his duffle in the other room. They brush their teeth in companionable silence.

"Not going to let it grow in?" he asks when Arthur takes out his shaver.

"Takes a while for it to grow in evenly," Arthur says in between the electric whir of each swipe. "Until then, it's not great. One of my ex-girlfriends said it was like a fleet of chinchillas died on my face and neck."

Eames chuckles as he applies some kind of gel to his face and rubs it into a gentle lather. "How long does it take?"

"Not sure. It's been a while since I've tried. What about you? You going to keep growing your beard in?"

"Haven't decided yet." Eames dabs some lotion around his eyes. "Any preferences?"

"It's probably going to give me beard burn in some weird places," Arthur says, stroking the line of Eames' jaw speculatively. Arthur toys with the idea of putting on aftershave; he usually doesn't bother, but Eames has moved on to applying woodsy smelling face cream and it's making him feel underdressed. "But I can live with it. It's your call."

"Beard burn in strange places—why, you sound positively hopeful." Eames finishes with his small mountain of skincare products and leans over to nip at Arthur's shoulder. "Should I be preparing myself for a veritable laundry list of filthy perversions?"

"Adult baby," Arthur says without missing a beat. "I'm a pirate king and you're a serving wench who's going to walk my plank. Mummification."

"Adult baby is a classic," Eames agrees. "But pray, do tell me more about this serving wench."

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but the rumbling of his stomach beats him to the punch. "Breakfast first," he says. "Low-cut costumes later."

The deli Arthur frequents is open again, and they return to the apartment with fresh bagels, muffins, and coffee. Instead of reading the newspaper, he finds himself chatting with Eames about current events, the best flavor of bagel (Arthur argues sesame, Eames votes for cinnamon raisin), and the weather.

While Eames takes Dusty for a walk, Arthur looks up the nearest art supply store online and tells Eames they're going out without saying where. He agrees easily enough, and they walk there together, bundled up against the fierce wind.

The supply store is poorly-lit, with crowded aisles full of paint and canvas and other mysterious contraptions that Arthur assumes have something to do with art. Eames doesn't say anything.

"You can get whatever you want," Arthur says as he passes Eames a shopping basket. He doesn't take it, and Arthur realizes that there's already something in Eames' hand: a familiar blue squeeze ball.

"It's not going to be any good," Eames says, not moving. "Whatever I make."

"I don't know fuck all about art," Arthur replies, honestly. "I'm not going to know the difference."

Eames snorts out a laugh, but finally accepts the basket.

He ends up buying an easel, pads of paper in varying sizes, a much nicer watercolor set, some pencils, and a few other things Arthur can't name. He's a little surprised when Eames passes by the more traditional paint and palette section completely, but Eames smiles thinly and says, "Best to aim low and work our way up, hm?"

They head back to the apartment, and after the easel is all set up in the living room by the window, Eames whirls around and catches Arthur by the waist.

"How is it that we've already fucked and I still can't keep my eyes off you?" He asks as he noses against Arthur's neck.

"I have superhuman powers of hotness," Arthur suggests, and Eames laughs as he slides down to his knees.

"Please, monseigneur Pirate King," Eames says with a breathy French accent as he looks up pleadingly, "don't hurt me. I'll do anything."

"Are serving wenches exclusively French now?"

"All the best ones are," Eames replies, dropping the accent.

"Well, in that case—" Arthur clears his throat. "You know there are very severe punishments for anyone caught smuggling aboard my ships. I'm not in the business of providing free passage for stowaways."

"Oh, but surely there is something I can do to change your mind?" Eames flutters his eyelashes, and Arthur laughs. "I am told I can be very persuasive."

"I may be open to some forms of persuasion," Arthur says as he puts a hand on the back of Eames' head. "Or maybe I'll just let my whole crew have a run at you."

"They'll rip me apart." Eames lifts up the edge of Arthur's shirt to kiss his belly. "I'll be the first woman they've seen in months."

"Then I guess you'll need me to protect you."

"Please, sir." Eames unzips Arthur's fly and eases his cock out. "You're so clever and strong, I know none of the others would dare cross you."

"And you have the loveliest mouth in all the world." Arthur leans his head back against the wall when his dick finally makes its way between Eames' lips. "Between the two of us, we'll be unstoppable."

"There's a liquor store attached to this one," Arthur says. "You can go pick out the wine and I'll meet you over there once I'm finished here."

Eames tosses a package of shortbread into the shopping cart and nods before sauntering off. Arthur picks up a few boxes of pasta, some cheese, and then gets into one of the checkout lines. After he's finished paying, he heads over the liquor store, arriving in time to watch Eames pay at the cash register.

"How are you today?" Eames practically purrs as he leans on the counter, and Arthur chuckles inwardly.

"I'm—um, okay? I mean, good." The girl--who can't be more than twenty-two--flushes. "And you?"

Eames flashes a brilliant smile. "Better, now."

"That's—" The flush deepens as the girl bags the wine bottles. "I—um. ID please?"

"I must say I'm flattered." He inclines his head to one side. "But really?"

"We card everyone under fifty. It's store policy." She clears her throat. "But I guess it wouldn't hurt if—well, you know."

The warmth that blooms across Eames' face is almost blinding. "I won't tell if you won't." The girl ducks her head, and then looks up at him shyly.

He pays and nods at Arthur—not seeming at all surprised to see him watching. They walk outside and Arthur says, "You never stop, do you?"

"Can't let myself get rusty," Eames replies. "I haven't ID to show, either."

"Really?" Arthur frowns as he pops open the trunk. "None whatsoever?"

"It would have been nice to pick up, don't get me wrong. But identification, money, and clothing were all luxuries I had to leave behind in my madcap attempt to escape torture and possible death," Eames says as he loads up the trunk. "Inconvenient. But being kidnapped often is, I find."

"Jesus. That's—"

"All in the past now." Eames shuts the trunk.

"Sure," Arthur says as he walks around to the side of the car. "Do you—I mean, what happened that made this psycho so pissed at you?"

"I painted something. Evidently it wasn't to his liking."

"You don't have to tell me what happened." Arthur touches Eames on the knee, lightly, before starting the car. "But I'm willing to listen if you want to talk about it."

"That line work on your ex-girlfriends?" Eames asks, staring out the window.

"Nah, they saw straight through me," Arthur replies. "Got me laid a few times, though."

The corners of Eames' mouth quirk up, ever so slightly. "I don't know that there's much to talk about. I was kidnapped and tortured. You know how the story ends already."

"Do I?" Arthur asks, mildly. "Because to me, the story doesn't end until we put that asshole in the ground."

Eames finally away from the window. "He's wealthy and paranoid. If he has a weak point in his security, I haven't found it yet."

"Then let me help you find it." Arthur meets Eames' eyes. "Who did this to you?"

"His name is Jose Rodriguez Traiciona, but he's known as El Cuchillo," Eames says, after a beat. "Donates quite extensively to his pet museums and galleries. Fancies himself a patron of the arts."

"How'd he know that it was you? How'd he track you down?"

"I was commissioned by an auction house I'd worked with on several occasions," Eames replies. "Every now and then, they'd receive a collection of works to sell and hire me to—shall we say, fill out the collection with a few extras. I was paid a set amount upfront to cover my materials cost, and then a certain percentage of the sale. It was a good standing arrangement; pity they went and sold me out to a vengeful madman."

Arthur pulls into a space and parks the car. "I'll start looking into him."

"He had his men bring me to a dilapidated shack somewhere in the middle of nowhere," Eames says, and makes no move to get out of the car. "The place was barely four rooms and a basement. A rat had died somewhere on the premises and the stench was—intense. One of my captors tried to locate its body for removal but failed. Perhaps it was in the walls."

"Was he there? Traiciona?" Arthur removes the key from the ignition and waits.

"He didn't arrive until the second day. That was when—well, that was when the delights began."

Arthur covers Eames' fist with an open hand. "How long?"

"Three days," Eames says, staring straight ahead. "He was only there for the one day and left with strict instructions not to let me die. He had plans for me."

Arthur rubs his thumbs across one of the scars crisscrossing the back of Eames' hand; they've faded into streaks of pink and white by now. "But you escaped before he could implement them."

"There was a change in the guard at the end of the third day. Traiciona wanted his henchmen to sleep in the shack, with at least three around to guard me at all times," Eames says. "Needless to say, they weren't terribly enamored with this idea, and an argument broke out after Traiciona left about what should be done. In the end, they didn't see me as any real threat, and left only two men behind."

"They underestimated you."

"They thought I was pathetic—sniveling and crying the entire time they had me." Eames pauses. "And I thought: good. Let them."

"They were idiots, and now they're dead." Arthur reaches out to stroke the hair above Eames' ear until he turns, finally, to meet Arthur's eyes.

"Yes," Eames says as he turns his cheek into Arthur's palm. "Yes."

Arthur sighs when the alarm goes off and rolls away from Eames to shut it off. He stirs a bit at the disruption, but goes back to sleep with a minimum of soothing.

After his run, Arthur half-expects Eames to join him in the shower again. But he doesn't, and Arthur returns to the bedroom to find Eames fast asleep. He's kicked the sheets off and is sprawled across the bed, spread like a starfish and sporting a fairly impressive morning erection. Arthur contemplates it before shrugging. What the hell.

Eames wakes up with a tiny start and then relaxes, legs spreading further in encouragement. "Good morning," he rasps, and Arthur pats him on the thigh in acknowledgment; his mouth is a bit too full of cock to reply.

Later, after Eames has returned the favor with sleepy enthusiasm, Arthur says, "I've gotta go to work."

"Already?" Eames traces a finger down Arthur's bicep.

"I'll be back around six tonight. You want me to pick up dinner on the way?"

"That'd be lovely," Eames replies, lifting his eyes.

"Okay." Arthur runs his fingers through Eames' hair. It's very soft. "You have the spare key already, so you can get in and out. There's five hundred dollars in the nightstand and two hundred under the corner of the mattress. If you need anything else you can text me."

"Anything you'd like me to pick up while you're away? Any errands you'd like me to run?"

"I have a couple of letters on the table that need to be stamped and mailed," Arthur says, "if you get a chance to stop by the post office. Otherwise, do whatever you want. You can buy yourself more art stuff, food, movies—anything you need."

Eames nods, and as Arthur slips out of bed, says, "I could make you breakfast."

"Don't worry about it." Arthur leans over to gives him a peck on the lips. "I need to get a move on, anyway. I'll just pick something up at the deli."

Eames smiles. "See you tonight, then."

"Hello?"

"Ariadne, hey." Arthur takes a sip of his coffee as he walks towards his office. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm starting to feel like the constant bearer of bad news," she replies, voice crackling a bit in the receiver. "If you get a chance, do you think you could swing by Perle tonight? It's not what we talked about—before—but there's something I thought you'd like to see."

"Sure," Arthur says, keeping his voice smooth and level. "My lunch starts in a couple of hours, so I'll be by."

Later, when he gets to Perle, Ariadne's waiting outside.

"I was opening up the register and I noticed we were short on singles," she explains. "After I got some more I opened up the ledger to make a note of it, but when I went to redo the totals something wasn't right."

Arthur nods as they head into the office in the back of the club, and takes a seat at the computer. As his eyes skim over the numbers, he can see immediately what she's talking about.

"The tip numbers are way off, even factoring in the amounts that bartenders underreport." At her expression, Arthur smiles wryly. "Yes, I am aware and no, you're not going to get in trouble."

"What does it mean, though?" Ariadne asks, squinting at the screen.

"Simply put: someone's skimming off the top and doing it poorly." He clicks through the ledger. "And maybe off the bottom, too. I'll have to double-check all the totals to be sure."

"Wow," Ariadne says, leaning in to peer over his shoulder. She's close enough that he can smell her perfume, feel her breasts press up against him. "That's so cool how you know what's going on just based on a few columns of numbers. I mean, it sucks about the stealing, but it's amazing that you can figure it out so fast."

"Thank you," he says, easing away in the chair. "And thanks for bringing this to my attention."

"No problem," she replies, still standing a little too close. "I get off work in fifteen minutes. Maybe you'd like to tell me more about—how you do what you do?"

Arthur stares down at where her hand has come to rest on his bicep. "I should get back to work."

She bites her lip. "Later, then?"

"Ariadne." He stands, and then takes a step back. "How old are you?"

She blinks, and then stares up at him defiantly. "Old enough."

"Fresh out of college, right? It's a good time. Enjoy it."

"Oh come on," she says. "You can't be that much older than me."

Arthur chuckles. "You'd be surprised. I'm practically an old fogey."

"Arthur," she says. "I can handle myself."

"I'm sure you can," he replies as he turns back to email the ledger documents. "But I'm telling you, now's the time in your life to have fun, not hang out with old guys with problems."

"Oh yeah?" Ariadne challenges. "And what problems do you have?"

"Too many to name." He straightens up. "Someone's stealing from the club, for one."

"That's a problem, not your problem," she points out. "Not even lunch?"

"You got guts, I'll give you that." Arthur puts a hand on her shoulder. "Look, the truth is that I'd love to take you out sometime, but we have to work together. And if you haven't noticed, I've got my hands full managing Dom's personal drama already." He raises an eyebrow. "I can't really afford any more complications on my Thursday nights, you know? It's nothing personal."

"Other than that I'm too young, you mean." Ariadne sighs. "Fine, I guess I understand."

Arthur squeezes one more time before letting go. "I'll see you around, alright?"

"Yeah," she says, less than enthusiastically. "See you around."

He's busy all day after that, pausing to text Eames to ask what kind of food he's in the mood for. Eames replies promptly with a request for Chinese, and then sends a photo of himself and Dusty.

Arthur blinks and texts back, not this number, before closing the door to his office and digging out a disposable phone from his desk drawer. He takes a full length photo of himself on the new phone and sends it. The next picture Eames sends back is a headshot with a sign in the background that says, Please do not empty your dog here, and he looks relaxed, amused. It shouldn't be as entrancing as it is.

Arthur makes a mental note to give him a second cell phone, and then goes back to work.

What seems like a million phone calls and emails later, Arthur manages to leave the office a little early, calling in to place an order at the local Wok and Roll on the way back.

He opens the door to his apartment, not sure what to expect: everything emptied out with Eames nowhere to be found, or Eames lounging around in sweats on the couch again, trash everywhere.

What he gets is: everything more or less how he left it, a small pile of physical therapy equipment next to the easel in the corner, and Dusty greeting him enthusiastically. Eames steps out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, still damp, and says, "Hello, darling. I wasn’t expecting you back quite so early."

"Got hungry," Arthur replies, setting the takeout on the table. "How was your day?"

"Unexciting, aside from the exemplary way in which I was woken up." Eames walks right up to Arthur and hooks one finger in the knot of his tie, but otherwise stops just short of touching him.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Arthur says, lips hovering barely an inch away from Eames'. "Were those photos you sent me supposed to be tokens of your appreciation?"

"Perhaps." Eames closes the distance between their mouths, tongue swiping lewd and dirty even as he keeps his body back. "I certainly appreciated the photo you sent me—I'd forgotten how luscious you look in your three piece ensembles."

"Remind me to give you a disposable phone," Arthur says as he undoes his cufflinks. "I'd like to see if you can do better than that."

"I'll do my best not to disappoint."

As Eames guides Arthur towards the bedroom, it occurs to him how much he'd always enjoyed having someone to come home to, someone to laugh and eat dinner and go to bed with. It's been a long time since Victoria.

Arthur gets back from his morning run to find Eames in the kitchen, slumped against the counter with a coffee mug held in one hand.

"You're up early," Arthur says as he bends down to unlace his sneakers. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Was sleeping fine. I simply—" Eames yawns massively. "I don't know how you do this. For god's sake, it's still dark out."

Arthur chuckles as he toes off his shoes. "I can't always make it to the gym after work, and I like starting my day off right."

"Lovely," Eames says, and takes another sip from his mug.

"I thought you didn't drink coffee?" Arthur bends forward to give him a peck on the lips, but he seems too sleepy to be interested in more than that.

"I don't. But tea isn't going to keep me awake at this hour." Eames takes another drink and makes a face. "I need a cigarette."

"Alright, I'm gonna take a shower." Arthur steals a sip of the coffee (which is nearly all milk and sugar) and heads off to the bathroom. After he's showered and changed, he comes back to Eames still slumped across the counter, holding a lit cigarette.

"What are you doing up, anyway?" Arthur asks as he takes out some eggs and a frying pan.

"Thought I'd see what it was like."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "Being awake before noon?"

"Yes." Eames' mouth curves into the faintest pout. "It's hideous. I don't know how you stand it, Arthur."

"I like the quiet of it. Gives me time to myself. You like scrambled eggs?"

"Please and thank you." Eames touches Arthur's waist with a thumb. "When do you have to go?"

"I decided to take the day off," Arthur replies. "I need to check my email and make some calls, but otherwise I'm free."

"Did you have any plans in mind?" Eames stubs out his cigarette, eyes lowering as he does.

"I'm getting my car back from the shop today. Arthur cracks open a few eggs. "I was thinking we could go up to the city, check out a museum. If you're interested."

He looks up in time to catch Eames studying him with a curious expression that vanishes almost instantly. "I believe I am."

"We'll get some food, look at some art—see a little more of what this country has to offer besides the suburbs."

"I've been impressed so far."

"Liar," Arthur says, causing Eames to give him a slow once-over and then a wink.

Once they've eaten, Arthur gets dressed and checks his email while Eames takes Dusty out for a walk. While he's showering, Arthur drops off the rental car and picks his up from the shop—freshly repaired and painted. The interior even smells faintly of lemon.

When he returns, Eames is dressed in a fitted grey button-down shirt that shows off the width of his shoulders and the relative narrowness of his waist. Arthur runs an appreciative hand over the material, ostensibly to smooth it, and says, "You look good."

"As do you." Eames' voice dips a little deeper. "Would you rather stay in?"

"I guess there isn't any rush," Arthur says as he palms Eames' dick through his pants. "It's still pretty early."

After some very satisfying blowjobs (Eames does this thing with his tongue that makes Arthur practically shout with how good it is), they finally make it to the car.

"Do you think your hands are steady enough to drive yet?" Arthur asks when they get on the road.

"I don't know," Eames says. "My fine motor control and response time appear to be improving. I suppose I'd be more concerned about driving on the wrong side of the road and your bizarre traffic regulations than losing control of the wheel."

"Hmm." Arthur makes a turn into a broken-down parking lot, pavement half overgrown with weeds. "Maybe we can do some practice runs, then. There's a Walmart parking lot not too far from here."

He parks the car and gets out, waiting for Eames to follow suit. He raises an eyebrow and says, "This isn't what I'd imagined our day off would be like."

"Come on, smartass." Arthur grins as he leads the way inside the ramshackle building. "We're getting your picture taken." Eames' brow furrows, but he doesn't ask any further questions.

A weedy-looking guy matching the description Arthur got from one of his contacts comes to the door and leads them into a surprisingly clean and well-lit photo studio deep inside the building. The guy instructs Eames to sit in front of a blue screen, taking photos efficiently and without commentary. The whole thing takes less than an hour and at the end of it, Arthur pays $500 before being escorted back outside again.

"I suppose I should cease being surprised by you," Eames says when he covers Arthur's hand with his in the car.

"Probably," Arthur agrees.

"Where to?" Arthur asks when they reach the lobby of the museum.

"I was considering the European paintings wing," Eames replies, and they make their way through hallways of nude sculptures and awkward busts of people in wigs to temperature controlled rooms filled with oil paintings. Most of them are fairly large and hung in ornate frames, depicting what are probably religious scenes.

They wander around the wing, stopping and starting in front of artworks seemingly at random. Some paintings, Eames stares at for a full ten minutes while others only for a few seconds. Most of them he passes right on by. After the first twenty or so, Arthur can't tell which is which, much less why they're stopping for one over another.

"You're utterly bored by this, aren't you?" Eames asks when Arthur turns his face and tries to suppress a yawn.

"It's fine, I just—" He fumbles for something, but there's nothing for it. "I don't know much about art."

"So you keep saying." Eames glances around the room—which is empty—and then takes a step forward, a bit too close for it to be purely casual. "I suspect you know more than you think you do."

"Oh yeah?" Arthur turns slightly, lips a few inches from Eames' cheek. "What do I know?"

"Whether you like the look of something or don't. Whether it makes you feel anything besides confusion or boredom."

"What am I supposed to feel with this?" Arthur asks, jerking his chin at the painting of a lean man clad only in a loincloth. His wrists are bound up above his head, muscular body twisted gracefully while a multitude of arrows pierce his flesh.

"Pity, sorrow at a pious martyr's suffering." Eames moves away, onto the next painting, and adds with a shrug. "Mild arousal."

"So that's intentional?"

"It does seem an odd combination, doesn't it? But religion and sex can serve purposes which are not so different," Eames says. "What do you see here?"

The piece they're standing in front of is 3x4 feet, containing three human figures and a ram. The central figure, an old man, is holding a young man down to the ground, a knife raised menacing while the third figure—an androgynous boy—touches the old man's wrist as if to stop him. It's pretty realistic, Arthur supposes. "The old guy is trying to kill him," he says, pointing. "And the third guy is trying to stop him."

"Precisely. And what is your reaction?"

"Brings back memories." Arthur shifts his weight onto his right foot as he eyes the knife.

Eames takes Arthur's hand in his, between their bodies, where no one else can see. He doesn't move away, even as Arthur fidgets. "This painting tells the Biblical story of Abraham, who was instructed by God to bind his son and sacrifice him to God's glory."

Arthur stills. "His son?"

"His blood and bone," Eames confirms, still surveying the painting. "But at the last moment before Abraham is to strike, an angel arrives. The messenger of God has seen his fealty, and he is free."

"I didn't realize the Bible got so bloody." Arthur lets go of Eames' hand once he realizes he's still holding it. "Killing your son for God?"

"It's a bit of a recurring theme," Eames replies. Then, with a wry smirk, he adds, "No Sunday school readings for you then, hm?"

"Not so much, no." Arthur shrugs. "My mother thought religion was a waste of time. When I was in college, Dom paid some priest to flick water on my face and call me Baptized. Since then I've had to sit through some really long and boring ceremonies, but I don't exactly pay attention."

"You and most of the congregation, I'm sure," Eames says. "Don't worry, you're not missing out. The Bible isn't a page-turner. Unfortunately."

"So why this? Why this time period, these paintings?" Arthur asks. "Don't tell me you're religious."

"Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people." Eames snorts, almost to himself. "But it sells."

"There's money in other kinds of art too."

Eames ducks his head, lips curving up. "Yes, I suppose there is." He pauses, and then looks up at Arthur, gaze razor sharp. "Why are you still with Cobb?"

"I—" Arthur opens his mouth and then stops, takes a deep breath. "I don't know what I'd do if I wasn't."

"Be an accountant?" Eames asks, voice soft, not mocking at all.

Arthur shakes his head. "I thought I could, once, but—" He imagines himself, locked behind a desk day in and day out, stretched thin like a rubber band, waiting to snap.

"You don't want a staid and ordinary life," Eames says, coming closer again. "You don't want to be yet another mindless drone, following the rules because you can't imagine any other way."

Arthur glances around to check that the room is still empty before touching Eames' chest. "I would never have met you, if I were just an accountant."

He stares back into Arthur's eyes, and then says, "My mother. When I was a boy, she started me on art lessons. Nothing I drew ever pleased her, naturally, but I remember once we visited a Rembrandt exhibit at the Victoria and Albert and she said," Eames pauses, "'the brush that painted these works was guided by the divine.'"

Arthur excuses himself while Eames is studying a still life of a bowl of over-ripened fruit. A memento mori, Eames had said, a reminder that death comes for us all.

Arthur walks into the bathroom and makes his way over to the urinals. It's empty except for him until Eames strolls in, a few seconds after. Arthur glances over when Eames unzips, and doesn't glance away when he catches him.

Eames finishes and closes his fly, leaning in to Arthur, not touching except for the lightest brush of his lips against Arthur's ear. "When we get back to your apartment," Eames murmurs, "I am going to do the most unspeakably filthy things to you."

Arthur swallows as Eames moves away, washes his hands, and exits the bathroom without looking back.

The moment they both get inside the apartment, Arthur pounces.

"Do you know how long it took for me to calm down in that museum bathroom?" Arthur mutters, his hands tangled in Eames' hair. "You fucking left me hanging there."

"I wondered whether you were going to get started without me." Eames smirks. "I was hoping not—I wouldn't want you to have tired yourself out."

"Wouldn't matter," Arthur says, nipping at Eames' lower lip. "I can keep going."

"You're insatiable." Eames bites Arthur's earlobe, then moves down to his neck. "What's the most you've ever done in one day, hm?"

"Five. I could have tried for more, but my girlfriend at the time was too tired."

"Goddamnit." Eames groans and then pulls away a few inches. "Let me take Dusty out for a walk before she fouls the place and we can continue this conversation after."

After a shower, Arthur finds Eames in the bedroom, still dressed, but in the midst of taking off his shirt. "You're so fucking hot," Arthur murmurs as he buries his face in the rippling musculature of Eames' back.

Eames turns around with a lazy half-smile to kiss him, which segues into an unhurried make-out session. In the midst of it, Arthur's towel falls somewhere to the floor next to discarded pants and underwear.

"Turn around," Eames says, and with one last kiss, Arthur does. He expects Eames to guide him onto the bed, maybe ask him to get on his hands and knees, but he doesn't. Instead, hands come up to knead Arthur's shoulders, firm pressure against the tension, but not enough to be painful.

Arthur begins to relax as Eames' warm palms move to his neck, and then down his arms to his hands, where he pauses to work each finger individually. When he moves back up to massage Arthur's back, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to get onto the bed, relax deeply into the mattress.

"A little further up," Eames murmurs, so Arthur crawls forward to slump against a pillow, mildly gratified to hear a sharp exhale as he does.

The massage continues, fingers making their way down Arthur's lower back while Eames' lips trace over the portions he's already touched. It raises goosebumps and Arthur suppresses a shiver. When Eames nears the curve of Arthur's ass, he runs a thumb down the cleft before starting to squeeze both cheeks. Arthur starts at that; he's never been massaged there before but it's surprisingly—nice.

"Eames," he says when Eames' hands begin to move southwards, to the tops of his thighs. Eames presses a kiss to Arthur's tailbone and then both cheeks.

"Relax," he says, voice low and smooth like amber.

Arthur sighs and ruts against the mattress a few times before subsiding, giving himself over as Eames continues to rub down to the backs of Arthur's knees, calves, and then his feet.

"Wow," Arthur says with an inhale of surprise when Eames digs into a particularly tender spot in the sole of his right foot, and then moves onto rubbing a bit more gently at each toe.

"You are astonishingly lovely, Arthur. If impatient," Eames says as he sits up, fingertips skimming up again. "Do you remember when we first met? How you pointed that gun at me?"

"I thought you might be a threat." The memory is, truthfully, somewhat fuzzy in his mind. There've been so many other moments between them since then.

"After you left, I spent the whole day thinking about you, imagining what you'd smell like." Eames touches his nose to the back of Arthur's neck, tickling a little, and then leaves a trail of kisses down to the curve of his ass. The brush of beard against the tender skin is startling, but also not unpleasant. "What you'd taste like."

"Eames," Arthur mutters as he feels hot breath on his hole, damp and very, very close.

The first touch of Eames' tongue is electric, enough to cut off all Arthur's thoughts, shut down everything that isn't concentrated on the sensation. Eames goes slowly, tongue flicking lightly against the pucker before licking the skin just outside, tracing concentric circles outward. He grips Arthur's hips firmly and then Arthur can feel his lips, too, pressing open-mouth kisses everywhere he can reach.

"Oh fuck." Arthur squirms as the heat in his lower body builds, hips trying to roll of their own volition, stopped only by Eames' grip. Arthur nearly bucks when Eames returns to licking and sucking, the feeling too warm and good and breathless. It doesn’t feel like any other rimjob Arthur's gotten before, either—the others having been perfunctory and all too brief. This is luxurious and steady, with Eames showing no indication that he wants to stop. He laves Arthur's hole in saliva, tongue darting inward when it begins to flutter open, tracing the inner edge almost delicately while Arthur struggles not to writhe in response.

Arthur groans, grabbing onto the sheets as he tries to breathe. Eames is utterly relentless, holding Arthur's lower body immobile as he presses inwards, and it's making him crazy to rub his dick against something—anything—but he can't move, can't coordinate the muscles in his mouth to do anything but moan and mumble incoherently. He might be drooling, the pillowcase cotton against his tongue a dry rasp, but he can't bring himself to care, to shift, to do anything besides bask in the glorious intensity of Eames' mouth.

He doesn't know how long it lasts, except that when Eames finally pulls away, Arthur's bathed in sweat and his dick is practically dripping with precome. Eames kisses up Arthur's body to suck on the sweet spot behind his ear, and Arthur rolls over with a moan. "Jesus Christ," he whispers, voice hoarse.

"The way you moan," Eames says, and his voice is rough too, "it makes me want to eat you out all day."

Arthur stares up at Eames' spit-wet lips and then hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down for a kiss. "Fuck me."

Eames makes a pleased sound of agreement as they kiss, deep and slow. Once they're both out of breath, Arthur sprawls back while Eames grabs a condom and lube. He presses in a first finger, then a second, and Arthur's about to tell him to get on with it when he crooks them up and a shower of sparks burst behind Arthur's eyes.

"Eames—" Arthur gasps as Eames changes the angle slightly, doing it again and again. "If you don't hurry up, I'm gonna—"

He relents and withdraws his fingers, wiping his hand down on the sheets. He takes Arthur's legs in hand and kisses the inside of both thighs.

"Tell me if it gets to be too much," Eames says, and with that, he's in. It nearly punches the breath out of Arthur but then Eames begins to move and everything changes: the sparks become fucking fireworks—New Year's and the Fourth of July and every other holiday rolled into one.

Arthur gasps, unable to even move under the onslaught. Eames doesn't start out slow or shallow, doesn't ease into the merciless pace he's setting--which is steady, rhythmic, and hits Arthur's prostate with every goddamn stroke.

He lets his eyes shut as Eames' dick pumps in and out—it's not quite a pounding, not really, because there's nothing wild or uncontrolled about it. It feels amazing, though, and Arthur fumbles for own his dick, dazed. He's surprised to find Eames' hand there already, working the head with his thumb, slippery with drops of precome.

"I love your cut dick," Eames whispers as he bends forward, cock fucking in just a tiny bit deeper. "I love the way it smells when you're about to come, the way it stretches my fucking throat until I'm choking on it."

"Oh fuck," Arthur moans as he thrusts up, heat racing through his veins as an indistinct buzzing noise fills his ears as he climaxes. The orgasm lasts and lasts, and when he regains some of his senses, he finds Eames is still fucking him.

He kisses Arthur, mouth surprisingly gentle in counterpoint to the unyielding tempo of his thrusts. Arthur kisses back lazily, rubbing a hand over Eames' chest, through chest hair and come.

"Tell me," Eames says, again, taking Arthur's knees and hooking them over his shoulders, "if it gets to be too much."

Even though Arthur's already come, the new angle ratchets the intensity right back up to a hundred again, skirting close to the edge of oversensitivity. His dick is nowhere near ready to get hard, but as Eames continues to fuck him without slowing, Arthur feels the pressure building anyway, body twisting almost convulsively with every unerring stroke of his prostate.

"Stay with me, Arthur," Eames murmurs and Arthur wants to nod, to say yes, yes I'm here, except his throat is already working, incomprehensible sounds pouring out with every roll of Eames' perfectly timed hips. The most Arthur can manage is curling his fingers into the sheets, digging his heels into Eames' back as he simultaneously tries to get closer to and away from the feeling of too much, too good.

The second orgasm isn't so much a surprise as an inevitability, the fog descending on his mind even as Eames continues. He thinks, maybe, he comes one more time after that—one more time before Eames finishes, finally losing hold of his metronomic control. His falling forward, heavy and soaked with sweat, is the last thing Arthur remembers before his eyes slip shut.

When he blinks awake sometime later, Eames is still on top of him, cock half in his ass, and there's dry semen crusting them together.

"Holy shit," Arthur mutters as he rolls Eames off and goes for water. His ass is sore and his dick is still tingling with oversensitivity, but—goddamn. He hasn't had a marathon fuck like that since before Victoria.

He stops by the bathroom to take a five minute shower, and then heads back to the bedroom with a damp washcloth. Eames stirs as he approaches.

"Water?" Arthur offers a bottle and Eames takes it gratefully. Arthur tosses the condom and runs the washcloth over Eames' chest and groin, cleaning off the worst of it.

"You were magnificent," Eames says as he pulls Arthur down on top of him.

"Me? I feel like I should be the one complimenting you."

Eames smiles as he tickles the instep of Arthur's foot with his toe, lightly. He says something, maybe, but in this instant, staring into his fond eyes, Arthur remembers: this is what he does for Dom. The single-minded focus, the attentive affection, the euphoria of being fucked and knowing that you're the center of the world for as long as it takes. This is what Dom's addicted to.

"Hey, come back to me," Eames says, and he touches Arthur's chest, over his scar. It's warm—calculated, probably, but effective. Arthur doesn't know who he thought he was fooling when it came to Eames—himself, maybe.

"I'm here," Arthur says, even as his mind whirls, how long can we keep doing this? Fucking like this, in his bed, in his apartment, acting like they have all the time in the world together, getting to know each other like they're preparing for some gleaming beacon of light stretching all the way out into the future. Pretending that every second they spend together Arthur isn't holding a knife to Dom's heart, wondering whether an angel is going to come for him.

"Arthur," Eames says, and his mouth has gone open and soft, eyes wide with something close to vulnerability—concern, maybe.

"You're great at this," Arthur says, touching Eames' jaw. "It seems like such a stupid fucking cliché to be upset about your past."

"You want to know if this is real." It's not a question.

"I know it's futile. I'm not stupid. I—" Arthur stops.

"You know." Eames sits up, abruptly, covers sliding down past his biceps, the thickly layered muscles that aren't only for show. Nothing about him is only for show—but it's all too easy to forget this. "I am giving you what I am. All of it."

"And I—" Arthur swallows and stares at the scarring of Eames' hands, which fade with every passing day. "I could fall for this."

Eames is silent for a moment before he says, "In every role I play, I give the mark what they crave most: love, affection, fear—whatever it is. But I—" He touches Arthur's cheek so gently he can barely feel it. "I have never loved anyone or anything in my entire life."

"Then what are we doing here?"

"If I told you," Eames slides down to rest his cheek against the pillow, expression unreadable, "would you believe me?"

"I want to. But you make me feel—" Arthur closes his eyes. "I can't trust what I feel around you."

"What feelings can any of us really trust? The people you love most can still betray you. The people you like least can be the most honest."

"Dom's coming back in a few days," Arthur says dully. He drapes a forearm over his eyes. "He's going to be expecting you."

"I know," Eames whispers, and tucks himself, hesitatingly, against Arthur's side.

"I want—" Arthur swallows; he can't say it.

"I know," Eames repeats, and kisses the side of Arthur's mouth softly. "We don't have to do this again."

"Okay," Arthur says, as he turns his face to kiss Eames again, more fully. There's a tightness in his chest and throat that lingers—an ache that will persist because this is Eames. This is what they agreed to have together.

Eames is awake with a mug of coffee prepared the way Arthur likes it when he gets back from his run, and they sit down to eat fried eggs and toast. They don't say much over breakfast, but when Arthur stands up, Eames put a palm on his chest and kisses him chastely.

"I left a disposable phone for you on the dresser," Arthur says after he steps back. "If you need anything."

"Alright." Eames watches him go. "Have a good day."

"Balal, hey." Arthur checks to make sure the door to his office is closed. "How are you?"

"Hanging in there," Balal replies, tone wry. "How are you?"

"Up to my eyeballs in an avalanche of surprise work," Arthur says, and sighs, rolling his chair a few inches back from his desk. "Holidays are usually slow, but not this year."

"Shit, I forgot you'd be back at your job already. I'm sorry—can you talk, or do you want me to call back later?"

Arthur's other cell buzzes on the desk: it's Eames. Hey, is all it says.

"I can talk for a few minutes." Arthur turns the cell over on his desk before standing up and stretching. "Unfortunately, it's not like the rest of my day is going to magically open up."

"So what's going on, exactly? Or will you have to drive up to upstate New York to kill me if you tell me?"

Arthur chuckles as he walks to the window. "I think the boredom would kill you before I got there."

"That good, huh?"

"Oh yeah. One of the federal agencies that regulates one of the companies I consult for just released a raft of new rules," Arthur says. "Most of it we were expecting, and some of it we weren't."

"Yay," Balal says. "But I guess it's not all jetsetting and fancy hotels in the thrilling career of consulting, huh?"

"If only. Anyway, do you know when you'll be back in the state?"

"I do, but like you, there's a mountain of work that's probably accumulated during my vacation. So I'm not sure when I'll be able to get away." Balal sounds regretful. "I actually called because I was just. Thinking of you."

"Oh yeah?" Arthur leans against the window and stares up at the sky outside: it's bright blue, sunny. "What were you thinking?"

"Oh you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that." Arthur can practically hear the grin across the phone. "What we could be doing together if I was with you, or you were up here."

Arthur traces a finger up the condensation on the windowpane. "I could come up with a few things."

Balal chuckles, low and throaty. "I wouldn't want to take you away from your reams and reams of paperwork."

Arthur pulls the blinds shut. "I think I could spare a few minutes. Take a late lunch break."

"Lunch? You think it'd take that long if I were there on my knees, sucking your cock?"

"I don't know." Arthur shivers as he reaches down to palm his crotch. "When you come back, we need to find out."

Arthur stares blankly at his schedule with bloodshot eyes and wonders whether he can feasibly cut out two hours of sleep per night for the next month to make way for meetings. It looks like even the weekends are going to be packed solid.

Then his phone buzzes. It's Eames again: Dusty got to a pair of your shoes and chewed them up while I was in the shower. I'm sorry.

Arthur sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. This isn't helping his headache. Sneakers or something nicer?

Sneakers, blue, look old, is the prompt reply. Do you want me to see if they can be repaired?

No, just toss them.

Sorry, Eames texts, and then sends a photo of himself with a glum expression and his shirt off. It's such an obvious play that Arthur snorts—and yet it does manage to make him feel a tiny bit better all the same.

He glances at the clock: almost 10 PM. Another hour to wrap things up, and then he'll head home.

"Long day?" Eames lowers the book he's reading.

"Yeah." Arthur reaches down to pat Dusty before heading over to the couch where Eames is sitting. "Some new homeland security regulations on imports and exports have come down. I'm gonna be stuck in wall-to-wall meetings, trying to figure out what this means for operations."

"You think it's going to be a problem?" Eames asks as he lifts an arm. After a moment's hesitation, Arthur sits down and fits himself against Eames' side.

"I can't tell yet. Could be nothing, could be a whole lot of something. I got the Lieutenant Governor's aides calling me, wanting to schedule a sit-down for us to talk about our 'visions for the future.'"

"Not overly fond of him?" Eames rubs Arthur's shoulder.

"He's a politician, so no, not so much." Arthur sighs. "Besides, I'm not—this isn't really my area. I don't usually handle the schmoozing and the dinners." He doesn't want to say, Dom's the one that takes care of this, but he suspects that with Eames, he doesn't have to.

"Can you postpone scheduling it till after New Year's?"

"That's probably what I'm going to do, but there'll be fallout." Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, imagining Sal's reaction.

"Headache?"

"Yeah." Arthur sighs again.

"Care for some Tylenol? Or perhaps something stronger?" Eames continues to rub circles into Arthur's shoulders, his back.

"It's alright, I'll live. And I'm not even sure I have Tylenol in this apartment."

"We do now," Eames says. "I stopped by the store to pick up a few things. Made dinner."

Arthur twists around to look at him. "Is there any left?"

"I packed your portion in the fridge. I could reheat it for you."

"I'm trying to decide whether I'm more hungry or exhausted right now." Arthur glances down at his watch. "Fuck, it's midnight already?"

"Yeah," Eames says. "You want to just go to bed, then?"

"Yeah, let's—" Arthur stands, and then stops when the easel in the corner catches his eye. "You painted something."

"Rubbish." Eames busies himself with marking his place in the book—something in French, Arthur notes—and putting it on the table. "It's not done yet, either."

The painting is blurry and colorful, easel turned at an angle so Arthur can't quite make out what the subject is supposed to be. "What were you reading?" he asks, instead.

"Le Petit Prince," Eames says. "Found it at a secondhand bookstore for a dollar."

"Hmm." Arthur touches the cover. There's an illustration of a boy on what looks like the moon. "What's it about?"

"A man stranded in the desert comes across a boy claiming to be a prince from another planet," Eames explains. "The prince has explored the universe, running across all manner of delightfully foolish people, and Earth is his final destination."

"What does he think about Earth?" Arthur asks. "Does he like it the most?"

"Not exactly," Eames takes Arthur by the arm and guides him into the bedroom. "He does have a home star, after all."

"So he goes back?" Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed heavily, allowing Eames to undo the buttons of his jacket, then his vest. "Back to his home?"

"That's what he tells the narrator. The truth of the matter is a bit unclear."

Arthur tugs his pants off and crawls under the sheets. "No happy ending then?"

"An ambiguous ending." Eames gets up to hang Arthur's clothing carefully, and looks at him over his shoulder. "I suppose it could be construed as happy."

"Or construed as sad," Arthur says, yawning. His eyelids feel very heavy. "We like happy endings here in the US."

"Ah well, you know the French," Eames says as he climbs into bed. "They can't be parted from their misery."

"And what about you?" Arthur tips his head back against the pillow. "Happy or sad? American or French?"

"A year ago, I would have said French without reservation. Le mal du siècle. But the stubborn American drive for more, bigger, and happier has grown on me."

"You've never dreamed of a better life?" Arthur mumbles sleepily.

"I would never think to frame the question that way," Eames says, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

"Maybe you can read it to me sometime. The book, I mean." Arthur yawns again while Eames arranges the covers around them. "Tell me all about what little green men think of Earth."

"Les hommes ont oublié cette vérité, dit le renard. Mais tu ne dois pas l’oublier," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear, the cadence of the words smooth and familiar, as if Eames knows them by heart. "Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé."

"You're better than a programmable coffeemaker," Arthur says as he leans against the edge of the table. It's weak, but Eames squeezes his hand and gives him a smile anyway.

"I never thought I'd care for coffee, but I'm starting to acquire the taste," he says, sitting back in the chair.

"Soon you'll be chugging a pot a day and stunting your growth," Arthur jokes with false brightness as something tightens in his chest. "A little caffeine addiction to remember our time together by."

Eames lifts Arthur's hand and brushes his knuckles with his mouth. "I'm going to miss this. Waking up with you."

Arthur looks down at the top of his head, touches his soft hair. "I bet you say that to everyone."

"Not really." The corner of Eames' mouth drags up, but his eyes are serious. "I usually never bother with goodbyes."

Arthur can imagine it: tonight he'll come back to his apartment and all of Eames' stuff—along with everything easily pawned for any value—will be gone. Dusty will look up from the couch, and Arthur will know.

Or if not tonight, then soon. As soon as Eames gets his new ID from Arthur, as soon as he can secure a cab to go all the way out to Bellevue, as soon as he gets tired of the elaborate game of charades he's playing with Dom—with Arthur.

"I've been living with you a week," Arthur says. "And I wonder if I've gotten to know you better at all."

Eames yanks Arthur down by the front of his shirt with sudden force, until they're eyelevel with each other. "One of these days, Arthur, you're going to have to take me at my word or not at all."

Arthur presses in for a taste of those full, insolent lips, and pulls away before the hunger for more consumes him. "And one of these days, you're going to have to stop thinking you can play me when it's convenient for you."

"Are you wholly and consistently honest with me, darling?" Eames asks, eyes heavy-lidded. "With everyone else in your life? Are we really so different, after all is said and done?"

Arthur runs a rough hand down Eames' jaw, and kisses him, hard, once more, before pulling away. "I should get to work."

"Talk to me, Arthur," Sal says.

Arthur grits his teeth. "The meeting's set for a week and a half from now. I sent an email to Dom briefing him."

"Don't let him fuck this up," is the curt reply before the line goes dead.

Arthur listens to the dial-tone for a long moment and closes his eyes. Only to open them again when his secretary knocks on the door and says, "Your eleven o' clock is here. And so is your eleven thirty."

He takes a deep breath. "Send the first one in."

"How bad are we talking here?" Dom's voice crackles loudly across the line, and Arthur pulls his ear away from the receiver. "Totally fucked or just fucked?"

"I'm still not sure yet. Could be smoke, could be fire. But people are skittish."

"Goddamnit," Dom mutters. "Between this and the jacked up accounts—fine, confirm the meeting. I'll review your emails and be ready when I get back."

"Great," Arthur says. He's about to say goodbye and hang up when Dom says,

"Hey, before I go—how's your mother doing?" His voice is pointedly casual. "You gotten the chance to check up on E?"

"Good. Everything's—good."

"I'm glad," Dom says, voice warming. "Be sure to give my love—I know it can get a little lonely during the holidays."

"Of course, Dom," Arthur says, and the words stick like glass in his throat. "I'll be sure to do that."

"You look so young," Lydia says as she studies the graduation photo. "My little baby."

"I have a whole trunk of this stuff," Arthur says as he holds out a shoebox full of pictures. "If you want it."

"I'd forgotten I packed those all away. It's been too long since I last saw them," she says. As Arthur turns to go, she catches his hand. "Sweetheart, I want you to know—I could not be any prouder of the man you have become."

He stares down at their joined hands and forces a smile. "I know, Mom."

Eames' bags are packed in the corner when Arthur gets back, the two duffle-bags he started with alongside a shopping bag filled with art supplies and a closed-up easel.

"Eames?" Arthur calls out when Dusty doesn't immediately come running. The apartment's dark except for a little light peeking out of the bathroom. He puts a hand over his gun holster automatically as he approaches, but relaxes when he hears the tinny sound of the radio.

"—I'm gonna go to the gym more, eat healthier, and read at least ten books!" the radio DJ declares. "What about you? Call in with your New Year's Resolutions at—"

Arthur knocks, and lets himself in when Eames replies. Dusty's curled up on the bathroom floor, watching Eames meditatively when he brushes loose hair off a beard trimmer. He's shirtless.

He catches Arthur's eye in the mirror and smiles faintly. "You're home earlier than I expected."

