Work Text:
Don't beat yourself up over the Fischer job.
- Slipped into Arthur's coat pocket while exiting the plane, Los Angeles, California
It's not that Eames is especially sentimental. He's not some schoolgirl who slips perfumed letters into her crush's locker. It's just that Arthur looks wrecked when they wake up, his eyes moving rapidly between Cobb and Saito, and Eames can almost hear Arthur's mind berating and reprimanding himself for messing up on the Fischer research.
Ariadne realizes it too, and though Eames can tell she's worried as well, she's trying to bring Arthur out of it. Her face is pretty upon realization, like knowledge and learning becomes her, and she asks him how the hell he actually made that kick in Level Two. He doesn't even answer. His hand slips into his pocket, no doubt grabbing whatever totem he has, and he runs to the plane's loo to test it for himself.
Eames scribbles the note hurriedly, as a distraction from Cobb's slumber, as a way to tell Arthur what he needs to hear because Arthur would never listen to him.
Arthur finds the note at Customs, his brow creasing as he reads it. His eyes scan the room, intent to find its writer. Eames clasps his shoulder before he steps into the line for non-US citizens.
"Pleasure working with you again, Arthur."
///
I see you took my advice; nice job with the elevator. Always dream bigger. Size does matter, after all.
- Left in Arthur's mailbox, Santa Monica, California
Arthur's eyes narrow next time they meet; not in a menacing way, but in an inquisitive one. For the first time since Eames met the perfectly pressed Arthur, he looks at Eames like he can't quite figure him out. A tiny thrill shoots up Eames' spine and he gives Arthur a mischievous grin.
"Darling, so good to see you again."
///
Who knew the cold, hard Arthur had dimples when he smiled? And your eyes crinkle up too. It is, frankly, rather adorable.
- Stuck to Arthur's cup of coffee. Cobb's house, Los Angeles, California
James wanted to meet Daddy's friends. And since all Daddy does is work, well, his crew is forced to come over for dinner.
Uncle Arthur has Phillipa in his lap, her small feet kicking against his three-hundred-dollar trousers. She pulls herself up by his tie and whispers a secret in his ear. The tie loosens, the impeccable knot ruined by her fist, but he laughs, completely lost to the childish musings being whispered to him.
Eames gets up, asking if anyone wants coffee or tea, suddenly needing to get out of the room, scared he’ll open his mouth and say something stupid like how beautiful Arthur looks when he smiles.
///
You should get beaten up more often. There’s just something about a rumpled Arthur that does things to the imagination. Not that you have one…
- Left on the table next to a sleeping Arthur. Cobb’s workshop, Los Angeles, California
It’s almost a game at this point; looking for something, anything to write a note about. He carries a tiny notebook and a pen in his pocket right next to his totem. They’re harder on each other, pointing out every mistake the other one makes in front of the crew. They disagree on every point whether they believe that way or not.
The crew is training again for the first time in years. There have been too many run-ins with pissed off projections from an unstable or trained subconscious and Ariadne suggests maybe they should do something about it.
They pair off daily, switching partners as they go along, attempting to woo and subdue each other’s projections. Cobb won’t let anyone in his dreams besides Ariadne, for whatever reason, so that leaves a lot of one-on-one time with Arthur.
Of course, Arthur’s mind is as guarded as Fort Knox, and when you piss off his projections, they don’t take too kindly to it. Arthur ends up throwing punches at them to keep from slaying Eames with their bare hands. The last thing Eames sees before he receives a death-induced kick is Arthur, clothing torn, hair falling into his eyes, and a purple shiner rising up on his cheek.
When he wakes, he doesn’t even check his totem. He writes his note and throws it on the table and leaves before Arthur wakes up.
///
I don’t dream very often. None of us do, of course. Even Ariadne is losing natural dreams. But I had one a couple of nights ago, and I figured you’d be flattered to find out that you were in it.
- Folded and placed with the bookmark inside Arthur’s copy of A Farewell to Arms
Eames’ favorite part in this whole thing is how Arthur says nothing about it. Arthur watches him constantly now, as if he’s trying to catch Eames in the act of penning out his secret letters.
Eames plays along with it, though, even if he decides to up his game.
///
I had quite a long note written, detailing everything that happened, but then I realized you probably don’t want to know.I’ll just say this, darling. My subconscious seems to think your ass is even more gorgeous out of those tailored trousers you always wear than it is in them.
PS – Enjoy the gift
- Taped to a box containing stolen platinum cuff links
It’s an easy, three-person job this time. Cobb is there to extract, Eames is there to distract, and Arthur is there to be on the front lines, to get them the information they need to know.
Winston Germain knows just about every large-scale arms dealer in the Northeast and a mob boss in Jersey hires Cobb to get all that juicy knowledge.