Arthur puts a hand flat on Eames' back, between his shoulder-blades, and rubs lightly. "Half-day. Wanted to get more done, but everything's shut down. New Year's and all."

"I was hoping to be done before you got back," he says as he puts down the trimmer and picks up the shaving cream. "Shouldn't take longer than fifteen minutes."

His hands tremble almost imperceptibly as he works the cream into a lather. Arthur kisses his bare shoulder, his bicep, and says, "Want some help?"

Eames pauses as he reaches for the razor, expression blank and unreadable. But Arthur can feel the tension between his shoulders, the tightness of his neck. "My beard isn't actually evidence of an inability to shave, Arthur."

Arthur kisses up his neck to the spot just behind his ear, nuzzling until he tilts his head back with a little sigh. "Let me," Arthur says.

He starts near Eames' ear, moving in straight, methodical strokes down his face, smooth skin emerging as he goes. He takes great care in removing Eames' mustache, clearing the dip above his chin, marveling at the rediscovered fullness of his lips when no longer surrounded by hair. Arthur finishes the jaw and moves onto his throat, movements slow and steady while Eames keeps himself utterly still, breaths shallow as he watches in the mirror.

Arthur cleans up the back of his neck and looks up to find Eames' fingers digging into the sides of the sink, arms stretched taut. "All done," Arthur says as he lays the razor down where Eames can see.

"Thank you," he says as he meets Arthur's gaze again.

"You look like a new man." Arthur wraps his arms around Eames' waist, rests his chin on a shoulder.

Eames covers Arthur's arms with his own. "I feel like one."

They drive to an apartment building overlooking the river. The top five floors have been closed off for renovation, so when they reach the roof it's completely empty.

Arthur checks his watch while Eames pours the champagne. "The fireworks should be starting soon." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, a firework bursts overhead in a shower of gold that lights up the water.

"The view is magnificent," Eames says. But when Arthur glances over, he isn't staring up at the sky.

"I came here once, when Dom first bought it," Arthur says, taking a sip of his champagne. The bubbles burst in sour-sweetness against the inside of his mouth. "I was just a kid then, and I remember being so impressed. But now, looking back on it—I guess Dom was just a kid, too."

"He got to you young, didn't he?" Eames touches Arthur's cheek, leather cool against skin. "Sometimes I forget that."

"Before him, I was heading nowhere." Arthur closes his eyes to the memories of the his school days: the drudgery and tedium of classes he didn't care about, the bitter fight for survival that was every walk home from school. In middle school, kids had tormented him for being quiet and small and girly-looking, but that stopped once he started fighting back—in one case, ripping a kid's mouth open and in another, nearly putting out someone's eye. The attention had shifted to easier targets after that, and Arthur had spent most of high school alone, ignored, avoided.

"And where are you headed now?"

"I have a good life. I make good money. I'm very…" For some reason, the words halt, and Arthur can't find more to continue. He opens his eyes and tries again, "I could be doing Dom's job, someday, if he moves up in the organization."

"Perhaps." Eames studies him. "But will he?"

"I—" The answer bubbles up, unbidden and sharp: no. "I don't know."

"And what next, after that?" Eames cocks his head to one side. "The men you work for—they're not going to allow you keep moving up. Will you be content doing what Dom does for the rest of your life?"

"It's not terrible, his life. For a long time—" Arthur looks out at the water, at the glittering lights of the city across the way. The booming explosions of the fireworks overhead sound muffled, as if they're further than they actually are. "It's all I could imagine wanting."

"But you're not a child any longer, and neither is he." Eames pauses, waiting for Arthur to look up. "You've outgrown Dom's dream for you, darling. Isn't it time for one of your own?"

Arthur doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches for the champagne bottle and fills both their glasses to near overflowing. "To the new year," he says, holding up his champagne.

"Yes," Eames replies, and touches his glass to Arthur's. "To the new year."

Chapter Text

"Hasn't been that long, but somehow it feels like it has." Dom pulls Arthur into a tight hug. "Good to see you."

"Welcome back," Arthur says. "How was France?"

"Oh, you know. Filled with French people. Good eats, but I could live without the attitude." Dom shuts the front door behind him and locks it.

"Mal and the kids have a good time?" Arthur asks as they walk towards the car.

"For the most part. The in-laws were sniping at each other the whole trip, but they managed to keep a lid on it around the kids," Dom says. "But they meant Mal and I could take a few nights off. Get dinner, go out."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "Date nights?"

"Yeah, can't remember the last time that happened. Even got lucky for the first time in nine months." Dom shakes his head. "Nine months—can you believe it? When Mal and I first met, we couldn't keep our goddamned hands off each other. Now it's a minor miracle whenever anything south of the border happens."

"Wow." Arthur tries to imagine the last time he went over a month without sex. It's been years, at least. "Well, happy New Year, I guess."

"Yeah. Oh wait, that reminds me—I got you something. Hang on." Dom runs back inside the house and reappears a few minutes later with a small wrapped box. "Here. Souvenirs from Mal and me."

"Dom." Arthur smiles a little as he tears open the elegant Hermes wrapping paper. Nestled inside the box are two ties: one patterned in red and white, the other a deep green solid.

"We couldn't agree on what to get you," Dom explains. "I voted green, but Mal insisted on something brighter."

A closer inspection of the red tie reveals that the pattern is made up of tiny white airplanes stamped across a red background. "They're—airplanes. On a tie."

"I know," Dom says wryly. "I tried to stop her."

The other tie features a subtle jacquard, the letter H shimmering in the light. It's beautiful--like Dom's gifts always are. "Thank you, Dom," Arthur says, thumbing the smooth, heavy material. "And tell Mal—thanks."

"Least I could do. Thanks for sticking around, minding the store."

Minding Eames. Arthur tucks the ties in the backseat of his car, gets into the driver's side.

Dom settles into shotgun. "The Feds still bugging us?"

"Yes." Arthur adjusts his rearview mirror as he backs out of the driveway. "The car's clean, though."

"Damn. Was hoping they'd have given up, found someone else to hassle." Dom sighs. "Shoulda stayed in France. Frenchies got nothing on Feds."

"If only." Arthur clears his throat. "You okay for the meeting? You want me to come with?"

"Nah, it's probably best if I go alone. It's Sal we gotta worry about. We pushed back that deal with Saito and now there are new regs, the Lieutenant Governor breathing down our necks—it's not good."

"That fucking deal." Arthur sighs, thinking about the last stilted Skype conversation he'd had with Saito's representative. Explaining the new laws and why they had to delay the shipments even further hadn't exactly been a picnic, connectivity and language problems aside.

"Anything else happen while I was away?"

Fucking Eames in every room of that goddamn manor. "Construction's delayed at all the sites, but not too badly. Haven't figured out what's going on with those accounts yet, but I'm starting to think our internal network's been compromised."

"Fuck, that's exactly what we need," Dom mutters. "You think it's someone working at the firm or an outside hacker?"

"No reason to think it's someone on the inside, but I'm no tech whiz. Gonna talk to Yusuf this week." Arthur pauses. "Eames has been asking about you."

"Oh yeah?" Dom's staring out the window, trying to look casual and utterly failing. "What'd he say?"

"Wondering when you'd be back, that's all." Arthur takes a deep breath. "Guess he misses you."

"You don't know what it means to hear you say that," Dom says, smile so bright it's sickening.

Arthur pulls into the manor driveway and Eames stands up on the front steps, tossing his cigarette away. As he walks towards the car, Arthur fiddles with the radio, cycling through all the stations before shutting it off.

"I was expecting you a bit earlier," Eames says as he gets in. He's clean-shaven, cheeks flushed with the wind. Arthur wants to tell him to get in the backseat and take off all his clothes.

"Meetings," Arthur says instead. "I couldn't get out."

"I received an exuberant gift basket containing wine, chocolate, and roses earlier today." Eames cracks a window and lights another cigarette. "I assume that means Dom's returned to American shores safely?"

"Yes." Arthur keeps his hands firmly on ten and two, where they should be. "I told him I checked in on you a few times. Bought you some stuff you said you needed. Also told him you were asking when he'd be back."

"He'll be driving me home tonight, then?"

Arthur tightens his fingers and resists the temptation to look over at where Eames is pursing his lips around a cigarette. "As far as I know."

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

"What do you want me to say?" Arthur bites out. "Wear a goddamn condom."

"Lovely," Eames replies. "Thank you for your contribution, Arthur." He reaches out to turn on the radio but Arthur stops him with a hand.

"This situation is fucked, okay?" Arthur keeps his voice steady, calm. "We both knew this going in."

"So everything is going back to the way it was then? Like nothing's changed?" Eames' hand rotates under Arthur's, catching it before he can pull away.

Arthur brings the car to a halt in front of a red light and swallows. "Dom's probably going to give you another gift at the game. Talk about how much he missed you while he was away."

"Yes, I expect he will. And you will—"

"Be dealing the cards. Doing my job."

Eames lets Arthur's hand slip from his and, after a minute of silence, goes to turn on the radio again. This time Arthur doesn't stop him, and the blaring rhythm of reggaeton fills the space between them.

When they get to Perle, it plays out as expected: Dom presents Eames with a bottle of wine, which Ariadne uncorks for the table. Dom also gives him a box containing something that earns a raised eyebrow and slight smirk.

Then Yusuf arrives and the game begins.

It's subdued, Eames and Yusuf chatting casually about an online chess tournament while Dom slumps against Eames, still visibly jetlagged.

"I was so close to victory I could taste it," Yusuf says. "Made it to the semifinal round before my opponent got me in zugzwang and I was forced to resign."

"Zugzwang," Dom repeats dryly. "Gesundheit."

"It's German for 'compulsion to move,'" Ariadne says as she sets a platter of nachos on the table. "From combinatorial game theory. One player is at a disadvantage because it's his turn to move and he would be better off passing. But he can't, because the rules dictate he must take some action—all of which will worsen his position."

"A no-win scenario," Dom says. "Every choice is a bad one."

"In essence," she replies. "You're being impaled by the horns of a dilemma."

"That's me," Yusuf agrees. "Impaled."

"With dilemmas, I find that there's nearly always a superior third option," Eames says, leaning forward in his seat, "if you're willing to bend the rules."

"Bend the rules and the game breaks down," Ariadne says. "Which defeats the purpose of playing."

Eames smiles at her. "Depends on what you're playing for, though, doesn't it?"

"Speaking of games," Arthur says. It's been less than an hour and he's already sick of watching Dom drape himself all over Eames.

"Right." Ariadne finishes serving the drinks and wipes her hands on her pants. "Sorry. I found out after graduating that there aren't too many places to show off being a math major. I'll let you get back to it."

After she leaves and more wine is imbibed, Dom seems to find his second wind. He leans close to Eames, murmuring something inaudible. Arthur plants his eyes firmly on the cards, trying to ignore their whispers.

Arthur is fine; or at least he would be, if he didn't keep dealing himself the crappiest cards around. Not that he cares about winning, not really—but being one card short of a great hand gets old after the first three times. As the night wears on, he feels his patience with the deck growing thinner and thinner.

"Damn, Arthur, that was a hell of a bluff," Dom comments as he peers at the latest shit set of cards Arthur throws down on the table. "You're getting better at this."

"Turning shit into gold. It's great." Arthur pours himself another glass of wine. "But you know what would be even better? Not getting shit on to begin with."

Dom raises his eyebrows. When he speaks, his tone is mild. "Maybe it's time for a break."

"I couldn't agree more," someone says. Yusuf, maybe. Although what Yusuf's got to be running to or from, Arthur couldn't guess.

Yusuf mutters something about a smoke, Dom takes a call, and Eames heads to the bathroom. Arthur allows himself to watch Eames go, allows himself to imagine shoving Eames to his knees in a stall and coming all over his face. Be a hell of a way to end the game.

Arthur gets up to follow Yusuf instead; he could use a cigarette.

He heads out back to the alley where Eames and Yusuf usually smoke together. But it's not Eames he sees with Yusuf.

"I told you--" Ariadne's voice drops to something angry, hushed too low to hear. Yusuf says something in reply that Arthur can't make out, and Ariadne half-turns to go. Before she does, she turns and slaps Yusuf across the face.

He staggers back, seeming flabbergasted, and Ariadne storms away from him. As she nears, Arthur can see her rubbing at her eyes.

"Ariadne--" he starts, but she shakes her head as she passes.

"Don't," she says, voice shaking. "Please don't."

Arthur turns to Yusuf. "What the hell was that about?"

Yusuf rubs his cheek gingerly. "I have no fucking clue."

"Yusuf--" Arthur begins, but then Eames puts his head out the door.

"Game's starting up again," he calls.

Arthur gives Yusuf another measured look. "Later."

He nods, and follows Arthur obediently inside.

Dom waves Eames over when they get back to the table, puts an arm around him. "I'm not gonna be able to drive you home tonight, baby," Dom says as he kisses Eames' jaw. Something hot and sour rises up in Arthur's throat. He looks away but it's no good; they're still visible in his peripheral vision.

"Something come up?" Eames strokes Dom's thigh and it makes Arthur want to punch something. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's just--" Dom sighs. "Family stuff. Nothing for you to worry about."

"I understand." Eames kisses Dom sweetly. "Next week, then."

"This weekend, if I can get away." Then Dom adds, "You're the best."

Arthur spends the rest of the game with his left hand curled into a fist on his thigh. Yusuf and Ariadne avoid making eye contact with anyone, and Yusuf begs out of the game early. Arthur watches him go, and when he looks over at Ariadne, he sees her watching too.

"Ariadne," Arthur tries again, once the game's over and Eames and Dom are standing in the corner, cuddling and kissing goodbye.

She glances up from wiping down the table. "I'm fine," she says. "Honest."

"Yusuf doesn't have to come to the games anymore," Arthur says. "I can--"

"No." She jerks and nearly knocks over a half-empty glass with her elbow. "Don't do that, please, Arthur. I don't want anyone to know about this, I don't want anything to happen to him--"

"If he's hurting--"

"He's not. I swear, it's just." She sags. "There were a few nights in college and--he doesn't remember. I kept waiting for him to say something but he didn't, and then when I did he was just—anyway. It's stupid, I got mad, and I overreacted. I shouldn't have slapped him."

"Oh." Arthur stares as she covers her face with her hands. "So he's not--harassing you or anything?"

"No." Ariadne peeks out through her fingers. "You won't tell anyone about this, will you? I feel like such a stupid girl."

"If you don't want me to say anything, I won't. But--are you sure you don't mind him coming to the games?"

"It's only once a month. And honestly, it's kind of good in a way. I kept wondering what we could have been, you know? I had this idea of him all built up in my head, but now that I'm seeing and talking to him again I'm realizing--well. Turns out the fantasy is way better than the reality."

Arthur glances back at Eames and Dom. "Isn't it always?"

She starts wiping down the table again. "Nothing's going to change, right? I'm not gonna wake up tomorrow and see a photo of Yusuf's body in the papers with the headline, 'killed in a misplaced act of chivalry,' right?"

Arthur huffs a chuckle. "No misplaced acts of chivalry."

"And no booting him from the table or the games?" She wags her washcloth at him.

He puts both his hands up in surrender. "No booting. I promise."

"Okay." Ariadne narrows her eyes. "I'm gonna hold you to that."

He starts to say something, but a heavy hand on his shoulder interrupts. "Ready to go?" Eames asks, smiling with a hint too much teeth.

Arthur stops himself from turning into the touch. Moves away instead. "Yeah. I think we're done here."

"Bye, guys. Drive safe, okay?" Ariadne waves, and the walk back to the car is quiet.

The instant the car doors closed, Eames says, "So, Ariadne."

"Yeah." Arthur pulls the car out of the parking lot. "Look, you're friends with Yusuf, right? Can you tell him to take it easy on her?"

"I--what?"

"They've got some kind of history. I saw them fighting before."

"Well, that would explain why Yusuf kept twitching all night," Eames replies. "To clarify: a sexual history?"

"That's what she told me." Eames makes a thoughtful noise in response and Arthur looks over. "What?"

"No, it's merely--" Eames shrugs. "Yusuf's always seemed terrified of her."

"Terrified?" Arthur gives him a disbelieving look. "Are we talking about the same Ariadne?"

"Perhaps I misread." Eames shrugs again. "I suppose it could be guilt. But I've never gotten the sense that they know—or knew—each other in a carnal fashion."

"Yeah, well, it's probably hard for you to pay attention, what with Dom crawling all over you." The words come out quickly, and more sharply than Arthur intended.

"You know I had to keep up appearances. I can't bloody well act like I've picked up someone new and forgotten all about him over the hols, can I?"

"Whatever," Arthur mutters, and moves to flip on the radio.

"No, it's not whatever." Eames flicks the radio off. "There is nothing about this situation that is whatever."

"Fuck you. Don't make fun of my accent."

"I'm not--" Eames crosses his arms over his chest. "Whatever."

When they reach the manor, Arthur opens his mouth to tell Eames to get out. The holidays were one bad fucking decision after another, but Dom's back now, and it's time to stop being an idiot.

Eames leans across the transmission to grab Arthur by the collar and haul him in for a hard, messy kiss. "Come inside," Eames says, fingers digging under Arthur's coat. "Come inside with me."

It's a terrible idea, but Arthur's already fumbling open the zipper of Eames' pants. "I can't stay."

They don't make it out of the car, kissing and groping in a frenzy until Arthur gets Eames' dick out and bends down to put his mouth around it. Eames is too worked up to last long, coming in a few sharp, short bursts with Arthur's name on his lips.

They don't make it that far inside the house, either. Eames shoves Arthur—fully clothed--into a sitting position at the bottom of the stairs. While Arthur rolls a condom onto his cock, Eames rips his pants and underwear off. He straddles Arthur and sinks onto his dick with a muttered, "Christ."

They fuck like that, Eames moving determinedly on top while the wood edge of a step digs into Arthur's back. It's hot, and painful, and over too goddamned soon. When Arthur comes, he shuts his eyes tightly and bites out Eames' name.

Eames shifts a little to let Arthur's softening cock slip out, but doesn't climb off. Instead, he thumbs the sweat from Arthur's upper lip and nuzzles his ear. "Stay," Eames murmurs. "Stay a while with me."

"I can't." Arthur drapes his forearm over his face. His back hurts. His clothes are unpleasantly sticky with sweat. And still the smell of Eames on top of him makes him want--impossibly--more.

"Just a little while. A few hours."

"Do you want to fuck again?"

"If you want," Eames replies, breathy and cajoling. Arthur opens his eyes.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Use that voice on me." Arthur sits up. "That voice you use on Dom."

Eames' expression changes, and when he speaks again it's in his normal tone. "I know you're not--"

"Eames." Arthur sighs. He's too tired for this. "What you do want?"

"I--" Eames swallows, and then looks away, silent for a minute. "I want to know if this is going to be the last time, now."

"Eames." A wave of exhaustion runs through Arthur. It's been such a long day. "I don't—"

Eames moves awkwardly off to sit on the step beside him, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. "I know."

They sit together on the stairs a while, sweat drying and leaving a chill. Arthur stands and offers a hand to Eames. "Let's get cleaned up."

Arthur leads him upstairs into the bathroom, letting the water run until it gets hot enough. While they wait, Arthur helps Eames undress, skimming his fingertips over the scarred, marked skin that's revealed. Eames is uncharacteristically docile throughout all of this, quiet and watchful.

Under the spray of the water, Arthur soaps Eames up, traces the lines of his tattoos: the band wrapped around his right bicep, the design spread across his pectorals, the line of text around the barrel of his lower chest.

"This is a tree, right?" Arthur asks as he puts a palm in the center of Eames' chest; the ink reaches beyond the span of his fingers.

"Do you see something else?" A non-answer.

One half of the tree is covered in intricately drawn leaves. The other half of the tree is bare, nothing but gnarled limbs and branches reaching out. "Nothing lasts forever," Arthur says, and when he looks up, the corners of Eames' mouth are turned up, the barest hint of a smile.

"Best to enjoy things while they do," Eames says as he steps back into the full force of the water, letting the soap bubbles wash away.

After they finish in the shower, Eames drapes Arthur in his bathrobe and changes into a worn set of sweats. Arthur collects his clothing off the bathroom and hallway floors, checks that no trace is left behind.

Eames puts the kettle on and microwaves for Arthur an anemic-looking dinner of mashed potatoes, sausage, and carrots. He eats it all anyway, and sips the too-hot tea Eames pours.

Once Arthur's done eating, Eames throws out the trash and washes the dishes while Arthur changes back into his clothes. Back into who he is with Dom home.

Eames walks him to the door. Arthur says, "I'll come as soon as I can."

"I'll be waiting," Eames replies. It's déjà vu--except Dom isn't here, and Eames has never looked at Arthur like this before.

Arthur steps inside the deli and nods at the girl behind the sandwich counter. "I'm here to see Mr. Fischer--he should be expecting me."

"Oh yes, Mr. Damrosch. He's in the back, let me go get him." She disappears into the back room and then comes back a few minutes later. "He's on a call right now. He'll be out in a minute."

"Thanks." Arthur leans against the counter and drums his fingertips absently. "You were here the last time I came in, right? Dvorah, was it?"

"Oh, um, yes," she says. "I--remember."

Arthur smiles at her, his gaze falling to the blue butterfly broach pinned to her black turtleneck. "I like your pin. Brings out your eyes."

"Thank you." Dvorah ducks her head and plucks at the pin. "I got it at my Bat Mitzvah." Arthur smiles vaguely in response and glances down at his watch. She says, "Do you--would you like a sandwich? While you wait?"

"Oh, uh--" Arthur glances up at the chalkboard menu over her head. "Anything you recommend?"

"Well, the pastrami's really good today. And I also really like the corned beef on seedless rye."

"One of each then," he says, and Dvorah smiles before getting to work. After she's finished and rung him up, Arthur peels a hundred dollar bill from his billfold and drops it in the tip jar.

"Mr. Damrosch!" she calls out after he collects his sandwiches and steps away from the counter. "I think you might have made a mistake counting your money."

When he turns back, she's holding up the tip jar, eyes wide. "No mistake," Arthur says. "I got the best pastrami and corned beef in the whole state and great service, right?"

She pinks and starts to say something, but Fischer steps out of the back room and Arthur misses it.

"Mr. Damrosch," Fischer says, words clipped. "If you'll follow me to my office?"

Arthur nods at Dvorah one more time before he and Fischer go into the cramped back room and close the door.

"I think I found a match," Fischer says as he hands Arthur a printout of a map. "You didn't give me much to work on so I can't guarantee if this is the right Aaron Damrosch, but I thought you'd want his information."

"Thank you." Arthur takes the printout and stares at the address. "This is--good."

"So you'll forgive the five thousand?" Fischer says, resting his cast gingerly against the desk.

"If it's the right guy." Arthur pockets the paper and then glances down. "How long have you had that on?"

"A while." Fischer shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "What, are you a doctor now?"

"No, it's just--you shouldn't have those on for over six weeks or you could lose range of motion," Arthur says. "You should get that taken off. Do some physical therapy. You know, finger exercises."

Fischer stares at him like he's crazy, and then shakes his head. "Right."

"Do you want to fuck up your fingers?"

"Do I--" Fischer lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Look, being a nearly bankrupt small business owner doesn't exactly come with great benefits, okay? So I'll just do what I have to do, and you do whatever it is you do."

Arthur's jaw tightens. He reaches into his wallet, pulls out a business card and scrawls a name and number on the back. "You call the hospital and you ask for this guy, Hiram Cho, say that Arthur Damrosch sent you. Then you tell him what you need and he'll take care of you, no problem."

Fischer pushes the business card back towards Arthur without even glancing at it. "The last thing I need is to be even more indebted to the mob. So thanks, but no thanks."

"This isn't about--" Arthur pauses, takes a deep breath. "This is just between me and you. That's all. No strings."

"No."

"You need your fucking hand to type, to--to run this store," Arthur says. "Are you gonna let it sink because of your pride? What's gonna happen to your employees if you go out of business?"

"Fuck you." Fischer's gaze snaps back up to Arthur, a shock of defiant blue. "Do you really think this is going to make us even?"

"Just take the card and think about it," Arthur says as he turns and walks out. "That's all."

One of the things Arthur likes most about Balal is how responsive he is—both in bed and in day to day communications. Now that they've been doing this a while, Arthur's become familiar with the constraints on Balal's availability (work, Kat's school and after-school schedule) and vice versa. Turnaround time between text and meeting is pleasantly brief, and, barring any unexpected stressors (Dom calling, Kat's principal calling), their time spent together is always satisfying, uncomplicated. Fun.

"Wow." Arthur flops back on the bed, panting. "That was—enthusiastic."

Balal crawls up Arthur's body to kiss his neck. "Just saying hello."

"It's a good hello." Arthur runs a hand through Balal's hair lazily. "You want me to—"

"Sure." Balal lifts his head to give Arthur a crooked smile. "I'll let you catch your breath first, though."

"Yeah." Arthur loosens the tie around his neck, and then shimmies out of his pants and underwear, which are damp with sweat. "Missed me, huh?"

"Me? Miss you? Perish the thought."

"Deny all you want, but I'm onto you."

"Drat! My devious plans have been discovered." Balal rolls off Arthur and says, "Hey. Your sheets smell different."

"Really?" Arthur glances over at the spot where Eames had lain, not even a week ago. "New detergent. You have a good nose."

"That's me, multitalented." Balal puts a hand on Arthur's abdomen, under his shirt. The touch is warm, affectionate. "So?"

"So…?" Arthur lifts his eyebrows, pretending not to notice Balal waiting.

"You're going to make me ask, aren't you?" Balal's fingertips begin to move lightly across Arthur's belly, too deliberate to be an accident.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur says, keeping his face blank and trying not to squirm away from Balal's fingers. "I'm afraid I require specificity."

"Oh, I'll give you specificity," Balal says before the fingers launch into an all-out tickling assault, the only proper response to which is pinning Balal to the bed and climbing on top of him.

Arthur captures Balal's wrists and leans in for a kiss to his ear. "I missed you, too."

Balal tips his head so that he can look Arthur in his eye. "Yeah?"

Arthur smiles as he closes the remaining distance between their mouths. "Yeah."

"Are you ready?" Arthur adjusts the lapels of Eames' shirt and tries to force the thought of Dom touching him--here, everywhere--from his mind.

"Absolutely." Eames pulls Arthur in for a harsh kiss. "Are you?"

They arrive early and as Arthur surveys the club, he thinks this was probably a mistake. He should have found some way to put this moment off longer, some reason not to be here for this.
And then he sees Mal.

"Mal." Arthur starts towards where she's standing by the stage, relief pumping like euphoria through his veins. "Mal, you're--here."

"Arthur, yes, we flew back in last week--" She stops, and cocks her head to one side. "But of course you knew that, yes? You have spoken to Dom."

"It's so good to see you," Arthur says, embracing her a bit more tightly than usual. "Are you staying for the game?"

"Yes, I could use a night away from..." She's distracted by something over his shoulder and trails off. He twists around to look and of course, it's Eames. "Monsieur Eames."

"Madame, c'était trop longtemps." He steps forward to take Mal's hand, lifting it to his lips.

"Bien sûr," she says, lowering her eyes. "Je vous manque?"

"Terriblement," Eames replies. "Mais peut-être pas assez que vous auriez dû. J'ai rêvé de vous."

"Vous êtes très effronté." The words sound like a rebuke, but there's a hint of a smile nevertheless. "Quelle chose de me dire."

"Mais vous voyez, les rêves sont aussi cruels que ma réalité," Eames says. "Vous vous matérialisez comme un bel esprit, puis vous brisez mon coeur et disparaissez encore une fois."

"Pour que je vous brise le coeur, c'est en premier nécessaire que je suis convaincue que vous en avez un," Mal murmurs, lifting her chin. "Et pourquoi un tel homme aurait besoin d'une telle chose?"

"Pour l'avoir blessé par des femmes comme vous, bien sûr." Eames bows, as if contrite, but the expression on his face is far too knowing for that.

"Dom," Arthur says, loudly. "Hey."

"Arthur, Eames--" Dom pastes a smile on his face as he approaches and kisses her. "Honey, what a surprise."

"I was thinking, it has been a long time since I saw Arthur," Mal says. "Not since before Christmas, yes? Unacceptable. So I come to say hello, and to remind him he is not to miss the birthday dinner next week."

"Birthday dinner?" Eames says. "Whose, if I might inquire?"

"Arthur's," Mal replies, giving Arthur a pointed look. "Last year he could not come to dinner because he was 'too busy' and the year before that, he somehow 'forgot.'"

"Mal," Arthur starts. "It's just a birthday. I don't see why—"

"Just a birthday?" she repeats. "Dom, talk to him. Make him see reason."

"Yeah, because that always works," Dom replies dryly. At her glare, he adds hastily, "Anyway. Yeah. Clear your calendar, Arthur. Or I will track you down and drag you in, kicking and screaming."

Arthur sighs, but abandons the fight. Birthdays are awkward when they involve Mal—she always insists on cake and candles and some kind of public party. It's a nice thought, but mostly Arthur wants the day to end as quickly as possible. People constantly stopping him to tell him how young he looks (still jailbait at thirty! Har har) followed by a room full of strangers singing to him isn't exactly his idea of fun.

They migrate to a table and order drinks, waiting until Cho arrives to start the game. Mal plays again, but this time she peppers everyone with seemingly casual questions, "And how was your New Year's, Mr. Cho?" "Mr. Eames, do you think you will stay in the US for very much longer?" "Dom, that singer, Abilena, do you know if she is married? I don't see a ring. Oh, divorced? How sad." "Arthur, have you been seeing anybody new?"

A reprieve only comes when Dom declares a ten minute break, fleeing to the bathroom immediately. Arthur stays behind a few minutes, shuffling the stack and careful not to watch where Eames goes. Once everyone at the table has dispersed, Arthur gets up and heads out the back door into the alley.

There's no Eames, but Arthur spots Cho leaning against the brick wall with his head bowed, face pressed to his forearm. At first Arthur thinks Cho might be throwing up, but he's too still for that.

"Hey," Arthur says, touching the edge of Cho's shoulderblade, prominent under his thin T-shirt.

Cho pushes back from the wall and his face is absolutely blank except for the tight corners of his eyes. "Arthur. Sorry, didn't think anyone would be back here."

"Yeah, no, I came back here to see if I could bum a cigarette off someone," Arthur says. "Everything okay?"

"I—" Cho clears his throat. "I guess you should know. Ainsley moved out."

"Oh." Arthur stares at Cho; nothing's giving him away except for the fact that he's standing out in the dark and freezing cold with no coat on. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Cho looks down the alley, towards the dumpster. "I keep forgetting to do the dishes and that's. Every time I see them in the sink, I remember he's gone. Ainsley hated…" He stops.

Arthur remembers the first time he'd met Ainsley--it'd been Cho and Ainsley and him along with an old girlfriend at the time, all crammed into a hard plastic diner booth. Ainsley had been a talker, providing an endless stream of chatter on topics ranging from bizarre ER injuries to the molecular composition of table salt. Arthur had only half-listened at the time; what he mostly remembers is the way Cho had put an arm around him, casual and easy in the middle of that dinner, saying very little while eating most of the food off Ainsley's plate. He'd seen them kissing, very briefly, in the parking lot behind the building, and they'd seemed--happy.

"We should get back inside. It's pretty cold out here."

"Guess it is," Cho says, staring down at the ground. "I hadn't noticed."

Dom, Eames, Ariadne and Mal are in deep in a conversation which ceases as soon as Arthur and Cho reach the table.

"Welcome back," Mal says pleasantly. "Ready to play?"

Arthur knows better than to ask, and the rest of the night proceeds without incident. Dom calls an end to the game early, and Arthur can't help the spasm of relief he feels as they part ways.

"You should come inside," Eames says in the car, later. He puts a hand on Arthur's thigh.

"I shouldn't."

"You're tired," Eames murmurs, hand drifting higher. "I'll draw you a bath."

"A bath," Arthur repeats skeptically. "I don't think—"

"Trust me," Eames says, lips tracing down Arthur's neck to suck at the one electrifying spot just above his collarbone. "I can help you relax after such a long day."

"Maybe I can come in for a little while," Arthur says as he threads his fingers through Eames' hair.

They go inside, up the stairs, and then—to Arthur's dismay—past the bedroom, into the bathroom. Eames turns the taps and abandons him to pour various bath salts and oils into the tub.

"Eames," Arthur says, struggling to keep a hint of impatience out of his voice. "Are we still having sex?"

"But of course." Eames finishes fussing with the tub and puts a palm in the center of Arthur's chest, dragging it downwards to his fly. He raises an eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather not?"

"Oh, I'd rather," Arthur says as he guides Eames' head down.

A thoroughly satisfying blowjob and reciprocating handjob leave Arthur pliable and sleepy, willing to play along as Eames guides him into the surprisingly large bathtub. After he's fully seated, Eames slides in behind him, sending water and bubbles everywhere. It takes a few minutes of awkward repositioning before they're lined up in something approximating comfortable with Arthur's back pressed up against Eames' chest.

The water is hot, the tub confining, and Arthur opens his mouth to say, now what, but then Eames begins to speak.

"Many years ago, I knew a man—a modern day captain of industry. He had a singular purpose in life: accumulating vast sums of money. Everything else—meals, relationships, cancer—were relegated to the brief openings in his schedule not devoted to the accretion of wealth. Which, considering he worked fifteen out of the sixteen hours in the day he was awake, were few and far between." Eames' voice is low, a soothing rumble behind Arthur's ear. "But the one thing he'd always, always, make time for was a good soak. Every week."

Arthur finds himself relaxing slowly as his body adjusts to the heat of the water. The bubbles are on still on the verge of splashing into his mouth and up his nose with every miniscule movement, but he has to admit that they don't smell as nauseating as he thought they would. "You knew about his bathing habits firsthand, I take it?"

"I did." Eames settles his arms around Arthur's waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against his thighs. "He was in his seventies, occupying a body that'd been ravaged by cancer, so he wasn't much for sex by the time I reached him. He did love his rituals though—ten lashes with a whip and then an hour in the tub. No more, no less, and certainly no deviation."

"Jesus Christ." Arthur turns his head to stare at the side of Eames' face. "You beat and then bathed a senior citizen?"

"Oh, he was hardly invalid, let me assure you of that." Eames chuckles. "The man was a fireball of energy; I was in some of the best shape of my life whilst living with him."

"And how long was that?" Arthur asks, catching one of Eames' wrists. Under the water, Arthur can barely see the scars at all.

"Less than a year. I was ousted by his six ex-wives and countless children banding together in the face of a common interloper." Eames sighs. "I was arrogant and young. I thought that so long as I had him in hand, I needn't bother currying favor with the periphery. The man was a narcissistic emotional wasteland, loathed by virtually every person who came into contact with him for more than ten minutes—why on earth should his estranged family care who he cavorts with? Terribly foolish of me."

"Scared you were gonna write them out of Mr. Moneybags' will?"

"Scared of that and whatever other dangerous notions I might have been putting inside his scaly old skull."

"Everything you say about him makes him sound so appetizing." Arthur tips his head back to rest against Eames' shoulder. "You stayed with him almost a year?"

"Well, we can't all be young and brilliant and utterly irresistible." Eames kisses Arthur gently under his ear. "Baths with him were more work than fun—he'd a near constant tendency to lose erections that he refused to acknowledge. I swear I was in danger of carpal tunnel by the end of each of our sessions."

"So you're giving me a limp-dick rich guy bath," Arthur says. "Good to know."

"I'm trying to tell you that repetitive stress injuries aside, I came to be quite fond of baths." Eames' voice grows quieter. "You're the first person I've done this with besides him. And he was—many years ago."

Arthur brings Eames' hands up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the palm. "You're not very good at doing this when you're not playing a part, are you?"

"Doing what?"

"Asking for what you want." Arthur sits up, the cold air slicing across his shoulders and chest as he does. He turns around slowly to face Eames, who is studying the patterns of foam in the water.

"My wants have very rarely been relevant," Eames replies, not looking up even when Arthur cups his jaw. "Old habits and all that."

"It's okay to ask," Arthur murmurs as he leans in to touch his forehead to Eames'. "I like giving you what you want. You just have to say."

"Hey." Arthur gets out of the car and walks over to where Ariadne's sitting on the front step of Perle. "What are you doing out here? It's freezing."

"Lunch." Ariadne holds up a sandwich baggie filled with some baby carrots and a juice box. "They're cleaning the floors inside and I didn't want to sit inside a car, so…"

"Is that all you have for lunch?"

"Last week my tire blew out and I drove off the road into a tree. Now I have to pay for repairs and rent another junker while I wait." Ariadne shivers slightly and sighs. "And I don't get paid till Thursday."

"Come on." Arthur takes out his keys and heads back towards his car. "I know a place down the road with a decent buffet."

"You don't have to do that. I'm not going to starve. I have carrots. They're—healthy."

"The buffet also has a salad bar if you're worried about healthy," he says, waiting patiently by the door. "Come on. There's snow on the ground and you're eating rabbit food."

Ariadne stares down at her pitiful baggie and then shakes her head. "Alright, fuck it. Thanks, Arthur."

The buffet has a large assortment of food and the lunch rush hasn't started yet, so it isn't too crowded. They both fill their plates and sit down next to some plastic potted plants.

"Guess I was hungrier than I thought," Ariadne says as she munches on a piece of fried chicken. "So, um—is something up? With the club, I mean? Unless you drove all this way for a delicious buffet lunch."

"Came to deal with the guy that's been stealing from the club," Arthur says as he eats a forkful of lettuce. "I don't like to do these things right after the holidays. Seems a little Grinch-like."

"You've figured out the thief already?"

"Yeah, I pulled all the timesheets for the past six months and cross-checked them with when the inputs that resulted in accounting irregularities were entered." He shrugs. "Wasn't that difficult."

"Oh sure," Ariadne says. "That's so simple and straightforward I totally would have thought of it. In fact, I could do that in my sleep while playing the lute."

Arthur chuckles, and they spend the rest of the meal talking idly about the weather, New Year's, and Abilena's new sets (Arthur likes the energy and soul in the new music versus Ariadne, who thinks it sounds almost ominous).

On the drive back to Perle, she says, "Hey, thanks for this. You know, again."

"No problem." Arthur pauses. "Is everything okay with you? It sounds like you've been having a rough couple of weeks."

"I have to admit I've had some better days," she says. "I'm okay. I guess. I didn't realize how hard it'd be to spend my holidays alone."

He glances over; Ariadne looks small, and very young. "You didn't get a chance to see family?"

"Couldn't really afford to." She gives him a half-shrug. "It's not exactly cheap, flying across the country, and my parents aren't really in a position to offer assistance. Even my college friends are scattered across the west coast, too."

"You’ve got friends here, Ariadne," Arthur says as he pulls into the Perle parking lot. "And you know, if you ever need anything—"

"I know, Arthur." She smiles. "I appreciate it. And everything you've already done for me."

Arthur watches Perle's front door open, one of the bartenders coming outside for a smoke. Dealing with thieves and snitches—this is always his least favorite part of his job. "I know how it is to be barely scraping by, living in a shithole and wondering if it's ever gonna be better than this."

"Does it?" Ariadne asks. "Get better, I mean?"

"Sure," Arthur says as he puts on gloves and opens the car door. "As long as you're willing to do the things no one else wants to, you'll find a way."

Dom leans across the table, voice low and hurried. "When Mal gets back, she's going to insist that we take separate cars. She'll drive you while I take my car back."

"What?" Arthur blinks. "Why would she--"

"She's going to take you to a reception hall. It's gonna be dark, and I'm telling you this because I don't want you to think it's an ambush." Dom glances over his shoulder quickly to make sure she hasn't emerged from the bathroom yet. "It's a surprise party. So don't shoot anyone."

"A surprise--" Arthur halts. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack." Dom leans back in his chair. "I tried to talk her out of it, but you know what Mal's like once she gets an idea stuck in her head."

"Goddamnit." Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. Of course the low-key birthday dinner sans cake, candles, and singing had been too good to be true. "Is there any way I can—not go?"

"She invited everyone you've ever met, so no. And don't tell her I said anything, or she'll smother me to death in my sleep." Dom shrugs helplessly. "Sorry. Just--act surprised."

"Fuck." Arthur leans heavily on one elbow against the table and forces a smile when he sees Mal coming. "Ready to go?"

"Born ready, Arthur," she replies as she fishes out her keys. "Now, let me drive you home. Dom will take the other car."

On their way out, Dom mouths at him, "Act surprised," while pantomiming wide open eyes and mouth. Arthur nods, and pretends to be confused when Mal turns the wrong way out of the parking lot.

"A shortcut," she replies, patting him lightly on the arm. Arthur goes quiet after that, trying to gird himself for the rest of the night.

After about ten minutes, Mal pulls up in front of a large, empty building and shuts off the car. "You must come inside with me. I need you to help lift a very heavy box."

"Sure," Arthur says, resigned. The sooner he gets in there, the sooner he can claim to be tired and get the hell out.

"I will go inside first and you can come in five minutes after me. But no sooner," she instructs once they reach the lobby of the building. "Okay? I must—find the box."

"Right. Got it." Arthur brushes a few snowflakes off his coat as he waits. He stares idly at the sign which proclaims, 'Spearwood Reception Hall—over six hundred married!' and wonders if Mal will believe him if he claims to have food poisoning.

Once the proper amount of time has passed, he walks through the closed double doors and pastes an expression of surprise on his face when the lights come on and a cacophony of voices yell, "Surprise!"

"Happy birthday, Arthur!" Mal squeals as she flings her arms around his neck and kisses his cheeks. Dom echoes the statement with a forced smile over her head and a helpless shrug.

Arthur spends the next half hour being passed around a crowd of coworkers, friends, acquaintances, and people he's never met, enduring endless cracks about still looking thirteen, how he probably still gets carded, about whether he's going to get grounded for being out so late.

There's a mariachi band playing somewhere in the background, and colorful streamers along with broad-brimmed sombreros dangling from the ceilings. Ten separate people tell him he should be wearing a more festive outfit—starting with a sombrero, of course—and at some point an elderly acquaintance wrangles him into a bright pink lei.

Arthur sneaks away to the buffet table, where a large pitcher of sangria is located (the bar is packed with people still lying in wait to spring birthday wishes on him). He can't help the start when he catches sight of a familiar profile, though he supposes he really shouldn't be surprised to find Eames here.

"Sangria?" Eames offers Arthur a cup, which he takes immediately. "Enjoying the party?"

"Not as much as you are, I'm sure," Arthur replies. "Mal invited you?"

"But of course. You and I are such dear, dear friends, after all." Eames dips a nacho into the pile of seven layer dip on his plate. "Cobb wasn't too keen on any of it, of course, but he was overruled. She can be quite determined, his wife."

"How much longer before I can go?" Arthur asks as he finishes off his first cup and pours himself a second.

"Unless you're willing to do some heavy vomiting, I'd say we have a whole night ahead of us." Eames holds up his nacho as if to toast. "Cheers, mate."

"Hey, no hogging the birthday boy," Ariadne says from somewhere behind Arthur.

"Ariadne." He bends to hug her awkwardly. "Thank you for coming."

"Course. Happy birthday! Hope you like grocery store gift cards, because I had no idea what to get you," she says cheerfully. Over her shoulder, Arthur sees Yusuf, who looks almost as miserable as he feels.

"Happy birthday, Arthur," Yusuf says without enthusiasm.

"Thanks," Arthur replies automatically. "You guys come together?"

"No," Yusuf says at the same time Ariadne says, "Yes."

"It's complicated," Ariadne says, after a beat.

"Sounds like it," Eames interjects. "Now, Yusuf, old boy, tell me you aren't the designated driver in this scenario. There's an open bar that's got our names scrawled all over it."

"Open bar?" Arthur repeats, glancing back towards where Mal is shepherding a large cart with a cake cover through the door. "Jesus."

"Well, only for Spanish themed drinks, apparently," Eames amends. "Everything else costs."

"I could stand to get obliterated on mojitos," Yusuf replies.

"There's a good man," Eames says. He clasps Arthur's arm, thumb dragging down the skin of Arthur's wrist for the briefest moment. "Happy birthday. Try not to drown in too much—cake."

Arthur watches them go, and wishes he could justify the risk of dragging Eames into the bathroom for a birthday fuck. He's entertaining a half-formed fantasy involving Eames humming happy birthday around his dick when Ariadne says, "Don't say it. Yusuf and I are two consenting adults who carpooled. That's all."
Arthur blinks. "Say what?"

"Exactly," she replies. "Now I'm going to stuff my face with tacos and the candy falling out of that piñata while you get back to your adoring public."

She pushes him back in the direction of the crowd, and he finds himself being circulated through some of Dom's relatives, including Uncle Tommy, Reggie, and Dom's sister. After more 'happy birthdays' and 'thanks' than Arthur can count, he finds himself standing beside Cho, who moves for an embrace instead of a handshake. "Happy birthday," is all Cho says, too, but he smells good—warm, a hint of spice—and Arthur finds himself staring after him as he walks away.

Arthur winds up making polite small talk with his secretaries for a while, then Juana, and has no idea what to say to Al when he winks, "Spiffed up your cake for you, A-Rod."

Before Arthur has a chance to wonder if he should be expecting a dead hooker later in the evening, the lights are dimming and the mariachi band ceases playing. The enormous cart he'd seen earlier is wheeled out in front of him, and Mal says, "Make a wish!"

The cover is lifted, and a giant flan cut out in the shape of a cock and balls comes into view.

There's a collective tittering in the crowd as Arthur stares and Mal gasps. After a moment of silence, she shakes her head and snorts. "Well, we all know Arthur's is bigger anyway."

Arthur chokes on his sangria and ends up sputtering while Dom claps him on the back. "I am not drunk enough for this," Arthur mutters while the crowd sings at him.

"I'm pretty sure no one is," Dom says with a tired smile. "Better blow out your candles before the flan-cock melts."

Arthur leans forward, doing his best to ignore the fact that most of his coworkers have their camera phones out and are snapping away.

After the flan is cut and he's served one of the testicles, Mal clamps down on his arm and powers him through the room. "I have people for you to meet."

The first is a young blonde named Jennifer. The next is a young blonde named Didi. The last is a young blond named Ryan, who is so flamboyant Arthur half-suspects the plate of empanadas in his hand will catch fire the next time he flips his bangs.

"Is it true, what she said about you?" Ryan asks as he peers up from under his hair.

"I guess you'll have to find out for yourself," Arthur says, glancing over at Mal, who is currently occupied with a phone call.

"Birthday blowjob for the birthday boy," Ryan says slyly. "I think that could be arranged."
Later, after Mal has dragged Arthur away again, he says, "A stylist, really? That's who you thought would be a good match for me?"

"My hairdresser says he is excellent," Mal says defensively. "And I don’t get the chance to meet very many—eligible men."

"Okay. And what's with all the blondes?" Arthur asks as he nods at Blonde #1 when she passes.

"I was trying to find someone you might like."

Arthur raises an eyebrow and glances pointedly over at Dom. "And maybe you were thinking about what you'd like."

Mal flushes, then changes the subject. "Oh, but your surprise is here."

"Another—" Arthur's voice fades away when he looks over and sees his mother emerging from the crowd, trailed by Carmen.

"I'm sorry we're late," Carmen says. "There was some traffic along the way. Arthur, happy birthday."

"Carmen, Mom." Arthur starts forward. "What are you doing here?"

"It's good to see you, too," Lydia replies, voice cool.

"That's not—you know that's not what I meant." Arthur bends down to kiss her cheek, but her lips remain pursed. "Should you be out this late? You—"

"Breaking my curfew, yes, I know." She crosses her arms over her chest. "I need attendants to tell me when I should eat, what I should do, how long I should sleep, at what time—of course everyone knows better."

"That's not what I'm saying." Arthur takes her arm and tries to gently guide her away from the center of the crowd to a quieter corner, but she refuses to be moved. "I'm worried about you."

"Why should you be worried? They even sent someone with me to make sure I don't fall and break my entire body. Because I'm so fragile I can't be left alone to attend my only son's birthday party." Lydia pulls her arm from his grip, and he glances over at Carmen, who shakes her head helplessly.

"Maybe we can do this outside," he starts, but Lydia says,

"Why? Do I embarrass you?" Her voice is sharp, curling with a meanness he's never heard before. "Is that why you've never invited me to any of your other parties before?"

"Other—what are you talking about?" Arthur shakes his head. "Mom, you're not thinking straight. Let's get you out of here and we'll—"

"So you think I'm crazy too, is that it?" Her voice is rising, and guests are beginning to stare. "You think I can't take care of myself anymore. That I'm helpless, and stupid, and—"

"I don't think that," he says, struggling to keep his own words level. "But the way you're acting is—"

"I know what you think of me. First you throw out my things without telling me, then you take away my car, and even my home. Now I'm stuck in some box in a center far away, because I'm just some foolish old woman, getting in your way, wasting your time—"

"All I want to do is to keep you safe, to keep you from hurting yourself." Arthur can't keep the frustration from seeping in, can't keep his fists from clenching at his sides. "I'm just trying to take care of—"

"I can take care of myself," Lydia snaps, and he can't help but snap back,

"But you can't, and that's the problem." Arthur shakes his head. "You don't remember how you crashed the fucking car twice and nearly set the house on fire. You don't remember wandering off in the middle of the night with no phone and no shoes, how I spent two days trying to track you down, worried out of my fucking mind that you'd fallen into a ditch somewhere and bled to death."

"So I'm being imprisoned for my own good, is that it? You can put me away like some shameful secret you don't have to deal with unless you feel like it."

"You really want to talk about secrets, Mom?" He's speaking too loudly now, maybe even shouting, but he can't seem to stop. "How about we talk about Aaron, because I found him. And guess what? He's alive."

Lydia takes a step back. "Aaron—"

"Why would you lie about that?" Arthur demands, the words flowing like a river through a broken dam. "And what else have you been lying about? The rest of my family? My father? Did they really leave, or did you do something to drive them all away—"

She slaps him.

The crack, the sound of a palm hitting flesh registers to Arthur's senses before the sensation of it. The sting in his cheek comes a few seconds later, after he's already staggered backwards. They stare at each other in shock for a long minute before Arthur turns and walks away.

The crowd is silent as he pushes through, or perhaps they're saying something and he simply can't hear through the roar of blood rushing through his brain, white noise filling his ears. He makes his way blindly to the edge of the room, searching for anything resembling an exit, and stumbles into the first unlocked door he finds—which turns out to be an empty bathroom.

Arthur stares wildly at the sinks and the urinals, not sure what he's doing until a wave of nausea punches up from his gut. He barely makes it inside a stall before he starts heaving.

As he vomits up the entire contents of his stomach, he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing, the turn of the lock. He should stand, shut the stall door, pretend that the sounds aren't what they are—but he can't will his body to cooperate. He sags against the toilet bowl.

"Arthur." The voice is soft, the footsteps slow. He doesn't want Dom to see him like this, but Dom's already kneeling down beside him and it's too late. "Hey."

Arthur wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and refuses to meet Dom's eyes. "Get out."

"Look at me." Dom's got some damp paper towels in his hands, and he's reaching towards Arthur.

"I said, get out." Arthur shoves at him but the angle's bad and Dom doesn't budge. "Go back to the fucking party with your fucking wife and everyone I've ever fucking met."

"I'm not going to do that." Dom keeps coming at Arthur no matter how he struggles, eventually grabbing him by the shoulders and pinning him to the wall.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Arthur spits into the first paper towel that reaches his face, but Dom isn't fazed; he discards it and starts in with a new one. "You can't treat me this way."

"I'm not treating you any way," Dom replies, infuriatingly calm as he swipes at Arthur's face methodically. "All I'm doing is helping you get cleaned up."

"I don't need your help," Arthur says, and he doesn't know when he started panting, but his cheeks are wet and his throat is raw. His mouth tastes acid and sour. "I don't need you."

"Maybe not," Dom says, and his face is lined with an expression so sad and so soft Arthur can scarcely believe it. He's suddenly reminded of a moment at the end of high school, after he'd left the hospital and been cleared to do more strenuous exercise than walking and physical therapy. Dom had dragged him to an empty jogging track one day and said, It's time for you to learn how to run again.

I can't, Arthur had replied, I can't do it.

I know it hurts, Dom had said, But I'm not leaving until you try.

"Fuck," Arthur says as he lets Dom clean the rest of his face. He doesn't know who starts it—whether Dom pulls him in, or he pitches forward on his own—but somehow he ends up with his face crushed against Dom's shoulder, wetness blooming across the fabric. "Fuck you, Dom."

"You're okay," Dom whispers as he tightens his arms around Arthur. "I'm not going anywhere."

Arthur gets in to work early, doing his best to avoid all human contact. Since the only other people in the building are a couple of janitors wearing headphones, this works out perfectly.

He spends the day sequestered in his office, having his secretary order and bring in his lunch, avoiding eye contact all the while. He gets two emails from his coworkers (down from the approximately three million CC's he usually gets), and practically no calls. The lack of interruptions doesn't make Arthur feel better about anything, but it does allow him to plow through a considerable amount of the work that's cropped up due to the new regulations.

Around midday, Eames begins sending him a series of text messages that start suggestive and descend rather quickly into lewd. Within a few hours, Arthur's amassed a collection of graphic camera-phone photos of Eames, and he can't decide whether that leaves him more horny, frustrated, or tired. There won't be an opportunity to meet up until Thursday, so this, unfortunately, is all they're going to have in the meanwhile.

Arthur stays late, grabs something to eat at a drive-thru fast food place, and then heads over to Balal's modest two-story home.

"Thank god for sleepovers," Balal says after he lets Arthur in and leads him upstairs. They make it onto the bed, making out and rutting eagerly against each other for while before Balal bends down to suck Arthur's dick.

"Everything okay?" Balal says after fifteen minutes, when Arthur's cock fails to harden fully, despite dedicated attention.

"I—" Arthur reaches down to jerk himself off a few times, but it doesn’t help. If anything, his cock wilts further.

"Let me give it another shot." Balal first tries with his hand, then his tongue, and finally his mouth again—with no luck.

"I don’t know why this is happening," Arthur says as something uneasy clenches up in his gut. "I'm not—"

"Hey," Balal says, laying a palm on Arthur's stomach gently. "Hey, it's late. And I'm pretty tired myself."

"Not that tired," Arthur says, eying Balal's cock, which lays heavy and dark across his thigh.

"Appearances can be deceiving," Balal says, voice kind.

Arthur sits up and rubs his forehead. "I should go."

"Lance, wait." Balal catches Arthur's jaw in his hand before he can climb out of bed. "This is the first night I've had someone over in god knows how many months, and I'd kind of like to drag the experience out for as long as possible. Especially with Kat being a newly minted teenager—I'm anticipating shooting down a lot of future sleepovers involving alcohol, boys, and other tomfoolery."

Arthur reluctantly meets Balal's gaze when he doesn't let go. "Tomfoolery? Really?"

"It was my email word of the day," Balal says with a completely straight face. "I'm pretty excited I got to use it, I'm not gonna lie to you."

Arthur cracks a smile before he can stop himself. Then he sighs. "I can't stay the whole night."

"Good." Balal lets go of Arthur's jaw and reclines back onto the pillows. "More bed for me."

"Figures that you're a bed hog," Arthur says, tracing the pattern of the comforter. It's geometric, the repetition of the squares and ovals oddly soothing.

"A man needs space to breathe and roll around if he wants to." Balal touches Arthur's shoulder, and strokes up the side of his neck gently. "You know what I mean?"

"Yeah." Arthur closes his eyes and leans in to the touch, a little. "You want me to—I could blow you."

"Well, you know I'd never say no to a blowjob."

Arthur crawls down Balal's body and deep-throats him, relieved at being able to focus on something else for a while. Balal moans and strokes the back of Arthur's neck, smiling with an open affection that makes Arthur want to avert his gaze. He doesn't, though, and watches as Balal begins to breathe more quickly, mumbling mindless encouragement. When Balal comes, Arthur swallows, and it occurs to him he's never done that before.

"I really like you, you know that?" Balal says after he's caught his breath. He's smiling, but his voice is serious. "You're really something."

"That's the orgasm talking," Arthur says as he sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Maybe a little, but it's not all endorphins." Balal pulls him up for a kiss. "I've been—you know. I've been meaning to say that for a while, now."

"You barely know me," Arthur says, and it comes out less matter-of-fact than he intended. He looks away, eyes coming to rest on the dresser, the framed photo of Balal and his daughter on top of it.

"I know you're a workaholic." Balal kisses Arthur's ear, and then the top of his head. "I know you love your mother with a devotion I can only pray my daughter has someday. I know that you're smart, and funny, and a great dresser—and that I enjoy spending time with you in a way I haven't with anyone else in my last three odd years of horrific post-divorce dating."

"Well." Arthur puts on his poker face. "I guess you're alright."

Balal laughs. "I could do worse than alright, I suppose."

Arthur leans down to press his forehead to Balal's. "You do a lot better than alright. You're probably the best man I've ever known."

Balal's expression softens. "Lance," he says. "I'm just a normal guy."

Arthur kisses him once more, and then sits back. "It was my birthday yesterday."

"Happy belated birthday," Balal says as he studies Arthur's face. "But I'm guessing it wasn't that happy, huh?"

"Maybe I'm the only person on earth who doesn't like to make a big deal on my birthday but I just—" Arthur exhales deeply, "don't."

"It's your birthday." Balal reaches up to stroke Arthur's cheek. "You should celebrate it however you want."

"When I was a kid, my mother used to call me out of school on my birthday. Tell them I was sick. We used to go to the park together, and she'd buy a pastry and stick a candle in it for me to blow out. One year it was a cinnamon raisin bagel." Arthur smiles a little at the memory; Lydia had eventually given up on carving a suitable hole in the bagel for the candle to stand in and had simply held it up for him to make a wish. "We'd spend the day walking around, staring up at the sky, making up names for the different birds we saw."

"Sounds like they were good birthdays," Balal says quietly.

"Yeah." There are little flowers within the squares on the bedspread, and Arthur outlines the shape of one. "They were the best."

"I've found parties to be mostly overrated anyway," Balal says. "When I was growing up, I had one every year and no one ever came except for my relatives. All of whom were at least ten years older than me, including my cousins."

"Family only?"

"Oh, I invited people besides family. It's just that they always declined to come." Balal shrugs. "I was the fat Indian kid with glasses. Even the prospect of cake and candy wasn't enough to tempt my classmates."

"They were missing out." Arthur takes Balal's hand in his.

Balal gives Arthur a ghost of a smile. "I like to think so."

Arthur threads their fingers together. "I know so."

"Yusuf, you've spent the past five minutes using words I don't understand to explain concepts that mean nothing to me," Arthur says. "Do we have a problem or not?"

Yusuf spins around in his chair once, sucks in a deep breath, and says, "Yes."

"Thank you," Arthur says curtly. "Now who is behind it, and what can we do about it?"

"Given the level of sophistication in what I've seen—" Yusuf glances at the computer screen where lines and lines of accounting data is displayed, "I'd say this isn't the government but probably a private entity. Either a lone hacker or a hacker on someone's payroll. As to what you can do about it—I can take a look through your systems, beef up your security, but it's not going to be an overnight process."

"You know we have enemies," Arthur says. "Who should we be looking into?"

"Could be a lot of people, organizations—plenty of interest in cybercrime these days." Yusuf shrugs. "My best guess? Russian mob. They're big into online financial hacking and they have kids on their payroll with the skills. Maybe Triad, but it seems like these days they're mostly keeping a low profile, staying on their own territory. Or it could be some other black horse—I haven't done enough with these kinds of malware to recognize programming fingerprints."

"Probably the Russians. Dom's had some run-ins with them in the past." Arthur rubs his forehead and takes a deep breath. "This is not what we need. Not now."

"Every day's a good day to have your internal networks hacked," Yusuf says brightly. Then, "I don't know why I said that. Ignore me."

"I intend to," Arthur says, glancing at his watch. "So you'll handle this?"

"I will get straight on it." When Arthur turns to go, Yusuf says, "Hey, Arthur?"

Arthur blinks, then looks back. "Yes?"

"About Ariadne." Yusuf fidgets. "I know you think I've probably done something to hurt her or—well, I don't know. But I promise you it's not like that."

"Right," Arthur says slowly. "Then what exactly is it like?"

"She's a complicated woman and I am—" Yusuf takes a deep breath. "I have to admit that I didn't know quite what I was getting into when I first met her."

Arthur studies Yusuf. Dom's always liked him, and Eames—well, Eames likes him as much as he's capable of liking anyone. But there's something about him—

"Isn't that the way it always goes with women?" Arthur forces a smile and a casual, sympathetic tone. "Never know what you'll end up with when you first start."

Yusuf smiles, visibly relieves, and nods. "Sometimes I really think they're more trouble than they're worth."

"They do keep things interesting, though."

"Interesting." Yusuf huffs out a weak laugh. "Yeah."

As soon as Arthur steps inside the manor and shuts the door, Eames is on top of him.

"I've been thinking about you all week," Eames says as he backs Arthur up against the wall.

"Been thinking about you, too." Arthur replies, a bit startled but not displeased. "Those pictures you sent—"

"See anything you like?" Eames murmurs as he licks at Arthur's throat.

"God," Arthur sighs as he reaches around to squeeze Eames' perfectly firm and round ass. "You know I do."

"Do you want to—" Eames puts a leg between Arthur's, and rides up against his thigh. "Somewhere more—"

"We shouldn't," Arthur replies as he shoves Eames' pants down. He's not wearing any underwear. "The game—"

"Wouldn't want to be late." Eames undoes Arthur's fly and slides down to rub his face against Arthur's briefs. It's hot—Arthur doesn't know how it's still so hot after everything they've done together already. He feels like he should be used to Eames by now, used to the restless burning heat that itches under his skin every time their eyes meet.

Eames sucks him to full hardness, talented mouth and lips working while he stares up at Arthur like he's starving for it. Arthur meets his gaze and wonders: what would it be like if they'd met some other way—if Eames would come visit him at work, if Arthur would introduce him his mother, to his godson, to his best friend—

Something sharp and fierce wells up in Arthur's throat, sticks there as he pushes futile thoughts from his mind and focuses on this: the sensation, the moment. He closes his eyes as he comes, heat racing up his spine and through his body like a fire burning everything else away.

He opens his eyes to Eames pressing tiny kisses to his abdomen as he jacks himself off, and it's a simple matter to urge Eames up, cover his hand, and make him come with a sigh.

Arthur allows himself to enjoy the weight and the smell of Eames for a few long breaths before saying, "We should get cleaned up."

"Of course." Eames steps back. "But before we go, I have something for you."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Something else for me?"

"Well, perhaps you won't enjoy it quite as much as what I just gave you, but." Eames disappears into the kitchen and returns with a washcloth as well as a small dark box. "I didn't want to leave your real present next to the giant sombrero full of gift cards."

Arthur sighs; Mal's been calling and calling, leaving him messages about all the birthday gifts and food left over that she wants to drop off with him. Even his utter unresponsiveness hasn’t deterred her. "You didn't need to get me anything."

"Only a trifle, I promise." Arthur takes the box while Eames dabs Arthur's stomach clean and starts buttoning him up again.

It's a watch. Heavy and solid, gleaming in the velvet case like something that's never been touched and hardly even been looked at. The design is modern, austere, with a black face and only four silver roman numerals at the cardinal points.

"Let's see how it is on, shall we?" Eames lifts the piece out of the case and deftly undoes the watch on Arthur's wrist, replacing it with an easiness that would have been impossible only a few short months ago. The new watch fits perfectly, as if it'd been made for him.

Arthur rolls down the sleeve and holds out his arm; the effect is subtle, tasteful—something he wouldn't have chosen for himself, but that looks strangely right, now. "It's gorgeous."

"It's perfectly you, darling," Eames says as he touches the small of Arthur's back, thumb stroking his side.

"I already have a watch, though." Arthur glances over at the one Dom gave him, years and years ago, dangling in Eames' fist.

Eames drops the watch to the floor and drives the heel of his boot into it with a sharp, swift step. When he bends down to retrieve it he says, "It seems to have chipped. I expect you'll need to send it away for repair."

Arthur stares at the spiderweb of cracks across the face as he takes it back. "You know, that was a gift."

"You like this one better," Eames says as he runs a possessive palm down Arthur's arm, over his wrist.

Arthur looks down at the dark face of the watch, at the elegant sweep of pale hands over roman numerals. "I suppose I do."

"Arthur," Juana says, later, when they're sitting down for the game, "how are you?"

Arthur glances up warily; Juana has never been particularly interested in making small talk with him. "I'm fine."

"Good, that's good," she replies. "About the other night—"

"Arthur!" Ariadne interrupts, suddenly appearing by the table. "Can I get you a drink?"

"My usual," Arthur says. "And I'm going to the bathroom."

He takes his time, even if he doesn't really need to piss, and takes a deep breath as he checks his reflection. He's composed, ready, and everything's fine.

He steps out of the bathroom just as Dom arrives at the club, and before Arthur can duck away, Dom raises his chin in acknowledgement and heads over.

"Hey," Dom says as he falls into step beside Arthur. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Arthur." Dom's voice dips into something almost gentle. "You know it's—"

"I'm fine, Dom," Arthur says before he can finish. "I spoke to Yusuf. He said he'd handle the situation."

"Great," Dom says. "That's one less thing to worry about, at any rate."

"He thinks the Russians might be behind it.'

"God." Dom groans. "Katya wasn't kidding when she said they hold grudges forever."

"I don't think Katya kidded about many things," Arthur replies dryly.

"Yeah, she wasn't really the joking-around type." For a second, Dom looks wistful. "I haven't thought about her in—god, months. If only Mal hadn't—well, anyway. I wonder how she's doing."

Dom never knew what to do when things were over—he never wanted to be the one to let someone down, deal with the fallout, tie up all the loose ends. For the most part, Arthur doesn't hate being the cleanup crew except for when he does—when he's the one who has to visit a girl in the hospital after a procedure to take care of accidents, or tell someone they can never speak to Dom again.

He keeps tabs on everyone that Dom has left behind because people are almost always loose ends until the day they die, even when they move hundreds of miles away. Arthur watches their lives play out from afar: marriages, babies, divorces, even deaths in some cases. And still he never knows quite what Dom wants to hear when he gets into moods like this—nostalgia mixed with the tiniest hint of melancholy, longing for an idealized version of a person he ultimately sent away.

Katya, Arthur knows, is Katya Belyaev no longer, but is now Erin Peters, mother of Michael Peters, recently married to Eugene Farik. Arthur knows this because Erin and Michael are the names he selected himself, printed all over their new passports, birth certificates, and social security cards.

"I hope she hasn't been deported," Dom continues. "Those assholes at the club she worked at—they sure were pieces of work. The way they dealt with her and her little boy—it made me sick."

"Yeah well, the Russian mafia--" Arthur shakes his head. "They're animals."

They reach the table and all traces of Dom's pensive mood fade away. "Hey baby," he says as he slides into the booth and puts an arm around Eames. "Guess who I'm going home with tonight?"

"Tell me now so I can kill the bastard," Eames replies, making a great show of looking around the club.

"I'm not really into necrophilia, so you're going to have to put the guns away." Dom's using that singsong playful tone of his; it makes Arthur want to gag. "Or at least save them for later."

"Can we get started, please?" Juana says, cutting in before Eames can reply. "Some of us have to be up in the morning."

"Later," Eames says to Dom, voice heavy with promise.

Arthur forces his fists to unclench underneath the table and begins shuffling the cards. "Jokers are wild, and there are two in the deck tonight."

"Please, ma'am, you can't just go back—"

Arthur looks up to see the door of his office fly open, Mal striding in with his hapless secretary a few steps behind. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Damrosch—"

"It's fine, Stacy," Arthur says, minimizing the single-spaced, ten-page document he received from Saito's representative earlier this morning. There are some translational quirks that appear every few pages that make the reading slightly more amusing than it might otherwise be, but mostly it's dry technical detail. "I have a few minutes."

His secretary nods and retreats while Mal drops into the seat in front of his desk, unrepentant. "This is where you have been hiding yourself."

"Not really much of a hiding spot," Arthur says, turning away from his computer screen. "Is there something I can do for you, Mal?"

"You haven't been answering my calls, my texts, my emails—" She leans forward to touch the edge of his desk, the cut of her diamond ring flashing in the warm afternoon sunlight. "Have you even listened to any of my voicemails?"

"I've been busy," Arthur says, voice level and controlled. "Work's been hectic, and I haven't really had the chance to—"

"Arthur, I'm sorry," she bursts out. "I didn't mean for your party to go like that. I didn't think your mother would be—I didn't know—"

"It's fine," he says. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"But I do." Her lower lip trembles as he leans even further forward, the edge of her wool scarf knocking against the business card holder sitting on his desk. "Dom told me not to do this, he said your mother wasn't well, but I thought you'd want her there, I thought—"

"It's not your fault," Arthur says, carefully folding his hands in his lap. "My mother's illness is no one's fault."

"Please, I am so sorry, so—I cannot say in English—" Mal breaks off into a few low words of French. "All I wanted was for you to be seen, do you understand? For you to be appreciated. For you to know how much you are loved, by your friends and your family, by Dom and me. I wanted you to know how special you are to us."

"I already know where I stand," he says, flat. "There's no need—"

"Arthur," she whispers, tears welling up in her eyes. "Talk to me. Tell me how I can—"

"It's fine. I'm fine." Arthur unclasps his hands, and pushes his chair back from the desk. "Next year, skip the party."

Mal looks stricken, wiping roughly at the tears spilling down her cheeks. "Don't shut me out, please. I can't bear anyone else—if you are angry at me, tell me what I can do, how I can make it better."

"I'm not angry." He stands and walks around the desk to open the door. "I'm really sorry, but I have to get back to work."

As Mal stands, her scarf catches on the edge of his business card holder, sending a shower of ivory rectangles cascading across the floor. "Oh, I—"

"Just leave it," Arthur snaps, unable to keep the curtness at bay any longer. "I'll take care of it."

She nods and hurries out of his office, head bowed. Arthur shuts the door behind her and goes to the window, waiting until he sees her walk into the parking lot and drive away. Then he pulls out his phone.

Dom picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Do you know who just paid me a visit at my office?" Arthur says with no preamble. "I'll give you a hint: it wasn't Saito."

Dom is silent for a moment and then, "Shit. Did she—"

"What the fuck, Dom?" Arthur shouts into the phone, and he can almost see Dom wincing across the line but he doesn't particularly care right now. "It's not enough that now everybody at the whole goddamned office knows my business, but now I got Mal fucking ambushing me at work? Is this seriously another thing I need to fucking deal with right now?"

"I swear to god, I told her not to. I told her it'd be a bad idea, that—"

"Like you told her not to throw me the goddamn party to begin with? Like you told her not to invite my irrational, easily upset mother to—" Arthur cuts off and swears. "I have dealt with a lot of your shit over the years, but your wife is where I draw the line. My mother is where I draw the line."

"I'll talk to her, Arthur, I promise. I'll make her see that this isn't—"

"Just control your goddamned wife, Dom." Arthur hangs up and drops the phone to the floor before he can give in to the temptation to hurl it across the room.

Arthur takes a few deep breaths as he climbs the stairs behind Balal, trying to clear his head of all the stress from the day. There's something calming about being in Balal's house, even if there are pink socks on the banister and sneakers in the on the steps and half-completed homework on the floor. It's a mess, but a familiar one now, and it's a marked contrast from the office, or the docks, or even the construction sites Arthur spends all his time in. It's starting to feel like an escape, a haven away from the rest of the world.

For a moment, Arthur's mind flashes to Victoria, to how she always used to lean back on the sofa to give him an upside-down kiss when he came home from work. Maybe they could have built something like this together. Maybe this could have been his life.

"Nice watch," Balal says. "Is that new?"

"Belated birthday gift." Arthur slips it off and rests it on the dresser. "Something wrong?"

"No, it's—" Balal tears his gaze away from the watch. "It's really—nice."

"Thanks." Arthur takes a seat on the edge of the bed and starts untying his shoes. "You gonna stare at my watch all day? C'mere."

"Sorry, it's just that I'm feeling distinctly less impressed with myself now," Balal says, pulling out a paper shopping bag. "Feel free to mock my corny present for all it's worth."

"You got me something?" Arthur blinks, and then smiles.

"Course I did." Balal sits down next to Arthur and bumps his shoulder companionably. "It's not much. And it was kind of short notice, so you've been warned."

Arthur pushes aside some tissue paper to reveal a bottle of red wine and a bag of high quality coffee beans. They're nice, expensive—but not in a flashy way. As he traces the raised lettering on the wine label, he feels ineffably charmed.

"A couple of things to start and end your day," Balal says. "Oh, and if you like the wine, I'm a genius with excellent taste. If you hate it, all blame goes to the wine store owner who led me astray."

Arthur twists around to cup Balal's jaw, and kisses him gently. "How did you get to be this sweet?" Arthur murmurs as he thumbs the line of Balal's cheekbone.

"Sweet?" Balal repeats, mock affront barely masking palpable relief. "I think you mean rugged and manly and strong."

Arthur chuckles. "Yeah, that's exactly what I meant. You're a regular tough guy."

"That's right." Balal smiles back a little, relaxing. "Now that we've got that straightened out."

"I love it. Them." Arthur pulls him in for another kiss and then adds, impulsively. "Let's go out to dinner next week. I'll come pick you up."

"Dinner dinner? In an actual restaurant and everything?" Balal moves the shopping bag onto the floor and then levers Arthur backward on the bed. "I'm going to have to run home and write a very special entry in my journal: Dear Diary, today Lance asked me out on a real date. Whatever will I wear?"

"Dear Balal's Diary, please tell him to wear something low-cut, and that we'd better get to at least third base," Arthur says while Balal cracks up. "Otherwise I'm not taking him to prom and a sleazy motel afterwards."

"Dear Diary, I appear to have fallen in with the wrong crowd." Balal grins down at Arthur. "And I think I like it."

Arthur parks on a quiet, tree-lined street and gets out of the car. The area is residential, filled with small, plain homes and well-tended lawns. It's evening and nobody's out, but he catches the flutter of curtains out of the corner of his eye.

He straightens his jacket and squares his shoulders, walks up the driveway to 528 Sycamore Road, and rings the doorbell. There's the sound of footsteps, and then an elderly man with a long curling beard and dark hat opens the door. "Yes?"

"Are you Aaron Damrosch?" The man has his mother's eyes, her heart-shaped face.

"I am. And who are you?" Aaron holds the door between them like a barricade, eying him warily.

"My name is Arthur. I came here to ask if you know of a woman named Lydia. Lydia Damrosch."

"Lydia—" Aaron's mouth thins into a line. "You shouldn't have come here."

"What?" Arthur puts out a hand to stop him from shutting the door. "Stop, I need to talk to you."

"How did you get this address? How did you find me? Not from your mother, I'm sure." At Arthur's expression, Aaron snorts. "Yes, I know exactly who you are, which is why you need to leave and never return."

As he goes to shut the door, Arthur says, "She's sick, you know."

The door eases open again—barely. "What?"

"She has Alzheimer's. That's how I even found out about you." Arthur looks down the street; all the neighbors are openly watching through the windows now. "She misses you. Or at least—she used to."

"She—" Aaron hesitates, and stares down at the ground, blinking rapidly behind his small, circular glasses. "How can she be sick already? She's barely—"

"Early onset." Arthur swallows. "She's been deteriorating for a while now, but the past year—anyway. I thought it might be good for her to see you again, but now I know that I was wrong. Goodbye."

"Wait." Aaron puts a hand on Arthur's arm as he goes, skin paper thin and grip frail. "I didn't know. I can't talk here, but I can meet you at the Starbucks in Windsor. If you have a card, I will call you to arrange this."

Arthur stares at him for a moment, and it's strange, to see so much of Lydia in that pleading expression. "Okay."

As he passes over his business card, a woman's voice floats out from the interior of the house, "Aaron, who is it?"

"A Jehovah's Witness," Aaron calls back. "He was just leaving."

"You know, I don't really do this anymore," Cho says.

Arthur straightens up at the sound of a latex glove snapping. The exam table is hard and unyielding, the room slightly chilly. Everything's impersonal and sterile, just the way he remembers all the hospital rooms he's ever been in. He used to have nightmares years after the hole in his chest had healed, wake up terrified that he'd be back in a starchy white bed, body torn open again.

It's been years since he'd had one of those dreams, though, or even thought about them. Strange, what memories will bubble back up, given the right circumstances.

"Can you follow this light for me, Arthur?" Cho shines a flashlight in Arthur's eyes, and he blinks, eyes moving automatically.

"I don't think I have a concussion," Arthur says, the words coming out slowly. "I don't remember hitting my head."

"Do you remember how you got here?"

Arthur does. Or--bits and pieces of it, anyway. He'd gotten drunk--no wait, that wasn't what happened first. Before that, he'd driven around aimlessly, going in circles until he ran out of gas and pulled over for more, spoke to a station attendant who had--what? Said something funny, maybe. Arthur remembers laughing at a joke about an otter--or maybe it was a beaver. Either way, it was hilarious.

"A beaver, huh?" Cho says, and Arthur looks up, realizing he must have said most or all of that out loud.

"I got drunk." Arthur is sure to enunciate all the words properly. "I think I might have picked a fight."

"You don't say," Cho replies, but it's kind rather than mocking. He dabs a damp washcloth over Arthur's face, pries open his mouth gently to check his teeth. "Some bruising, a few minor cuts, no nose or jaw damage--looks like you made it out okay. Except for that broken glass stuck to your arm."

"Broken--" Arthur stares down at his left arm, where his jacket used to be. Now there's just his favorite grey shirt, matted down to the skin with blood and torn up with, yes, what appears to be glass. "This was my favorite shirt."

"Don't think I'm going to be able to salvage it." Cho carefully undoes the cuffs and peels back the fabric to Arthur's elbow, cutting off pieces as he reveals the wounds. "You're intoxicated and there's probably enough adrenaline still pumping through your system that you can't feel the pain right now. It'll make getting these pieces out easier."

"You aren't wearing your uniform," Arthur comments as Cho steps away from the bed and returns with a silver tray and some shiny instruments. Cho's wearing a navy pinstripe suit, green tie, and looks like he could have stepped off a runway ten minutes ago. "Should you be treating me if you're not wearing your uniform?"

"You mean scrubs?" Cho smiles as he sets down the tray. "I told you, I don't really do this anymore—getting bloody, ripping foreign objects out of people's bodies. I sit behind a desk now."

"That's right, your promotions." Arthur takes a deep breath while Cho touches his shoulder to keep him steady. Cho smells good. "Did I ever congratulate you on those, by the way?"

"Probably not." Cho's pulling at something along Arthur's forearm; he looks down and watches with vague interest as Cho drags out a jagged shard of green glass.

"Sorry," Arthur says, feeling stupidly, inexplicably wrong for being here. "I don't want to bleed all over your nice tie."

"It's not that nice," Cho says, a touch too sharply. Then he adds, "Ainsley got it for me. Actually, I think he got me all my ties."

"Sorry," Arthur repeats, but it doesn't feel like enough. Nothing feels like enough tonight--not the drinks, not punching that guy, not texting Eames early in the evening to say hey and getting back: not tonight, am doing the wash. The wash being Dom, of course.

"Don't worry about it," Cho replies, after a moment. There's the clink of glass hitting metal.

"What time is it?" Arthur squints at the clock on the wall, but the numbers don't quite resolve into anything that make sense. "It's pretty late."

"It's all relative." Another clink.

"I guess." Arthur pauses. "You know, it was my birthday last week. Had a surprise party. I turned thirty-two."

"I was there."

"That's right, you were." Arthur shakes his head. "Batting zero for two tonight, huh?"

"You're drunk." Arthur waits for him to say something filled with pity or scorn, something like, I'm sorry about your mother or, you were an ass, but all he says is, "You still look barely twenty-one to me."

"Is that a compliment?"

"More a statement of fact."

"Right." Arthur takes a deep breath. "How'd you find me here, anyway?"

Cho puts down the tongs and goes over to a cabinet, pulls out what looks like a roll of duct tape. "I heard some prettyboy in a suit got dragged into the ER, kicking and screaming the whole way. Had to check it out for myself."

Arthur blinks. "I'm not a prettyboy."

There's a hint of a smile in the corner of Cho's eyes. "Then clearly my information was incorrect."

"That's right." Arthur stares down at where Cho is applying tape down the length of his forearm. "What are you doing?"

"This may hurt," Cho says, barely a warning before he rips the tape off again, taking debris, hair, and what feels like all the skin on Arthur's forearm off with it.

"Mother of--" Arthur bites into his fist and feels tears streaking down the sides of his face. "What the fuck?"

Cho seems unrepentant, examining the sticky side of the tape before folding it up and throwing it in the trash. "That should be the last of the glass. Give me your arm."

"Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner blows?" Arthur sticks out his arm and blinks rapidly, the tingling in his arm painfully sobering.

"It's been said." This time there's no warning before the stinging antibiotic is applied. "Guess the adrenaline's worn off."

"Motherfucker," Arthur hisses as Cho cleans the tender, scraped-up skin. "Where's my Florence Nightingale?"

"She doesn't tend to stay in the office till three in the morning. Try mashing someone into the ground during the daytime instead."

Arthur snorts a laugh, then winces when it jostles his arm. "Ow."

"Didn't think you were the kind of guy who needed coddling," Cho says, but his fingers are gentler, now.

"I don't," Arthur replies. "As you can see, I'm indestructible."

Cho smiles, and this time it's a full one—mouth and eyes and all. "Guess that's what I have to thank for making my job easy."

"I bet people put up with all kinds of shit for a hot nurse," Arthur says, and okay, maybe he's still a little drunk.

Cho's lips twitch. "I bet they do."

"When I was in the hospital, all my nurses were old and overworked," Arthur says, not sure why he's still talking. "One smelled like Velveeta."

Cho's hands still. "They treat you okay?"

"I'm alive to tell the tale, so I guess they must've."

"Yeah," is all Cho says. Arthur tries to figure out the expression on his face, but he can't.

He watches Cho finish cleaning and dressing his wound, binding his arm up with gauze. "Thanks for this."

"It's no problem." Cho balls up his gloves and drops them in the trash. "You want something for the pain?"

"I think I'll be okay." Arthur eases off the table and rolls his shoulder, testing it.

"Make sure to clean the wound and re-dress it regularly," Cho says. "Call me if anything seems off."

"Will do." Arthur shuffles in the direction of the door and his knee twinges. Probably landed on it badly, earlier.

"Oh, and Arthur?" Cho's leaning back against the counter, looking like some photo shoot spread: fine menswear amidst a sea of factory-produced medical supplies. "It's good, seeing you. Been a while, outside the game."

"Yeah." Arthur holds up his left arm. "I'll have to get in more barfights at strange hours of the night."

Cho just smiles. "See you around."

"Arthur, Jesus, what happened to your arm?" is the first thing Dom says when he sees him.

"Tripped and fell in some glass. I got it taken care of," Arthur replies. Truthfully, it feels achy and stiff underneath the layers of gauze he'd wrapped it in, and it figures that Dom would notice not only the bandage on his hand, but also the slight bulge up his arm through his shirt and sweater sleeve.

"Tripped and—" Dom steps in closer and peers at Arthur's face, then his chest. "You got in a barfight, didn't you?"

"What? How did you—"

"You're wearing that sweater you always wear when you're hungover." Dom looks out the window to the construction site, which is quiet and empty at the moment. "You didn't beat the shit out of anyone important, did you? If you did, I'd appreciate the heads up before Uncle Tommy calls and rains an ocean of hell down on me."

Arthur glances down at his sweater. He hasn't worn it that many times—has he? "No, it was just some drunk idiot and his friends. I made sure not to do any permanent damage."

"Good to hear," Dom says as he grabs his coat and heads to the door. "Uncle Tommy's been kind of skittish lately and I want to avoid pissing off more people if I can help it."

After a moment, Arthur grabs his coat as well, and follows Dom out. "Worried about the new regs?"

"Nah, I don't think so. I think something else is up, but hell if he'll tell me about it." Dom holds the door open for Arthur, and then raises his hand to shield his eyes against the sun. "All my meetings have gone well, and everything with the the new regs has been smoothed over. We should be able to proceed with Saito. But I've been thinking—"

"Yeah?" Arthur says as he puts on his gloves; it's cold out, icy air sharper than he expected.

"Maybe we've been approaching this thing from the wrong angle. Maybe what people want isn't just something quasi-legal, but something to help them stay legal."

"Help keep them out of trouble?"

"Something that can be concealed," Dom clarifies. "Something that won't linger, won't show up on tests twenty-four hours later."

A drug that can evade drug tests. "Something that avoids leaving behind all the usual markers," Arthur says, slowly. "Same effects, but different—or no—residual."

"Exactly. That's what people will pay for." Dom reaches the edge of the pit in the ground and looks down. At the bottom are tons and tons of compacted trash, all to be covered with concrete and paved over in a few short hours. "Something that disappears without a trace."

"What the hell happened to your hand?" Eames says immediately when he opens the door.

"Cut myself shaving," Arthur says, turning to go. But Eames grabs him by the wrist before he can, and Arthur can't stop the wince when he presses against a tender spot under the bandages.

"Of all the terrible lies—" Eames stops when he rolls up Arthur's sleeve and sees how far up the bandages extend. "This is—"

"It's fine. I'm fine." Arthur tries to pull his arm away, but Eames refuses to let go. His grip is surprisingly strong.

"Why are you late and why won't you tell me what happened?"

"I'm not late. We'll be on time if we just get in the car and—"

"Arthur, stop." Eames steps in front of Arthur, blocking his way to the car. "You're angry with me. Now tell me why."

"People need to stop telling me how I fucking feel," Arthur says, finally succeeding in jerking his arm out of Eames' grip. "And not everything has to do with you."

"I know you think your poker face is second to none, but nothing about your motivations and emotions are nearly so impenetrable as you would like to believe." Eames takes a step closer, crowding Arthur. "Now, if you would simply tell me what is wrong, we can have it out and you can stop wasting both our time."

"Go fuck yourself," Arthur says, low and cold. “And how about you drive yourself to the game while you're at it.”

He turns on his heel and storms away before Eames can say another word. Arthur gets into the car and peels out of the driveway, making it a few miles down the road before cursing and pulling over to the side of the road. He gets out, walks over to the nearest tree and punches it once, twice, three times, before getting back in the car and turning around.

When he pulls up to the manor, Eames is sitting on the stoop, smoking and sulking.

“Are you going to behave now?” Arthur asks when he gets out of the car.

“Are you going to suck Dom’s dick in my place if I don’t?” Eames asks as he tosses his cigarette away.

“Get in the goddamn car,” Arthur snarls, slamming the door shut.

As they pull out of the driveway, Arthur expects Eames to start in on him again, but all Eames says is, “What happened to your hand? The other one, I mean.”

“I walked into a tree,” Arthur replies, glancing over. Eames is watching him.

“I’m sure the tree had it coming."

“Yeah." Arthur tries to focus his attention on the road and not the trickle of blood that’s running down between his knuckles. They’re going to be swollen later.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence, and when they get to the club, Eames doesn’t follow Arthur to the table. Arthur purposely avoids concerning himself with where Eames might have gone, and leans back in the booth, stretching out his fingers. Despite the delay, nobody is here, and Arthur can stew in silence.

Eames reappears carrying a glass of water, some napkins, and a plastic baggy filled with ice. “Give it here,” he says as he scoots in next to Arthur.

“I only need the ice—" Arthur starts, but Eames rolls his eyes and grabs his wrist, wetting a napkin and wiping the blood from the back of Arthur’s hand.

“Wouldn’t want any of this staining your beautiful clothing now, would we?” Eames pushes a sleeve up to chase the line of blood that’s wormed its way down Arthur’s wrist. Eames’ touch is light, his fingers surprisingly nimble and steady.

Arthur glances up to see if anyone’s around to witness this, but there's nobody. Even Ariadne hasn't arrived yet.

“There we are,” Eames says as he runs a dry napkin over Arthur’s fingers before pressing the icepack on. His thumb is warm against Arthur’s palm before he withdraws it, leaving Arthur’s hand to rest gently on the tabletop. "Can't have you ruining both arms."

“Then you'll have no one to drive you,” Arthur says, and Eames almost smiles.

They sit together in silence until people begin trickling in. First Al, "Jesus, A-Rod, what the hell happened to you?" Then Ariadne, "Oh my god, are you bleeding?" And finally, Dom, "Shit, don't tell me you managed to get in another brawl already."

"Let's just play," Arthur says. He's eventually forced to cede the dealing to Al, however, after a pitifully slow first round of shuffling.

It's a quiet game, Arthur in no mood to talk and Eames saying little as well. Dom puts his arm around Eames, but seems distracted—checking his phone every few minutes for incoming text messages. Even Al is uncharacteristically sedate, remarking, "Pregnancy, man. It really takes it out of you."

Dom announces an early end to the game after a particularly furious bout of text messaging back and forth, and rubs the back of Eames' neck regretfully. "I gotta get home. Tomorrow night, okay?"

"Of course," Eames replies, and looks at Dom with such adoration that Arthur wants to go back to punching trees. "I can't wait."

"I'm gonna wait in the car," Arthur says when Eames and Dom begin to nuzzle up against each other. As he stalks away, he hears Eames say, "Been in a terrible mood all night, must be his arm," and Dom's murmured agreement.

Arthur waits fifteen minutes in the car, flipping listlessly through the radio channels and checking his voicemail—nothing besides a message from White Tree, which he promptly deletes—until Eames reappears and gets in.

"What," Eames says, "was that about?"

"What do you think it was about?" Arthur mutters as he takes the car out of park. "You thought I'd enjoy seeing you act like, like—"

"I thought we had an understanding about the nature of my relationship with Dom," Eames says, mouth a straight, flat line.

"Sorry if I'm not over the fucking moon about watching you whore yourself out with my boss."

"You forget, Arthur," Eames says, low and furious, "that I was a con man long before I ever met you. Whoring myself out is part of my bloody job description."

"I'm glad this is so easy for you. Turning your emotions on and off, playing whatever part you need to like it's all some fucking game." Arthur tightens his fingers on the wheel, ignoring the twinges in both hands.

"Turning my emotions on and off? That's a bit rich, coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'm not stupid." Eames enunciates every syllable, voice cold. "I know I'm not the only one you're fucking."

"What are you—"

"I suppose she—or he, perhaps—is thoughtful, and normal, and sweet. Supportive, eager to please in bed, and absolutely undemanding in every respect. As a matter of fact, she's perfect, except for the fact that she'd shun you if she had the slightest idea who you really are." Eames pauses. "How am I doing so far?"

"You don't know what you're talking about." Arthur's fingers are beginning to throb with how hard he's gripping the wheel. "You don't know the first thing about—"

Eames leans over, slides a hand roughly up Arthur's thigh and hisses, "I know you, Arthur. I know you in a way that no one—not your sweet girlfriend, not your mother, not even Dom—will ever know you. We're two of a kind, darling."

"We are nothing alike." Arthur abruptly turns off the road back to the Bellevue and starts heading towards his apartment in Weston. "You are the most disloyal, dishonest, selfish—"

"While you, naturally, are a paragon of virtue." Eames' hand drags over Arthur's crotch. "You can't tell me you don't love the thrill of doing this, getting away with it week after week—"

"You think this all about some joyride fucking for me?" Arthur says, disbelieving. "You think I'd put everything I've ever worked for in jeopardy for nothing more than some ass?"

"Arthur—"

"Every time I have to watch Dom touch you, every time you talk to him like you—" Arthur shakes his head. "What's he like, huh? Does he tell you all that sappy shit like, I love you, Eames, and I wanna be with you forever? Is that what you're looking for as you ride someone's dick?"

"Fuck you. You know Dom's nothing but—"

"And how the hell am I supposed to know I'm any different?" Arthur snarls as he floors the gas pedal and zooms down the highway. "Who's really the chump here? Him? Or me, for believing it's him?"

"You are the most paranoid, emotionally-stunted—"

"It's not paranoia if—"

"How can I possibly prove anything when all you do is doubt me?" Eames says. "You want all the gory details? Alright, I'll give them to you. He has a decent prick—not as big as yours, but that's unsurprising. Curves upwards, but I suppose you already know that, seeing as you Americans love to engage in strange, homoerotic rituals in the name of male bonding. He likes it when I suck on the head, makes a rather hilarious expression when he comes, and doesn't really enjoy fucking me as much as he enjoys being fucked. I suspect it's due to guilt associated with his wife—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, you don't know when to shut the hell up," Arthur says as he screeches to a halt in front of his apartment building and gets out.