When they meet up with Germain, who’s tripping in some strip club back room, Arthur can’t stop staring at the man’s cuff links, like they’re the most gorgeous things he’s ever seen. And in Arthur’s fucked up sense of logic and fashion, they probably are.
Eames is the last person to leave the room after the extraction. He wonders if Germain will even notice that they’re missing when he wakes up.
///
Arthur, I
- crumbled in the waste bin of Eames’ hotel room, London, England
Eames shouldn’t go snooping in Arthur’s head. They’re supposed to be training, but it’s been weeks of letters and Arthur has worn those cuff links every time they see each other lately. Eames just wants to know what he’s thinking.
The landscape of their training dreams are always cities – more natural projections this way – and if Eames was thinking about bank vaults before they hooked up to the machine, then so be it.
Eames disguises himself – nameless, forgettable – and walks into the bank while Arthur is no doubt searching for him in the labyrinth of the dream.
He charms the lady at the reception desk; she even opens Arthur’s lock box for him. It’s the largest one on the wall, though that doesn’t surprise Eames since Arthur loves his secrets. The box is filled with aliases, contacts, and pictures from his childhood. Eames is about to toss the box aside and confront Arthur when, buried at the bottom, he finds a paper-clipped stack of torn off pages and sticky notes, all covered with Eames’ messy script and terrible spelling.
He takes a deep breath when he realizes that he didn’t actually write all of these. There are letters – long and short, flirty and serious – written in Eames’ handwriting. They’re dreams, dreams and anticipation of what Eames could write.
You were gorgeous last night –
About the Jackson job, do you think we could—
The only way I’m going to let you dress me is if you promise to undress me right after—
“Is this how you plan on subduing my projections?” Arthur asks behind him. He’s never the happiest bloke, but Eames is shocked by the anger in his face. A vein in Arthur’s neck pulses against his skin.
Eames holds up the letters – the real and imagined ones. “You could’ve told me, darling.”
Arthur closes his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows. “It really isn’t any of your business, which is why they’re in here.”
The funny thing about dreams -- well, lucid ones -- is that you can make them whatever you want them to be. Arthur has a gun in his hand in the time it takes Eames to blink. The next second, he’s awake, sitting in their workshop and Arthur’s waking up beside him.
“Arthur—”
“Don’t,” Arthur spits, standing up and slipping back into his waistcoat before walking out the door.
///
There’s a very fine tailor here. That is, if you would ever have need of one in this area, say, if you and Cobb are in the market for an excellent forger. I’m sure you’d know where to find me, Point Man.
- Sealed in an envelope, postmarked in Mombasa, Kenya; placed in Arthur’s mailbox.
Eames has been in Mombasa for a month when Arthur, in his navy jumper and white oxford and paisley tie, shows up on his doorstep.
“Well, hello, love,” Eames says, stepping to the side to allow Arthur inside. “If you and Cobb needed me, you could’ve just called.” As if he didn’t practically invite Arthur to his Kenyan abode.
Arthur walks in and thrusts Eames’ notes into his chest before Eames closes the door. “I don’t get these, Eames. I don’t—I don’t get the point! You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks now and—”
Eames drops his letters onto the floor and presses his mouth against Arthur’s before he can say another word. He almost sighs in relief when Arthur’s lips open, his tongue instantly searching for Eames’, and Eames complies. He presses Arthur fully against his body, not a centimeter of space between them. Arthur’s teeth tug gently at Eames’ lower lip, and he groans softly.
Arthur pulls away and clears his throat, looking down as if he’s embarrassed that he gave in, that he let go.
“We should check our totems,” Arthur whispers.
Eames shakes his head, tilting his face toward Arthur. “Later. I don’t—I don’t want to know right now for sure.” Arthur nods, giving a shy grin, and he moves to unbuckle Eames’ belt.
Eames imagined this happening many ways; filthy, with the goal of debauching and disheveling Arthur as much as possible. Slowly, focusing on each movement of undress, keeping Arthur as carefully put together as he likes to be. This is neither though. This is merely loosening Arthur’s tie so that Eames can bruise his neck with his mouth. This is unbuttoning trousers, only to leave them half-open while their cocks slips and slide together between layers of linen and cotton. This is Eames grunting Arthur’s name when he’s close to coming and watching the way it drives Arthur crazy.
Well, maybe Eames dirties him up a little when Arthur comes in his trousers, messy and wet against Eames’, and it’s probably the most gorgeous thing Eames has ever seen.
Eames kisses Arthur’s sleepy, sated smile before divesting him of his clothes.
///
The only way I’m going to let you dress me at that tailor, darling, is if you promise to undress me right after.
- Taped to Eames’ bathroom counter in front of Arthur’s shaving kit.