Eames falls silent for the length of time it takes for them to get upstairs to Arthur's apartment, but as soon as the door is shut, he resumes. "He's a decent arse, but it's nothing like yours. Sometimes as I'm giving it to him, I imagine it's you there instead, on all fours in front of me, moaning with how good it is—"

Arthur drops his keys on the entryway table and closes his eyes. "You are the most manipulative—"

Eames slams him back against the wall, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "I've been waiting all goddamn week," Eames says as he licks a stripe up Arthur's neck. "And instead of coming early so I could bury my face in you, you arrive late, and sullen, and fuck off with a tree instead."

"Waiting, right." Arthur lets out a bitter laugh. "In between fucking Dom? I know he went to see you at least twice."

"You have got to be kidding me—"

"Whatever, fuck." Arthur shoves Eames off him and walks towards the bedroom, taking off his coat and undoing his tie as he goes. "You want to fuck me? Fine. Let's fuck."

"Finally," Eames mutters as he follows, and Arthur can hear him tossing off his clothing as well.

Arthur strips out of his suit carelessly, wincing as his sleeves catch on the gauze around his arms, the raw tenderness of his knuckles. He drapes everything over the back of a chair and pulls the lube and condoms out of the nightstand before getting on all fours on the bed.

"Arthur." Eames gets on the bed behind him and skims a hand up his spine, but the touch is almost hesitant. "Are you even—"

"What, you can fantasize about it but you can't actually take your dick out and do it?" Arthur bites out. "This is what you've been waiting for all week, isn't it? Or are you nothing but talk?"

"Bloody—" Eames grabs Arthur by the hips and drags him backwards so he has no choice but to sit back on top of his calves, back curling into a stretch while his arms get some relief. He hears the snap of the lube opening and closing, and prepares himself for the intrusion; fingers if he's lucky, Eames' dick if he's really pissed. The angle is awkward and Arthur prepares himself; he's not hard, and this is probably going to hurt like hell.

He hears the squelch of Eames jerking himself off with the lube, and feels the hand that comes to rest on his lower back, right above his tailbone. Minutes pass but the hand doesn't move, and Arthur hears Eames begins to breathe heavily, the way he does on the cusp of an orgasm. Then there's the splatter of something warm and wet on Arthur's back, trailing down his ass while Eames exhales, slow and deep.

Arthur goes to sit up, but the hand still resting on his back stops him. "Wait here a moment, alright?" Eames says, quietly.

He gets off the bed and goes to the bathroom. Arthur sits up, cooling come dripping uncomfortably down his back. When Eames returns his expression has softened into something almost apologetic. "Darling, let me."

Arthur nods stiffly and lets Eames run the cloth up and down his back, over his ass, and down the backs of his legs. When Eames returns from dropping the washcloth off in the bathroom, Arthur is lying on his stomach on the bed, face turned in the opposite direction.

"I'm sorry," Eames whispers as he puts a careful knee on the bed, waiting a moment before moving closer. "I shouldn't have done that."

"It's fine," Arthur says, words muffled by the pillow. His body is still thrumming, adrenaline mixed with relief.

"How many times have you declared everything to be 'fine' in the past two weeks?" Eames strokes the hair at the nape of Arthur's neck, then gives him a single kiss on the shoulder.

"Everything's under control," Arthur whispers, closing his eyes again.

"And if it weren't?"

"I'd just need to get through it. Handle it." Arthur takes a deep breath, and then another.

Eames crawls over and drapes himself across Arthur's back, heavy and warm. "I'm sorry," he murmurs as he leaves a string of kisses across Arthur's shoulderblades. "I wish it didn't have to be like this."

"You can stay till morning," Arthur says, tucking his hands underneath his pillow. "James is running a fever, and Dom's probably going to be up all night dealing with that."

Eames draws one of Arthur's hands out and brings it to his lips. "This is all I want," he whispers as he kisses every reddened knuckle. "You're all I want."

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes up with a warm body tucked up against him, the sound of light snoring tickling his ear. The curtains are closed and it's dark out, too early on a winter morning for the sun to have risen. It takes him a moment to adjust and remember everything that happened yesterday.

It was a profoundly stupid idea to bring Eames back here, Arthur realizes now, and he has no clue what could have made him ever think it was a good one. Rage, lust—whatever the hell Eames does to Arthur's self-control.

Arthur goes to rub his eyes, but his arm is trapped underneath Eames' solid weight. As he tries to think of a way to move—and prepares himself for the inevitable assault of pins and needles—Eames comes alive, breaths growing shallower, more erratic.

"Time to leave?" Eames asks, voice raspy with sleep.

"Not yet," Arthur replies, low and hushed. "I'm gonna go run. You can sleep in a little bit longer."

"Do hurry back, will you?" Arthur feels the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek, and then Eames is rolling to the other side of the bed. "I'd like to give you a proper good morning."

"Looking forward to it." Arthur runs a hand down the length of Eames' back as he gets up, and parts with a grope. It's all so fucking domestic—as if they don't have anything hanging over their heads, ready to drop.

Arthur takes a shorter route on his run, glad for the cold air to clear his head. When he gets back, the coffeemaker's on and Eames is lounging by the window in his underwear. "Better water this before it withers," Eames says almost carelessly, rotating the cactus pot in its tray.

"I think they go dormant if they're left too long," Arthur replies, trying to remember the last time he watered it. He thinks maybe Balal might have done it the last time he was over. "I'm taking a shower. Wanna join me?"

They wash each other first, managing to get through shampoo and conditioner before soapy hands wander into more X-rated places. They make out and rut lazily until Arthur slides his hands down to finger and jerk Eames off. Eames returns the favor by bending down to lap at Arthur's nipples, rolling his balls and teasing just the slit of Arthur's cock until he comes.

Once they're clean, Eames picks his clothing up off the floor while Arthur gets dressed. He walks into the kitchen to find Eames peering inside the fridge. "Breakfast?" Eames asks. "I could make eggs and—well, eggs seem to be all that's on offer."

"Haven't had the chance to go food shopping in while," Arthur says. "I think there's some leftover takeout."

"Working yourself down to the bone as always." Eames closes the door and walks over to the stove.

"There's been a lot in the air." Arthur pours a cup of coffee and offers it to Eames, who adds enough milk and sugar to color it tan. "We finished hammering out all the deal details. Now the legwork and logistics are getting kicked over to Juana to handle."

"So everything should be settling down, then?" Eames cracks open three eggs.

"Doubt it." Arthur stares down into his mug. "Yusuf still hasn't been able to track down the asshole that hacked our network so everything at the office has been one giant headache. On top of that, I got Feds breathing down my neck and a feeling like—I don't know. Something's coming and I don't have a clue how to prepare for it."

Eames puts a hand on Arthur's shoulder, strokes a thumb up the nape of his neck. "You should take a vacation, darling. Get away from it all."

"Get away to where?" Arthur doesn't raise his eyes. "And with who?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Bangkok, Paris, or maybe Morocco—I hear it's excellent this time of year."

Arthur looks up. "Any of these recommendations come from personal experience?"

Eames' expression flickers from an easy smile to something else, an emotion come and gone so quickly Arthur can't begin to guess at it. "I'm afraid not."

"Even Paris?"

"It's so close, I know." Eames returns to busying himself with the eggs, giving them a generous layer of salt and pepper. "But there's never been a good time, and—"

"Eames," Arthur says, gently touching the small of his back.

"Foolish, really. A bit of sentimentality left over from when I was a boy." Eames flips the eggs. "My first au pair—she was Parisian. Used to read to me stories I couldn't understand a word of, but she made them sound fascinating, mysterious. So much better than mundane reality."

Arthur hums as he hooks his chin over Eames' shoulder. "Is that why you learned French? So you could understand what she said?"

"I…" Eames pauses. "I suppose that was a part of it, yes. Of course, by the time I could even read the most minimal amounts, my parents had already dismissed her. A concept I couldn't quite grasp at the time—I waited weeks by the window, practicing with the book she'd left behind, ready to show her how much I'd learned." Eames falls silent and the eggs sputter on the stove as he turns off the flame.

Arthur wraps his arms around Eames' waist, kisses the join between neck and shoulder. "If I were in Paris, all I'd wanna do is hole up in a hotel somewhere and fuck for hours. Maybe come up for some wine and food for breaks."

"You probably wouldn't even bother with the sights." Eames leans back against Arthur as he scoops the food out of the skillet and onto the plate. "You'd stay in and eat nothing but room service, naked."

"I guess I could be persuaded to get out and see a few things," Arthur says, swaying side to side gently. "Check out the Eiffel Tower, maybe stare at some art in the Louvre."

Eames chuckles. "I thought you didn't know anything about art."

"I don't, but maybe if I had someone there with me who did." Arthur lifts Eames' right hands to his lips. "Someone who could tell me stories about the man that holds a knife."

"If," Eames murmurs, closing his eyes. "If, if, if."

"I can't stay for long," Aaron says, glancing around the Starbucks nervously. "I can't have people knowing about you."

"Knowing about me?" Arthur frowns. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you are living proof of your mother's decision to turn her back on family and God." Aaron's fingers tighten around his cup. "A decision that has had consequences for us all."

Arthur leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Because choosing to live your life the way you want to ruins everything."

"You think this is a joke. What has your mother taught you about faith? Nothing? I'm not surprised. She is like a boat set adrift at sea, and she has made you in her image."

Arthur resists the impulse to rolls his eyes. "I don't see what her decision to leave has to do with you."

"Because you don't know what it means to be part of a web in which your actions have effects that ripple outwards and touch others," Aaron replies. "Do you know that because of your mother's desertion, my daughters might never be able to marry? No one in our community will have them for fear of their own family being tainted by my sister's legacy."

Arthur snorts. "So my mother should have stayed because now your daughters can't get a date?"

"This isn't about dating or whatever frivolity passes for marriage in your world. This is about my sister putting her own selfish wants before consideration for anybody else. Not that I'd expect you to understand," Aaron says. "But I didn't come here for a pointless argument with someone who doesn't know the first thing about duty. I came here because you said Leah is sick."

"Leah?"

"Not Leah." Aaron shakes his head. "Lydia is what you know her as, isn't it? Her birth name was Leah, but she tossed that in the trash like everything else."

Arthur studies the deep creases in Aaron's face: hard, where Lydia's are soft. "I can't imagine why."

"You think I'm the villain here," Aaron says. "But I'm not the one that abandoned my family only to come back whenever it was convenient, whenever I needed money or a place to stay or someone to watch a screaming baby while I gallivanted around town doing god knows what."

"My mother," Arthur starts quietly, "worked like a dog to take care of me, so you'd better watch what accusations you start throwing around."

Aaron meets Arthur's gaze for a moment before looking away. Aaron says nothing for a long moment, and the noise of the busy coffee shop they're in seems to surge in volume to fill the silence. A group of people in the far corner start laughing, a woman nearby talks loudly into her cell phone, and in the background are the baristas, busy with cash registers and coffee.

"Alzheimer's," Aaron says. Lydia had mistaken Arthur for Aaron more than once, but talking to him now—Arthur can't figure out why. "Is it true?"

"Yeah." Arthur swallows. "The degeneration was subtle at first, but it's been almost two years and it's progressed. Memory loss, mood swings, confusion. She's on meds, but they can only slow it down."

"She's too young." Aaron shakes his head again, mouth pursed. "I'm three years her elder. How can this be?"

"I don't know." Arthur looks down at his coffee cup. "We've gone to the best doctors and none of them have answers. Just a diagnosis."

"Is she well otherwise?" Aaron's right hand tightens into a fist as he brings it up to his mouth. "Physically?"

"Picture of perfect health. Eats well, gets regular exercise, no diseases or anything."

"Little Leah," Aaron whispers almost to himself. "You said she missed me. Did she—did she ask you to come—"

"No," Arthur says, voice hardening. "She doesn't know I'm here—she didn't want me to have anything to do with you. Told me you were dead."

"Dead," Aaron echoes quietly, all the sneering contempt in his voice gone. He takes his wire-rimmed glasses off and rubs his eyes. "Then why did you seek me out?"

Arthur couldn't see the resemblance between Aaron and his mother before, but sitting here now, he thinks he finally can. Their faces are both heart-shaped, with pale, papery skin and eyes lit with anger, defiance—regret. He can almost imagine them sitting together, teenagers holding onto each other for fear of being lost in the riptide.

"I thought I wanted to learn who my mother was and where she came from." Arthur stands. "But talking to you—I realize now it doesn't fucking matter. What I want is for her to get better. You can't give me that, though. No one can."

"We meet again," Arthur says, leaning heavily against the doorway to Cho's office.

"Arthur," Cho says, looking up from his desk. "Pretty late for a social call."

"Which is why I came by." Arthur makes his way over to a chair, weaving only a little. He rewards himself for this accomplishment by flopping into the chair sideways, limbs sprawling in an undignified way he'd never allow sober. "You're the only person I know who'd be up this late."

Cho smiles faintly as he puts down his pen, but it seems sad. "Been hard for me to sleep lately. I'm guessing that's a problem for you as well?"

"Maybe," Arthur says cagily, running his index finger along the corner of the desk. It slips off repeatedly. "I might just be a degenerate drunk."

"You might be, but I suspect that's not it." Cho clasps his hands and leans forward on his elbows. "No glass this time?"

Arthur waves his healing arm. "Figured one was enough. Busted up my fist a few days ago, though. Wouldn't want you to think I'd gotten soft."

"We've been working together a long time, Arthur," Cho says. "The last thing I'd ever call you is soft."

"You didn't see me bleed out when I was sixteen," Arthur says, shrugging one shoulder. "Turns out, once we get past the bone we're all soft on the inside. A lot of intestines and fleshy pieces ready to gush out."

"Yeah," Cho says quietly. "It must have been pretty terrible."

"It's strange to know you're going to die and then… unknow it when you don't." Arthur's head lolls to one side. "But you're a nurse. I bet you've seen lots of terrible things. Way worse than me."

"The hardest ones are the kids," Cho says. "I guess with adults, you figure they probably played some part in ending up here. But kids—even when they do something stupid, there should have been an adult around who knew better. Somebody watching out for them."

"And who watches out for adults?" Arthur huffs a laugh. "I guess we're supposed to watch out for ourselves, huh? Doesn't seem fair."

"It isn't fair." Cho stands, then walks around to the other side of the desk, towering over him. "Not when you've had to watch out for yourself your whole life."

"She did her best," Arthur whispers, a lump growing in his throat. "At least she tried to be there. Which is more than I can say about whoever the fuck my dad was."

"Arthur." Cho puts a hand on his shoulder. "Let me get you a cup of coffee."

"Yeah." Arthur takes a deep breath and wipes at his running nose, his eyes. "I should sit a while. Sober up."

"I'll go get you that coffee," Cho says. "You can sit as long as you need."

"Arthur," Eames purrs as he opens the door. He's in nothing but a low-slung towel around his waist. "You're early."

"I wanted to see you," Arthur says as he steps inside.

Eames crowds him back against the front door and chuckles throatily. "You wanted to fuck."

They have sex in the TV room, Eames bent over the arm of the couch and panting for it, muttering obscenities and praise. After they both come, Arthur collapses on the couch in a sweaty and exhausted heap while Eames dumps the soiled towel in the laundry and returns with Dusty in tow.

Eames drops onto the couch next to Arthur, boneless and still shirtless. Arthur's down to his undershirt and briefs, examining the light layer of bandaging over his arm.

"How's it doing?" Eames asks as he tugs Arthur backwards to lean against his chest. "Healing alright?"

"It's coming along," Arthur says as he tucks in a loose end of the gauze absently. "If we sit together like this, we're going to end up smelling like each other."

"Forcing me to take another shower, you naughty thing," Eames says as he kisses the shell of Arthur's ear. "We have time enough."

Arthur tilts his head to allow Eames to continue exploring his neck. "I brought my deodorant and my cologne, but not my hair gel."

"So wear it loose."

"I look ten years old when I wear it loose," Arthur says. "And it'll be weird. We don't want anyone to think—"

"I know," Eames says. "I have some that you could borrow, but then we run up against the smelling like me conundrum again. Perhaps we could stop at the store on the way to the game."

"Yeah." Arthur sighs. "I guess we'll have to."

"You sound tired, darling," Eames says, arms tightening around Arthur's chest. "Long day?"

"Literally speaking, not so much. I left early to come here." Arthur exhales deeply. "Figuratively, I guess it's been more like—a long month."

"Do you know that when you brood, your voice goes down nearly an octave?" Eames says. "Drives me absolutely mad since it's so close to your sex voice."

"My—" Arthur turns to stare at Eames over his shoulder. "I don't brood."

"Really."

"I think I'd know if I were brooding." Arthur sits up at Eames' deeply skeptical expression. "I may sometimes think about—problems or—issues in my life, but it's not like I dwell—"

"Oh no," Eames says solemnly. "No dwelling whatsoever."

"Hey." Arthurs turns and plants a hand in the center of Eames' chest. "If we held a championship tournament on brooding, the winner of this room would not be me."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"I haven't the faintest," Arthur says, affecting his best upper-crust British accent. "Mr. Broken Artist who drinks and—"

"You," Eames says as he pushes Arthur onto his back and climbs on top of him. "Are going to pay for that."

Arthur meets his gaze. "Do your worst, Mr. Eames."

Eames grins, dangerous and still utterly, crazily gorgeous. "Oh, I shall."

"Stuffy tonight," Dom says as he dabs at the sweat on his brow with a napkin. "Can someone turn the heat down in this place?"

"Sorry, Dom," Ariadne says. "The thermostat's been acting up all week. I'll go see what I can do."

Onstage, Abilena is fanning herself with her hand and chugging water every chance she gets. Most of the people on the dance floor are swaying uncomfortably in the oppressive humidity and smell of too many warm bodies.

The only upside to the stifling heat inside the club is that it makes touching uncomfortable, forcing Dom and Eames to abandon their usual groping. Eames actually doesn't seem overly bothered by the heat, but Dom keeps his distance.

Yusuf takes off his suit jacket after five minutes, and so does Arthur, reluctantly. Ariadne returns to say there's nothing anyone can do at the moment but a repairman's been called.

In the meanwhile, the heat is suffocating. It leaves Arthur a little lightheaded, and he's pretty sure he's not the only one.

"New watch?" Dom asks when Arthur goes to roll his shirtsleeves up.

"Oh, yeah." Arthur glances down. "Scratched up the one you gave me. Had to send it in for repair."

"Broken already?" Dom shakes his head. "Shit, that's the last time I ever buy anything from that brand. Let me get you a new one."

"It's fine, Dom. It's just a scratch." Across the table, Eames leans back in the booth. He takes a sip of his drink, and Arthur can see the sharp glint of his eyes over the glass.

They break after a few rounds, Dom needing to piss like a racehorse after imbibing two pitchers of ice water. Eames and Yusuf go outside for a smoke while Arthur checks on the thermostat repairs. They're making progress, but the night's almost done anyway.

He comes back to an empty table and, after a moment of trying to loosen his collar, decides to pop outside for a breath of cold, wintry air as well. He pauses by the door when he hears Yusuf and Eames talking.

"Do you ever think about moving away?" Yusuf asks. "Starting over somewhere new?

"Being a programmer-cum-mad scientist not doing it for you anymore?" Eames drawls.

"I'm serious. There are days where I think—I wake up wondering how my life got to be so complicated. How it got away from me like this."

"Sometimes a complication is merely an opportunity in disguise," Eames replies. "What matters is whether you can spot it amidst the noise and seize it."

Yusuf snorts out a laugh. "You make it all sound so simple. Lemons to lemonade. Maybe even lemon meringue."

"I do enjoy a good lemon meringue," Eames says. "But come now, Yusuf. You've made a pretty little life for yourself here—surely you're not chomping at the bit to leave it all behind."

"Perhaps. But we both know that home is where your enemies can't hunt you down and kill you."

"Enemies?" Eames says, amused and nonchalant. "What use have I for enemies?"

"Or for friends?" Yusuf's voice drops so low Arthur has difficulty making the words out. "You've done me a few good turns, Eames, and I appreciate that. But things can't—things won't stay like this forever. You know that, don't you? This situation with Dom is untenable, to say the least."

"Your concern is touching," Eames replies, voice also muffled. "Why does it sound as if you're making me an offer?"

"Oh believe me, I'm in no position to make anybody offers," Yusuf says. "And no offense, but unlike everybody else at the table I don't swing every which way the wind blows. I'm merely saying—be careful. We're both pieces within a larger game that's being played, and expendable ones, at that."

"We're all expendable at the end of the day. Doesn't mean we can't enjoy the game," Eames says, adding something Arthur can't make out. There are more exchanged words, then the sound of footsteps, and Arthur hurries back inside before they discover him.

At the table, Eames glances at Arthur almost knowingly while Yusuf plays even worse than usual. Arthur ignores it, trying to focus on the words Abilena is singing onstage. But the room's still too hot, and in his mind all the lyrics are garbled, incomprehensible.

At the end of the night, Eames goes back with Dom.

Later, when Arthur's jerking off alone in his apartment, he tells himself that he's glad about getting to bed at a reasonable hour. He's out of lube and his dick's so dry it almost chafes, but he doesn't stop until he wrings out a ragged, painful orgasm.

He's fine. He has a date tomorrow and he's—fine.

"Hey, gorgeous," Balal says as he opens the door.

Arthur smiles as all the stress in the world seems to melt away. "Hey, sexy."

"Kat's staying with her mom for the weekend," Balal says as they walk out to the car. "Means I get the whole house to myself."

"Gonna throw a wild party?" Arthur asks as they get in the car. "Buy some beer, invite some girls?"

"I was originally thinking about having you over for marathon sex," Balal says, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "But now that you mention it, beer and girls do sound pretty good."

Arthur glances at Balal out of the corner of his eye. "Pretty presumptuous for a first date."

Balal leans over to put a hand on Arthur's knee. "Yep."

Dinner goes well—conversation is easy and Arthur finds himself laughing with Balal as much as he always does, even in the new setting. Balal talks about his job, the news, and the books he's reading with his daughter ("What happens when a normal teenage girl is torn between the love of a ghost and an incubus? Stay tuned for another five books to find out!"). Arthur finds himself talking about his birthday, his mother, and Mal.

"I get why you're upset and don't want to see her," Balal says as he eats his farfalle. "And her ambushing you at work was totally out of line, no question."

Arthur takes a sip from his glass of Chianti. "I hear a 'but' coming on."

"She's your best friend's wife and the mother of your godson. You're going to have to find a way to live with her, one way or another." Balal shakes his head. "Or course that's easy for me to say because I'm an observer eating popcorn from the sidelines. If I were actually put in your situation, I don't know what I'd do."

"So, what, should I just—let it go?" Arthur says. "Pretend she didn't humiliate me in front of everyone I've ever met and come back for seconds at my office?"

"I'm saying that you've got a better chance at getting what you want—including her backing off—if you reach out and set the terms. It seems like she really wants to have some kind of relationship with you," Balal says. "Once you guys are actually communicating, maybe you can help her see your point of view and steer her away from, uh, more surprises."

"Sounds like you're telling me I should be doing all the heavy lifting here," Arthur says, stabbing a piece of pasta with his fork.

"Hey, hey." Balal reaches across the table to touch Arthur's wrist. "All I want is for you to be happy, and for this woman to no longer have the power to make you sad. I hate that she's put you in this position. If I could wave my magic wand to make her disappear, I would."

"No, I know." Arthur sighs. "You're saying I should—I should neutralize a threat via friendship."

Balal laughs. "Basically, I want you to turn into a Care Bear."

Arthur can't help but smile. "You're secretly a furry, huh? Should have known you were too good to be true."

"Furry doesn't even begin to cover it." Balal taps a temple. "I got imagination, Lance. The shit I'm going to ask you to do is going to blow your mind and possibly make you vomit." Balal goes on to detail a number of bizarre and anatomically improbable sex acts, making Arthur laugh until his sides hurt.

At the end of the meal, there's a small play fight over who'll get the bill. Arthur comes out on top, handing his credit card over to the waiter before Balal can stop him.

"I'm getting the next one," Balal says.

"Assuming there's gonna be a second date already, huh?"

Balal raises an eyebrow. "Are you really going to turn down the chance for a free hot meal and sex afterwards?"

"Looks like you've got the way to a man's heart covered." Arthur winks over his shoulder as he saunters off to the bathroom.

As they're walking out to the parking lot, Balal bumps his elbow against Arthur's. "You wanna come back to my place? I got the whole house to myself for the weekend."

"You mentioned," Arthur says, smiling.

"Unless you have other plans?" Balal glances at his watch. "Guess I've still got time for a beer and girls run."

"Nah," Arthur says as he leans over to kiss Balal inside the car. "No other plans."

"Your lunch, Mr. Damrosch," his secretary says as she deposits the bowl of salad and utensils on his desk.

"Thanks, Stacy," he replies, leaning back from his work. She's giving him a strange look. "Something wrong?"

"Oh no, it's." She hesitates. "You seem cheerful today."

"I had a good weekend," he says, and it's true.

On Saturday, Balal had brought him breakfast in bed before taking him to see the traveling circus in town. After the show, they'd gotten their palms read (Balal will be handling a large transaction of money in the near future, Arthur will be faced with a personal or professional crossroads of some sort—apparently palms are wholly devoid of useful details). On Sunday, they'd gone to brunch and then ice skating, Arthur clinging to the side of the rink while Balal tried to coax him into the center.

And then of course, there'd been the copious amounts of fantastic sex throughout.

"I'm glad," Stacy says. "I know it's been a tough couple of weeks or—months."

"Yeah." Arthur picks up his fork, then pauses to look up at her. He thinks she might have gotten her hair cut. "I probably haven't been the easiest person to deal with since New Year's. Sorry about that."

"No, it's fine. You've been…" She trails off and looks down at the ground. "It's fine."

"Maybe you should take a vacation, get away for a bit," he says. "If you want to take any time off, say the word."

"Thank you, Mr. Damrosch. That's very kind of you," Stacy says, sounding startled.

"We all need a little R and R sometimes. Helps to avoid burnout."

"Well," she starts, "I've been thinking about visiting my mother down in Florida, maybe."

The smile freezes on Arthur's face. "I'm sure she'd love to see you."

Stacy goes ashen. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up—"

"It's fine." Arthur flips his tie over his shoulder and stares down at his salad. "If you could shut the door on your way out, that'd be great."

Arthur finds Eames lying on the couch, eyes closed, with Dusty sprawled against his chest. The room is dark except for the TV, the blonde local news reporter interviewing an old man holding a beehive.

"You can stop pretending to be asleep now," Arthur says once he's standing over Eames.

Eames opens one eye. "I don't recall scheduling any appointments for today."

"Surprise." Arthur bends down to brush his lips against Eames', then crinkles his nose when Dusty lifts her head up and bumps against his chin. "You smell like wet dog. Both of you."

Eames stretches languorously while Dusty slides off the couch. "Terribly sorry about that, darling. Would you like me to freshen up a bit?"

"No, it's fine." Arthur moves closer, puts one knee on the couch between Eames' thighs. "I can't stay long anyway."

"Blow and go then?" Eames puts his hands on the back of Arthur's knees, slides them up to palm his ass.

"God, that's tempting." Arthur strokes Eames' hair back from his forehead contemplatively before shaking his head. "No, we should talk first. If there's time, sex after."

"Mm, alright." Eames leans back indolently, but his gaze is sharp, curious. "What shall we talk about?"

"Valentine's Day." Arthur stands and tries to make the bulge in his pants less obvious, with little success. "It's next week."

"I'm guessing Dom's planning something special for both me and the missus."

"She gets dinner and a piece of diamond jewelry while you'll get a three-day trip away." At Eames' unasked question, Arthur clarifies, "You're the one he wants to spend time with."

"Mal's already deeply suspicious of every attractive female who comes within ten feet of Dom," Eames says. "How is he going wrangle three full days away and unsupervised during such a… fraught… time of the year?"

"There's an annual meeting down in Atlantic City." Arthur glances back at the TV, where the blonde reporter is finishing her interview: this is Tori Plumfield, signing off. "High level people in our organization go down to talk strategy and schmooze. Even some representatives from other families across the country come by to say hello."

"Conveniently timed, this annual meeting," Eames murmurs.

"Dom's not the only one who likes getaways with someone special," Arthur says wryly. "Some guys bring their mistresses, some their wives. Every year there's one idiot who brings both—you can guess the ending."

"And me?"

Arthur turns to face Eames. "Bodyguard. He'll probably book you a separate but adjoining room. Bring up how paranoid Mal's been getting, make a big show of answering her calls while he's with the guys. You might actually have to guard him for a few hours, but he'll probably let you loose in the casino to do what you want while he's in meetings."

Eames scoots forwards on the couch to touch Arthur's wrist. "And will you be in attendance?"

"I went twice. The first time I was still wet behind the ears, excited to be drinking and gambling legally. The second time, I went with…"

"Victoria," Eames finishes.

"Yeah." Arthur huffs a soft laugh. "She hated it. So did I. She faked being sick so we could leave a day early. That was when I first started thinking I might wanna marry her."

Eames' face is blank, lips thinning ever so slightly. "That's a no, then?"

Arthur's smile fades. "No."

"I see." Eames takes a deep breath. "Well, thank you for informing me, Arthur. I'll have to start packing."

"Right." Arthur pauses, then pulls a thick envelope from his jacket. "I, uh—I also have something for you. Some of these might come in handy while you're down there."

Eames' eyes widen as he opens the envelope and pulls out a passport, a driver's license, a green card. "My god, Arthur." Eames rubs the passport cover between his fingertips, then wets his thumb and tests the bleed of the ink. "These are good. Very good. Maybe even good enough to make it past immigration."

"Only the best," Arthur replies, a part of him already wondering if this is it. If someday soon, he'll drive up to an empty manor with no trace of Eames to be found.

Eames puts the fan of licenses down on the couch, leaving them for Dusty to sniff while he stands and takes a step towards Arthur. "I don't know what to say."

Arthur puts a hand over Eames' heart and manages a faint, careful smile. "Happy early Valentine's Day, Mr. James S. Whittaker."

Eames leans in to press his forehead to Arthur's. "And here I thought Dom was the romantic."

Arthur's surprised but not displeased when he looks away from his computer monitor and sees Balal's name pop up on the caller ID.

"Hey," Balal says, tone muted and a little—off. "Is this a good time?"

Arthur glances over at the clock: it's 7:30 pm already. Jesus. "Yeah, it's fine. I'm actually just heading out of the office."

"I, um—" Balal stops, then starts again. "I don't really know how to say this, but I guess I should start by saying I really like you and I did something I shouldn't have."

"Okay," Arthur replies slowly as he goes to get his coat. "What did you do?"

"I saw the last name on your credit card," Balal says. "And you mentioned before that you banked with Provident. So I ran your name through the system because I was—curious. It was wrong of me, I know, but the reason I called is—I couldn't find a Lance Damrosch anywhere in the database. I ran all the possible combinations of middle and first names I could think of, and unless you're an elderly gentleman currently residing in Maine…"

Arthur feels all the saliva in his mouth dry up. "You were searching for my banking records?"

"I know it was an invasion of privacy, and that it was wrong. But you're always so mysterious and I—I was curious. And I'm sure you have a great reason that will explain everything and make me feel even more like an ass about doing this which I'd—I'd really like to hear."

"Balal, I—" Arthur hears a beep and glances down to see Dom on the other line. "I can't really get into it right now, but if—"

"You can't—" Balal takes a deep breath. "Lance. Or—whatever your name is. This isn't something I can gloss over, okay? I like you a lot, but I have a daughter and I need to know who you really are."

"You're kind of putting me on the spot here," Arthur says as Dom continues to beep persistently. "And I've got my boss calling me on the other line, so—"

"Okay," Balal says, sounding frustrated. "Then—call me, okay? Take a few days and we'll regroup."

"I will. We'll talk this through." Balal hangs up without saying goodbye and Arthur sighs before switching over to the other line, "Hello?"

"Arthur, hey," Dom says. "You got a second?"

"Sure, Dom." Arthur puts his coat down and heads back towards his desk. "What do you need?"

"It's been confirmed," Eames says after he steps out of the shower, squeaky clean and thoroughly fucked. "A three day Valentine's weekend in Atlantic City."

Arthur grabs a towel and starts drying himself off, mood abruptly soured. "Thanks for the afterglow."

"Apologies. I meant to tell you earlier, but I…" Eames' gaze travels down Arthur's body, "was waylaid."

Arthur glances at his watch. "We can talk about this later. Right now we need to get a move on or we're gonna be late."

They get dressed in record time, Eames doing all the primping he needs while Arthur slicks his hair back. In the car, Eames smokes quietly and Arthur speeds through traffic; he'd left the construction site late, and all early promises about skipping sex for the sake of time had flown out the window as soon as he'd set foot inside the manor.

They arrive at Perle as Dom does, waving at him as they park the car. When they get inside the club, it's like a party store exploded all over the interior: streamers dangle from the ceiling, pink candle centerpieces adorn the tables, and red gauzy curtains surround the stage. There's even a cupid shaped monstrosity sitting where the tip jar on the counter usually is.

"This is interesting," Eames mutters under his breath as they walk towards where Dom is seated, nibbling on some heart-shaped candies and sipping pink champagne.

"Hey, baby," Dom says as Eames slides into the booth and gives him a kiss. "How do you like the club, huh? I told them to go all out."

"Very festive," Eames says as he slides a hand up Dom's thigh. "It really sets the mood, I think."

Arthur looks around for Ariadne; he's going to need a drink stronger than pink champagne to get through this.

Cho arrives last—as per usual—clad in a buttery soft green silk shirt, a sports coat, and impeccably tailored pants. He looks stunning—a welcome distraction from Eames and Dom flirting in the corner.

"Hey," Cho says as he takes a seat. It's clearly meant for the whole table, but his eyes linger on Arthur.

"Hey, Cho," Arthur replies. "How's things?"

"Good." Cho glances around. "Although I apparently walked into a giant vagina."

Arthur laughs while Dom snorts, but Eames lifts an eyebrow. "I don't think vaginas come with scented candles and streamers."

"No?" Cho cocks his head to one side, unruffled. "My mistake then."

"Hiya, guys," Ariadne says, approaching the table. "Happy early Valentine's Day! We've got some fun drink specials tonight."

"I'm in the mood for a stiff cocktail," Arthur says. "Anything you recommend?"

"We've got a bunch of chocolate liqueur based drinks, but for you, Arthur, I think the Bésame will do the trick," Ariadne says. "Raspberry, lime and passion fruit mixed with Agavero and Chambord liqueurs. I'll skip the umbrella."

Arthur shrugs. "Sure, what the hell."

"I'll take one of those, too," Cho says. "With the umbrella."

Ariadne grins and turns to Dom. "You okay with just the champagne?"

"Yeah." Dom slings an arm around Eames. "We've got the bottle on ice here, so Eames and I should be good for a while."

After she leaves, Abilena comes onstage and the lights dim even further. "This is for all the lovebirds here tonight," she says. "A certain day is coming up that reminds us all to celebrate the love in our lives, no matter how messy or imperfect it is."

"Messy love," Dom repeats, sighing around a sip of champagne. "Is there any other kind?"

"That guy you referred, Robert Fischer," Cho says. "He's pretty."

They're both washing their hands in the otherwise empty bathroom, and it takes Arthur a moment to figure out what Cho is talking about. "Yeah," Arthur replies eventually, not looking up from the sink. "When'd he call?"

"About a week ago. Surprised he waited this long--his hand was in pretty rough shape after I got the cast off."

"You find him a physical therapist yet?"

"I'm working on it. Making some calls." Cho glances sideways at him. "Why?"

"When you do, just forward the PT bills to me, that's all," Arthur says. "I'll cover his expenses."

Cho's eyes widen slightly, but all he says is, "You got it."

"Thanks." Arthur grabs a paper towel and expects that to be the end of it when Cho says,

"Do you—have a thing going with him? Robert?"

Arthur blinks, and then looks over at Cho, who is studiously washing the soap off his hands. "I think he's straight. Why, you interested?"

"Not in him. I mean—" Cho grabs a paper towel from the counter and takes a step back. He turns to face Arthur and in one smooth, unexpected movement, grabs Arthur by the tie and drags him in for a kiss.

It takes Arthur a second to suppress the instinct to fight the sudden full body contact. Once he does and the reality that Cho's kissing him sets in, Arthur relaxes, starts kissing back. Cho's lips are soft, the small licks of his tongue into Arthur's mouth deliberate, not overbearing. He smells as amazing as always—warm vanilla and a hint of clove, maybe. Arthur's hands come up to rest on Cho's chest and waist—which are both pleasingly firm—for a minute before Cho gently disengages.

"Huh," Arthur says as he takes a step back, slightly lightheaded. "That was—not where I expected this conversation to lead."

"It's been a while since I last—" Cho throws out his damp paper towel, then scratches the back of his neck. "I don't have that many moves."

"It's pretty direct," Arthur says, clearing his throat. "That one gets you by?"

Cho chuckles. "Like I said, it's been a while. Haven't had a reason to come up with any new material until recently."

"Yeah." The memory of Cho's mouth makes Arthur shift, cock fattening up against his thigh. Don't shit where you eat, Arthur reminds himself, but it's a bit late for that now. "You remember the first deal we ever did together? Way back when?"

"Our first deal? Yeah, I was back in the geriatrics wing cleaning bedpans while you were—"

"Still trying to prove myself," Arthur supplies. "I actually—you know, I was gonna ask you out to dinner after the deal was done. Back then."

"Really?" Cho says. "What stopped you?"

"Well, you got transferred to the ER and I got called out of town for a couple of weeks. By the time I got back, you were talking nonstop about this hotshot doctor you were seeing—"

"I almost forgot Ainsley worked in the ER. Seems so long ago." A shadow passes over Cho's face. "Anyway, I was pretty into you back then, too. But I couldn't figure out if you'd break my arm for trying to kiss you."

"Is that—really your only move?" Cho shrugs and Arthur laughs. "I wouldn't have. Obviously."

"Obviously." Cho smiles, leaning back against the sink. "So what now?"

Arthur tries to imagine what his life would be like if they'd gone for it way back when—it probably wouldn't have lasted, but maybe it would have. Maybe they would have bought a house together, a cat or a dog, a little yard. Maybe they would have been able to talk about their days without any half-truths, without any secrets. Maybe it would have been easy, with no sneaking around and no lies. Maybe.

Arthur looks down at his hands, at the faded bruises and bandages underneath his sleeves. "This thing with you and Ainsley."

"It's over. We're done. I already told you."

"When Victoria and I first broke up, I swore I was fine," Arthur says. "I went on dates, I got drunk, I fucked people all up and down the block. It wasn't till a year after what would have been our anniversary that I woke up without thinking about her."

Cho looks at Arthur, serious and still. "You saying I'm hung up on my ex?"

"I'm saying you should give it a week or two, think on everything while the craziness of this time of year passes," Arthur says. "Then, if you're still interested, you maybe give me a call. We go on a date and try to do this right."

"Or we could keep things simple." Cho puts his hands in his pockets. "Stick to having a good time."

Arthur huffs out a laugh. "Tempting. But if we started anything, I'd wanna be playing for keeps." He spreads his hands, palms up. "Sorry." Plus, Arthur adds to himself, I don't really have more room in my life for anything 'simple'.

Instead of smiling back, Cho looks away, eyes sliding shut for a moment. "I want to be okay."

"Yeah," Arthur says softly. "I know."

Cho opens his eyes. "We should get back to the game."

"Yeah," Arthur says as a random club patron wanders into the bathroom. "They're probably waiting."

"Everything's so perfect," Dom says, slurring slightly as Arthur and Eames help bundle him into a coat. "I had the best night with my favorite two people in the world besides my kids: my Arthur and my Eames."

"The cab's waiting outside," Arthur says. "Cho, you need a ride?"

"I should be okay," Cho says; he'd stopped drinking after his first Bésame. "Goodnight, Cobb."

"G'night." Dom waves and leans heavily against Eames. "Why's everyone gotta go, Eames? Why's everyone gotta change? Even my daughter, my little girl—she's growing up so fast I almost don't recognize her some days. Soon she's gonna be messing around with boys and going to college and I don't know what I'm gonna do."

"I don't know, love," Eames says as he leads Dom towards the door. "But no matter how she changes, I'm certain she'll always adore her father first."

"Yeah." Dom heaves a sigh. "But don't you ever wish things could just stay the same? That we could keep it all perfect forever?"

"Everything changes," Arthur says as he helps Dom step outside. "It doesn't have to be a bad thing."

"But how can it be better than this? We got money and family and great jobs—" Dom slumps against Arthur's shoulder while Eames gives the address to the cab driver. "If everything's already so good, things can only go downhill, right?"

Arthur helps Dom into the backseat of the car. "Go home and tell Mal that you love her. Then kiss your kids goodnight and go to bed."

"What would I do without you?" Dom asks as Arthur shuts the door.

Eames and Arthur stand in the parking lot until the cab pulls onto the road and drives away. It's snowing—light flurries accumulating in a thin layer on the ground. They walk back to Arthur's car where the first thing Eames does is put on the heat.

"Hiram Cho," Eames says, once they're on the long, solitary road back to the manor. "What a name."

"Don't let him hear you call him Hiram," Arthur replies automatically, in fairly high spirits. But when he looks over at Eames, the good mood drains away.

"Unfortunate name aside, he's well fit, isn't he?" At Arthur's blank look, Eames clarifies. "Gorgeous. Hot."

"Oh." Arthur glances over at Eames again, wary. "Well—yeah."

"He was rather more talkative tonight, wasn't he?" Eames drums his fingertips against the passenger-side door, the rhythm of it audible over the radio. "Quite chummy, in fact."

Arthur can't tell whether Eames is talking this way deliberately to piss him off, or if the sudden onset of accent is a sign of something else. "I guess so."

"You were in the bathroom a while."

Arthur's fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "I asked him for a favor. He agreed."

The tapping of Eames' fingertips increases in speed, growing more irregular. "Oh?"

"It's not a big deal," Arthur says, turning into the driveway of the manor. "We have a mutual acquaintance."

"Yes, you have known each other a while now, haven't you?"

Arthur puts the car into park and turns off the engine. "Mr. Eames—"

"Mr. Damrosch," Eames bites out as he unclips his seatbelt and practically lunges at Arthur, dragging him in for a snarling kiss. "Tell me, is that mutual acquaintance his prick or yours?"

Arthur sucks in a deep breath while Eames' fingers scrabble to undo his belt, his fly, dip under the waistband of his underwear. "I don't—"

"Did he blow you right there? In the bathroom, or the back alley, perhaps?" Eames' hands are rough when they wrap around Arthur's cock, and he can't help the slight gasp that escapes. "Did he bend over for your dick like the lonely, pathetic—"

Arthur shoves Eames back a few inches. "Nothing happened."

"You're a fucking liar," Eames growls as he buries his face in Arthur's neck, biting and sucking in sharp pinpricks of pain. "I can smell him on you."

Arthur pushes him away again and wrenches open the door. "You're gonna leave marks."

"So what?" Eames gets out and intercepts him at the front of the car, pressing forward until the back of Arthur's knees hit the bumper. "You can pretend it's from one of the other million people you're shagging at any given—"

"You don't get to be jealous," Arthur says, voice beginning to rise despite himself. "Not while you're still fucking my best—"

"That's right, because I don't get anything. I wait until you deign to call upon me to fulfill your endless appetite for fucking, and then I have to watch as everyone in the known world throws themselves at you—"

"And I fucking love sneaking around behind everyone's back, seeing you without being able to touch—" Arthur starts before Eames interrupts with a kiss.

"I can taste him on you," Eames mutters, biting viciously at Arthur's lower lip. "You thought I wouldn't notice?"

Arthur puts two palms against Eames' chest and shoves him back a pace, breath forming white clouds in between them. "It was only a kiss. Nothing else happened."

"You're telling me you turned down the opportunity to get your dick sucked?" Eames sounds incredulous.

"Go to hell." Arthur pushes away, winces at the cold air that gusts through his open fly without Eames to block it. "Not everything's about sex."

Somehow, the whole mood changes. Eames goes quiet, pale. "Arthur."

There's snow falling on Eames' hair. Arthur zips up his fly. "I should—"

"Don't go." Eames steps forward again, but this time his fingers on Arthur's cheek are gentle. "I know you can't stay, but it's snowing and you can come inside for a minute, can't you?"

"I'm not really in the mood to—"

"We don't have to fuck." Eames leans forward to nuzzle Arthur's cheek, pressing forward to steal a kiss when Arthur doesn't back away. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"A few minutes to warm up," Arthur says, at last, when the lure of Eames' soft mouth and warm hands skating up his sides prove impossible to resist. "I guess I could have some tea."

"I'll pour you a cuppa." Eames gives him another sweet, short kiss before taking his hand and setting off towards the manor. Inside, they pause to stomp the snow off their shoes and Dusty comes to greet them. Eames kneels to pet her and murmur, "Hullo, my sweet. Have you missed me?"

Arthur brushes the snow from his shoulders and hair and stares down the lightless hallway to the back recesses of the manor. He's been here a hundred times before, yet it still feels impossible to know what's down the corridor beyond what he can see.

"Let me put the kettle on." Eames tangles his fingers in Arthur's again, not letting him go until they're in the kitchen.

Arthur sits down on one of the kitchen stools and rests his elbows on his knees. He slumps forward, an ache low in his gut. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this."

"You mean transmuting our feelings of impotent rage and jealousy into fucking until we can't move?" Eames says as he fills the kettle and turns on the flame. "Yes, it is getting to be--a tired refrain."

"Tired. Right." Arthur huffs a bitter laugh. "If I said I didn't want to do this anymore—the sex, the drama, would you even--"

"Would I care?" Eames interrupts. "How can you ask that after--"

"Because the only honest emotions I can drag out of you are 'pissed off' and 'jealous.'" Arthur scrubs his face with one hand. "Everything else you hide. All my questions you answer with more questions."

"You told me you don't want the adoring lover act." Arthur can feel Eames' body heat a scarce few inches away. "I don't know what else to give you."

"I want you, not a con. I want to know that I'm not—" Arthur exhales deeply. "That I'm not alone in this."

"Arthur." Eames wraps his arms around Arthur's shoulders and presses his lips to the top of Arthur's head. "I think about you every single day. I drink coffee because it reminds me of you. I watch the news and wonder about what you'd say about it. I want to call you, text you, see you constantly." Eames' voice drops so low Arthur can barely hear. "I hate feeling this way, because I've never wanted anyone like this before. It's terrifying and horrible and I can't stop."

Arthur looks to Eames' gray gaze; it's easy to forget how striking the constantly shifting color can be. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know, darling." Eames tightens his arms around Arthur's chest. "You tell me."

"Arthur," Mal says as she steps out of the car and cautiously reaches out for an embrace. "It's good to see you. I'm so happy you called."

"It's good to see you, too, Mal," Arthur says as he gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course, I—" she stops. "James will be happy to see his godfather." She opens the car door and unbuckles the baby, who is wearing a tiny peacoat and driving cap. "Look who you're getting to see today! It's your godfather, Arthur!"

James blinks up at Arthur, seeming unimpressed.

"Hey… buddy," Arthur says, wondering briefly if it's old enough to understand words yet. "Do you remember me?"

James yawns and flails his pudgy arms a little. It doesn't seem to mean anything.

"Car rides make him sleepy," Mal says, sounding apologetic. She lifts him out of the carseat and sets him down on the ground, where he wobbles but manages to stay mostly upright. After shutting the door, she takes James' hand and says, "We're going inside Arthur's apartment building now. Isn't that exciting?"

James trudges along, but evidently doesn't think so.

"I hope he likes the toy," Arthur says as leads the way inside. "It's supposed to help develop hand-eye coordination and color recognition."

"I'm sure he will adore it," Mal replies.

Arthur lets them into the apartment, which he cleaned up shortly before they came. He set up a baby fence in the living room to prevent James from wandering off and spitting up on Arthur's furniture (he still has less than fond memories of Phillippa's early visits).

In the middle of the fenced off area is the Pound a Peg set the salesgirl had recommended. From what Arthur can tell, it's a tiny and colorful whack-a-mole game for babies.

"Oh, Arthur, it's wonderful," Mal gushes as she deposits James by the box. "Can you say 'thank you, Arthur,' James?"

James, apparently, cannot.

"He's only started saying words a month or so ago," she says. "He really only knows how to say 'maman' and 'dada' and 'no'."

Arthur opens the box and lifts the toy out of the packing material while Mal undoes James' peacoat, revealing a tiny collared shirt and sweatervest over khakis. Despite his aversion to children too young to talk (seriously, what the hell are you supposed to do with someone who can't talk?), Arthur has to admit he likes the outfit.

Once the hammer and peg set are fully unboxed, Arthur and Mal retreat outside the baby fence to the couch. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks.

"Not right now, thank you." She folds the baby peacoat up in her lap and puts the driving cap on top of it. "I wanted to apologize again for what happened on your birthday. I should have listened when you said you didn't want a party, and I shouldn't have gone behind your back to invite your mother. I know words can't make up for anything, but I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Arthur takes a deep breath. "I know you didn't mean for it to happen."

She nods minutely, lower lip trembling as he puts the pile of baby clothing to one side. "It won't happen again."

"Good. And Mal," he says, catching her eye, "you have to promise me you'll never come to my office again. There are things there that I--well. It's work, you understand?"

"I know," she says, nodding. "It is the same with Dom. I—understand."

"Okay." Arthur takes another deep breath and it feels—lighter, somehow. Like something ugly and yellow in the air has been leached away. "How have—how've things been with you? Dom's relatives still giving you trouble?"

Mal ducks her head with a slight smile. "Always. But I'm—I'm doing better, I think. The medication I've been on has fewer side effects."

"That's good," he says. "I'm glad."

"You're very wonderful, do you know that?" she says suddenly, turning to face him. "You work so hard, you never complain, and you have always been there for Dom, for me—for our whole family. I don't know if you hear this enough, but you are wonderful."

"I…" Arthur swallows. "Thank you."

She nods once more, decisively, and turns back to James. "I think he likes it," she says. They both watch James regard the hammer with mild disinterest before he crawls into the box and proceeds to play with that for the next hour.

"I can't stay long," Balal says as Arthur lets him inside the apartment. "I have to take Kat to the mall."

"Sure, yeah." Arthur hesitates. "Do you want some tea or—"

"Maybe we should just talk about why you invited me over." Balal's tone isn't harsh but it's firm. Arthur nods.

"Here's my driver's license." Arthur hands him his license, a business card, and gym membership. "My name is Arthur Lysander Damrosch. I'm a CPA at Wolgin and Parrota, an accounting firm. I do travel a lot for business, and I do actually consult for a fair amount of clients, but that's not the bulk of what I do."

"An accountant, huh?" Balal stares down at the license and brushes a hand over the photo.

"I shouldn't have lied to you for this long," Arthur says. "I'm sorry."

Balal looks up. "Why didn't you just tell me? Here I was thinking you had some big horrible secret but you're—"

"An accountant, I know." Arthur looks down. "The way I grew up—well, I learned that any situation could turn in an instant. Something that seemed good could go bad and there'd be nothing you could do to stop it." Arthur swallows and touches Balal's wrist, heartened when he doesn't pull away. "I grew up always checking for the exits, making sure I had an escape route no matter what. It's hard to get out of the habit of making sure I can't be tracked, of giving a fake name when I meet, you know—"

"Some random stranger on the internet for sex," Balal says, smiling ruefully. "Yeah, okay, I get that."

"I should have told you." Arthur cautiously slides down Balal's wrist to thread their fingers together. "Once we started—when it started getting regular. But I didn't know how to bring it up in a way that wouldn't make it fucking weird as hell. Like, hey, thanks for all the orgasms and by the way, my name's not really Lance, and I'm not really a financial consultant."

Balal chuckles as he puts Arthur's ID down. "Probably would have sounded pretty bad."

"I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't figure out how. And I, uh—" Arthur clears his throat. "I kinda liked the way you said the word 'Lance.'"

"Yeah?" Balal raises an eyebrow, but he's smiling now.

Arthur ducks his head. "It kinda made me feel like a porn star with a stage name."

"Lance with the big… lance?" Balal's chuckling now, leaning in while Arthur flushes. "That's cute—Lancelot, Arthur. Guess the only question left is who's Guinevere?"

"Well, obviously you are, since you got us both," Arthur deadpans, which causes Balal to throw his head back, laughing.

"Oh god that's so cheesy, but I'm pretty sure it's still gonna work on me."

Arthur smiles, and touches Balal's cheek. "I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"

Balal leans forward to give Arthur a sweet, chaste kiss. "If you can forgive me for trying—and failing—to invade your privacy."

Arthur smiles. "Deal."

"I should really go before I—before we—" Balal's gaze falls to Arthur's mouth. "I really have to go help Kat find an outfit for her school dance—"

"Yes, you should," Arthur says solemnly when Balal doesn't let go of his hand. "Because I know all teenagers love shopping with their parents for clothes."

"Okay, first of all, I have great taste. Second of all, my daughter is going to the Valentine's Day school dance looking like a class act, whether she wants to or not."

"Well, I wouldn't want to get in the way of you putting her in a nun's habit." Arthur steps back against the wall while Balal sways forward. "I hear the kids are really into that these days. She's gonna be a big hit."

"Hm, well, the mall doesn't close for another four hours," Balal mumbles. "Maybe—"

"A little something for the road," Arthur murmurs as he bites Balal's earlobe and slithers down to his knees.

"Mm, Lan—Arthur. Shit, this is going to be confusing for a while. Unless--" Balal drops his voice an octave. "Oh yeah, Lance, suck that cock. You were born to suck cock, weren't you?"

Arthur snorts and laughs so hard he has to pull off. "I'm a porn star known for my big dick, not my cocksucking skills." He swats Balal lightly on the ass before leaning back in again.

"Sorry, sorry." Balal laughs helplessly above him for a minute before reaching down to stroke the back of his head. "Lance, known for his enormous cock, tremendous ass, and beautiful..."

Arthur looks up, but Balal's not laughing anymore, expression softened into something else. "What?"

"Nothing," Balal says as he touches Arthur's cheek. "Lance, known for his giant cock."

Arthur knocks and waits for the soft, "Come in," before opening the door.

Lydia stands, afghan sliding off her lap onto the floor. "Arthur."

"Mom," Arthur says, throat already raspy as he holds out a bouquet of calla lilies.

"My baby boy," she whispers as she throws her arms around him, crushing the flowers between them. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you, too." Arthur kisses the top of her head and allows himself to relax into her arms. "I'm sorry I haven't—"

"No apologies," she interrupts, shaking her head.

"But—"

"What's past is past," Lydia says. "Let's talk no more of it."

"Okay," Arthur whispers as he closes his eyes. "No apologies."

"How was Atlantic City?"

Eames glances over from the passenger seat of the car; he seems tired. "Both larger and smaller than I'd imagined."

Arthur should probably leave it alone, but he can't, not yet. "Make any money in the casinos?"

"A bit," Eames says. "I spent the better part of three days at the tables."

Arthur nods, something like relief flooding his gut. "Dom mentioned the meetings ran long."

"Did he tell you that they were closed-door even to assistants and bodyguards?"

Arthur's brow furrows. "No, he didn't. That level of secrecy means something was actually being discussed. Usually it's just schmoozing and cigars."

"From what I gathered, nobody was much in the mood for cigars," Eames says. "People were nervous. Tense."

Arthur frowns; Dom definitely hadn't told him this. "About what?"

"I don't know for certain—they were quite tightlipped," Eames replies. "If I had to venture a guess, I'd say it had something to do with the illustrious persons your organization keeps on its bankroll."

Dom and Arthur have personally thrown numerous fundraisers for local politicians and made sizable contributions to the campaigns of others over the years. They—and Sal, and others—have helped elect (and provided luxurious vacations to) numerous public officials at all levels of government. If some of their more valuable contacts are unhappy, that could be enough to spark an entire waterfall of misery. "I'm guessing you didn't hear any names or specifics."

"Nobody was too keen on specifics whenever I was within earshot," Eames says. "Especially once they heard my accent."

"Yeah," Arthur says. "Guess I've got something to talk to Dom about." They haven't really had a chance to meet up and hash out everything that happened at the conference—although when it comes to the Valentine's Day meeting, there's usually no need to. If their phones weren't still being tapped, Dom probably would have been chattier when he called to check in, but things are what they are and it's late afternoon on Valentine's Day. If there's anything truly urgent, Dom would have found some way to carve out a meeting. Probably.

"Arthur," Eames says. "Are you ever going to tell me where we're going?"

"No," Arthur replies, amused at the hint of pout curving Eames' lips. "Do you have your ID?

"What if I didn't? Would you be forced to turn this vehicle around?" Eames squeezes Arthur's knee with one hand while he holds up a driver's license in the other. "Are you leading me to a den of inequity?"

"That'd be telling, wouldn't it?"

"Just a little hint," Eames says, hand creeping up Arthur's thigh. "I'll make it worth your while."

"You should get ready to pretend to be someone else," Arthur says. "American. An old college buddy of mine would probably be easiest. Straight."

"Intriguing," Eames murmurs, squeezing again before the hand withdraws. "I've someone perfect for the occasion."

Arthur pulls into the parking lot of a large, squat building with dark windows. Over the front entrance hangs the sign, 'Shore Shot Rifle Range.' As they get out of the car, Eames says, low, "Is this—"

"I haven't forgotten," Arthur says.

They walk around the building to the back entrance where a guy in a gray hoodie and dingy sneakers is smoking outside.

"Arthur, my man!" Gary drops his cigarette to the ground before reaching out to take Arthur's hand, pumping up and down enthusiastically. "How long's it been?"

"Has to be over a year now," Arthur says, smiling back. "Gary, this is my associate—"

"Jimmy," Eames cuts in smoothly, accent stripped to something higher pitched and American, hand at the ready for a shake. "Jimmy Whittaker."

"Gary Smith. Nice to meet you," Gary replies. "How d'ya know Arthur?"

"Sat next to him in accounting," Eames says, and the transformation is total, breathtaking. Gone is Eames' usual faint swagger, his unselfconscious sexiness—replaced by slightly slumped shoulders, an almost meek presence. His expression is carefully dulled, gaze genial and unthreatening, voice friendly. "I fell asleep, but Arthur here knows his stuff."

"He's always been one of the smartest guys I know," Gary says. "You got some kinda ID on you, Jimmy? I hate to ask, but my boss gets on me like a bad smell if I don't."

"You aren't going to make us go through all the paperwork, are you?" Arthur asks while Eames passes over his driver's license. "Jimmy's visiting from out of town a couple of days so I was hoping to take him around, shoot a few bullets, play a few holes."

"Any guy you vouch for is good enough for me," Gary says magnanimously, handing back the ID. "Lemme show you inside."

They chat amiably as they make their way to a private shooting gallery. There's the sound of guns going off in some other part of the building, but it sounds far away, muffled. Gary passes out the gear: goggles, earmuffs, a variety of guns, and bullets. Arthur picks up a Glock and Eames loads a Sig Sauer while two shooting lanes are set up. At Arthur's nod, Gary disappears, leaving Arthur and Eames alone.

"I gotta admit I wasn't expecting this," Eames comments. He sounds exactly like someone Arthur might have sat next to in college—a guy who'd have asked to copy his notes and bought him a beer at some sports bar afterwards. Generic. Forgettable.

"Good to know I can still surprise you," Arthur replies before bringing his arm up and taking a shot.

The sound of gunfire drowns out the possibility for further conversation, Arthur working every bit as hard at practicing his aim as Eames does; judging by the spotty mess all over the target, it's been way too long since Arthur last stopped by.

There's a brief lull when Arthur runs out of cartridges and goes to reload. He glances over at Eames, who is improving with every shot he takes, hands and arms noticeably steadier than the last time they practiced together. When Eames runs out of ammunition, he lowers his gun. He doesn't break character, but there's something nearly intimate in the way he glances over at Arthur.

Arthur returns to his lane and starts shooting again before he gets too heated.

They stay for another hour or so, eventually trading up to more firepower: rifles, submachine guns, shotguns. It's been a while since Arthur had an excuse to shoot an old-style Tommy gun, and he has fun spraying bullets until his teeth rattle from recoil.

A lane over, Eames is taking aim with a rifle propped on his shoulder. The shot goes wild. Arthur looks more closely and notices his hands are shaking.

"Hey," Arthur says, waving to catch Eames' attention. "I'm starving. You wanna get out of here?"

Eames nods once, putting down the rifle and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. He takes off his earmuffs and tucks his hands into his pockets.

They settle the bill with Gary and drop by Il Mio Cuore to pick up some takeout (the restaurant is packed to the gills with couples) before heading back to the manor. There, Arthur unpacks the food while Eames takes Dusty on a quick walk and returns to eat.

"Sometimes you have a rather odd sense of humor," Eames says as he slides a bare foot up Arthur's leg underneath the table. "A shooting gallery on Valentine's Day?"

"I thought I'd give your ID a whirl." Arthur takes a sip of his wine and smirks. "You didn't like it?"

"I loved it, you mad sod," Eames replies as he drains his own wineglass and his foot creeps ever higher. "Would you like your Valentine's Day present now?"

"Depends," Arthur murmurs, letting his legs fall wider open. "Does it involve sex?"

"I suppose you'll have to wait and find out." Eames stands and walks around to Arthur's side of the table. He hooks a finger around the stem of Arthur's wineglass and pulls until the remaining Chianti trickles along Eames' lower lip into his slightly open mouth. A dribble makes its way down from the corner of his mouth and Arthur reaches up to thumb it away. Eames smiles, eyes heavy-lidded, as he captures Arthur's thumb between his teeth, tongue swirling lightly against the pad.

Arthur lets his eyes wander from Eames' mouth down to his broad shoulders, the width of his chest. He's gotten bigger over the last few months and it makes Arthur practically salivate. "Let's go upstairs."

When they reach the bedroom they strip at a leisurely pace, enjoying the rare opportunity to savor each step without having to rush. Eames lies back on the bed while Arthur settles on top of him, content to kiss and kiss. They don't really do this kind of thing and it's—nice, Eames' lips plush and soft, his fingertips skimming up and down Arthur's back gently without any particular intent.

Arthur licks a line down Eames' throat and chest, pausing to suck at each nipple until Eames moans. He continues downwards over each clearly defined abdominal muscle, lavishes Eames' belly button with attention, and pauses right over Eames' cock. Arthur kisses the head where it lies against Eames' lower belly, the foreskin beginning to pull back, and nuzzles his nose against the underside all the way down to Eames' balls.

Arthur likes eating out women—likes the way they smell, the wetness that gets all over his face, the feeling of thighs pressed tight against his ears. He hasn't eaten a man out in years, but smelling Eames like this, musky and male and heady—Arthur thinks, maybe.

Arthur sucks a couple of his own fingers into his mouth to wet them while rubbing gently at the rim of Eames' hole with a thumb. The pucker flutters while Eames spreads his legs wider, and Arthur takes that for an invitation.

Eames' breathing grows heavy while Arthur presses in with one finger, then two, searching until he finds the right angle. Eames gasps, hips jerking upwards with every tiny movement of Arthur's fingers. It's gorgeous to watch but makes sucking Eames' cock virtually impossible, so Arthur sits up to rest his left forearm on Eames' abdomen, restricting his movements.

"Arthur," Eames rasps, voice rolling over the r's, smooth and low. "That feels, oh god—"

Arthur bends to put his lips around the head of Eames' cock, the foreskin drawn all the way back by now. He sucks delicately while Eames moans and shudders beneath him, hips still twitching restlessly beneath his arm. Every time he seems on the verge of coming, Arthur stills his fingers and releases his dick, waiting for Eames to calm and settle before resuming.

It isn't until Eames is practically writhing, moans spilling from his lips in between, "Darling, please, I need to—I need—" that Arthur sucks Eames' dick down to the base, throat tightening while Eames comes with a hoarse shout.

After Arthur finishes swallowing, he crawls up Eames' body to kiss his jaw, waiting patiently.

Last year Arthur had spent Valentine's Day alone at the office, but the year before that he'd taken Victoria to her favorite jazz club and then made love to her all night after. "No one gets me like you do," Arthur had said, but now he wonders how true that really was. There were days he'd come back to the apartment with bruised knuckles, blood on his shirt, and they'd never talked about it. She'd simply helped him out of his clothing and packed everything up in neat plastic bags while he showered.

"Well," Eames stretches languidly for a minute and then rolls Arthur onto his back, leaning down to nip at his lips. "That was bloody marvelous."

"Good," Arthur replies as Eames throws a leg over his, tangling them together.

"Do you remember that game we played when we first met?" Eames asks. "When you told me I could ask you questions about anything?"

"Yeah." Arthur smiles a little at how naïve he'd been. As if he could ever hope to be something as simple as friends with Eames. "You asked some bold questions."

"It's because I wanted to know everything about you," Eames says, thigh rubbing gentle circles against Arthur's cock. "I still do."

"I'm really not that interesting." Arthur slides forward and hikes Eames' leg up over his hip.

Eames smiles at him with unexpected sweetness. "I disagree."

"You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Eames." Arthur touches a faded scar that crawls down Eames' shoulder. "In some ways, I still don't know a thing about you."

Eames catches his hand and kisses his palm. "Ask, and I'll answer as truthfully as I'm able."

Arthur stares up at him for a long minute. "What do you dream about?"

"Freedom. Money. Sex. Sliding a blade across my enemies' throats." Eames lowers Arthur's hand from his mouth. "But you're not asking for abstraction, are you?"

"I don't know what I'm looking for," Arthur says as a voice inside him whispers, something real, something true.

Eames seems to retreat into himself for a moment, eyes closing off even though not a muscle in his face shifts. Then he opens his mouth and says, "The first time you came to pick me up for our Thursday night games—you came earlier than I expected and saw me without my prosthetic. I don't know if you remember."

"I do," Arthur says, and gently touches the scar, not needing to look to know exactly where it is.

"I had a dream that night—a short one I would have barely remembered but for the fact that it kept repeating over the course of weeks," Eames says. "I dreamt I was in the middle of a pond in a boat with no sail, no motor, and no oars. It was pleasant, in its own way, as I could see land and the weather was lovely."

"Sounds like a good dream."

"It was, until the pond began to expand and the shores began to retreat," Eames says. "Suddenly, I was in the middle of something which had become a vast ocean. I knew that even if I were to try to swim to shore, I wouldn't make it—it was too far."

Arthur pushes the hair from Eames' eyes; it's gotten longer in the past few months. "Then what happened?"

"A storm came. The wind picked up and the waves grew so high I couldn't see anything. Eventually, I was thrown right out of the boat. I tried to keep afloat, but the wind was too powerful. I was certain I'd drown." Eames threads his fingers through Arthur's. "But then someone reached out a hand and lifted me back to safety."

"Let me guess," Arthur says gravely, "it was Yusuf."

Eames chuckles. "I suppose it would have been more convenient for everyone if it had been. Would that my subconscious were more sensible."

Arthur feels Eames' hand in his, grip sure and steady now, and doesn't know whether he should believe. But god, he wants to. "I can't remember the last time I dreamed about something."

"I'll dream enough for us both then, hm?" Eames ducks down to brush his lips across Arthur's.

Arthur tries to think of something to say but can't, so he rolls Eames onto his back instead and lifts his legs. "Okay?" Arthur asks as Eames spreads open beneath him.

"Yes," Eames replies, simply.

They fuck with Eames below Arthur and wrapped around him, clinging to him. It's not the first time they've fucked face to face, but it's the first time like this—with Eames quiet and pliant, kissing Arthur like he can't get enough, like it's all he wants.

Arthur feels exposed but calm, as if he's standing on the edge of a precipice, gazing into a vast, unknowable drop. He should feel scared but he's not. He's—

"Darling," Eames whispers against his lips. "It's you, you know it's always been you."

Arthur closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

"I made breakfast," Eames says the next morning when Arthur steps out of the shower. "Eggs with sausage this time."

"I'll show you sausage." Arthur swats Eames lightly on the ass as he towels his hair off.

"Tempting, but let's save it for after we eat, hm?" Eames walks out of the bedroom before Arthur can stop him. "And I still have a Valentine's Day gift to dispense."

Breakfast is good—hot, fresh—and Eames makes it all the way to the sink with the dirty dishes before Arthur is compelled to grab him by the hips and drag him back for sloppy morning sex.

After they've both caught their breath and cleaned up a little, Eames goes to the bag he'd packed and pulls out a thin manila folder. Arthur sits up, bemused, as Eames puts it down on the table in front of him.

"Some light reading material for Valentine's Day," Eames says as he unwraps the leash in his hand. "I'm taking Dusty for a walk. I imagine we'll have quite a bit to discuss when I return."

Arthur opens the file and begins to read. The first few pages contain a detailed profile of one Francisco Blanco, a twenty-something man who lives alone and goes by the online handle 'BladeofEntropy.' Along with the basics of what he does (IT at some college) and where he lives (at the southern tip of New Jersey), there's also a section containing what appears to be Eames' personal psychological evaluation of Blanco.

This includes notes such as: 'Extreme social anxiety and difficulty with the formation of interpersonal relationships have led to isolation and pursuit of solitary hobbies' and 'Unresolved grief over death of mother as a teenager has resulted in a persistent angry victim mentality, belief that the world is fundamentally unfair, and that one must take aggressive action in the form of vigilante justice'.

At the end of the file is a photo and post-it note with the following scrawled across it: Father (deceased) – Pablo Blanco, Mother (deceased) – Eva Blanco, formerly Eva Hernandez. Last remaining family - Juana, Jose, and Elena Hernandez.

Eames returns.

"Is this who I think it is?" Arthur asks.

"If you think it's the hacker that's been plaguing your internal network, then yes," Eames says as he unclips Dusty's leash.

Arthur looks down at the file and then up at Eames again. "You've confirmed with Yusuf?"

"Yusuf was the one who first identified Blanco, but he was hesitant about reporting it to you since it didn't seem to make sense initially," Eames says. "Blanco has no criminal record, no direct ties to your organization, no gang affiliations, and no interest in using his hacking expertise for any kind of profit motive. It seemed unlikely that he would target your firm on his own, but it wasn't until I determined that he was the nephew of a certain poker player that it fell into place."

"Juana," Arthur says, right hand curling into a fist. "You're sure?"

"I spoke to her at your birthday party," Eames says, giving Dusty a last scratch behind the ears before she trots off. "She was less than forthcoming, but that daughter of hers turned out to be quite chatty after a mojito or two."

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and tries to think through his next few steps, the calls he'll have to make if this is true. "Why would Juana jeopardize our partnership over this? The money she's getting—it's chump change."

"I don't think she authorized the theft." Eames taps the photo of Blanco. "I suspect the Blade of Entropy fancied himself a modern day Robin Hood. All the money was dispersed in anonymous donations to local charities."

"So she originally hired him to spy but he got greedy or righteous or whatever the fuck," Arthur says and stands. "I need to make some calls. But if this information is good, this is—fuck, this could be the best Valentine's present I've ever gotten."

"Well, it was either this or the exceedingly short French maid's costume," Eames says. "Perhaps I'll save that for next year."

"You're fucking brilliant, you know that?" Arthur seizes Eames by the shoulders and drags him in for a bruising kiss. "Thank you."

Eames gives Arthur's lower lip a parting bite as they separate, and smiles.

"Hey, Arthur." Dom sounds tired as he gets in the car. "Fifteenth and Vine. You know the place."

"Yeah." Arthur forces a smile as he waves at Mal, who is standing in the window of the house. "We got backup coming?"

"I got some guys on the way," Dom replies. "I didn't tell Juana why we needed to meet but she knows something's up."

"She's lucky to be even getting this," Arthur replies darkly as he pulls out of the development and onto the highway. "I still say we should take care of Blanco ourselves."

"Believe me, this is the last thing I want to be doing either. But we need her network and guys on the ground to move product," Dom says. "The shipments are on their way and we got no alternative unless we want the deal with Saito to collapse."

"I've started looking into other people we can work with," Arthur says. "At the end of the day, she's just a dealer. There'll always be more."

"I can't believe she'd pull this on us," Dom says quietly, staring out the window. "After all the years we've known each other, the things we've been through together."

"She's just a dealer," Arthur repeats. "They're all two-faced, out for themselves. Either they become junkies and burn out or they get greedy and think everyone's as stupid as their customers."

"She wasn't always like this," Dom says, and shakes his head. "I've known her since I was ten. It makes me sick, thinking that all this time—I mean, if it could be her, it could be anyone."

"You can't let it get to you, Dom," Arthur says, gripping the steering wheel a little more tightly. "Otherwise you'll start doubting everything and lose your mind."

"Yeah." Dom rubs his eyes. "It's just—first Nash, now this."

They pull up to the warehouse and walk inside. A couple of Dom's guys arrive and stake out the entrances while Arthur and Dom take a seat at the card table set up in the middle of the warehouse. When Juana arrives, she isn't alone.

"Who's the muscle?" Dom calls out while she approaches.

"My escort," she replies, one hand resting lightly on the arm of the ogre of a man she's walking beside. "My eyes aren't what they used to be, I'm afraid." She takes a seat.

"We know about Blanco," Arthur says without preamble.

"You've met my nephew, then?" she replies, expression genial but unreadable. "A sweet boy, but troubled. Ever since his mother died he hasn't been the same."

"This isn't about Blanco or his mommy issues," Dom says.

"No?" Juana's gaze cuts to Dom briefly, then swings back to Arthur. "What is this about, then?"

"He's been stealing," Arthur says, and her expression doesn't change at all. "Has been for months, now. Don't know if he told you."

She exhales gently. "What a misguided boy. I shall have to speak with him."

"We can't let something like this pass," Dom says. "Juana, I hope you understand that."

"I said I'd talk to him," she says, voice taking on a sharper edge. "I can control—"

"Clearly you can't," Arthur interrupts. "And the skills this kid has, the knowledge—he's a threat anywhere there's a computer. That's not something we can let stand."

"There must be some other way." Her lips thin. "His mother was—I practically raised her."

"You were the one that got family mixed up in this," Arthur says. "You were the one that put us in this position."

"I was the one that—" She snorts. "Who else can I trust beyond family?"

"No one, apparently," Arthur says.

"Well, we can't all be rootless, friendless automatons like you, Arthur."

Arthur's halfway to standing as he snarls, "Fuck you, you—"

"Arthur," Dom says, a hand barely touching Arthur's arm. Arthur takes a deep breath and sits.

"This is a courtesy," Arthur says. "You've got a week to handle your business or we'll handle it for you."

"Dominic," Juana says. "Surely we can—"

"How the fuck could you do this to us?" Dom asks, something painful scoring his words. "How long have you been sitting across tables lying to me?"

The blank mask of Juana's face flickers, revealing something weary and resigned. "It's not personal, Dom," she says. "We all have to make some tough calls in this business."

"It's been a while since you brought your little doodad around these parts," Ariadne says, gesturing to Arthur's bug scanner. "Was starting to think you didn't like me anymore."

Arthur smiles faintly. "I like you fine, Ariadne. It's just—it's been a tough month."

"Seems like maybe you've been having a tough year," she replies.

Arthur chuckles. "Yeah. Seems like."

"Well, I've been trying to move things around regularly," she says, waving at the tables. "And you know, keeping an eye out. Nothing new to report that I've seen."

"Good." When Arthur's finished sweeping the club and comes up with nothing new, he puts away his scanner and says, "How are you doing? Still having car problems?"

"Nah, got a new tire that I'm hoping will last longer than the old one did."

"And Yusuf?" Arthur says. "He hassling you?"

"I don't think he knows how to be anything but a hassle," Ariadne replies wryly. "I'm okay, though, I promise. Thank you for asking."

"People aren't always—well, the thing with people is that sometimes you think they're one thing but they're really another." Arthur puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes lightly. "Be careful not to get caught up in all the bullshit, you know?"

"Words to live by." She smiles, then punches him lightly on the shoulder. "Now come over to the bar—I got a new drink to show you."

"God, you're gorgeous," Arthur says as he kicks the manor's front door closed behind him. He slides his hands under Eames' waistband, palms the curves of his ass. "All your information checked out and now I'm—you don’t even know how fucking huge this is for me."

"I think I have some idea," Eames replies, tipping his head back to allow Arthur access to his neck.

Arthur licks at Eames' throat until he moans, then kisses his jaw, his lips. "Let me—what do you want? I wanna give you whatever you want."

"I already have what I want."

"Eames." Arthur pulls back far enough to meet Eames' gaze. "We can do whatever you want."

Eames pushes him back against the wall, then reaches down and hooks with one hand the underside of Arthur's knee. Eames lifts Arthur's leg up, the outline of his cock brushing against the cleft of Arthur's ass unmistakably. "Yeah?"

Arthur bites his lip. "Yeah."

They go upstairs but don't quite make it to the bed. Eames seems in no particular hurry as he kisses Arthur, open-mouthed and wet. They make out at a leisurely pace, Arthur threading his fingers through Eames' hair, trying to stay patient and follow his lead.

Eventually, Eames steps back and Arthur starts taking off his clothes. "Wait," Eames says, stilling Arthur's hands. "Allow me."

Eames helps Arthur slip out of his jacket, draping it over a seat back before returning to undo Arthur's cufflinks. Eames finishes one cuff and brings Arthur's wrist up to his mouth for a kiss, then repeats the action with the other wrist. He moves onto the buttons of Arthur's shirt, bending down to nuzzle the skin that's revealed all the way down to his belly, right above his belt.

"Eames," Arthur murmurs, touching the back of Eames' head. "I can—"

Eames shushes him as he helps Arthur out of his shirt. After draping it neatly on the seat, he returns to suck at Arthur's nipples while deftly undoing Arthur's belt. Arthur sighs and touches the back of Eames' neck, his soft hair, urges him upwards for a kiss.

But Eames refuses to be guided, drags his face down the center of Arthur's chest, over his crotch, following his inseam to his ankle. Eames stoops even lower to undo Arthur's shoelaces, putting a palm under Arthur's knee to encourage him to lift his foot up and let Eames take off his shoe, then sock. Arthur watches the flex and curl of the muscles in Eames' back—clearly visible through the thin red T-shirt he's wearing—while Eames lifts the hem of Arthur's pant leg and kisses his ankle.

Eames helps Arthur out of his other shoe, kisses his other ankle, and sits up to finally unzip Arthur's pants. Rather than allow Arthur's belt and pants to fall carelessly to the floor, Eames instructs Arthur to step first out of one pant leg and then the other, rewarding Arthur's acquiescence with a trail of butterfly kisses up his calves, on the back of his knees, and along his inner thighs. When Eames finally begins easing Arthur's underwear down, Arthur's rock hard and leaking precome.

Much to Arthur's disappointment, Eames doesn't close his beautiful lips around Arthur's cock, instead stands and strokes Arthur's cheek. "How many times can I make you come tonight?"

"No more than two," Arthur replies as one of Eames' hands skates up and down his chest, leaving a trail of heat behind. "Otherwise I'll be falling asleep at the game."

"Two it is, then," Eames murmurs, thumb circling one of Arthur's nipples. "Can you come from being fingered and having your bollocks sucked?"

"I don't know." Arthur takes a step backwards towards the bed. "Let's find out."

Arthur winds up lying on his back, legs spread, while Eames eases lube-slicked fingers into him. It's slow going at first—the last time Arthur did this was weeks ago with Balal—but once Eames gets his mouth around Arthur's balls, the discomfort is quickly overridden by more enjoyable sensations. There's something torturous about having Eames' beautiful mouth by Arthur's groin yet not wrapped around his cock, but Eames licks and sucks at Arthur's ballsac with a feverish enthusiasm that takes most of the frustration away.

Eames begins to stroke Arthur's prostate with intent, confident and aggressive. Arthur tries to vocalize how close he is to the edge already, but all he can manage is a gasping moan as he digs his fingers into the sheet, orgasm rolling over him without even a finger on his dick.

Once Arthur catches his breath, he opens his eyes to Eames rolling a condom down his cock. "How are you?" Eames asks as he leans down to kiss Arthur, brushing their cocks lightly together.

Arthur sucks in a breath at the friction against his oversensitive dick, but doesn't pull away. "No complaints so far," he says, trailing his fingertips up and down Eames' sides.

"Oh, I think we can do a little better than that." Eames tugs Arthur's legs towards him and settles them over his hips.

Arthur spreads his fingers over the center of the tree across Eames' chest. "I thought we were going to do what you want."

"Arthur," Eames says as he begins to push in, "I could suck and touch and fuck you for days. This is everything I want to be doing."

Arthur closes his eyes and tries to relax. Above him, Eames stills and then bends down to sweep kisses across Arthur's eyelids. After a moment, the pain subsides and Arthur nods for Eames to proceed.

Arthur can count on less than two hands the number of men he's let fuck him, and on less than five fingers the ones that have been any good at it. It's not a wide pool, but Arthur suspects he doesn't need much comparison to know that Eames is magnificent at fucking. It's not only the mechanics of the act but also the focus Eames brings, the unwavering intensity. Arthur can feel the weight of Eames' gaze upon him, catching every nuance of his facial expression, every flicker of emotion. It's unnerving, as if Eames can see past the bared flesh to something else—something deeper.

"Darling," Eames whispers against Arthur's lips. "Do you trust me?"

"I have to, don't I?" Arthur looks into Eames' eyes, beautiful and clear and the color of steel. "You could crush me with everything you know."

Eames begins to rock his hips gently back and forth, cock kissing Arthur's prostate with each stroke. "What would it take for you to believe in me?"

"I—" Arthur closes his eyes as the pleasure begins to crest. "I don't know."

"You want me to stop sleeping with Dom."

And there it is, the thing they've been dancing around ever since they started this—whatever this thing between them is. Arthur opens his eyes. "Dom's the one that decides when you're through."

"What if I were less—congenial?" Eames rolls his hips, provoking a sharp moan from Arthur. "I'm sure he'll tire of me eventually. I could speed up the process."

"Then what?" Arthur traces the line of a cheekbone with his thumb. "You and I start going to the movies together? You move out of this house and start living off me instead?"

Eames frowns, hips snapping forward in a motion that makes Arthur gasp. "I don't need—"

"Eames." Arthur surges up and cuts him off with a hungry kiss. "Fuck me."

To Arthur's relief, Eames doesn't reply. Instead, he closes his eyes, kisses back, and makes Arthur's body sing.

Juana arrives at the club late.

Wordlessly, she drops a manila folder onto the table. Inside are: a copy of an official police report, photos of a body hanging from a noose, a photocopy of a handwritten suicide note, and a memorandum declaring the death a suicide with no basis for further investigation.

"I trust this should put the matter to rest," Juana says tightly.

"As long as nothing else goes missing, yes." Dom flicks through all the documents and then closes the file. "I'm glad we were able to come to a mutually agreeable solution."

"Mutually agreeable," Juana repeats, looking paler and older than Arthur's ever seen her. "I suppose that's one way to put it."

"Dom is very generous," Arthur says. "And you're very lucky."

"Lucky." Juana huffs a bitter laugh as her eyes travel across Arthur, Dom, and Eames. "If I had a penny for every time a man told me that."

"I'm sorry to be calling so late," Mal says, voice distant and blurry over the phone.

Arthur sits up in bed and rubs his eyes. "It's fine. What's—did something happen?"

"Dom is—" She halts. "You should come over. I think he'd like to see you."

Arthur throws his legs over the side of the bed. "On my way."

When he gets to the house, Mal opens the door and puts a finger to her lips. "The children are asleep," she whispers as she leads Arthur to the entrance of the basement. "Dom's been in there for hours and he refuses to say anything."

"I'll talk to him," Arthur replies as he peers into the basement; Dom and Mal had it renovated into a game room a few years ago, putting down carpet and finishing the ceiling. But from where Arthur's standing, it seems dim and cave-like in spite of the improvements.

"Thank you," she says. "I can't—I hope he'll talk to you."

Arthur walks down the steps into a darkness that's broken only by a single lamp at the far end of the room. Dom's sitting in an armchair underneath it, sipping a half-filled glass of bourbon. There's a nearly empty bottle on the end table at his elbow.

"Arthur," Dom says, and it's clear in a word how drunk he is. "Should have guessed she'd send you."

"She's worried," Arthur replies as he approaches. "Should she be?"

"Mal, worried about me?" Dom shakes his head. "Six months ago she'd spend a whole day crying and staring at the wall like it was gonna get her."

"Dom."

"I got my Jim Beam." Dom holds the bottle aloft. "A true friend. He'll never leave me."

"You can't take these things so personally," Arthur says. He's annoyed at having any point of agreement with Juana, but she'd been right—at least about this. "It's business. That's all."

"You know that my father once walked out on us?" Dom says and Arthur blinks at the nonsequitur. "Happened on a Sunday when I was ten. He took me to a ballgame—I remember because it was the first time he'd ever taken me anywhere without my brother and sister. It was a nice day—good game, sunny, clear skies, and he said to me as we drove home, 'you're a sharp kid, Dom, you're no dope, so don't ever let anyone treat you like one.'" Dom pauses, and swirls the remaining liquid in his tumbler. "The next day, he left for some cigarettes and never came back. I remember sitting by the window, watching for his car to pull up in the driveway, waiting up real late past my bedtime. I had homework I was gonna ask him some questions about—I already knew the answers, but he wouldn't have known that."

Dom throws back his drink. "Anyway, I didn't see him for another two years. He'd gotten word from some informant or another that the Feds were closing in—that they finally had some hard evidence to nail him to the wall with. So he spooked and vanished."

"Did you guys know?" Arthur asks. "Did anyone tell your mother, or—"

"She suspected, but couldn't get a straight word out of anyone about anything," Dom says. "She kept telling us he was on a business trip, that he'd be back soon. My sister hardly cared and my brother—he acted like he was above it all, like always. Ma was—she just kept on smiling and going, but when I was in bed I heard her crying through the wall late at night, after she thought we were all asleep."

"He should have made better plans," Arthur says. "He shouldn't have—"

"My dad started another family down in Florida," Dom continues. "I've got some half-brother down there. It's part of why my parents moved to Boca to retire. My dad, he keeps saying we should all come down there for a big bullshit family reunion, enjoy the weather."

Arthur's interacted with Dom's father a handful of times over the years. Even when Arthur first started out and was ostensibly working for the elder Mr. Cobb, Arthur had mostly taken instructions from Dom. Arthur vaguely remembers the first time he met Mr. Cobb, who was boisterous, charismatic, and a notorious skirt-chaser. Old age eventually mellowed him, smoothed some rough edges and settled his wandering eye.

People have always compared Dom to his father, and up until today Arthur never thought it bothered Dom. But maybe he was wrong about that.

"I didn't know," Arthur says, taking a seat on the sofa nearest Dom. "I'm sorry."

"I wouldn't be where I am in this organization if it weren't for my father," Dom says, staring down into his glass. "It's why I know—nothing's just business. You sit across the table from someone, you break bread or you play cards or see their kids grow up—it means something. It's not the same as meeting a stranger from across the ocean, signing a dotted line, and maybe shaking their hand once or twice. In this business, it's all personal."

In his mind's eye, Arthur can imagine Eames now, cocking his head to one side and saying, "This is what's holding you back, darling, and always will."

"We both know you're not him," Arthur says. "And no matter what anyone else says, you've worked hard as hell to get where you are today—I've watched."

Dom leans forward to take Arthur's hand in both of his. Dom's eyes are bloodshot, face lined with wrinkles that for once betray his true age. "You're the other reason I am where I am, Arthur. I couldn't have done any of this without you."

"Dom," Arthur starts, something tightening in his throat.

"The day we met," Dom says, "I don't know how much you remember about that day."

"Not much," Arthur says. "Most of it's a blur. I remember the pavement, ambulance sirens, waking up in a hospital gown."

"I'm not surprised," Dom says. "You took some pretty hard hits, not to mention the blood-loss. I tried to stop the bleeding with my jacket while I waited for the ambulance, but I was pretty sure you weren't gonna make it."

Arthur pauses. "You never told me that."

"No, I guess I didn't." Dom huffs a small chuckle. "I never should have doubted you. The moment I saw you take that first punch and come up swinging I knew you were different. Most kids, when they get hit they stay down and cower. They beg for it to stop. You, though, you were out-matched and still you never lay down. You're a fighter, Arthur, and what makes you dangerous is people look at you and never see that."

Arthur gently pulls his hands away. "You should go to bed. It's late, and Mal's worried."

"Conspiring with my wife again, huh?" Dom manages a wry smile but his eyelids are already drooping. "She has some crazy ideas sometimes—don't let her drag you in."

"Let's get you upstairs." Arthur slides an arm around Dom's waist and hauls him up. "We both got early mornings tomorrow."

"Yeah." Dom sighs, then staggers and stands. "The piper's coming, and we all gotta be prepared."

"Sure," Arthur says as they make their way upstairs. "Who knows what's on its way."

"Every day, I thank god I have you in my corner," Dom says as he pauses in the hallway outside his bedroom. "And, Arthur, if there's something you want—just say the word and it's yours."

"You've already given me everything, Dom," Arthur replies quietly. "I couldn't ask for anything more."

"I hope you like Indian food," Balal says as he lets Arthur into the house. "Because that and Top Ramen are pretty much all I know how to make."

"I do in fact like Indian food." Arthur holds out a bottle of wine. "And Top Ramen, for that matter."

"Great," Balal says as he leads Arthur into the dining room. "Because this is a combined 'sorry for attempting to invade your privacy' and 'happy belated Valentine's Day because I was chaperoning my daughter's school dance' meal."

Arthur chuckles as he sheds his coat and takes a seat. "How was that? School dances still as awkward as I remember them?"

"I think a prerequisite to being a school dance is awkwardness," Balal says as he uncorks the wine and pours it into two glasses. "Along with bad haircuts, ill-fitting clothing, and horrible gymnasium decorations."

"All things I don't miss about being a kid."

"Tell me about it," Balal says as he sets the food out on the table. "So how was your day?"

"Pretty good, I guess. Mostly spent it with IT fixing some of my firm's security issues."

"Sounds like exciting stuff."

"The exciting life and times of a Certified Public Accountant," Arthur replies, taking a sip of his wine.

"I'm glad to know it," Balal says, voice softening into something serious. "I'm glad to know you, Arthur."

Arthur smiles a little as he looks down at his curry, all the tension leaving his body. "It's nice to hear you say my real name."

"Yeah." Balal reaches across the table to take his hand. "It feels right."

"Mal's coming to the game tonight," Dom says, tapping his fingertips on the passenger side door. "I told Al not to be too much of a dick."

"Pretty sure that's a lost cause," Arthur replies dryly and Dom snorts. "I've got Eames' ride back covered."

"Thanks, Arthur." Dom tips his head back against the headrest. "I'm gonna try to get out on Friday, but Mal's been getting paranoid again. Not sure if she's gone off her meds secretly since she won't tell me a goddamn thing."

"Yeah," Arthur says, after a pause. "You should probably just spend Friday and the weekend with her, play with the kids. Get her to settle down a little."

"You're probably right." Dom sighs. "But I've—shit, I've really been looking forward to seeing Eames for a while now."

Arthur's fingers tighten on the wheel. "I'll bet."

When they reach the manor, Eames is waiting outside. Dom goes to give him a long and nauseating hello while Arthur stays in the car. He turns the radio up and massages the fading bruises on his knuckles.

Dom and Eames get into the backseat, practically on top of each other, and Eames barely manages to toss Arthur a hello while Dom paws at him.

"Seatbelts," Arthur declares flatly, and waits for them to disentangle before backing out of the driveway.

"If it isn’t my very favorite stick in the mud, A-Rod," Eames says. "How are you?"

"Fucking fantastic," Arthur replies testily.

"Guys," Dom admonishes. "Play nice."

"Someone's in a mood," Eames whispers, none too quietly. "Knot your tie too tightly this morning?"

"I can hear you," Arthur mutters, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.

Dom laughs. "It's like cats and dogs in here. Are you two always like this?"

"No," Arthur says at the same time as Eames says, yes.

"And here I thought after all these months driving back and forth you guys would've warmed up a bit." Dom leans in to sling an arm around Eames. "Arthur, do you know that Eames paints?"

Arthur glances in the rearview mirror and watches Eames put his head on Dom's shoulder. "I figured when he asked for some paintbrushes a while back. Wasn't sure if he ever got around to using them."

"He's really good," Dom says. "Eames, you should show Arthur your stuff sometime. I bet Arthur'd love it."

Eames says, "Really, they're nothing—"

"You're being too modest," Dom interrupts. "The way you capture the light and motion—it's like there's a spark of life in every painting. It's amazing."

"I didn't know you were into art, Dom," Arthur says stiffly. Eames hasn't shown him jack.

"Art History courses. Took the first one to try to sleep with a sorority girl, ended up staying because it wasn't half-bad." Dom kisses Eames. "Worked out pretty well in the end. Now I can appreciate your work, babe."

"Fortune smiles on me," Eames says. "Every artist dreams of their work being understood and adored by their muse."

"Muse?" Dom says. "You saying—hell, I've never been anybody's muse before."

"You're all I ever think about," Eames coos, cuddling closer to Dom. "You're my inspiration."

"Babe," Dom says as if to hush Eames, but he's grinning from ear to ear.

Arthur bites the inside of cheek hard enough to taste blood.

When they reach Perle, Dom and Eames reluctantly part while Arthur pulls into a dark spot and gets out of the car.

Inside the club, Mal is waiting. "Hello," she says, greeting Dom with a kiss more perfunctory than passionate.

"Hi, honey," Dom says, with equal enthusiasm. "How're the kids?"

"Perhaps you could ask them yourself if you were home when they're awake more often," she replies with a tight, frozen smile.

"It's going to be one of those nights, then," Eames murmurs to Arthur beneath a soft cough.

"Seems like it," Arthur mutters before stepping forward to give Mal a kiss on the cheek. "Mal, how are you?"

"I have been better." She squeezes Arthur fiercely, once, before stepping back. "But it is good to see you."

"Mal." Eames nods at her from a respectful distance away and she acknowledges him with a quick tilt of her head.

"Will anyone else be joining us?" Mal asks, giving the club a quick scan. "Cho, perhaps?"

"Not tonight, sweetheart," Dom says as he takes her by the elbow and guides her towards a table. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees that Eames' countenance has gone stony. "This week it's Al. You know Sandy's having a baby?"

Conversation descends into boring chit-chat about the pregnancy, and whether it's a boy or a girl, and so forth. Arthur checks out completely, flagging Ariadne for a drink, while Eames makes a convincing effort at giving a shit.

The conversation eventually comes to an end when Dom gets up to hit the head, leaving Mal to inquire, "How do you decide who plays during these games?"

"Arthur, Dom and I are the regulars," Eames explains. "Our fourth follows a weekly rotation: Yusuf, Cho, Al, and Juana."

"I see, Monsieur Eames," Mal replies, lowering her eyes, lashes a dark sweep across her pale skin. "A way to keep the games… interesting."

"Indeed." Eames leans forward with his hands on top of the table, fingertips grazing its surface. "Peut-être devez vous vous joindre avec nous? A la place de Juana?"

The corners of Mal's elegant mouth twitch as she switches to French. "Vous vous rendez compte que je serai aux côtés de mon mari pendant ces jeux?"

"Madame, vous pourriez me ligoter, me battre et me faire taire." Eames' lips are as lewd as they ever are, wrapped around smooth vowels. "Aussi longtemps que je peux admirer vos visage, il serait assez."

Mal smiles. "Vous êtes l’anglais le plus impertinent que j’ai eu le plaisir de rencontrer."

"Et vous la française la plus effrontée."

"What's everyone talking about?" Dom asks as he slides into the booth. "Trading secrets?"

"Your wife was revealing to me a plot to assassinate the president and thus fulfill a French directive to throw into chaos the government of the United States," Eames says. "Absolutely shocking, I must say."

"Who in the what now?" Ariadne interjects as she deposits a round of drinks.

"Nothing," Arthur says. "Just Mr. Eames thinking he's funnier than he is."

"Not sure that's a very funny joke, Eames," Ariadne says. "You might want to keep working on your stand-up."

"He simply articulates a fact we all know to be true," Mal says. "Sometimes drastic action is the only way to create lasting change."

Ariadne frowns slightly, but Mal isn't looking at her; her face is turned towards the stage, where the band is warming up.

"Al!" Dom says, cracking through the awkward pause. "How you doing tonight?"

"That was bloody painful," Eames says on the drive back to the manor. "If I never have to witness another domestic squabble taking place in public again, it'll be too soon. Still, at least it gets me off the hook for the night." He folds a hand warmly over Arthur's thigh, but Arthur doesn't take his eyes off the road.

"I'm taking you back to the manor," Arthurs says. "Dom mentioned he might try to swing by tomorrow."

"A pity. I do prefer your flat, prickly cactus and all." Eames rubs Arthur's leg and then pauses. "Arthur?"

I can't give you what you want if you're being inscrutable, Victoria used to say. Arthur struggles for a long moment, then mutters, "It's stupid."

"Very probably," Eames agrees. "Now what is it, exactly?"

"Your—art. I didn't know you'd finished any."

"Arthur." Eames sighs. "It's rubbish, everything I've done so far."

"Then why's Dom seen it?" Arthur asks, and can't quite keep the petulance out. He thought he'd gotten over being jealous of Dom, but apparently not.

"Because he wouldn't let me alone about it until I showed him something. With you, I was waiting for—for the right piece, I suppose."

"I'm not going to be able to tell the difference," Arthur says, still sulky, but not quite as much so. "Between good and bad, I mean. If that's what you're worried about."

"I know." Eames withdraws his hand and crosses his arms across his chest. "I didn't want you to think—anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll show you once we get back."

"Forget it," Arthur says. "It doesn't matter. I don't—"

"I want to," Eames interrupts, and then repeats more softly, "I want you to see."

When they reach the manor, Eames shows Arthur a room he's converted into a makeshift studio. In one corner is the easel with a half-painted canvas. Along the wall is a table piled with canvases and paper and supplies. There are numerous pieces in various stages of completion, featuring an assortment of subject matter: detailed renderings of the inside of the manor, the landscape outdoors, some images of Perle and finally, Dom.

There are quite a few of him: headshots, profiles, and full body (thankfully all clothed). Some are in color and meticulously filled in, others loose outlines. In every single image, Dom is smiling, relaxed—peaceful.

Arthur runs a thumb along the sketched curve of Dom's cheek, youthful and unlined. "I haven't seen him look like this in years."

"A bit different than his usual day to day, I suppose," Eames says, hovering somewhere behind Arthur's shoulder.

"Is this what he looks like when you're alone together?" Arthur asks, and feels a lurch in his gut, something bordering on nausea. "You make him…" happy, is the word that dies somewhere in his throat.

"Arthur," Eames says quietly. "What I offer to him is an escape from obligations, responsibility, worry—the unpleasantries of his mundane existence."

"He thinks he's in love with you." Arthur looks down at Dom's face again, sweet and open, and remembers the man—boy, really—who'd sat by his hospital bedside and saved his life. The one who lifted him up and offered him the world.

"He's in love with a fantasy," Eames replies. "What you see here can only exist hidden away from the rest of the world. He can never reconcile any of this with his family, his wife. And at the end of the day, he wouldn't want to."

"Not so different than us, then, is it?"

Eames takes Arthur's hands in his, scarred fingers intertwining with Arthur's bandaged ones. "We both know I'm not your fantasy. Nor are you mine, for that matter."

"What is it about you, then?" Arthur murmurs as he leans in to brush his lips against Eames'. "Why do I keep coming back?"

"I don't know," Eames replies as he kisses back, hungrily. "And I don't care."

"Now that you're not so cross with me, would it be a horrible cliché if I said I wanted to sketch you?" Eames asks as he traces the line of Arthur's cheekbone.

"The worst cliché possible," Arthur replies without opening his eyes. "I'm surprised you're asking permission first. Usually you just do what you want."

"Working from memory or naughty photos on a mobile aren't the same as a live model." Eames' fingers skate down Arthur's jaw to sweep over his chin. "I wouldn't want to miss any details."

"I charge by the hour to be videotaped, sketched, or otherwise recorded." Arthur opens one eye. "Higher rates for clothes off."

"I would pay any sum you asked," Eames says quietly, skimming over Arthur's eyebrow with his thumb. "Give you anything you wanted."

"I bet that's what you say to all your sexual conquests turned nude models," Arthur says. It's meant to be funny.

"Perhaps," Eames replies. "But with you, I'm sincere."

Arthur turns his face into the pillow, and Eames' fingers glance off to land on his ear, his hair. "How many times have you recycled all the things you've said to me?"

"You shouldn't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to." Eames' hand comes to rest, finally, on Arthur's shoulder. "Besides, even if the words aren't original, this is the first time I've ever actually meant them."

Arthur can practically hear the words echoing, falling from Eames' lips as he and Dom lay in bed together, curled up and lazy. Dom would melt at the platitudes designed to make him feel special, and Eames would smile back at him adoringly. It makes Arthur feel sick inside, but mostly it makes him wonder why he's throwing away over a decade of friendship for this.

When he looks up, Eames isn't smiling. He's gazing intently down at Arthur instead, hand still gripping Arthur's shoulder but nothing more. "Normally, this is the part where I'd say something soppy about trust and love and your beautiful eyes," Eames says. "Then I'd try to distract you from all your doubts with sex."

"I don't think you're playing me anymore." Arthur sits up and hooks an arm around Eames' neck, bringing their faces so close together they're sharing breaths. "If you are, then I'm two times the idiot for thinking I'm the one that's different. But I believe you."

"Arthur." Eames gives Arthur a chaste kiss, the merest brush of lips against lips. "You always see straight through to the heart of me—and I must admit, at times it's petrifying."

"What are you scared of?"

"What everyone's frightened of, I suppose." The corners of Eames' mouth turn up, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "That you won't like what you find."

"You don't need to worry about that." Arthur stares into Eames' clear gray eyes, nearly overwhelming this close. "I've fallen too far in to climb back up."

"Hi, mom," Arthur softly as he closes the door behind him. "I brought fresh flowers."

Lydia doesn't reply—she had a violent episode, Dr. Shapiro had explained. They'd needed to sedate her.

Arthur dumps the old flowers on the nightstand and replaces them, actions mechanical and ingrained. He can't remember when he first began bringing her flowers; it was years ago, and he started with roses. She'd smiled at the time, of course, and thanked him. It had taken him months to realize calla lilies were her true favorites.

Now, he's not sure she'll even notice them there when she wakes up.

He sinks into the bedside chair and watches her sleep, breathing slow and deep, almost labored. For the first time, he can see something of Aaron in her—in her papery, frail skin, the deep shadows under her eyes.

"I have some things to tell you, mom," Arthur says, quietly. "A lot's been happening and I don't know where to start."

She doesn't stir, and after a moment, he continues. "Work's been okay. Busy, but we finally fixed a crack in the system so things should be easier from here on out.

"And Dom's good. Mal's feeling better these days." Arthur takes Lydia's hand in his, tries to draw comfort from her slack grip. "They've been asking about you. Might like to visit if you're up for it.

"I'm—" Arthur wets his lips. "I think I'm in love. It's not—it's not anything like it was with Victoria, but I want you to know that things are good. You don't need to worry about me because I'm—" his voice cracks and he puts his head down on the mattress, cotton rough against his damp, raw skin. "I'm doing great."

Chapter Text

"Leaving already?" Balal asks, blinking sleepily in bed.< /p>  

"Going for a run around the block, shower, maybe some breakfast." Arthur leans in to brush a kiss across Balal's forehead.  "You can't get rid of me that easily."

"I must be dreaming.  I go to sleep with a beautiful man and wake up to the prospect of breakfast in bed," Balal says as he presses a hand to Arthur's chest. "I like eggs, sunny side up."

"Well played," Arthur murmurs with another kiss.  "I'll wake you when it's ready."

Balal shifts. "I'm supposed to go back to sleep after this?"

Arthur chuckles as he straightens up and glances over at the book on the nightstand.  "Well, you could always read a little more of Dusk to pass the time until I come back.  I know how much you love immortal undead who pose as teenagers in high school."

"You know me too well," Balal says gravely.  "If there's a pulse, I'm outtie."

Arthur's fingers skate across Balal's cheek.  "And yet here we are in the light of day."

"The undead got nothing on you when it comes to hiding sharp teeth under a wholesome exterior."

Arthur's smile fades. "I'm an accountant. What could I possibly be hiding?"

"There's an edge to you, Arthur, even if I don't know exactly where or what it is." Balal cocks his head to one side. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't part of your appeal."

Arthur ends up doing a quick lap around the neighborhood.    When he gets back to the house, he starts down the upstairs hallway.  He’s a few feet in when he hears a door shut behind him. A young, female voice says,

"Hey."

Arthur stops and pivots, hand instinctively reaching towards his holster before he remembers he's unarmed.  

Standing before him is a puffy-haired teenager with Balal's eyes and round cheeks.  The first thing that comes out of Arthur's mouth is, "You're not supposed to be here."

"I live here." Kat squints at him behind thick glasses. "Are you that insurance guy?"

"I—" Arthur flounders.  "Yes.  I know your father."

"Does he know you're here?" She sounds suspicious. "Or are you like, going to steal all our stuff?"

"I'm not here to rob you," Arthur says, and it occurs to him that isn't super convincing.  "I should—look.  Maybe you should talk to your dad about this."

"Uh. About what?"

Arthur stares at her, trying to think of something to say. He comes up with nothing.  "I'm going to have a conversation with him. Now."

"Right," she says slowly, as if she were talking to a small, dim child.  "I'll be downstairs.  I have a cell phone and I can call the cops, you know."

"Hold off on that for a few minutes, okay?" Arthur retreats into the master bedroom, where Balal is already perched on the edge of the mattress, wide awake.

As soon as Arthur shuts the door, Balal whispers, "She saw you."

"Yes."

"Oh god." Balal closes his eyes.  "Oh god."

"She remembers me as the insurance guy."

"The insurance—" Balal cuts off with a horrified laugh.  "Of course she does.  Kat doesn’t know the names of the people who've lived next door for a year, but she remembers you're the insurance guy.  Naturally."

"Balal—"

"She's going to figure it out," Balal says.  "She's too smart not to.  Goddamnit, why does she have to be so smart?"

"Babe—"

"I need to think of something. A story. Something she'll believe."

"I don't think—" Arthur stops when Balal covers his face with his hands. "I didn’t say anything."

"You don't have to. You're gorgeous and wandering around my house in the morning—that says enough."  Balal opens his eyes, red-rimmed and watery.  "What's she going to think of me?  What do I say?"

Arthur approaches Balal carefully, like a spooked animal.  "I don't know.  The truth, I guess."

"The truth." Balal takes a shuddering breath.  "That simple, huh?"

"It's not." Arthur eases Balal into his arms. "Might be your best option at this point, though."

"What if I told her you're the cable guy, coming in to install some… cable." Balal's voice is muffled against Arthur's chest.

"In your bedroom at seven in the morning?"

"You're a dedicated and efficient worker who got tired of selling insurance."

Arthur strokes Balal's hair back. "This sounds like the beginning of a bad porno."

Balal snorts. "Don't make me laugh. You'll make this seem less horrible."

“Sorry.” Arthur kisses the top of his head. "What do you want to do?"

"Hide under the blankets and never come out." Balal sighs and reluctantly pulls away. "I don't suppose you'd be up for making a pillow fort with me?"

Arthur smiles faintly. "Another time, maybe."

"Yeah." Balal nods once, jerkily. "I tell her, then. About me. You."

"Whatever you want to do, I'll back you up," Arthur says. "Whatever you want."

"I'm scared, Arthur." Balal swallows. "I don't want to lose her."

"I know, babe."

Balal's quiet a moment. "I don't want to lose you, either."

Arthur swallows. "You won't."

Chapter Text

"I told her we met in the bread aisle of the grocery store," Balal says, voice slightly tinny over the phone. "You were on the way back from one of your business trips and stopped in to pick up some milk."

"You mean meeting a stranger online for a hookup wasn't good enough for you?" Arthur replies.

"We're going to file that story under 'things I will never tell my daughter, ever.'  As far as she knows, all we do is hold hands and play backgammon together."

Arthur takes a look around—he's standing in front of a restaurant and there's no one in earshot—before saying, low, "You know now I'm never going to be able to think about backgammon without getting a boner, right?"

Balal laughs. "Oh god, don't you start."

"Too late."

"Are you getting hard right now?" Balal's voice is casual, but Arthur recognizes the beginning signs of interest.

"A little, but I'm meeting my best friend's wife for lunch," Arthur says, glancing at his watch. "She's running late. As usual."

"Oh yeah, the birthday lady. This is a platonic lunch, right?"

"Nah. Didn't I tell you? My best friend and his wife are swingers."

"I know you think it's hilarious when I can't tell if you're joking or not, but I'm going on the record as saying it's not nearly as amusing as you think it is."

Arthur chuckles. "Listen, I gotta run. She's pulling into the parking lot."

"Have fun at lunch, and don't violate anyone's wedding vows."

"Swingers, remember?"

Mal exits the car in a swirl of brightly colored scarves, curled hair and billowy trench coat. "Arthur, I am sorry to be late. The baby was crying and the babysitter was sick—"

"It's fine," Arthur says, giving her a kiss on the cheek when she approaches. "Come on, let's eat."

They head inside and take a seat at Arthur's usual booth. Mal surveys the bright décor and says, "This restaurant is… interesting."

"Do you not like Mexican?" Arthur asks as he skims the menu, not really reading; he's got most of it memorized.

"I do, but it's—" Mal hesitates, "It's completely empty. Are there staff here?"

"There's a cook in the back and a guy'll be out to take our orders in a minute," Arthur says, closing up his menu. "I like this place because the food is good and the owners are discreet. The way the acoustics are set up, nobody can listen in."

"I suppose it is nice to be somewhere the walls don't have ears," Mal agrees as she sets her menu down as well. A few moments later, the waiter appears for their order, right on schedule.

"I want to ask you something," Mal says after the waiter disappears again. "Will you tell me the truth?"

"Depends on the question."

"Is there love in your life?"

Arthur stills. "What?"

"You've been—not happier, I would say, but more vibrant in the past few months," she says. "More passionate than I have seen you in a long time."

He keeps his face blank. "I don't know what you mean."

"You don't have to tell me," she says. "But I want you to know that I'm glad. If you have found what you want, what you have been looking for, then I am happy."

"Found what I want," Arthur echoes. "And what do I want?"

"Many things, I think. Perhaps that is the spring of your passion?"

"You make it sound nice. Philosophical, maybe."

"Life is a philosophical question." Mal smiles, and for a brief moment, Arthur sees a glimpse of the brilliant intellectual who'd baffled him completely the first time they met. "Perhaps many philosophical questions."

("I believe there is something beautiful in the mundane," was one of the first things she'd ever said to him. "What it is, I could not say, because I cannot see it yet.")

Arthur takes a sip of his Mandarin Jarritos. "But there are no answers, right?"

"Often the importance lies in the asking of the question, the journey one takes towards the answer." Mal smiles faintly, one corner of her mouth turned down. "But maybe I say that only because I have no answers."

"Are you gonna tell me that since we're all headed for the same final destination six feet under, the trip is the only thing that matters?" He toys with his soda bottle.

"You don't believe in an afterlife?"

"No. Do you?"

"No." Mal smiles and this one contains nothing self-mocking. "Do you know that I worked with nuclear reactors starting as a teenager? I can't tell you how many I've seen, examined, studied. But every time I stepped in a power plant, I thought: this could be it. This could be the day it goes wrong."

"Did you ever turn back?"

"Once." She pauses. "The chances that I could escape the radius of harm if there was a catastrophic event were poor—I would have to practically fly away to make it. But there was one day I turned back. I told a coworker I felt sick. I went home."

"Did anything happen?"

"No." She shrugs. "I came back to work the next day and nothing had changed. Except for me. I knew then that I was not happy with all I had done up to the point of crossing that threshold. That was when I decided to apply for the program in the United States."

"And here you are," Arthur says. "Over a decade later."

"Here I am," she agrees, softly. "My friends told me I was crazy, leaving my life and my career behind for a man I'd known barely a year. But I believed. I believed in love, in our love. I thought that as long as I had Dom by my side, I could go through anything without fear. Without regret."

Arthur stares down at the menu. "Yeah. I guess Dom has that effect on people."

"I'm glad we can—I'm glad we're friends now." She reaches across the table to touch Arthur's forearm, voice low and intense. "Being with you makes me feel close to him."

Arthur stares at her hand and she withdraws it. "You live with him. You're the mother of his children."

"He speaks of you constantly, wonders what you would think, what you would say.  On the day we married, I knew I would always have to share him because a piece of his heart belonged to you."

Arthur shifts, uneasy. "He's a friend and we work closely together. It doesn't mean—"

"You are the thing he loves most in this world," she says, quietly. "I am a shadow beside you."

What a bitter irony it is that Arthur is hearing these words, now, when he would have done anything to hear them years ago. To know that he fucking mattered to somebody—to Dom, or anyone, really. He would have killed for it--has, maybe. But all it feels like now is an unbreakable chain around his neck.

"You're the one he married," Arthur says. "There's no comparison to that."

"I feel like I'm losing him, like he's drifting from me." Mal sets the menu face-down on the table.  "Every time I reach for him, he moves further and further away."

"Work's been tough lately. It'll pass."

"And if it doesn't?"

Arthur's spared having to answer by the waitress approaching their table. She takes their orders and returns with drinks almost immediately.

"Would you walk through that door now?" Arthur asks, and at Mal's quizzical expression, elaborates. "Of the nuclear power plant. Would you walk through that door knowing you might not come back?"

She is silent for a long minute. "Yes. Maybe for the wrong reasons. Would you?"

"I do it everyday," Arthur says, but that's not the answer and they both know it.

Chapter Text

"Come over," the text reads.  "I've been thinking of u."

Arthur stares at his cell phone for far too long. He jumps when Stacy knocks and asks if she can leave early for the day.

"My son's starring in the school play," she explains hesitantly.  "I normally wouldn't ask but—"

"It's fine," he interrupts, waving her away.  "I'll see you tomorrow."

After she's gone, Arthur chances a phone call in order to hear that warm rumble in his ear.

"Hello, darling," Eames purrs. "Shall I be seeing you later tonight?"

Arthur checks Dom's schedule: booked all day with meetings, including major ones with Uncle Tommy and the Lieutenant Governor. "I can be there in an hour."

"Rather early on a work day, isn't it? Not that I'm objecting."

"Had lunch with Mal today and it put me in the mood to—I dunno, seize the day or some shit."

"Lunch with Mal?" Eames sounds genuinely surprised. "What on earth did you talk about?"

"I don't know. It's funny, though," Arthur says. "She makes me feel less alone."

Arthur traces the line of text wrapping around the width of Eames’ chest, right beneath his pectorals. “What does this say?”

“Tel se croit le maitre des autres, qui ne laisse pas d'etre plus esclave qu'eux,” Eames replies, without even a pause to think about it.

“That's a mouthful. Does it mean something pretentious?”

Eames lifts his head off the pillow to give Arthur a look. “I have a sentence in French tattooed across my body. I don't think it could be anything other than pretentious.”

Arthur chuckles. “Right. Now are you going to tell me about it?”

“There’s no need to play that game with me.” Eames drops his head back and closes his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve already googled it.”

“You think I'm memorizing your tattoos when I see you naked?”

Eames opens one eye. “You don’t have a photographic memory?”

“No.” Arthur splays one hand over Eames' sternum, feeling the rise and fall of breath. “Did you think I did?”

“Actually, yes.” Both of Eames’ eyes are open now.

“I’m never the smartest guy in a room,” Arthur says quietly. “I just work like hell till a job is done.”

Eames brings a hand up to push Arthur's hair back from his face. “A man like you is wasted under Dom.”

“So you keep telling me.” Arthur leans into Eames’ fingers against his scalp, exhales at the slight pain when hair gets caught.

“And I’ll keep telling you until you bloody believe it. You could be so much more, darling.”

“More than what?” Arthur asks, dropping his face against Eames’ shoulder. “More than someone with a good life, a good job—"

“Working as an accountant and personal assistant with occasional attack dog duty? Tell me you find the idea of committing these petty criminal acts until you're gray to be a thrilling prospect.”

“I think the FBI would disagree with your definition of petty criminal acts,” Arthur mumbles. "Can we talk about something else?"

Eames sighs, and the hand running through Arthur’s hair ceases moving. “The first thing I did when I left the military was shave my head and get a tattoo."

Arthur lifts his head again. “Not get drunk and have sex?”

Eames smiles. “Even before that.”

“I can't imagine you with all those rules, all those people telling you what to do."

“I didn't hate it, not completely,” Eames says. “I will admit that I joined mostly to throw piss in my father’s eye. But I stayed on because I discovered—contrary to what my parents had always led me to believe—I was actually good at something. Namely: killing people.”

Arthur tries to imagine him in uniform. He doesn’t know what British military uniforms look like, but Eames probably looked hot as fuck regardless. “Why did you leave?”

“For the reasons you so deftly summarized: too many rules, too many people telling me what to do. Believe me, I understand wanting to stay in a place that’s comfortable and easy—in a manner of speaking.”

“And what would I do if I left?” Arthur watches the rise and fall of Eames' broad chest, the words stretching taut across his skin.

“Anything. God, anything.” Eames puts his hands on either side of Arthur’s face. “We could take the portrait of you that’s aging in an attic somewhere and go wherever you wish.”

Arthur chuckles, then catches on to what Eames is really saying. “We?”

“You and I," Eames says. “We could leave together.”

“Leave—" Arthur blinks, and sits up. “But my mother, Dom—"

“You told me once that I’m not done with Dom until he’s done with me,” Eames says. “Do you truly believe he’s ever going to let you leave?”

Arthur looks away, silent for a minute before he reaches out to trace the French wrapped around Eames’ chest again. “What does this mean?”

“One man thinks himself the master of others, but remains more of a slave than they,” Eames says. "Arthur—"

"I'm going to get a glass of water," Arthur says, sitting up. "You want anything?"

He can feel Eames' gaze on him, steady, as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands.

"No," Eames says. "I don't want anything."

Chapter Text

"Accounting looks clean," Ariadne says as they stroll through Perle. "No more irregularities."

"Glad to hear it," Arthur replies, pausing over the table with the known bug. The table's thrust up against the back wall, far away from most interesting conversations. "How you been?"

"Not bad. Busy. Forgot my mom's birthday, gotta give her a call later today."

"When's the last time you visited her?"

"How long have I been working here--close to a year, maybe?" Ariadne looks down at the beer stein she's drying. "An unavoidable sacrifice in my line of work, though."

"They don't have bar-tending gigs out west?"

She straightens up and clears her throat. "Yeah—yes, of course they do. But I came out here to try to make it in New York. Bar-tending is the way to pay the bills in the meanwhile, you know?"

"Make it in New York, huh?" Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You wanna be famous?"

"Nah. I prefer to be in the background, setting up the pieces," she replies. "I like to disappear behind the curtain before the star glides onstage for her aria."

"And you couldn't do that in LA?"

"I go where I can be of most use," Ariadne says, a strange conviction in her voice. Then she smiles, tone shifting to something bright and cheery. "But I've been taking too much of your time again. I'm sure you've got places to be, money to count."

He chuckles, thinking about the stacks of unmarked bills in nondescript duffel bags back at the office that really do need to be counted. "Let me ask you this before I go--what's it like, moving away and leaving your whole life behind?"

She goes still. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how'd you do it? Leave your family, your friends? I've been to Mexico once, but otherwise I've never been more than three states away from New Jersey my whole life."

She sets down the beer stein. "You thinking about making a trip?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Arthur shakes his head. "I got responsibilities. Obligations. Doesn't seem like a good time, but--"

"I would think it over for a while before buying any tickets," she interrupts. "What's the rush? It's not like Paris is going anywhere. And I don't know if Cobb would ever say this to you directly, but I think he really needs you now."

"Yeah, maybe you're right." Arthur glances out the window, thinks about what it'd be like to see something unfamiliar through the glass. What it'd be like to be in a place where no one knows him, where he could walk around with Eames without having to check over his shoulder. He can't really imagine it.

Chapter Text

"I was expecting you earlier," Eames says, voice smoky and low as he gets in the car.

"Got held up at work," Arthur replies as they drive away from the manor.

Eames puts a hand on Arthur's thigh. "What, no hello?"

"Probably shouldn't. Gonna be late." Arthur removes Eames' hand from his thigh.

"We—"

"I should concentrate on the road."

Eames stares at Arthur. "Are we not going to speak at all?"

"Nothing to talk about." Arthur turns up the volume of a reggaeton station, until it's too loud to speak over.

When they reach Perle, Arthur exits the car wordlessly and strides inside. "I need a drink," he tells Ariadne. "Make it strong."

"Same for me," Eames says, lips pressed into a line.

Once Cho and Dom arrive, the game starts. Cho's chattier than usual, which means he says ten words instead of his usual five. Arthur idly fantasizes about reaching across the table to make out with him again, and catches Eames watching them both through narrowed eyes.

Dom frowns at his cards, one arm slung around Eames' shoulders, thankfully oblivious to the tension. After a few quiet rounds, they take a break. Eames goes for fresh drinks, Arthur and Cho head to the bathroom.

"Dinner, right?"

Arthur looks up from the sink. "What?"

"That's what people do. Dinner. A movie," Cho says, meeting Arthur's eyes in the bathroom mirror. "Friday night."

Arthur glances at the empty stalls to make sure there's no one listening. "You asking me out?"

"Let's say we're eating a meal," Cho says, tone grave but something sly in his sideways glance. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm trying to seduce you."

Arthur allows his gaze to travel down the length of Cho's lean, muscular body. "I don't think you'd need to try very hard."

"You saying yes?"

Arthur chuckles, leaning one hip against the sink. "Seems like it."

"I'll pick you up at your place around eight."

Arthur's pretty sure he has a dopey smile on his face. "Alright then."

Cho steps into Arthur's personal space with an intensity that sends all the blood rushing to his groin. "The first time I ever saw you, I thought one word," Cho leans in to brush his lips against Arthur's, "trouble."

"Who, me?" Arthur leans in for another kiss, then another.

They pull apart at the sound of footsteps, and are standing a few feet apart when the door opens.

Eames leans into the bathroom. "Game's about to start," he says, eyes flicking between Arthur and Cho. "You finished up in here?"

"Squeaky clean," Cho says as he exits.

Arthur says nothing and avoids Eames' gaze as he follows.

Eames returns to the manor with Dom.

Cho winks at Arthur before climbing into his own car and driving away.

Arthur goes home and jerks off.

Chapter Text

It's nice, being wined and dined instead of having to do the wining and dining. Cho picks Arthur up, selects the restaurant, orders the drinks. All Arthur has to do is follow along and take it in.

They drive back to Cho's house at the end of the night. Make out like teenagers in the foyer for a while before finding their way into the bedroom. It's exciting, and fun, the most relaxed Arthur's felt in ages.

"This is all so easy," Arthur marvels as Cho peels down his pants.

Cho pauses. "Should it not be?"

"That's not what I meant." Arthur crosses the few feet between them to help Cho out of his briefs. Cho's cock is as gorgeous as the rest of him. "I guess I've—gotten used to sneaking around. Drama. Shit like that."

"Is that what you're into?" Cho asks, wry and amused. "I could climb out the window and shout for a while."

"You think now that I've finally got you here I'm letting you go?" Arthur runs an admiring palm down Cho's chest.

"Easy," Cho murmurs as he leans in for a kiss. "I like the sound of that."

Arthur kisses back, eager but strangely unhurried. "Me, too."

Arthur wakes up in the middle of the night to a sound. It takes a second to place where he is. He's been sleeping in too many beds that aren't his own, recently.
The one he's in now is the most comfortable of the lot—King size, firm mattress, smooth sheets.

"What was that?" he asks, sleepy with the effects of good wine and sex. It's dark out.

"Probably a raccoon going through the trash." Cho's already up, pulling a handgun from the fake bottom of his nightstand drawer. "I'm going to check."

"Need back up?"

"Probably a raccoon," Cho repeats, palm on Arthur's shoulder. "Five minutes."

He heads downstairs while Arthur dozes. Returns in under three minutes. "Raccoon," he confirms as he puts his gun away.

Arthur shifts closer when Cho gets back under the covers. "Since we're up."

Cho chuckles as he leans in for a kiss. "Yeah. Since we're up."

"Morning," Cho says when Arthur walks into the kitchen. He's stirring eggs on the stove. "Sleep well?"

"Someone kept me up pretty late. Then woke me and kept me up even later," Arthur replies, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

The corner of Cho's mouth pulls up. "Baiting a raccoon with appealing garbage as an excuse for a second round of sex seems elaborate."

"I'm a fantastic lay." Arthur leans forward on his elbows. "I wouldn't blame you."

Cho turns off the heat and slides a plate of sizzling hot scrambled eggs in front of Arthur. "Can't argue with that."

Arthur smiles.

Chapter Text

"Hey," Stacy says, cautiously. "Everything okay?"

Arthur looks up from the photocopier. "Yeah, why?"

She blinks. "You're--you're humming."

He shrugs, feels easy and relaxed in the face of her wary bemusement. "Guess I am. Need anything copied?"

"Um." She passes him a few sheets of paper to run though. "Thanks."

"Sure, no problem." Arthur gathers his things, resumes humming.

"You know, it's--nice," she says. "To see you in a good mood again."

"Yeah," he replies, taking in her tired smile. "It is."

He wanders back to his office, glances at the smiley face emoticon Cho texted him ten minutes ago. No words. Arthur grinned when he saw it, sent his own smiley face back, and apparently gone on a humming jag loud enough for Stacy to notice.

Arthur's mind drifts to the upcoming weekend. Cho owns a house and probably won't want to crash too often in to any of Arthur's apartments. That's fine. Arthur wouldn't mind spending more time at Cho's place. They could hire someone to redecorate--Dom knows someone who did a good job with his basement--and get some new furniture, maybe. Refresh the interior so there are fewer ghosts of Ainsley.

They might have to look into their business relationship, make sure there aren't any conflicts. But that shouldn't be too difficult, especially if Dom approves.

Cho could visit White Tree with Arthur sometime. They could ease his mother into the idea of Arthur having a--a partner, or whatever. As a friend, first. See how she reacts.

Cho is handsome, patient, a trained nurse. If anyone can win over Lydia, it'd be him.

Chapter Text

Dom and Eames arrive at Perle last, sparing Arthur a trip and Eames' overbearing jealousy. That's probably the highlight of the night, since it goes rapidly downhill from there.

Eames stops short when he sees Juana. "Where's Yusuf?"

"He couldn't make it tonight," Arthur says, shuffling and reshuffling the cards grimly.

"The game must go on," Dom adds with false brightness as he takes a seat.

"Lovely to see you as well," Juana says, devoid of all humor.

"I simply hadn't expected to see you here," Eames says, making a half-hearted attempt at politeness, though it's clear he means: I didn't expect you to still be invited.

She gives him a look of disdain and doesn't bother to reply.

Arthur had argued vehemently against inviting her, but Dom wouldn't be dissuaded—something about keeping enemies close as friends and all that. Arthur thought it was bullshit, but with Yusuf calling out at the last minute, Cho at work, and Al caught in some baby-thing, there'd been no time to find someone else. So here they are.

"How is your mother doing, Arthur?" Juana asks mildly, as if it weren't meant to be a cut.

"Wonderful." He begins to deal, slapping the cards face-down on the table. "And your children?"

"Working," she replies. "I expect it will build character."

"Good to hear it," Dom says, when Arthur says nothing.

"And Mal?" Juana says. "How is she?"

"Great," Dom says, smile tightening.

Ariadne comes over to the table with drinks. "Hey, Dom, Eames. Didn't see you guys come in—can I get you anything?"

"What I want isn't on the menu," Eames says flatly while looking straight at Juana. Arthur can't help but snort at that.

"Bourbon on the rocks for me," Dom says. "Make it a double."

Ariadne glances around the table and edges away. "I'm on it."

The tension is suffocating. Eames and Juana openly loathe each other and speak little. Dom's faking this weird chirpiness while Arthur's--well, he isn't thrilled, but he learned a long time ago how to deal with people he doesn't like and doesn't trust. You suck it up.

All in all, the evening somehow manages to surpass Mal's surprise visits in shittiness, which Arthur didn't think was possible.

Dom, predictably, gets smashed before the night is over, needing Eames to practically carry him to Arthur's car.

"Perhaps we should send him home," Eames says as he hauls Dom into the back seat.

"Mal's not going to like that," Arthur replies.

"Not her. Wanna be with you," Dom slurs, pawing at the front of Eames' shirt clumsily. "You're the only one that gets me. That I can talk to."

"Yes, but aren't you tired?" Eames fends off Dom's sloppy kissing attempts. "Why don't you lie down, hm? In thirty short minutes you could be fast asleep in your own bed. Doesn't that sound marvelous?"

"If she catches him like this, I doubt he'll be sleeping in the bed," Arthur says while Eames glares at him in the rear-view mirror.

A loud snore emanates from Eames' lap, where Dom has passed out.

"Do you suppose I particularly enjoy him in this condition?" Eames asks testily as Arthur turns onto the highway heading towards the manor.

"You think I enjoy driving hours out of my way every Thursday night?" Arthur replies, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Let him sleep it off in peace."

Dom rolls over with a loud smack of his lips, elbow catching Eames in the sternum. He resettles into snoring while Eames sits in silent displeasure.

Arthur turns on the radio.

When they reach the manor, he helps drag Dom onto a couch. He ignores Eames' unsubtle invitation to stay and says, "Make sure Dom gets some water when he wakes up. Should be a ringer of a headache tomorrow."

"Thanks," Dom says, catching Arthur's elbow as he turns to go. "For not sneaking around on me, lying to my face and pretending--" Dom face crumples. "Pretending you're something you're not."

"And what, pray tell, is Arthur?" Eames asks. Arthur frowns.

"The kind of guy you can count on. Loyal. Smart." For a moment, the storm clouds clear from Dom's expression, and he smiles up at Arthur sweetly. "My best friend."

"I suspect he's a bit more than that," Eames murmurs as Arthur slips out of Dom's grasp.

Arthur's halfway to the doorway when Dom calls out, "I love you, Arthur. I know I don't tell you enough. But I do."

Arthur stares at Dom's expectant face as a wave of exhaustion sweeps through him. Dom probably won't remember any of this tomorrow, but Eames, standing two feet away implacably, will. "You don't need to. Goodnight."

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry I haven't called in a while," Balal says, apologetic over the line. "Kat's been acting up in school."

"It's no problem," Arthur says. Between texting funny emojis back and forth with Cho and fielding Eames' barrage of angry photos, texts, and voicemails, finding time to squeeze in calls with Balal has been a challenge. Arthur's beginning to get why Dom never has more than two people (including Mal) in rotation at once. This shit is exhausting.

"I'm worried about her. I can't tell if this is normal teen angst or if she's acting out because of what she saw with--with us."

"You and your ex-wife have dated other people, right?"

"Yeah, but you're--" Balal's voice drops. "You're a man. And the fact that you look like jailbait increases the creep-o-meter on my part by like, a hundred times."

Arthur chuckles. "So says the guy who still has such a baby face he gets handed the kids menu at restaurants."

"I do not, you dick," Balal protests, laughing. "God, I miss talking to you. I feel like I haven't laughed in ages."

"I was hoping that last sentence would be, I feel like I haven't had mind-blowing sex in ages."

"That, too." Arthur can hear Balal's smile. "Okay, I gotta run. I'm picking my daughter up from school and hoping that taking her for ice cream and a movie will win back her affections."

"Bribery works," Arthur agrees. "Why don't you get her a dog while you're at it?"

"The last thing I need is another living creature depending on me," Balal says. "One is more than enough."

Arthur glances down at his phone to see yet another passive-aggressive message from Eames. "Yeah. I'm starting to agree."

Cho calls around lunchtime. "I was thinking about sucking your dick," he says with no preamble.

"Oh yeah?" Arthur starts walking to the edge of the work site. "Funny. I was thinking about the same thing."

"Me coming over to suck your dick?"

"Yep."

Cho chuckles. "I can be there in twenty."

When Cho arrives, they make their way into a trailer on the edge of the site which serves as a mobile office of sorts. It's a better option than the Royal Flush brand porta potties, at least. Arthur closes the trailer blinds and locks the door before Cho sinks to his knees. Afterwards, Arthur returns the favor enthusiastically.

"You want to talk or something?" Arthur asks as he fixes his trousers.

Cho wipes his mouth. "About what?"

"Your day or--I dunno, feelings or something?"

"Not really." Cho smooths back his hair. "Do you?"

Arthur shrugs. "Not really." Can it actually be this simple?

"Sounds good." Cho leans in for a quick kiss on the lips that turns into a deeper kiss that turns into him breaking away with a chuckle. "See you later, gorgeous."

Arthur watches him leave with what is probably an extremely stupid smile on his face. It feels--nice.

Chapter Text

Monday involves a ton of paperwork in the office interrupted by a slew of texts. Eames is still pissed, which Arthur thought might have gotten Eames off his back but has provoked the opposite response: a series of provocative, inconveniently-timed, attention-demanding photos. Balal texts friendly updates about his daughter, while Cho sends vaguely sexual emojis. At the rate Arthur is being distracted and interrupted, he's never going to any actual work done.

Stacy knocks on his office door and Arthur glances up from his phone with a frown. He doesn't have any meetings scheduled for today

"Dom Cobb to see you," she says.

"Dom?" Arthur knuckles his eyes. "Tell him to come in. And I could use a fresh cup of coffee."

Arthur slaps himself lightly on the cheek after she leaves, tries to recall if he has anything he needs to go over with Dom.

"How you doing?" Dom asking, bouncing into the room with an obnoxious amount of energy and cheer.

"I'm alright." Arthur waves at a chair.

Dom settles down and peers at Arthur. "You sure? You look beat."

"Late night, that's all."

"Something keeping you up?" Dom waggles his eyebrows. "Something like Cho?"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Arthur says. "What—"

"It's true?" Dom practically crows with glee. "After all these years, you're finally hitting it with Hiram."

"How did you—"

"A little birdie told me." Dom winks. "I got my ways. How was it? I guess I don't need to ask since you look like you haven't slept a wink. Kept you up all night."

"It's been a couple of dates," Arthur says. He regrets it as soon as Dom's expression changes.

"Dates, huh?" Dom leans back, a slow smile spreading over his face. Arthur wants to reach across the desk and shove him out of his chair. "That's how it is?"

"Means nothing," Arthur says, even though he's already got another date scheduled for next week. "It's nothing."

"Cho's a good guy." Dom touches the edge of Arthur's desk. "I'm happy for you."

"It's nothing," Arthur repeats, and can feel heat rising in his face. "Are we going to get down to business or what?"

"Okay okay." Dom puts his hands up in the air. "Business, let's get down to it."

"I resolved the issue with the employee stealing from Perle," Arthur says, ticking items off his mental list. "We figured out who hacked our internal network and put a stop to that."

"Right. What's the word with Saito?"

"There are those new laws and regulations making the transportation and shipping more difficult," Arthur says. "Plus, problems with distribution because of the--situation--with Juana. Oh, and the fact that there are Feds bugging us everywhere means we gotta be extra careful with comms and meetings."

"And the product isn't selling." Dom sighs. "That's the real bottom line. All this shit we could deal with if we could move the stuff."

"We can cover the shortfall," Arthur says. "The replacement we got for Nash has finally caught up on everyone that owed us, including Fischer."

"At least we always make our numbers," Dom says. "That's saved our ass more than once."

"Is Sal going to be pissed about the deal?"

"Probably," Dom says, resigned. "Gonna be a fun talk."

Aren't they all, Arthur thinks.

Chapter Text

"What happened?" Arthur asks as he steps inside the manor. "What's wrong?"

Eames shoves Arthur back against the front door. "Come here, you beautiful motherfucker," he mutters in between hot, hard kisses.

Arthur doesn't return them. "Eames. You said it was urgent."

"It was. Is." Eames paws at the front of Arthur's trousers. "I wanted to see you and you've been ignoring—"

"What the fuck?" Arthur pushes Eames a half step back. "I thought there was an emergency. I skipped dinner for this."

Arthur doesn't need to look to know that Eames is rolling his eyes. "I can make you dinner after we—"

"You—" Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. "You lied and lured me here—"

"For the love of god, I lied. So what?" Eames is pulling his shirt over his head, moving beautifully in the anemic hallway light. "You're here now. Let's—"

"Beg for it."

Eames narrows his eyes, incredulous. "Pardon?"

"You heard me," Arthur says. "You dragged me here. Show me how much you want me to stay."

Eames leans back a few inches, eyes heavy-lidded as he licks his lips. "And if I don't?"

Arthur shrugs, looks over Eames' shoulder. "I'm going to watch some TV. Or I could leave."

Eames grabs Arthur's jaw with one hand—a steely grip with no hesitation—and pins Arthur's lower body to the door with his thick, powerful legs. "You want me to beg to suck you off while you're watching the telly?"

Arthur meets Eames' gaze coolly, the length of Eames' erection pressing against his hip. "Show me how good of a cockwarmer you can be and maybe I'll put it where you really want it."

Eames raises an eyebrow, insolent. "Please, Arthur," he murmurs. "May I suck your cock, please?"

Arthur thumbs the curves of Eames' mouth. "You may."

This is how Arthur winds up sprawled in front of the TV with Eames between his legs. "Wet and soft," Arthur instructs, carding fingers through Eames' hair. "I want to enjoy this."

Eames complies, staring up at him, completely defiant for all his submissive behavior.

Arthur watches the news report with a perky blonde reporter, Tori Plumfield, interviewing some kid from the local high school chess team. A gambit, the kid explains carefully, is when a player gives something up to gain something, like sacrificing a pawn to move a bishop forward on the board. Arthur doesn't care. He thrusts and sighs contently when Eames pushes his legs wider, cups his balls. Eames' other hand is busy jerking himself off.

"That's it," Arthur says, stroking the nape of Eames' neck. Arthur comes in a satisfying rush and Eames swallows, licks him clean. Afterwards, he stands and strokes his own erection, which is red and slippery with precome.

"Did I say you could come yet?" Arthur asks. Eames' nostrils flare, and Arthur expects further begging. What he doesn't expect is to be flipped over onto his stomach. There's a puff of breath over Arthur's hole followed by a slow swipe of Eames' tongue.

"Fuck," Arthur gasps as Eames begins to suck and lick with furious abandon. He feels a finger being worked in, thick and blunt with nothing but saliva for lube. It begins to stroke inside and Arthur shudders.

"You don't know what you do to me," Eames says as he pushes in a second finger, not gentle at all. "How often I fantasize about eating your tight little arse."

Arthur groans as Eames' fingertips rake roughly over his prostrate, the stimulation on the border of painful. Arthur's cock is nowhere near ready to get hard again, but it's so good he wonders if he's going to come dry.

Eames shoves in a third finger, fullness satisfying and maddening, with no slip, no lube. Arthur gasps as Eames takes his balls into his mouth, hot suction nothing like the languorous blowjob from before. Eames presses against Arthur's prostate unrelentingly and for a wild second Arthur wants to say, fuck me, put your cock inside me—

Eames moans and Arthur feels something splash against his ankle. It takes him a moment to realize that Eames is coming.

It's almost enough to make Arthur orgasm again, but not quite.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?" Arthur says, as he climbs off the couch and rearranges Eames' orgasm-splayed limbs. "Because you can't get enough of my cock, can you?"

"Yes." Eames spreads his legs as Arthur slips on a condom and pushes inside. "Make me feel it."

Arthur's not fully hard, still a little oversensitive, but it doesn't matter. Eames tips his head back and whimpers, "Yes, like that, like that."

Arthur fucks in slow, stuttering thrusts that make Eames moan mindlessly. Arthur fucks him until they're both hard again, sweaty and uncomfortably hot.

Eames gets onto his elbows and begins to push into Arthur's thrust, the rough slap of their flesh together a counterpoint to his words, "Make me come again, you mad fucker. Make me feel it."

"Grab that cock and show me how bad you want this. I wanna find out how many times you’ll lift that ass for me today," Arthur counters, breathing heavy with exertion. "Show me what you do when I'm not here to give you what you need."

Eames grabs one of Arthur's hands and folds it over his cock. "You drive me insane. All I can think about is when I'll see you next. When I'll have your cock inside me."

Eames shakes as he comes again, head thrown back and throat bared. Arthur squeezes Eames' cock in a punishingly tight grip as he comes as well, grinding as deep inside as possible.

"Fuck," Arthur rasps, mouth and throat painfully dehydrated. He collapses on top of Eames.

"You're a lunatic," Eames says, making no attempt to move.

"Gets you off."

"It does," Eames agrees. "Better than heroin, better than drinking, better than any of my painkillers."

"Thanks." Arthur rolls onto the mattress. "Assuming that's a compliment."

Eames reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. "You've never tried...?"

"Tasting the product is how you go from dealer to junkie," Arthur repeats the warning Dom had given him over a decade ago. "Better to not start than not be able to stop."

"True enough." Eames lights a cigarette.

Arthur stretches, feeling smug. "My dick is that good, huh?"

Eames angles a sleepy, amused look at him. "You know it is."

"Come here," Arthur says, urging Eames to lie on top of his chest. He wraps his arms around Eames' body, strokes the thick muscles until Eames settles, relaxes.

Chapter Text

"Hi, Mom," Arthur whispers as he takes a seat beside her in the bay window. There are children playing outside, chaperoned by smiling parents and grandparents.

"Arthur," she replies, beautifully clear-eyed. "My baby."

"Not a baby anymore," Arthur says, disturbed by how fragile her hand is in his. "Haven't been for a while now."

"You have grown, haven't you?" She touches his hairline, traces the shape of his gel. "So handsome. So unhappy."

"I'm not sad," Arthur says, feeling a prickle behind his eyelids.

"I wanted to give you everything. Everything I had to take for myself. I wanted you to grow up knowing how it felt to be free."

"I am free."

She doesn't look as if she believes him. "Tell me, where is Victoria?"

Arthur looks away. "You know the answer to that. I told you she moved."

"And you couldn't go with her?"

"I—" Arthur falters. "My life is here."

"I should have protected you better. Lived somewhere better," she says. "That day you nearly died—"

"That wasn't your fault," Arthur interrupts. "And I'm fine. Dom—Dom saved me."

Lydia studies him, unsmiling. "I should have protected you better."

Chapter Text

It's the middle of another poker night. Dom's in an affectionate mood, crawling over Eames while Yusuf and Arthur do their best to pretend it's not happening. They finish the first round and Arthur's out of his chair like a shot, eager to check his phone and reply to Cho, whom he's been texting with all night.

He doesn't want to get caught by Dom, who'll probably ask annoying questions and guess who it is. Or, worse, Eames, who will probably give Arthur passive aggressive shit. So Arthur heads out into the alleyway, towards the back where the streetlamp recently burned out.

He positions himself mostly behind a dumpster so his screen can't be seen. He hears the door open and immediately tucks his phone away, slinking further into the shadows. Yusuf and Eames come out in mid-conversation.

"They're lunatics. You know that, right?" Yusuf says."They aren't... this isn't a joke."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm not laughing at you," Eames replies. "It's simply--where is this coming from?"

"I don't care to see my friends beaten into unrecognizable pulp," Yusuf says, and his voice lowers. "I heard a rumor that you're--that there's someone in the picture besides Dom Cobb."

Arthur tenses. Eames' response is airy, unconcerned. "You think I'd be that stupid? Give me a shred of credit. I know what's at stake."

"Do you?" Yusuf doesn't sound convinced. "A rumor can kill you as easily as doing the actual deed in this business."

"Your touching concern has been noted, thank you."

There's the sound of a scuffle, maybe some shoving. "Piss off," Yusuf says, chuckling. "Don't you ever get nervous about--you know?"

"You've been in this world longer than I have. I could ask the same."

"It didn't use to be like this," Yusuf mutters. "I didn't have to pretend--pretend to like poker before."

"Poker, right." There's a pause. "Should probably return to it."

"Let me finish my cigarette."

"Alright, see you inside," Eames says. The door opens and shuts.

After a moment, Arthur walks out of the back of the alley into the light. Yusuf's smoking the last dregs of a cigarette, though he drops it when he sees Arthur.

"What are you doing here?" Yusuf glances at the door, which is shut. "Have you been here the whole--how long have you been here?"

Arthur fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. "You're not the only ones who come out here."

"I didn't--" Yusuf takes a step back. "Whatever you heard, there's context and--"

"I think you should worry less about Eames and more about your own business." Arthur walks forward until he's chest to chest with Yusuf.

"That's excellent advice I will definitely take," Yusuf squeaks, backing up until he collides with a wall. "You're a wise man, prudent, and--"

"You don't need to be scared of me," Arthur says. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Yusuf nods, mute.

"That's right. I take care of my friends. Like I expect my friends to take care of me." Arthur opens the door, light and music spilling out. "Let's not be enemies."

Yusuf shakes his head and swallows. "Never."

"Good." Arthur gestures at the door. "After you."

Before Yusuf can step through, a petite figure fills the door-frame. "There you are, Yusuf. I've been looking--" Ariadne stops when she notices Arthur. "Hey. I didn't know you came out here."

"He and I were chatting." Arthur puts a hand on Yusuf's shoulder and leaves it there. "You need something from him?"

"Oh, it's. My necklace broke." She holds out her palm, where a gold pendant shaped like the bishop from a chess set sits. It's been snapped in two. "I was wondering if Yusuf could fix it."

"Um, maybe," Yusuf says. "I'd have to examine it in better light and--

"He'll take a look at it for you inside," Arthur interrupts Yusuf's babbling. "See what he can do."

Ariadne's eyes flicker between the two of them before she steps out of the way. "You sure spend a lot of time out here, Yusuf. Ever thought about quitting? It's a habit that could kill you."

Yusuf smiles wanly as Arthur releases his shoulder. "I think about it everyday."

Chapter Text

"I hope takeout's okay," Balal says as he leads Arthur into the living room. The coffee table is practically overflowing with white boxes. "I was going to make something but Kat's recital ran long and traffic to her friend's house was a nightmare and--"

"It's okay." Arthur picks up a pair of chopsticks and a box at random. "I was actually in the mood for Chinese anyway."

"Excellent, because I think I ordered the restaurant's entire menu."

"I like anything that's covered in duck sauce," Arthur says, sitting down on the couch with a small smile.

"Well, duck sauce I have a-plenty," Balal nudges some packets towards him. "And there's more where that came from."

Arthur chuckles as he leans against Balal's side, tension seeming to dissipate from his body. "You always make me feel better after a long day."

"Happy to be of service." Balal slips an arm around Arthur's shoulders as he turns on the TV.

They settle in to watch the news together. There's a segment about a newly built elementary school, with Uncle Tommy and the Lieutenant Governor at the official ribbon-cutting ceremony. That's followed by a piece on the arrest of several high-ranking members of a new drug cartel. Arthur watches them get put into police cars with some satisfaction; those upstarts were trying to muscle into his territory and Uncle Tommy wasn't about to stand for it.

Beside him, Balal tenses.

"Hey, it's okay," Arthur says, putting an arm around him. "They're going away from a long, long time."

"Yeah, but it's not like the organization they're a part of is," Balal says. "And it's not like they're the only ones pumping our towns full of drugs."

"Pumping--" Arthur leans back slightly. "You know these guys are selling to users, right? It's not like they're passing off their product as candy."

"They're exploiting people and their addictions for profit. They're knowingly hurting people. Have I ever shown you my gunshot scar?" Balal rolls up his sleeve. "Grazed my bicep. You can hardly see it now, but at the time it hurt like a motherfucker."

"You've been--shot?" Arthur touches the scar tissue as his mind whirls in confusion, the carefully erected barriers throughout his life warping and bending. "How--"

"I work at a bank, and every so often there's some chucklehead who decides we'd be an easy source of income." Balal's arms fall to his side. "Every bank's got procedures on what to do if an armed threat comes in, including silent alarms and all that. But this one time--god, it was a fifteen-year-old."

"Some fifteen-year-old punk held up your bank?"

"Yeah. He was shaking so bad he barely got through demanding money before he dropped the gun and it went off. Hence," Balal gestures at his scar. "But bullets don't stop until they hit something that stops them. In this case, it was an old man right outside the bank, on the street. Lodged in his side and triggered a cardiac arrest."

"Jesus."

"Yeah. Kid's in prison now for felony murder." Balal looks down. "You want to know the saddest part? All he asked for was two hundred dollars. That's it. He came because of a dare, some idiotic initiation thing for a gang he was trying to join. Decades in prison over two hundred dollars and membership in some--club."

"Don't tell me you feel sorry for him. That asshole shot you."

"He was fifteen. No dad, drug-addicted mother, and constantly getting picked on in school. All he wanted was some friends, someone to give a shit about him," Balal says. "This wasn't some hardened gangbanger. This was a kid. This could have been my kid."

Arthur sits back and crosses his arms. "He could never have been your kid."

"Maybe if the dice had rolled a little differently between me and my ex-wife--I don't know. But instead of going to college and getting a job and doing the shit teenagers are supposed do, he's rotting in prison. For a stupid mistake."

"You saying it wasn't his fault?"

"I'm saying that gang ruined his life and the lives of god knows how many other teenagers out there. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't a monster. He could have been something. Hell, maybe the rest of that gang could have been something, too. But instead of contributing to society, they're slinging drugs, destroying the lives of their customers."

"That's a little dramatic, don't you think?" Arthur says, stiffly. "I'm not saying they're doing noble work, but all these guys do is supply a demand. People want intoxicants they can't get legally."

"Just because people are scared and desperate doesn't mean you should take their money and hurt them." Balal's expression is somber, pinched. "These organizations spread fear and peddle in violence, drugs. They poison the society they operate in, and their own members."

"So what's the answer? Kill them all? Throw them in prison?"

"I don't know what the answer is." Balal sighs. "What does prison do, besides alienate them further from society? Force them down the criminal path because there's nothing else open to them afterwards? And I don't want to see anyone die. We were all kids once. We all started out as babies, screaming out at a scary world."

Arthur pushes away his takeout carton. He doesn't feel very hungry anymore. "I gotta go."

"What? But--"

"Yeah, I remembered I gotta do a thing. Work." Arthur stands and grabs his jacket. "I'll call you later." He leaves the house before Balal can stop him.

He peels out of the driveway, digs out his phone. It rings three times before Cho answers.

"Hey, can I come over tonight?" Arthur asks with no hello. "I can bring--wine or beer. Or whatever."

"Sure," Cho says. "And don't worry about it. I have beer."

Arthur reaches to Cho's house forty-five minutes later. Cho doesn't ask how his day was, where he's coming from, what he's feeling. The only thing he asks is whether Arthur wants a cold beer and then, later, whether Arthur wants to come with Cho's cock in his ass. He does, and that's all that's said for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Arthur stares down at the caller ID on his cell phone: Balal. Arthur's been dodging the calls and texts for three days now. Eventually he's going to give up. Arthur's unsure whether he wants that to happen or not.

He takes a deep breath and answers, "Hey."

"Hey," Balal replies, sounding relieved. "You're--are you okay? What happened the other night? One minute we were talking, the next you were gone in a puff of smoke."

"I owe you an explanation," Arthur says. "The truth is, I'd been feeling a little nauseous all day and I think the Chinese got to me."

"So you were sick," Balal says, and to Arthur's surprise, he seems skeptical. "You couldn't use the bathroom in my house?"

"I didn't think it'd be a good situation," Arthur says, uneasy. "I didn't want you to see me like that."

"Like what? Like a human that tells me what's going on instead of--" Balal cuts off with a frustrated sigh.

"Sorry," Arthur says, not sure what else to say.

"Look, I know we started off as kind of a weird internet sex thing, but I care about you, Arthur. I thought--I was hoping we were getting past all this secrecy shit."

"I'm an accountant. What could I possibly be hiding?" Arthur says. "Besides, I'm not sure you're one to talk when it comes to keeping secrets."

There's silence on the other end. "That's different."

"You mean it's okay when you do it but not okay when I do?"

"I'm not the one that--" Halfway through Balal's sentence, Arthur's phone begins to beep. It's Dom on the other line.

"Let's talk about this later, okay?" Arthur says, interrupting whatever Balal's going on about. "My boss is calling and I gotta go." He barely waits for Balal's acknowledgment before switching over, relieved for the excuse

That relief vanishes the instant he hears Dom's voice. It's low and calm, the kind of calm that Arthur knows means something is very, very wrong. "Meet me at Nash's last place in half an hour. You know the one."

Nash's place—he must mean the warehouse on LeGrand. Arthur grabs his jacket and holsters up with the extra gun he keeps in the office, just in case.

When he reaches the warehouse, there's only one car parked outside. Inside, Dom is prowling around with a bug detector, though he stops when he sees Arthur.

"Uncle Tommy's been arrested," Dom says, and Arthur feels the bottom drop out from under his guts. "Less than an hour ago. Him and ten other government guys got taken in on corruption charges, bribery, construction bid-rigging."

"Shit," Arthur says, nearly stumbling as he tries to figure out all the ramifications. What this is going to affect. "Do they have anything on him?"

"The evidence is hidden pretty good. We're working on it. But our sources are saying—yeah. The police and the Feds and the prosecution have been working together on this. Got something close to airtight, otherwise they wouldn't have been so aggressive with the arrests."

"They've been patient," Arthur says with growing dread. "They've been building a case, bit by bit, then."

"Yeah." Dom swallows and shakes his head. "Fuck."

"What does this mean for us?"

"Nothing—yet." Dom runs a hand through his hair distractedly. "We've sent in the lawyers for Uncle Tommy and the rest. They aren't talking—for now."

"You think they'll try to cut a deal with the prosecutors?"

"Tommy, never. Some of the others—I don't know," Dom says. "Still, might be time to pull out some business cards. Make sure everything's—in order."

"Shit," Arthur mutters. "I can't believe this is fucking—Tommy? Tommy?"

"I know," Dom says. "It's going to be on the news today, too. The Lieutenant Governor's going to be shitting bricks over this."

"You think there'll be more arrests?" Arthur asks as he loosens his tie, tries to breathe.

"Not that I've heard. But it's probably time to step operations down a bit. Lay low a while."

"Lower than we've already been laying?" Arthur laughs bitterly. "We finally figure out the fucking security leak at the firm and now this? It's been one thing after another these past two years, like we can't catch a fucking break."

"I know," Dom says. "Might be time for us to pay another visit to Gaetano."

"I fucking hate Gaetano," Arthur says. "He's a creep and a two-bit shithead on a power trip."

"I don't like him either, but we gotta have contingency plans in place. In case—" Dom cuts off. "In case the shit rolls downhill."

"Does Mal know about this?" Arthur asks, thinking of Cho. Balal. Fucking Eames.

"No. Don't say anything to her, either."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You think she won't figure out something's up?"

"She'll be fine. She's busy with the kids, school, Phillippa's birthday party. She doesn't need to be worrying about this on top of everything else."

"If you're trying to protect her, I don't think hiding this is the way to do it."

"Set up the meeting with Gaetano and leave my wife to me, okay?" Dom says, tone sharpening. "I got some calls to make."

Chapter Text

"Sorry I didn't come over yesterday night. There was an emergency," Arthur says as he steps inside the manor. After working almost twenty hours straight, he'd finally crawled out of his office, showered, and called Eames to apologize for bailing on their date. Naturally, Eames had read him the riot act and hung up.

Arthur hauled his ass to a liquor store to purchase an expensive apology, then drove two hours to the manor. At this point, he doesn't even want to have sex; sleep is the only thing he's fantasizing about.

Eames looks up from setting out Dusty's food bowl, unimpressed. "Your mother?" At Arthur's silence, he snorts. "That sweet girlfriend of yours. Of course, because apparently I play second fiddle to all the men in my life."

"Jesus Christ, not this shit again," Arthur says, exasperated by the very idea of having a girlfriend. When would he have the goddamned time?

"Don't touch me." Eames' rises in warning when Arthur leans in. "And do not lie to me."

Arthur scrubs a hand across his face; he's too exhausted for this shit. "Like you wouldn't drop everything and shove me out the door if Dom called right now."

"We both know that's not for me. The only one who benefits from continuing like this is you."

Arthur takes a step back, stung. "You saying I enjoy this? That I like sneaking around and lying to my best friend--"

"Oh yes, poor you, absolutely suffocated by the attention, dying inside because too many people want your time and affection--"

"What the hell do you want from me?" Arthur slams the wine bottle onto the kitchen counter and feels the glass tremble. "It's not like we can--"

"I want to be together. No more secrecy."

Arthur stares at Eames. Tries to figure out if he's drunk or high. Doesn't seem like it, but he's talking crazy. "You're joking."

"Why not?"

"You know why. If Dom finds out about us--"

"What will he do? You're his best friend, his protégé." Eames gives a derisive snort. "The bloody light of his life."

"And you're the guy he thinks he's in love with," Arthur snaps, irritated that they even have to discuss this. "I can't cross my fucking boss. I'd lose my job. I'd be--on my own. Assuming nobody comes for my head."

"You think they'd kill you over getting your dick wet?"

"Dom doesn't forgive--" Arthur swallows, and thinks of Nash. "Betrayal."

"Lovely. What a charming organization you work for, with such wonderful people in it."

"Fuck you," Arthur says, abruptly weary. "You knew what you were signing up for."

"Did I?" Eames' mouth twists into something bitter. "Then we disappear before anyone ever knows. We leave Dom and your horrid job and this shithole of a country behind. Start over somewhere new. Somewhere nobody knows us."

"I can't talk to you when you're like this." Arthur begins to walk away.

Eames grabs him by the arm. "I'm serious."

"You're insane." Arthur yanks his arm back. "This is my home, my life. Maybe you don't give a shit, but I got things keeping me here. Things that matter."

Eames shoves Arthur backwards, pinning him to the wall by the shoulders. "Yeah? If your life's so spectacular, why do you keep coming back here?"

"I have no goddamn idea," Arthur spits out before Eames surges forward for a kiss. They kiss and kiss, until Eames tears open Arthur's pants and sucks him down.

Arthur fists his fingers in Eames' hair and fucks his face. Right before he comes, he pulls Eames off and throws him onto the ground, shoves roughly inside that tight hole. Eames grunts and pushes back into it, mutters hoarsely, "Fuck me with that big cock, yeah. Harder, fuck, harder." Arthur yanks Eames' wrists up behind him, hears him groan and come. Arthur falls asleep almost before he finishes.

He wakes up with his dick still inside, disoriented when Eames stretches and rolls Arthur off his back easily. Arthur feels the flex of muscle and thinks about what it'd be like if he had to fight Eames, really fight him. He isn't sure he'd win.

Arthur sits up. He has rugburn on his knees. His neck aches from passing out at a strange angle. He's bruised from wrestling. On top of that, it's morning and he's officially late for work.

Meanwhile, ejaculating hasn't seemed to have improved Eames' the mood. He's picking up clothing with a pissy air, and a surge of irritation washes over Arthur. Here he is, driving miles out of his way to apologize when he should working to contain the shitstorm of Uncle Tommy's arrest. And for what? For Eames to yell at him, fuck him, and then act like an asshole afterwards? What the hell is Arthur doing with his life?

"If you want to shower and get ready, I can make breakfast," Eames says, interrupting Arthur's idle thoughts about a world in which he could go home to a dinner, good sex, and no arguments about his life choices or the societal effects of organized crime.

"Make it something I can take to go," Arthur says. "I gotta run."

He showers, gets dressed, and combs his hair. His face looks sallow and tired in the mirror, but at least he's clean.

There's coffee waiting for him in the kitchen, along with a plate of eggs and bacon. Eames has improved as a cook over the past four months, and Arthur's not about to turn down a hot meal when he's going to be stuck with shitty takeout at the office for the next few weeks.

"I want to show you something," Eames says, sitting on a stool and holding out a stack of paper--drawings.

'Something' turns out to be a series of sketches: male nudes, likely modeled after Eames himself. They're not overtly sexual, lack of clothing aside, but the erotic charge is hard to ignore. Arthur wipes his hands clean and looks through the images carefully, conscious of Eames hovering over his shoulder, anticipatory, struggling to hide it.

"They're good," Arthur says, searching for words and coming up with nothing.

Eames goes stiff. "You don't like them."

"Sure I do." Arthur turns to Eames, whose face is closed off, neutral. "They're sexy."

"Sexy," Eames repeats. He stands again, gathering up the drawings. "I shouldn't have--"

"Where's that one from Christmas?  The one you were working on at my place?"

Eames' brows draw together.  "That—I finished it.  But it's not any good."

"I want to see it."

"It's sloppy.  And my hands weren't…"

Arthur sets down his coffee. "I liked the colors."

Eames runs a palm over his mouth. Nods, finally.  "Alright."

The finished piece is a swirl of colors and motion.  Arthur doesn't know what it's supposed to be of, but when he looks at it, he feels energized. Excited, maybe.

"It's very…" Arthur pauses.  "I like looking at it."

Eames exhales and doesn't meet his eyes. "Do you want it?"

"What?"

"You don't have to take it, if you don't want it." Eames' voice turns gruff.  "I can—"

"I do." Arthur catches the edge of the paper before Eames can pull it away.  "I like it. I like--the way it makes me feel."

There's an expression on Eames' face that he's never seen before—something pleased, but bashful, tentative.   "Really?"

"Yeah." Arthur looks down at the paper, slightly rolled up at the edges. Dom's probably never seen this piece before, doesn't even know it exists. "Thanks. For showing me."

"It's nothing." It doesn't feel like nothing when Eames catches Arthur's mouth for a kiss, sweeter than their usual.

Chapter Text

It's been a while since Arthur's visited a prison. They have connections with crews running penitentiaries across the northeast United States, but corresponding with them isn't part of his ordinary duties. He'd gone with Dom before, toured various places along the eastern seaboard when he first became a made man. Dom handled introductions, and Arthur got a firsthand view of the shittiness of life behind bars.

Some of the guys had been alright--real old-school types who'd rather die than squeal. Others had been assholes Arthur was glad would be spending the rest of their lives far the hell away from him.

Then there'd been the one who licked his lips and said, "Could use a faggoty little lapdog like you around to help pass the time." Arthur nearly punched through the bulletproof glass between them and had to be dragged out of the place by Dom. Afterwards, Dom swore up and down that Gaetano had just been trying to rile Arthur up because he was bored and he hadn’t meant anything by it.

Arthur knew how to fight, how to take care of himself. The guards they were paying would probably try to ensure his continued survival if he ever ended up in the slammer. But serving a sentence for decades with criminals who hadn't touched a woman in years—he didn't have Dom's pedigree to protect him.

In the ten years since Arthur last saw him, Gaetano's lost some hair, gained a gut, and changed not at all besides that. "If it isn't the Jew with the pretty face." Gaetano makes a kissy face through the glass. "Miss me, sweetheart?"

Arthur flips him the bird while Dom says, dryly, "I see you remember my business associate, Arthur."

"Business associate? Is that what they're calling it these days?" Dom doesn't laugh. Gaetano must realize he's overstepped because his smile fades, tone growing serious. "I hear some shit's going down."

"Yeah," Dom says grimly. "This isn't a social call."

Gaetano jerks his head at a guard, who nods in acknowledgment. "Let's get some privacy." Ten minutes later, they're seated in a small, windowless room with metal chairs and a table. The guard unlocks Gaetano's handcuffs and steps outside, leaving the three of them inside.

They talk logistics and contingency planning for a while. How the case against Uncle Tommy is shaping up, who else the investigation might ensnare. It's grim, no bullshitting around.

Dom's phone rings and he frowns as he looks at the caller ID. "Shit, I gotta take this. I'll be right back." He steps out of the room, leaving Arthur and Gaetano to stare at each other.

"Dom tells me you're good with your fists," Gaetano says.

Arthur sits back and crosses his arms, bracing for the insult that’s surely coming. "Yeah."

“He also says that you're no dope. That you've got some lights on up here." Gaetano taps his temple. "I'm going to give it to you straight because we both know that this thing with the cops—this ain’t good. Not for Tommy, the Lieutenant Governor, or anyone else who knows them."

On that, they agree. "Yeah."

“You’re a good looking guy. I bet you got somebody who’d wait on you if you went away."

Arthur shrugs one shoulder. He imagines himself in an orange jumpsuit across the table from Cho. Balal's soft heart wouldn't let him stay away once he recovered from the shock and self-righteousness. Eames--well, Arthur doubts Eames would bother.

“You know, the first year a guy's in here, he's getting calls every week from his girl, regular conjugal visits, and he says to himself: prison’s a breeze,” Gaetano says. “A year passes, the visits start to taper off, calls get less frequent. He starts thinking his girl might be running around on him while he's sitting in a cell with nothing but an old titty mag. Another year passes and the girl's gone, leaving the guy staring down the barrel of his sentence—maybe five years, maybe twenty—all alone."

"You trying to tell me prison ain't a walk in the park?"

"I'm saying that prison is like being frozen in ice. You get used to the cold after a while, and you can make it comfortable for yourself. But the world outside is changing, and you're stuck." Gaetano leans forward against the table. "You and Cobb got a plan, don't you? What kinda story you two will stick to if things go south and how you'll never rat on each other. Well, you should forget all that shit because he sure as hell will as soon as someone comes after his freedom."

Arthur frowns. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Sentence of two to five years with the possibility of parole after one year--that's not bad. But a sentence of twenty to thirty years and giving up the chance to see your kids grow up--that's a hell of a different thing and prosecutors know it. They're gonna use all the leverage they got to squeeze people for their case, and that includes cutting a sweet deal for the person that squeals the loudest."

"Fuck you," Arthur says. "He would never cooperate with--"

"Cobb's never lied to you? Never kept anything to himself?" Arthur says nothing, and Gaetano chuckles. "Course he has. That's the nature of the business. And at the end of the day, this is all business. What do you think he'd rather give up--his business or his family?"

Arthur stares at Gaetano silently for a minute. "I don't need advice from some asshole who's been rotting in a cell for the past fifteen years."

Dom would never cooperate with the Feds, he'd never sell Arthur out for a fucking plea bargain. He's the one that saved Arthur's life, that brought him in. He wouldn't--

But.

But there was that talk with Sal. That bid to become the next boss that Dom never told Arthur about--still hasn't said anything to Arthur about. If Dom wanted to, he could nail Arthur to the wall with all the shit he knew. Dom could walk free while Arthur would go away for a long, long time.

Arthur imagines his mother calling for him, waiting in White Tree for a visit that would never come. With her memory half-gone already, she wouldn't understand. And he couldn't explain it to her, couldn't tell her he'd probably live the rest of his natural life in a cement block with fuckers like Gaetano thanks to--Dom.

"Seems to me like I'm exactly the guy you need advice from."

"They're not going to take me in," Arthur says, quietly.

"I've heard a lot of guys say that." Gaetano smiles thinly. "Not really your call."

Arthur stands. "I don't give a shit what you think. I'm not gonna end up like you."

The door creaks open and Dom's voice carries. "Fuck Mal, I told you, I gotta go." He steps inside with the phone jammed up against his shoulder. "I'll talk to you later, okay. Later. That's--later."

He hangs up and pockets the phone. "Sorry about the interruption. Now, where were we?"

"I need some air," Arthur says, walking to the door before Dom can stop him. "I'll wait for you in the car."

"I'm not going to prison with that prick," Arthur says, later, when they're driving home.

Dom exhales deeply. "Hopefully it doesn't come to that."

"No, I mean it," Arthur says, more certain of this than he's ever been about anything in his life. "I'm not going in. I don't care what the Feds have on me. That's not where I'm ending up."

Dom glances at him sidelong. "You know what you're saying?"

"Yeah." Arthur tightens his fingers on the steering wheel. "I do."

Chapter Text

"Hey, I don't think I'm going to make it to our dinner tonight. I'm stuck at work and--" Arthur starts, ready with an entire song and dance to get out of trouble.

"No problem," Cho says. "I heard the news about your Uncle. I'm sorry."

"Oh," Arthur says, knocked off-guard by the lack of upset. "You're okay with it?"

"You gotta do damage control, work late. I get it," Cho replies. "You going to be at the office? I can stop by with pizza later tonight."

"Yeah, I--really?" Arthur says, bewildered by Cho's equanimity. He was half-expecting to shout for thirty minutes before having bizarre phone sex.

Cho does end up dropping by around midnight, bearing pizza and a six pack of beer. Arthur, who hasn't eaten in at least ten hours, tears into both ravenously. They make out and blow each other, afterwards.

"I should probably get back to it," Arthur says, glancing reluctantly at his computer.

"Good seeing you, gorgeous," Cho says as he finishes buttoning his shirt. "If you get out of here before nine AM, stop by my place."

"What if it's insanely late?"

"I get the hours," Cho says with a small shrug. "Ainsley used to--" He stops, face going blank.

"You okay?" Arthur touches Cho's chin.

"I don't know." Cho surprises him by leaning into his arms.

Arthur kisses Cho's temple and thinks, I could get used to this: nice and easy. "You ever want to talk, I'm here."

"Nah." Cho burrows in closer. "This is good, though."

Chapter Text

Arthur leaves the office and checks, double-checks, that he isn't being tailed. He drives to a private storage facility, which is rented under an alias and paid for by a shell corporation several degrees removed from any real names. The doors to the units creak with disuse, and open to reveal everything in place exactly as he remembers it.

He examines the collection of jewelry, watches, and handbags. He stuffs most of the purses and some of the jewelry into a garbage bag he takes with him.

His phone buzzes. Another call from Balal. Arthur stares at the caller ID as it continues to ring. Eventually, it stops.

He pockets the phone, moves on to the second unit. He picks out a nondescript brown envelop hidden in the back of a file folder behind multiple pieces of furniture (a ratty couch, three lamps, a green bookcase). Passports, multiple forms of state identification, a list of social security numbers—all attached to various names with his photograph on top. He spot-checks them for wear and tear, slips several in his briefcase for updating.

The last unit contains more junk: rolled up rugs, sports memorabilia, a safety deposit box with an ugly curtain draped over it. It takes him two tries to enter the code. The door swings open to reveal burlap sacks filled with neatly rubber-banded stacks of cash. Mostly American currency, some yen, some pesos, a fair amount of Euros.

Nothing's been touched, Arthur's certain of that. He takes several thousand dollars' worth of cash and tucks it into his briefcase, returns to his car.

He'll reach out to his network tomorrow, arrange for the handbags to be sold over the course of a week all over New Jersey and New York. They should net at least fifty thousand dollars total. The jewelry twenty thousand more.

He's been lax about stockpiling emergency funds in his apartments—been distracted by putting out work fires and fucking too many men. No longer.

Chapter Text

If there's anything Arthur wants to do less than go to a little girl's birthday party, his imagination isn't creative enough to come up with it. But Mal asked (twice) and texted to remind him. So he's putting in an appearance.

He knocks at the door, holding the gift that Stacy picked up. Mal answers, haggard and hurried already. She brightens as he enters the house, which is decorated with athletic paraphernalia: black and white soccer balls, AstroTurf, green streamers, netting. There's a swarm of children doing some kind of craft project with popsicle sticks while the nanny chaperones. Arthur and Mal are the only other adults on the premises.

"Interesting theme," he comments as he sips some fruit punch.

"You do not like football?"

"I don't know shit about it," Arthur says, and she chuckles. "I figured it'd be--unicorns or princesses or something."

"Philippa already knows there's no such thing as princesses." Mal's smile fades. "In the end, we are all left to save ourselves."

Arthur takes a long swig of punch. "Bleak."

"Better she learn now from someone who loves her than from a world that does not care." Mal takes a sip of her own drink, and he catches the faintest whiff of alcohol amidst the fruity scent. "Where is Dom?"

Arthur glances around the party, though he's not sure why. Dom isn't here, and no help is coming. "I'm sure he's on his way."

She laughs humorlessly. "I'm sure. Do you think he's at Perle? With that woman?"

"Perle?" Arthur wracks his memory, trying to remember if it's one of the days the club opens early. "With Ariadne?"

Mal turns, eyes blazing with sudden intensity. "What's happened? I know something has, but Dom won't tell me."

"You should talk to--"

"I'm not talking to him right now, I am talking to you." Her dark gaze bores into him. "What is going on?"

"Everything's under control," Arthur says. "Nothing for you to worry about."

"Don't lie." She grabs him, nails sinking into his arm with surprising force. "Not here."

He swallows the last of his drink. "I don't know what you want from me. You know I can't--"

"You can't?" She laughs, unexpectedly. It sounds bitter and raw. "You can do anything you want to do. Which I guess means that if you aren't doing it, you don't want to."

Arthur looks down at his empty cup. He's made his appearance. He can go now.

Across the room, Philippa glances up from crafting her whatever the fuck out of popsicle sticks to wave.

Mal plasters a broad, toothy smile on and waves back. "I hate everything about this."

Arthur sets down his cup and readies himself to leave. "The party?"

"This party. This place." She looks out the window, at the dark grey clouds forming. "This life."

Chapter Text

The phone rings--not the office line, or Arthur's normal cell. The burner reserved only for communication with Eames. Arthur stares at it, not sure whether he wants to answer; their last few interactions had been more unpleasant and shouty than usual. They typically text, and Eames never calls unannounced, which makes Arthur wonder if there's an emergency, something going on.

After a moment of debate, he answers. He regrets it immediately.

"You're blowing me off." Eames' tone is flat across the phone line.

"I'm not--" Arthur rubs his bleary eyes. He hasn't slept in thirty-six hours and he doesn't have the energy for this. "Something's come up."

"Is that something Cho's cock?"

"If only," Arthur mutters. At least Cho's cock is never accompanied by a screaming match.

"I knew it. You've been fucking him this whole time, you lying--of course I shouldn't be surprised. The way you've been following him around like a love-struck puppy. It's pathetic, really. I thought you might want to know."

"I'm not in the mood for--"

"Not in the mood? Not in the bloody mood?" Eames' voice rises with every word. "When exactly will you be in the mood? Or am I to be tucked away like yet another person's secret mistress, faded and out of sight?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, I have actual work to do," Arthur snaps. "I'm not here to babysit you while--"

"Your work," Eames scoffs. "Has Dom soiled the bed again? Is he ringing you for diaper duty as we speak?"

A slew of new emails--each containing more bad news about the arrests--appears in Arthur's inbox while Eames rants. There's a knock on the door, Stacy's tentative voice, and that's right, Arthur has an appointment with his lawyer. Eames is cursing him out while the world is collapsing around them both.

"I can't talk to you right now. I have to go," Arthur interrupts.

"I'm not finished. You'd better not hang up on me--"

Arthur hangs up and wonders, not for the first time in the past few weeks, why he's still putting up with this shit. Is the sex worth the headaches, the sneaking around, the way it feels when Dom looks at Eames?

Arthur's got Cho now. Running around with Eames and Balal has been distracting him from work and all the crap he's got to handle, not to mention been a real drain on his free time. Balal's got all kinds of baggage with that kid of his, not to mention being a self-righteous civilian, and Eames is--well. He's fucking Dom.

He'll break it off in person, Arthur decides. Probably after they've fucked. He wants to think he can end things without fucking Eames first, but that's probably impossible.

Eames will be pissed, no doubt about that. Arthur will have to keep an eye on his gun, maybe leave it in the car so nobody does anything crazy. Might be best to grab the secret phone Arthur gave Eames and destroy the SIM card, remove any other incriminating evidence from the manor before he does it. Arthur doesn't think Eames would be suicidal enough to tell Dom, but people do stupid shit when they're upset.

There might be some more awkward than usual poker games for a while, tension afterwards. But it's not in Eames' interest for anyone to find out about their ill-advised affair, and Arthur's ended all kinds of relationships before. He's confident he can handle this.

Chapter Text

"Don't worry about picking up Eames for the game tonight," Dom says, tinny over the phone. "I've sent a car."

"Sounds good," Arthur replies, trying not to sound too relieved.

The relief morphs into horror when Arthur sees Cho waiting at Perle.

"Hey, gorgeous," Cho says, eyes warm. "Cobb told me Al was busy at home and asked me to sit in."

"Good to see you," Arthur says, giving Cho a stiff handshake as he reels internally. Of course Eames and Cho were eventually going to be in the same room together, but Arthur thought he'd have a time to plan for it.

Cho touches Arthur's hip, moves closer. He smells fantastic. "What'll you have to drink?"

"Start with a beer for now."

"You sure you don't want something stronger?" Cho's fingers hook into the waistband of Arthur's pants, thumb stroking his side. "I'm good to drive us later tonight."

"Drive us?" Arthur sways into him, a little. "We got plans together that I didn't know about?"

Cho's gaze falls from Arthur's eyes to his mouth. "Yeah, I've got plans."

Arthur's blood begins to heat, and there's a familiar voice behind them. "Arthur," Eames calls out. "Hiram. What a surprise."

Arthur takes a step away from Cho and pivots. Eames is wearing a blandly pleasant expression. "Cho's subbing in. Al is busy."

"How fortunate for us that you have a schedule clear enough for these types of last minute changes. Hiram." Eames is smiling. The tone's all wrong, though.

Cho's reply is steady and unruffled. "Good drinks, good company--there's no place else I'd rather be."

Eames' smile widens to bare teeth.

"Hey," Dom says, sounding as tired as Arthur feels. "Ready to start?"

The game is awkward, though Dom seems too distracted to realize it. If Cho notices, he isn't bothered. Eames maintains a shark-like grin and a steady stream of barbed small talk.

Arthur sits a careful distance away from Cho, avoids making eye contact with Eames. Someone's leg brushes not quite accidentally against his, and Arthur doesn't know whose leg to hope it is. Dom's would probably be simplest.

After a few rounds, Cho gets up for a bathroom break. Eames follows him. Arthur tries to stand as well, not liking the direction this is going, but is waylaid by Dom, who wants to talk in coded low murmurs.

Arthur is at the table with Dom when Eames and Cho emerge from the bathroom, engaged in a heated discussion. Their movements become more animated, and Arthur watches with growing dread as Eames says something, too far away to hear. Cho freezes, swings around, and punches him.

"Oh fuck," Dom says, standing as Arthur sprints across the dance floor. The crowd scatters and Abilena ceases singing. Eames and Cho are engaged in a full on fistfight.

A couple of Perle's bouncers pull them apart, and neither resist. Eames spits some bloody saliva onto the floor. Cho is the angriest Arthur's ever seen him.

"Both of you, out the back," Arthur says, hustling them out into the alleyway. "What the hell is going on?"

Cho shakes his head tightly. "I'm going to my car. I've had enough for tonight." He stalks off, leaving Arthur and Eames alone in the alley.

"What the fuck?" Arthur hisses, checking that no one else is around to hear.

Eames wipes his bloody mouth, unrepentant. "It appears Hiram wasn't interested in civil conversation."

"Don't bullshit me," Arthur replies, voice low. "If Cho took a swing at you, it's because you deserved it."

"Taking his side?" Eames says, with a nasty smirk. "My goodness, he must be an excellent shag. A top-notch cocksucker, I'd imagine."

"Don't fucking talk about him like that," Arthur snaps, and realizes when Eames' eyes narrow that was the wrong thing to say. "This doesn't change—"

"This changes everything," Eames snarls. "Everything."

The back door opens and Dom emerges. "I got the band playing and the people dancing again," he says. "Sweetheart, did he hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Eames says as Dom fusses over Eames' split lip, his bruised knuckles. "We both had a bit too much to drink and I said something foolish I shouldn't have."

"About what?" Dom asks, and Arthur swallows.

Eames meets Arthur's eyes coolly. "Ainsley."

"Shit," Dom sighs. "Arthur, I got things handled here if you want to check on Cho."

Arthur walks into the parking lot where Cho is sitting in his car, head tipped back with eyes closed. He unlocks the door when Arthur raps on the window.

Arthur slides into the passenger seat. "You okay?"

Cho opens his eyes to look over at him. They're bleary, red. "Been better."

"What happened?"

"Not sure why, but Eames was on my case all night." Cho shrugs. "I snapped. Sorry I punched him in the middle of the club."

"He probably had it coming." Arthur takes Cho's right hand in his, runs his thumbs over the reddened knuckles. "This seems kind of familiar. I'm not much of a nurse, though."

Cho cracks a small smile. "You've got a pretty good bedside manner."

"I got a patented way of making you feel better." Arthur brushes his fingertips lightly over Cho's nose, his cheeks, his forehead. "Want me to drive you home?"

"Not home. Everything there reminds me of--Ainsley."

"My place, then." Arthur presses a tiny kiss to the side of Cho's mouth, then the other. "Let me take care of you."

Cho kisses Arthur's mouth, full bodied and passionate, salty-sweet.

Arthur goes inside to let Dom know, ignores Eames' dark gaze following them as they leave. He pushes the image of Eames' reddened, bloody lip from his mind.

Arthur takes Cho to his apartment, to his bed.

Cho, who gets Arthur's life, who doesn't need to be lied to. Who somehow knows how to take him apart without words.

After, Arthur stares into Cho's eyes and imagines the future.

Chapter Text

Cho is sitting up in bed, moonlight spilling onto his pale skin.

"Something wrong?" Arthur asks, putting a hand on Cho's thigh.

"It's been months since Ainsley and—" Cho halts. "Things had been rocky for a while and I thought. I didn't think it'd be this hard."

Arthur sits up as well. "I still think about Victoria sometimes. Even though she's gone and isn't coming back." He never thought he'd admit that, out loud, to someone.

"I remember her. You two seemed…" Cho pauses. "Why did it end?"

Arthur considers lying—a lie would be neater, simpler. But he finds himself wanting to tell the truth. "She got a job in California and asked me to move with her. She wanted us to start a new life out there."

Cho turns to look at him, gaze steady and without judgment. "Leave everything you know behind."

Arthur kisses Cho's shoulder. First Victoria, now Eames.

"Ainsley figured out what you and Cobb do. What kind of work I do with you guys," Cho says. "I guess I always knew what would happen if he found out. When he figured out who I really was. I still wasn't prepared for it."

A civilian till the very end, Arthur thinks. He'd always wondered how much Ainsley knew, how in the dark Cho kept him. Arthur supposes it might have been easier with Ainsley being a busy doctor, eager to come back to a warm home without asking too many questions about it.

"A part of me knew what was coming with Victoria," Arthur says. "That she'd—that she wouldn't want to stay. Didn't prepare me, either."

"I feel like I've been cut in half. Peeled open." Cho exhales. "When does that feeling stop?"

"Hasn't gone away for me yet, not completely," Arthur says, and the words sting. "But it gets easier. You learn to live with it."

"He asked me how I could lie for all those years." Cho stares into the distance. "I asked him how I could tell him the truth."

Arthur kisses Cho's hand and thinks of Balal's judgment. Good thing that's all done with now. Simple, from here on out.

The next morning, Arthur wakes to find Cho fully dressed on the edge of the mattress. The sun is coming up, a glory of colors casting his profile into shadow.

"Hey," Cho says, and something in his tone makes Arthur sit up. No longer drowsy, no long flirting with the idea of a shower together.

"You're leaving?" Arthur says. "I can drive you to work. Or your place, if you need a change of clothes."

"I ordered a cab." Cho's chin dips and Arthur puts a hand on Cho's knee to stop him from continuing.

"Don't," Arthur says. "I can--"

Cho covers Arthur's fingers with his own. "You're even better than I thought you would be."

"Don't go," Arthur says, breathless all of a sudden, something hard and unyielding blocking his airway.

"I want to stay." Cho's eyelashes flutter. "I wish I wasn't—I wanted to be ready. I wanted to make this work."

"We can."

"We can't," Cho says. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"Cho," Arthur says helplessly.

"I'll let Dom know I won't be coming to the games anymore." Cho stands, hand slipping from Arthur's. "My taxi's probably here."

Arthur watches him walk out the door. He takes Arthur's heart with him, just like Victoria had.

Chapter Text

Arthur isn't sure what he expected when he throws open the door of the manor—catching Eames unconscious and unawares, maybe. But Eames is doing pushups in the living room, dressed in thin workout clothes and a sheen of sweat. Dusty's resting on the floor, watching sleepily.

"Are you happy now?" Arthur demands. "It's not enough that you've fucked my friendship with Dom, but now you gotta sabotage everything else? Who's next—Yusuf? Ariadne?"

Eames gets to his knees, rubbing his palms on his shorts. "First, your Freudian father-brother-lover relationship with Dom was fucked long before I set foot in the States. Second, perhaps you shouldn't be chasing after emotional wrecks liable to implode at the slightest wrong word, hm?"

"Wrong word." Arthur scoffs. "Like you ever do anything by accident. Don't fucking patronize me—your jealousy is as pathetic as it is obvious."

"Is that what you drove all the way here for?" Eames draws himself to his full height, a bare inch shorter than Arthur and a few inches broader. "To scold me about my jealousy?"

"I came to tell you to stop interfering in my life."

"Or what?" Eames grabs him by the hips and hauls him in closer. "You'll punish me?"

"This isn't about—"

Eames palms Arthur's crotch, breathes hot against his ear. "You want to teach me a lesson, don't you?"

Arthur's heart is pounding. He's angry at Cho, angry at himself for believing that something--

Angry at Eames, who caused all this. But it's impossible to focus with Eames pressing up against him, hard and hot and smelling incredible.

"Get the hell off me," Arthur rasps, hands palming Eames' perfect ass seemingly of their own volition. "You don't deserve my cock."

Eames bears Arthur down onto the carpet, flat on his back and climbs over him. "Would you like me to work for the pleasure of riding you?" Eames murmurs, stripping off his damp tank top, muscles flexing.

"Jesus," Arthur says as Eames grinds up against his dick. "You can't get enough, can you? You'll take any excuse—"

"Fuck you," Eames says into Arthur's mouth, kiss triumphant and bruising. Arthur can taste blood from the split lip Cho gave Eames. Arthur bites down on it and Eames groans.

Eames pins Arthur down, ass against cock. The pressure feels rough, hot, as Eames lays stinging kisses along Arthur's jaw. Arthur slips his fingers down the back of Eames' shorts, drags them over Eames' hole, shudders when it opens up for him.

They fuck on the floor, Eames with his shorts around his knees and Arthur still clothed, nothing but his fly open and cock out. Eames rides Arthur to completion, jerking himself off, coming all over Arthur's shirt.

He finishes Arthur with a few mind-numbing twists of his hips, shoving two come-stained fingers into Arthur's mouth as he says, "You're mine."

Arthur bucks his hips up and comes.

Afterwards, Eames slithers off to lay beside him on the floor.

Arthur stares up at the ceiling Dom's house, overheated and breathing heavily. Thoughts begin to swim in his head, the last words Cho said to him.

"Let's get out of here," Arthur says, too loudly in the quiet. "Let's drive up to the city, get fucked up, crash in a hotel room."

"Fuck our brains out? Again?" Eames says, trailing a finger down Arthur's shoulder.

"Hell yeah," Arthur grabs Eames by the waist, drags him in for a biting kiss. "Till neither of us can see."

Eames kisses back, just as hungry. "I'll fetch my bag."

The evening passes in a blur of sex and drinking. Arthur narrowly avoids careening off the road on the drive up on account of Eames' mouth around his dick; they stop at the first liquor store they see and buy several bottles of whisky. They stumble into a hotel half drunk already, and don't make it to the bed before Arthur has his cock up Eames' ass, Eames groaning and clawing at the carpet with it.

It feels--well. After Arthur's drunk enough, he doesn't feel anything at all.

Chapter Text

"Arthur," Ariadne flips the switch, and all the lights come on in the club. "Were you--standing in the dark?"

He blinks at the sudden influx of light and looks around. That's right, he came to Perle to review--records? Something. He can't quite remember what.

"How long have you been here?" She asks.

"I…" He glances around the space for a clock--this familiar place he's been in hundreds of times--and remembers that there are no clocks in the room. He looks down at his watch: the modern, featureless face of it. Dark, with only glints of silver to remind him that time is passing. "Five minutes? Ten?"

"Are you alright?" She approaches, reaches up to press the back of her hand against his forehead. "You don't feel feverish."

"I'm not sick," he says, though that's not exactly true. He woke up with a hangover the likes of which he hasn’t had in years, and vomited his guts out while Eames ran a bath. The drive to work had been difficult. He feels queasy, like he's drifting in a chilly fog.

"Is this about that fight?"

Arthur swings his head around to look at her. Ariadne looks tired, too, a pinched tightness around her mouth. He wonders how long she's looked like that. "Did you see what happened?"

"Eames was being a dick and Cho took a swing." She stops. "Sorry. I know Eames and Dom are, uh--"

"No, he was." Arthur shakes his head, feels the world tilt a bit as he does, off-balance.

"What about you and Cho?" She hesitates. "Everything okay?"

Arthur lets out a laugh that echoes strangely in his ear. "No, everything is most definitely not okay."

A crease appears between her eyebrows. "Are you--"

"Don't ask me if I’m okay again," Arthur interrupts, taking a step towards the exit. A step towards freedom, escape. "I don't remember why I came here."

To his surprise, she chuckles. "Sometimes I can't remember why I came here either."

He glances over at her, sidelong. "Rough night for you, too?"

Ariadne rubs her eyes and walks over to the bar counter, starts setting out glasses. "Yeah, been having a lot of them recently."

He frowns. "Something going on here or--"

"No, it's nothing to do with Perle. Everything is fine, no embezzling or anything to worry about," she says. "And before you ask, things with Yusuf are complicated, but no more than usual. I guess I've been--missing my family, is all."

"You haven't seen them? I thought you had some family up in Woodlake."

"I do, but they're on my dad's side and…" She shakes her head. "He left when I was young and we haven't really spoken much since. Besides the odd birthday or holiday."

"My dad took off when I was a kid, too." Arthur shrugs. "Doesn’t seem like we're missing much."

"Maybe." She begins drying the glasses with a dish towel, wiping the streaks away. "I always thought it would have been nice. Coming home to two parents, a dog, the white picket fence around it all. You know, the way things are supposed to be."

"Who says things are supposed to be that way?"

She raises an eyebrow. "You don't believe in family?"

"Course I believe in it." He crosses his arms over his chest. "But that doesn't have to mean mom, dad, and two point five kids."

"Sure." Ariadne's smiling, but it doesn't feel like she likes what he's saying. "You're an unconventional guy. I respect that."

"Do you?"

She sets down the glass she's finished polishing; it gleams, clean and clear. "When my dad left, I dreamt for months about his homecoming. Him walking through that front door and staying. Showing up at my lacrosse practice, driving me to the mall, following all the rules my friends' dads did." She picks up another glass, the towel squeaking as she rotates it in her grasp. "Took me years to realize that some people aren't ever going to follow the rules, no matter how nicely you ask them or how clearly you spell them out."

"Did you really want a guy who didn't want to be there to stay and play pretend?"

"We all have to do things we don't want to." Ariadne meets his gaze steadily. "And we all want to do things we shouldn't."

"And maybe that’s the problem," Arthur says. "People get sick of the bullshit either way."

"So let's do whatever the hell we want whenever we want?"

"Did I say that?" He looks down at his watch again; he should get back to work. "All I'm saying is that maybe rules are overrated. Cages that hold us back."

"Now you're starting to sound like Eames."

Arthur shrugs as he straightens his cuffs and heads towards the door. "Maybe he's got a point."

Chapter Text

"It's time for you to learn how to shoot a gun," Dom said on Arthur's eighteenth birthday.

They started with a pistol at the gun range, Dom insisting on a dorky two-handed grip and earmuffs to dampen the noise. It was fun, like playing a video game at a friend's house. Afterwards, they got pizza. Dom's treat.

Once Arthur was hitting the moving bullseye more often than not, they moved on to "live" practice, as Dom put it. They spent a few weeks skeet shooting, practicing with various types of guns: pistols, rifles, shotguns. Arthur liked shotguns the most, liked the explosive power in his arms. Then it was time to move on to real targets.

Arthur had killed rats and mice before, trapped or poisoned more than he could count in the shitholes he and his mom lived in. He'd expected shooting a deer to feel the same. He was surprised when it didn't, really.

He fucked up the first shot--caught it in the hind leg and crippled without killing. He'd seen dead deer on the side of the road, but this was different. An entirely new experience, standing over a bleating animal that could look back at you.

Dom instructed him on how to put the deer down as efficiently as possible. But even with a clean headshot, the body twitched for another ten seconds before stilling. He watched life leave the body while Dom clapped him on the shoulder, congratulated him on his first kill.

They left the carcass in the woods ("One of the upsides with animals is that we don't have to worry about body disposal," Dom said). They went to a strip club, a place where the owners knew Dom and served him two beers with a wink. They settled on the side of the stage in a private booth, where all the strippers flocked to Dom.

Dom grinned and soaked up the attention, boasted about Arthur becoming a man. That felt good, knowing that Dom saw him that way, almost like an equal. The women were nice, although they cooed more about how adorable and baby-faced Arthur was more than anything else. Dom paid for lapdances for them both, which Arthur forced a grin through. The women were more Dom's type than Arthur's, skinny with fake tits and heavy accents. There were a few offers to go back to a "private" room, which Arthur pretended not to hear or understand.

After a few hours, Dom drove Arthur back to his apartment and returned to Princeton. Arthur turned on the TV, did some physical therapy exercises. For some reason, he kept thinking about that deer, about the way it stared up at him with those big, dark eyes. He tried to push it away, ignore it. But even when he went to bed and tried to sleep, it kept reappearing.

The next morning, he woke up with the beginnings of a headache. He popped a couple aspirin and ate the breakfast his mother set out for him (she'd come back after a graveyard shift at the diner and left before he woke to get to her other job at the convenience store). He kept thinking about that damn deer, the way its body had sprawled, ungainly with a hobbled knee.

Arthur found himself on a bus and not sure why. He got off at a stop near the woods they'd been in yesterday, spent three hours wandering before he came across the carcass.

There wasn't too much left, as it had been picked over for meat by hawks and foxes already. The eyes were still there, though, and open. He felt an unbearable desire to close them. It probably wasn't sanitary to touch with his bare hands, so he covered them with leaves instead.

He stared at the body for a while, at where the guts had been ripped out, the toothmarks on the skin. He didn't look at the exposed white of the skull.

He kicked some leaves and dirt over the rest of the head, then the neck and the gaping chest cavity. At that point, half the body was covered, so he figured he might as well do the rest.

Arthur left the mound that evening, returned to an empty apartment. He made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drank a can of Coke. The weird pressure behind his forehead had faded. Probably the aspirin finally kicking in.

He turned on the TV and watched a crappy gameshow. He played along with the contestants, guessed a few of the answers correctly. The grand prize was a lifetime supply of steak dinners. Arthur marveled at the idea of it: never having to worry about how to scrape together enough money for your next meal.

The only downside was that they'd have to be careful to always have enough cash on hand for the electricity bill; last month, it got shut off because there wasn't enough to cover both rent and electricity. All the food in the fridge had spoiled and the apartment smelled like rotting meat for days.

But maybe you could ask for more steak if that happened--how much was lifetime supply, anyway? Surely enough to cover one fridge's worth. Imagine that. To live like there'd always be more waiting for you around the corner.

Chapter Text

Dom's the one that sends him home.

He took one look at Arthur's office--desk covered in paper, which is then covered in another layer of fast food wrappers--and at Arthur, who hasn't showered or slept more than three hours in the past thirty-six. "Go home and take tomorrow off."

"But there's too much to do," Arthur tried to argue.

"You need sleep and a change of clothes," Dom said, one hand falling like lead onto Arthur's shoulder. He leaned closer, a bare whisper in Arthur's ear. "We're being watched and we can't look like we're losing control of our shit."

"Right." Arthur stood, tried not to sway. "I could use a shower."

"Get some rest," Dom repeated, not a suggestion but an order. "Deprivation is how people get sloppy. Mistakes get made."

So Arthur goes home. Barely makes it out of his suit before he crashes for fourteen hours straight, wakes up in groggy alarm about being late for work. There's a text from Dom, warning against coming in.

Arthur goes for a run, hits the gym, goes through his enormous backlog of mail, does some much needed laundry, and makes himself a protein shake. There's clothing and empty takeout cartons everywhere, the piece of art from Eames on the counter waiting for him to figure out what to do with it. Arthur clears the surfaces, waters his listing cactus, makes the environs habitable again. He hasn't been home much in the past few weeks, what with the place in Weston, and Eames, and Balal, and Cho--although that's over now, that's--

There's a roiling in Arthur's stomach that knocks the breath from him. He stumbles, barely catches himself on the edge of the dining table. His heart's pounding too hard, too loud.

He waits a minute. Two, three, for it to pass. He forces himself upright, takes a couple of unsteady steps before his legs give out again. He slides to the ground, leaning back against the table.

His cell phone is laying on the floor in front of him, lit up with a photo of--Cho. Cho wasn't--isn't--a fan of salacious photos. Or photos, period. The only one Arthur ever got of him was a candid, a rare smile lighting on Cho's lips and as he looked over his shoulder, caught at a poker game months ago.

Arthur should put the phone away and go back to cleaning. But before he can stop himself, the phone is in his hand and a text message has been sent: Can I come over?

He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the table. Waits.

I don't think that'd be a good idea.

Arthur can imagine Cho now, dark hair in his eyes as his elegant fingers compose the message, maybe hesitating a moment before sending. Arthur should leave it at that. Leave Cho alone.

I want to see you. It's too honest. Arthur shouldn't have sent it. His face hurts, his eyes burn. It's funny, because if Cho were here now, Arthur wouldn't want to be seen this way. But if Cho lets him come over, Arthur could get it together, he would--

I'm sorry, Cho replies.

Arthur curls his knees to his chest, presses his face down into them. He has the rest of the day and it's not even night yet.

Chapter Text

The phone rings. Arthur prepares a string of apologies for not visiting, for being busy, for being a fucking mess--

"Hello?" Lydia picks up. She sounds lucid and alert. Arthur exhales, takes comfort in her voice.

"Hey--"

"Why are you calling me?" she demands before Arthur can finish.

He closes his eyes. What can he say? That he's been forced away from work after being dumped by the man he thought might--

"I just want to talk," Arthur says, quiet.

There's a pause. "Who is this?"

"Mom," Arthur says, tension rippling down his spine. "Let's not go through this again. It's me, Arthur. Your son."

"Is this some kind of prank call?" she sounds suspicious. Arthur feels his insides begin to clench up. "Or are you one of those debt collectors? I told you before that I don't have it."

"Mom, I paid all that off years ago. You don't have to worry about--"

"You and your lies. You know, I almost feel sorry for you." Her voice is harsh, low. "The things you do--and for what? For money?"

Arthur's grip on the phone tightens. "Without money, we're nothing. We had nothing."

"And with it, what are we?" She huffs a short laugh. "Vultures picking on the remains of people's misery. Profiting off it."

He takes a step back, feeling dizzy. "That's not true."

"Half in, half out. Half true, half false. Neither this nor that. I'd hoped--" She pauses. "I'd hoped for better for my little boy. But maybe I always knew he'd grow up to be just like me."

Arthur's stomach twists. She can't know what she's saying. She can't mean it. "You really think he's just like you?"

"I couldn't stay. In that stifling house with all my sisters, waiting to be shuttled off to another man's house, start the cycle all over again with my own daughters," Lydia says, seeming to not hear him.

"Mom--"

"Once you leave, you can't go back," she says, sounding far away. "I thought I was prepared for what that meant. As much as I wanted to get away, I still wasn't prepared for how much I'd lose."

Chapter Text

Arthur stares at his contacts, thumb hovering over Dom's name, right above Eames. Dom knows Cho. If Arthur said something, Dom would take him out for a drink, a strip club, a night on the town. He would understand, he would--

"Hello, darling," Eames purrs across the line. "Will you be dropping by? Because I have something for you."

'Something' turns out to be a literal object rather than yet another euphemism for sex. After they've fucked, Arthur watches with some bemusement as Eames presents a narrow velvet box, the kind used to hold jewelry.

Eames sits on the edge of the mattress, scratching Dusty's ears and looking very pleased with himself. "Open it."

It's a gold chain, clearly made for men--the weight is solid, heavy. "You're shitting me."

"To help you fit in with your Italian brethren," Eames says with a straight face. "The track suit I ordered for you is in the mail and I'm sure you have a guinea tee lying around somewhere--"

"Get the fuck out of here." Arthur snorts and shoves Eames. "A gold necklace--the hell's the matter with you?"

Eames doubles over with laughter. "Maybe it'll help you sprout some chest hair to get it tangled in, hm? I could add a gaudy crucifix charm."

"How much did you spend on this?" Arthur closes the box; it does look unsettlingly similar to necklaces both Dom and Sal occasionally wear. "And where are you getting the funds for this? Dom isn't giving you an allowance, is he?"

"No," the smile drops from Eames' face as he continues petting Dusty. "I may have regained access to a few of my own accounts."

"Your old bank accounts?" Eames doesn't reply. "Anything else you're keeping from me?"

"I think you're the proven expert on keeping secrets." With one last kiss, Eames shoos Dusty off the bed.

"What I do in my free time is my business." Arthur sits up, the high of good sex fading. "Maybe I wouldn't keep shit from you if you wouldn't fucking sabotage it."

Eames' expression darkens. "You think I could sit idly by while some other man puts his hands all over you?"

"Like you and Dom?"

"You know what my answer to that is."

"Oh right, you're going to stop fucking him. That genius plan."

"Wouldn't be that much of a change. Dom and I barely fuck as it is." At Arthur's disbelieving expression, Eames elaborates, "Most nights, he cries in my arms and goes straight to sleep."

"He--what?" Arthur stops. "Why--"

"All the usual." Eames sounds bored. "Daddy issues, nobody knows his pain, and Mal's practically abandoned him with the children."

"Mal?" Arthur frowns. "She's doing better now."

"Oh yes, that's what Dom was hoping, until she tried to hurt--" Eames halts, studying Arthur's face. "He didn't tell you, did he? He hired a home aide and an army of nannies to pretend to be maids. Either she's relapsing or she's a much better actress than anyone gives her credit for." He shrugs, seeming uninterested in the ultimate answer. "All I know is what Dom rambles on about. Quite enough for me, frankly."

Arthur wonders what else Dom's been keeping from him. He lets the necklace slip under and between his fingers. The metal is cool in his hands.

"I want to see it on you," Eames says.

"Fucking ridiculous," Arthur mutters, but allows Eames to fasten it around his neck. His touch is light, deft. No tremors or unsteadiness at all.

"There we are." Eames steps back to admire it, instructing Arthur to turn his chin this way and that to better model it. "Bellissimo."

"Uh huh," Arthur says, skeptical but flattered. He doesn't need Eames' gifts, his approval; but it feels kind of nice.

On the nightstand, Arthur's phone begins to ring. Sal's name comes up on the caller ID. Arthur stills.

Sal never calls him directly.

"I'm sending the meeting point. Don't be late," is all Sal says before hanging up.

A moment later, a text arrives with an address and the instructions: Come alone and tell no one, including Dom.

Arthur stares at the text for a moment before standing, going to grab his clothing.

"Called in to work?" Eames says lightly, watching Arthur dress.

"Maybe. I don't know." Arthur wants to call Dom, text him. He wants to know what's going on. He doesn't.

Eames slides Arthur's tie around his neck. "Be careful. Weather report says there's a storm incoming."

"Incoming?" Arthur watches Eames tie a perfect Windsor around his neck. "I thought I was already in it."

"Oh no, darling." Eames tightens the knot. "When it arrives, we'll all be holding on to a building by our fingernails."

Chapter Text

Arthur pulls up in an empty area of town. The address is in front of an abandoned warehouse with broken windows and graffiti all over the front. He parks across the street. Gets out when Sal's sedan approaches.

"If it isn't the dressy Jew." Sal's long-time driver, Paulie, leans out the open window. "How the hell you doing? It's been a while."

"Hey, Paulie." Arthur wishes he could punch his stupid, grinning mug. But assaulting one of Sal's guys probably isn't the best way to start a meeting.

Sal climbs out of the passenger side seat, moving with surprising agility for a man of his size. He jerks his head in the direction of an abandoned strip mall. "Let's take a walk."

Paulie stays behind to smoke in the car while Arthur and Sal walk together on the cracked pavement. The stores are boarded up, a stray shopping cart the only vehicle left in the parking lot. It reminds Arthur of the places he used to see on his way home from school. But he's not some kid anymore. Not some defenseless mark.

Once they're out of Paulie's earshot, Sal says, "Dom probably already told you."

That opener has never led to anything good. "Dom tells me a lot of things."

"I bet he does. I've known him since he was a baby, you know that?" Sal says. "I went to his Baptism. Watched him charm the shit out of everyone with those big blues. Already a heartbreaker, just like his dad."

"He's a married man now." They both know that's never stopped either of the Cobbs, junior or senior.

"Joey always was a skirt-chaser. Knew Dom'd grow up to be the same way. Harmless fun--usually." Sal continues to walk and Arthur begins to wonder why he was brought out here. Alone. "There's a leak."

It takes ten seconds for the meaning of those words to land. "What?"

"Dom didn't tell you?" Sal doesn't wait for the obvious answer. "We got access to some of the evidence the prosecutors are working with. They know things they shouldn't. Things they'd only know if they had someone whispering in their ear."

There's a rat and they don't know who it is. That's why Sal brought Arthur here.

It's been a long time since Arthur's been shot at in broad daylight. Years since had had to be some tough collecting from people with more bullets than brains. The surrounding neighborhood is empty, hollowed out buildings looming all around them. Plenty of spots for guys to hide, ready for Sal's signal to bring Arthur down. No witnesses. No way he could outrun Paulie in a car.

"Who else knows?" Arthur asks. It's hard to breathe. Hard to speak.

"A few of the amici. We're releasing some information in waves. See what shakes out."

"Who do you think's talking?" He thinks of Nash. He wonders if a clean up crew's waiting in one of those abandoned buildings right now.

"That's the million dollar question." Sal's expression betrays nothing. "Any ideas?"

"Me and Dom can personally--interview everyone." Arthur's calculates how quickly he can reach his gun. He can probably outdraw Sal. If another shooter doesn't get him first. "One by one. See what turns up."

"Could be a team talking to the Feds. Could be more than one rat."

"Leak looks that bad?" Arthur works to keep his voice level as his heart thunders in his throat. He could tackle Sal to the ground, maybe. Use him as a shield against gunfire, break away at an all-out run.

"You know, a lot of the amici don’t trust you. Cause you're not one of us," Sal says, tone nearly friendly. "But I never shared their concerns. You're a smart guy. Without Dom Cobb vouching for you--well, where would you and your mother be?"

Arthur meets Sal's eyes, hands balling into fists at his sides. "I'm no rat."

"That's what I told the others." Sal's cold gaze flicks over Arthur. "The leak's not coming from inside. It's too spotty, gaps in the information. It's coming from a contractor, a business associate, maybe. Or…"

"Or?" Arthur says as Juana's bitter smile flashes through his mind. Cho.

"Or a more personal relation." Sal smiles with no humor. "Someone like Eames."

The blood coming to a standstill in Arthur's veins. "How would Eames know anything about--"

"I don't need you to lie for Dom." Sal waves a careless hand through the air and Arthur readies himself to drop to the ground. No hail of gunfire--yet. "We all know about his… habits."

Arthur swallows, imagines men on the way to the manor at this very moment. Eames sleeping next to Dusty, waking to the sound of armed strangers storming up the stairs. "You think Eames is the mole?"

"Would be the simplest explanation. Pillow talk's been the death of men the world over," Sal says. "But it seems too easy to me. Too straightforward. Some foreigner with a mysterious past drops into Dom's life to spy on us? Too fucking obvious a link to the Feds."

"Right," Arthur says, lightheaded. Eames would fight back. Eames would--

"That's why I invited you here. You've got distance that Cobb lacks. What do you think of Eames?"

"I--" Arthur exhales in a rush, but it brings no relief. "We don't really talk."

"You drive him around. You seen him. Is he a squealer?"

Arthur can't think of a single thing that would hold Eames back if the Feds came to him with a proposition: not honor, not loyalty, not family. Of course, they'd probably want him to testify, keep him in the US so they could build a case. Another cage with new minders.

"I don't know," Arthur says, honestly. "He was beat to shit when Dom first met him. Still does physical therapy and wears a prosthetic, got some nerve damage. Seems like a hell of a lot to put an agent through in hopes that Dom would take a shine to him."

"Maybe the Feds flipped him after he met Dom," Sal says. "You know that cocksucker's not as soft as he looks? I had some guys dig into his background. Not many people tangle with El Cuchillo and get out with all their limbs attached."

Arthur glances sidelong at Sal. "You know El Cuchillo?"

"Yeah. Motherfucker was late for a meeting. Said his flight from Paris was delayed, birds got sucked into the engine or some shit."

Arthur blinks; none of his research had turned up a connection to Paris. "He was in France? I thought his business was based out of the Americas."

"It is, but that wasn't a business trip--that was personal." Sal rolls his eyes. "Asshole's got a second family tucked away out there. I don't know how he's got the time to run a business and run around on another continent. One family's enough hassle for me." His expression turns contemplative. "He's still pissed about Eames sneaking out from under his nose. Maybe we oughta send Eames to him. Earn ourselves some goodwill with a cartel and get rid of a possible leak."

Arthur works to keep his voice steady, blood pounding in his throat. "Yeah, but who knows what he might be able to tell El Cuchillo about us."

"Good point." Sal considers this. "And it ain't worth the cost of sending a body overseas in pieces."

"Leakproof containers aren't cheap," Arthur says, as matter-of-factly as he can. "Heavy. Hard to get through Customs on account of the smell."

They've looped back around to the car. Paulie's leaning against the driver's side door, smoking a cigarette with his one hand inside his pocket. He's watching them both.

"There's a good Jew--always thinking of the numbers." Sal laughs and Arthur forces his face to stay neutral. "You know, I've said it before and I'll say it again: saving your life was the smartest thing Dom Cobb's ever done. Ain't that right, Paulie?"

"He's said it a hundred times," Paulie agrees, crushing the cherry of his cigarette under his foot.

"You said it might be a contractor," Arthur says. He looks at his car across the street, calculates whether he could get to it before a shot took him down. Probably not. "Not one of the amici?"

"What's that phrase the Feds like to use?" Paulie smiles, teeth bared. "The investigation is ongoing."

Paulie knows, then. Arthur wonders if he was the only one who didn't. The last to find out.

"Relax, prettyboy." Paulie slaps a heavy hand against Arthur's arm. "Unclench. If we thought it was you, you'd be dead by now."

Paulie grins, still too wide. Arthur adjusts his tie. The knot feels suffocating around his neck. He thinks he might throw up.

"We'll be checking into everyone we do business with," Sal says as he opens the car door. "Everyone at the club, the games, your office--we're going to find this rat and string it up by the tail. You get me?"

"I do," Arthur replies, pulling at his collar. Faces race through his mind: Eames, Cho, Ariadne, Yusuf, Juana, Al, Abilena, Stacy. It's difficult to breathe.

"Nice chain," Paulie says. Arthur stares at him blankly before realizing he's referring to the necklace Eames gave him; it peeks out of the open collar of his shirt.

"Thanks," Arthur mumbles, stuffing it out of sight. He'd forgotten he was wearing it.

Chapter Text

Arthur walks back to his car, waits for Paulie and Sal to drive away before he collapses against the steering wheel.

This was a test. Did he pass it? Probably. He hasn't been executed--yet.

His heart thuds in his chest, adrenaline coursing from teeth to toes. He's shaking, fingers jamming the keys against the ignition three times before he gets the car on.

There are questions he needs to ask, answers he needs to dig up, material to destroy, security measures to triple, meetings to set, offices to scrub, suitcases to pack in case--in case--

Arthur should drive to his office and get started. That's the logical course of action. The Feds are coming: maybe months from now, maybe hours.

Instead, he pulls out his phone. He wants to call Cho--can't. For multiple reasons, now. He thinks of Eames--no. Dom? No. His mother, but only if she--

He drops the phone twice before he manages to dial.

Balal picks up on the fifth ring, voice hushed and wary. There's the sound of a lone trombone, mournful. A murmur of voices in the background. "I can't talk right now. I'm--"

"Can I come over?" Arthur asks before Balal can hang up. "I want to see you."

"I haven't heard from you in weeks."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have disappeared like that." It's almost a relief to deal with Balal's straightforward anger, to slip back into the role needed to manage it. "Things have been crazy with my job and--my mother. But that's no excuse. I've been a jackass and I should have called."

A hesitation. "You could have texted."

"I know," Arthur says, sensing an opening. "I wanted to. I didn't know what to say."

"Jesus. How are you so--" There's the click of a door closing, the music disappearing. "I can meet you at your apartment in two hours. To talk."

"That's all I want," Arthur says. "To talk."

Arthur drives back to Weston. He sweeps for bugs three times. He checks the firearms hidden in every room, works out, showers. The dark face of his watch glints as he put it on. He hesitates over the heavy gold chain on his bathroom counter. After a moment, he slides it into a drawer.

He's in the middle of shredding all the paper in the place when Balal arrives.

"I shouldn't," Balal says when Arthur pours him a glass of wine. "I came here to--"

"We're talking right now," Arthur murmurs through kisses that grow more passionate. He guides Balal backwards towards the bedroom.

"I don't think this qualifies." Balal pulls away before Arthur can peel off any clothing. "I'm serious. Stop."

Arthur's hands drop to his sides. He tries to hide his irritation. "Okay. Fine."

Balal crosses his arms over his chest. "You disappeared. Am I supposed to forget that the second you reappear?"

He looks pissed, tired. Arthur's skin prickles with the realization that if he doesn't get this conversation right, it could be the last time he ever sees Balal. The prospect of inventing more elaborate lies on top of everything else feels overwhelming, impossible.

"I've recently learned that the organization I work for is falling apart." At Balal's unimpressed expression, Arthur continues, "and my career is a dead end."

"I'm sorry things aren't going well at work. But we've talked about this before and--"

"I guess it's finally sinking in," Arthur says. "What this means for me."

"So you're looking for a new job?"

"A new job?" Arthur repeats. "You think I should leave." First Victoria, then Eames, now Balal. But none of them know--knew--what they were suggesting.

Cho would never ask this of Arthur. Cho understands what it means to have built a life, a career, a--

"If your career is going nowhere and the company's folding, then yeah, I think you should get out. You can join another accounting firm, or a bank, or--" Balal's expression darkens. "Unless you being an accountant was another lie, too."

"I could show you the degree." Arthur looks out the window: a clear view of the empty street bounded by a steel frame. On the sill sits a shriveled cactus, listing to one side in the pot. "I still don't know what else you think I could be."

"I don't know either, and maybe that's part of the problem." Balal sounds resigned, disappointed. How many times has Arthur heard that tone before? "Why did you invite me here?"

"I was hoping you'd give me another chance."

"At what?" Balal rubs his eyes with one hand. "What were we? Can you hear someone being dumped in the forest when there's no fucking forest to begin with?"

"I didn't--"

"You're got other people, other things going on. I get it. My life is complicated, too." Balal shakes his head. "But if all you want is to come and then go whenever you please with the occasional date thrown in--then no thanks. There are easier ways for both of us to get laid."

"That's not all I want from you." Balal turns to grab his jacket and Arthur fumbles for something to say, something to convince him. "Please don't go."

"Arthur, I've got a daughter and an ex-wife and a mortgage to pay. Saying 'sorry' and 'please' with big doe eyes thrown in isn't enough anymore."

"I don't know what else you want me to say." Arthur's hands ball up in frustration. "What's gonna be enough for you?"

Balal pauses, and looks down at the jacket draped over his arm. "I guess I was hoping you'd have a plan. That you were going to sort your work out, get your life in order. Find a place for me in it."

"Balal." Arthur touches his shoulder. "There's always a place for you."

"On the periphery, maybe."

"I've missed you," Arthur says, and is surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice. "Talking to you. Laughing with you. You're--you're one of the only people I feel like I can trust."

Balal doesn't turn around. He doesn't move away, either. "I've only ever been a phone call away. You didn't have to miss me."

"I know." Arthur's hand slides down Balal's arm to clasp his wrist, his fingers. Arthur presses his lips gently to Balal's knuckles: the skin soft and tan, unmarred by the infliction or affliction of violence. "I can do better. I want to do better."

"How many more chances can I give you?" Balal says, but he's turning towards Arthur, the jacket slipping off his arm to the floor. When he kisses Arthur, his mouth yields so sweetly.

"I'll take every single one," Arthur promises as he sinks to his knees. Balal sighs, and doesn't protest.

Chapter Text

Arthur was twenty when he became a made man. He remembers it vividly; they say you never forget your first body.

Arthur hadn't known much about the target, only that he was getting his due. The target would be drugged and brought to a remote location for handling. Arthur wouldn't be a part of any of that--his role was limited, clear.

Dom accompanied him to the neutral site, already talking about what they'd do to celebrate Arthur becoming a fully recognized member of the organization. The target was inside, unconscious and restrained. Early thirties, a bit pudgy, handsome in spite of that. Sharply dressed like he got interrupted on his way to a date. It made Arthur wonder, briefly, if there was someone waiting on him that evening, thinking she'd been stood up.

But maybe the date had been in on it, too, paid to spike his drink. That would make for fewer loose ends. It was hard to think about someone sitting alone in a restaurant, waiting and calling on someone who would never answer.

Dom produced a gun wrapped in a towel while Arthur put on latex gloves. Dom was telling him where to aim (right between the eyes) when the target began to stir. Arthur stepped back in alarm, reflexively, even though the target was bound and unable to move anything beside his head.

"They must have fucked up the mix," Dom muttered while the target groaned and opened his eyes. "Do it now--"

"Dom?" The man interrupted, blinking blearily at Dom. "What are you--where am I?" Arthur's gun arm wavered. The man straightened. "Shit. Don't tell me--"

"Shut the fuck up," Dom said. "You think I got anything to say to traitors?"

"I dunno what you think I've done, but I swear I didn't do it." The man was gasping, breaths coming fast as his face reddened with panic. "Alls I want is to go somewhere, me and Liza, move somewhere no one knows us, settle--"

"We're family," Dom said, cutting him off. "And you turn your back on us?"

"Please, Dom. We've known each other our whole lives." Tears leaked from the corners of the target's eyes, and Arthur resisted the urge to look away from the pathetic sight. "It's me, Stefano. Lil Steffy. My Dad and your Dad used to shoot the shit after church when we played ball together, and our moms--"

"Shut up." Dom took a step forward, hands curling into fists. "You're the one that ruined everything."

"I didn't mean to," Stefano whispered. "You know I was never no good at this. I was never like you. My numbers aren't worth shit and I'm too soft to be an enforcer."

Dom's expression twisted and he blinked, hard. "This isn't about--we could have gotten your numbers up. If you--"

"I don't want to run drugs or pimp girls no more," Stefano said. "All's I want is to get a job where I can crack a few jokes, make people smile, sell them a car or a couch or something. Nothing fancy. I don't need what you got."

"Dom," Arthur croaked. The gun felt heavy, slippery in his sweaty fingers. "Maybe--"

Stefano's eyes widened as he seized on Arthur's hesitation. "I can disappear. You'll never hear a peep from me again. I won't make no trouble for you, I promise."

"You want me to lie for you. To break my word."

"I wouldn't ask if it were anyone else." Stefano's face crumpled. "You remember when you came to live with us when we was kids? It was one of the best years of my life, having you around. I felt like I lost a brother when your old man came back."

"We came up together and this is how you turned out." Dom looked away. "This is what you chose to do with my trust."

"Please," Stefano pleaded. He looked at Arthur, eyes as desperate and wild as a deer. "Please don't do this."

Dom put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. Just like they'd practiced so many times before, Arthur's gun came up. The shot rang out, hideously loud, and Arthur tasted something foul in the back of his throat. There was a ringing in his ears and then silence.

Arthur became conscious of Dom's fingers digging into his trapezius, hard enough to send a thread of pain down his back. Dom stared at the body, as if stupefied by what he saw. This wasn't proper procedure. Proper procedure would be to clean the gun and vacate the premises immediately.

They stood there long enough for the disposal team to arrive and chide them for still being on site. Dom broke out of his trance, hustled Arthur out. Arthur glanced over his shoulder and saw Stefano's body tossed into a wheeled garbage bin like spoiled meat, eyes still wide open.

Arthur didn't remember the drive to Dom's apartment, or Dom putting a beer in his hand.

Arthur was sitting on the couch when a powerful roiling sensation started in his abdomen. He barely made it to the bathroom before he was retching, painful heaves that burned his throat and mouth. After everything he'd eaten in the past day was expelled, Arthur rested his head against the toilet seat.

Dom rubbed a palm in soothing circles where his grip had bruised Arthur earlier. "It shouldn't have gone down like that. Steffy shouldn't have--" Dom halted, sucked in two quick breaths. "It gets easier."

"It's okay," Arthur said. His eyes felt hot. "I can handle it."

"Good," Dom said. And then, "You're one of us, now."

Chapter Text

Arthur doesn't dream often. When he does, there’s usually nothing but incoherent wisps: a pawn moving across a half-visible chessboard, the whisper of his mother’s name, the smell of cloves and blood.

But this time he finds himself back on the sidewalk, walking home, that man coming towards him, that knife glinting in the sun, the long moment of shock before searing pain across his torso, agony as he lashes out with a wild punch and falls to the ground. It’s difficult to breathe.

Instead of the mugger standing over him, there's a woman holding a knife.

A smell wakes him: antiseptic, bleach to cover the fluids of human body. It makes him want to retch. He turns onto his side, sheets sweaty and scratchy against his skin. He’s not at home. He knows this style of bed, with its stiff mattress and repositionable frame, its cold side rails.

A surge of panic rises up. His entire body aches. His hand hurts like it fucked up someone’s face. He’s trapped by the machines breathing for him, every inhale a searing burn across his chest, every exhale impossible—

Arthur forces his exhausted limbs to move, yanks at the wires connecting him to beeping machines. His mom will stop him before he injures himself. He needs room, he needs freedom—

Her cooling hand never reaches his forehead. Arthur falls over the side of the bed and lands on his left knee, screams in agony. His hand instinctively travels to his chest, expecting blood to seep through bandages, his lungs to collapse without mechanical assistance.

He wheezes through one breath, then two, giant gulps of air that don’t hurt as much as they should. As he sits, bare-assed on the cold linoleum floor, features of the room come into view.

This isn’t the juvenile wing. The walls are dingy off-white, no fresh flowers to be found. There’s no window, no way to tell what time of day it is. The door opens.

Dom, Arthur opens his mouth to say. But it’s not Dom; a middle-aged woman in scrubs steps through.

“Oh, no, honey. Did you fall?” The woman is unfamiliar. She has tan skin and braid of dark hair. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

A new nurse? Impossible. He knows every single one in the hospital. Months of nothing to do but notice their shifts, note which ones are friendly or stern, who will sneak him extra dessert or fuck up his bandages. They’ve been short-staffed for almost a year; had a hiring freeze. Who is this stranger?

“I know a big handsome man like you probably hates being told what to do, but you need rest,” the nurse says as she urges Arthur back onto the bed. “You can’t just walk off a car accident.”

Car accident? The phrase turns up a blank in Arthur’s mind. The last time his mom could afford a car was three years ago. A piece of shit junker that lasted for less than a month before it stopped starting completely. Repairs would have cost more than the car itself was worth.

“Would you like some water? Something to eat?” The nurse holds out a plastic cup. Arthur reaches for it, abruptly aware of how his throat feels like sandpaper. “The kitchen’s closed, but I could get you something from the vending machines.”

The nurse continues her one-sided chatter as she resets the machines. When she tries to reconnect his IV, Arthur pulls away.

“Where’s my—” His voice sounds odd, deep and raspy with disuse. “Where’s my mom?”

The nurse’s face softens. Before she can reply, the door to the room opens again and a cop steps in, dressed in asshole swagger.

“Could we have the room?” the cop says, and it’s clear from his tone that it’s not a question. The nurse nods as she sets down the IV.

“I’ll be back with some food, okay?” she says with a touch of Arthur’s elbow. It feels strange, and that’s when Arthur realizes his entire left arm is wrapped in gauze, skin raw underneath. He doesn’t remember the injury, but maybe he scraped himself as he fell.

His head feels too heavy for his body. Woozy. Hard to think. Like being drunk, the one time some kids behind the bleachers had offered him beer. He’d drained the can too fast and promptly thrown up afterwards. They never offered again.

The cop looms over the bed, moon round face tickling something in Arthur’s memory. He’s not the cop that came by their apartment the third time they were robbed and only said, “You should probably get a deadbolt.” Or the one that hit on Mom while she was working in that shithole diner and stormed out on the bill when she wouldn’t go to dinner with him.

He’s also not the cop that took Arthur’s statement after he was stabbed, who said there was no way to track down the guy that did it, and why was Arthur walking through that part of town anyway?

“One of my mentors from the academy warned me about guys like you,” the cop says. He’s young, fresh-faced with the self-righteous vigor of a true believer. “Teflon, they call it. Nothing sticks because you’re ‘connected.’”

Arthur’s head throbs as a new memory surfaces: that night when Eames first tried to kiss him and Arthur went home instead. That drive back, the asshole cop that pulled him over, dragged to jail to prove some point.

“Imagine my surprise when I get a call about a disturbance at a bar. We’ve got witnesses, blood alcohol levels through the roof, and busted cars.” The cop looks down at Arthur with a smug, self-satisfied expression. “No slipping out of this one.”

Arthur’s lip splits open as he speaks. “Fuck you.” Iron spills across his tongue as everything comes back: the hideous road of physical therapy after his hospital release; the pride he felt working his first job for Dom; the smile on his mother’s face the day he bought her a house.

The day he met Eames. The day Cho ended it.

The cop’s expression darkens. “The hell did you say to me?”

“That you can suck my dick,” Arthur says, slow and deliberate. “You know how much money I donate to your bullshit police union? How many of your bosses owe me favors? By the time I’m out of here, you’re going to pray that cocksucking’s all you have to do.”

The cop grabs Arthur by the injured arm and twists. “Listen to me, you piece of shit fag—”

Arthur ignores the searing pain in his left shoulder and swings his good arm around, catching the cop off-guard. When the he lets go reflexively, Arthur throws his entire weight on top of him, sending them both to the ground.

He’s on him for barely a minute before the door flies open and people rush in. Doctors and nurses shout as they pull him apart.

Arthur feels the prick of a needle in his neck before he falls into darkness.

There’s someone watching him sleep. The gaze isn’t sexual, or aggressive. As Arthur struggles to open his eyelids, one of which is completely swollen shut, he can make out the outline of a woman seated at his bedside.

He exhales, tension releasing in his chest. His mother is finally here. The two of them against the world, like it’s always been.

“Hello, Arthur,” the woman says, voice warm and low. In her fifties, with dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. “How are you feeling?”

No. Not Lydia. He can make out the cheap, ill-fitting suit now.

“You’re…” He struggles to speak, but his mouth is dry enough to hurt, throat all fucked up.

“My name is Ruth Goldberg. It’s good to meet you.”

Arthur coughs, reaches for the plastic cup of water on the nightstand. His left arm jerks, but can’t reach. He’s been restrained, arms and legs tied down to the bed.

“Those were not my choice. Unfortunately, the hospital deemed them necessary after you leaped on Officer Pinkerton.” She sighs. “I had hoped we could have our first conversation under better circumstances.”

Arthur tries to work some saliva into his mouth. His head is throbbing. “You’re a Fed.”

“I am a US Marshal.” She pulls an ID badge from her jacket. “I’m not here to arrest or interrogate you. I want to talk, that’s all.”

Arthur turns his face away. “I want my lawyer.”

“You’re not being charged with anything.” Arthur says nothing—she’s probably all wired up with some asshole in a van listening in. “Although you have gotten yourself in quite the pickle. Drunk and disorderly behavior, assault and battery, driving with under the influence, a car accident bad enough to send you to the ER. Not to mention assaulting a police officer.”

Flashes come back to him, out of order and hazy. Talking to Sal, wondering if this was the last conversation he was ever going to have; calling Dom over and over with no answer; texting Cho about a jacket; Arthur’s fist meeting the jaw of some drunk asshole; Lydia hanging up on him; Balal kissing him goodbye; fumbling with car keys.

“I want my lawyer,” Arthur repeats, closing his eyes. Eye. He’s not tired, but maybe Ruth will leave if she thinks he’s fallen asleep.

“As I said, I’m not here to arrest you. I want to help.”

He can’t help the snort. Ruth and Pinkerton in a cheap rendition of bad cop, good fed. Great.

“I understand you have no reason to believe me, or to trust me. But here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to talk for a little bit, and then the hospital is going to let you go. You don’t have to say anything, and you don’t have to make any decisions now.” Ruth pauses, as if expecting a response. Arthur says nothing.

“I’m sure you know what US Marshals do.” She gets up and walks around the bed to stand in front of him. “I work with the Witness Protection Program. We give people the opportunity to start their lives over, free from fear of retaliation or violence.”

For the small price of being a snitch for the government. “I’m an accountant. I don’t know what you think I’d need protection from.”

“No, Arthur.” Ruth leans forward to catch his eye. “You’re a survivor. With a mother he loves and wants to take care of. I want to help you shoulder that burden. Can you take care of her from prison on a sixty-year sentence with no chance for parole?”

“Don’t bring my mother into this.”

“I know what she went through to get away from the Haredim. How hard they made her life after she left, how they punished her family.” Ruth shakes her head. “How they refuse to acknowledge her now that she’s sick, and in need.”

“I’m not talking about my mother.” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. His head throbs. He wants this conversation to be over.

“Arthur, I want you to know I’m not your enemy. After our conversation is finished, I’m going to call the hospital staff to remove your restraints. You will be discharged immediately. Your car was totaled, unfortunately, but I expect acquiring a new vehicle won’t be a problem for you. A taxi will be waiting to take you home.”

More like a trip to the station courtesy of Officer Pinkerton, Arthur thinks. As if sensing his thoughts, Ruth continues, “No police. No record of your involvement with the accident, or your presence at a bar earlier this evening. You’ll be free to go back home, to work, and go about your business.”

She leaves the room. Arthur can’t make out the words of the conversation in the hallway, but after a few minutes several (large, burly) hospital staff step in to undo his restraints.

To Arthur’s surprise, everything plays out exactly as Ruth had described. He’s given privacy to change back into his clothing (which is irreparably torn and bloody, but enough for the ride home). The burly staff don’t lay a hand on him, merely escort him to the front desk. He’s discharged him without a lick of paperwork: no insurance forms to fill out, no bills, no record of him being there at all.

Ruth stands next to a black car that’s waiting for him. “Take care of yourself, Arthur. I’ll be around.”

Arthur rolls his eye as he calls his own taxi.

No one tails him home. They probably don’t need to, anyway.

When he gets back to his apartment, he discovers a business card in his pants pocket. Ruth Goldberg, US Marshal, a phone number and email address. He throws it in the trash with his ruined clothing.