Chapter Text
Arthur buys an island.
It takes Eames a year to figure out which one.
---
He knocks on Arthur’s door, and Arthur greets him with a shotgun.
It’s about the welcome Eames expected.
Nothing else is.
---
For example, when he sees it’s Eames, Arthur lowers the shotgun instead of jabbing Eames in the chest with it and ordering Eames off his property.
Another example. Arthur’s house is as cluttered and chaotic on the inside as it is disarmingly ramshackle on the outside. Eames is pretty sure he saw some shingles on the front lawn, and after the hike to get here had taken almost a half hour, he’d been expecting something a little more auspicious. Maybe even a moat.
After being invited in, Eames almost immediately identifies as least three different cats.
Seeing the questioning look in Eames’ eyes, Arthur shrugs nonchalantly, and explains, “For the mice.”
Arthur then offers Eames a seat and a cup of tea. In yet another instance in a growing string of bewildering turns of events, the tea is perfect. Strong and calming, exactly like tea is meant to be.
Although Eames is willing to entertain the possibility that this second quality might have something to do with Arthur’s presence, as well. Disconcerting though it may be, Arthur seems to be radiating tranquility.
Arthur doesn’t ask Eames why he’s here or how he found out where Arthur was. One might reasonably expect him to be more curious, particularly when they haven’t spoken in almost two years and by all counts, not even Cobb knew where Arthur went after they disbanded at LAX.
But Arthur defies such natural curiosity, apparently preferring to sip his own tea in silence. After some time, one of the cats hops onto Arthur’s lap. He puts down his cup of tea and rubs the cat obligingly on its belly.
Eames stares, quite certain his mouth is hanging open slightly, but unable to do anything about it. As he watches Arthur pet his cat, Eames finally starts to take in other details as well.
Like how Arthur’s feet are bare, despite the damp chill in the air outside his surprisingly cozy living room. Like his jumper, which looks suspiciously homemade and is possibly the most terrible article of clothing Eames has ever seen, which is certainly saying something. The jumper is a truly horrible shade of mustard yellow, a knitted monstrosity that has two entirely different patterns in the sleeves (which are also vastly differing lengths) and has a large hole in the left shoulder.
Like the stacks of books and records and maps piled everywhere around them, none of which, at least from casual observation, appear to have anything to do with extraction or even architecture. Eames is pretty sure he spies all of the Harry Potter series and at least two Hardy Boys mysteries.
Like the faint smell of cedar and cinnamon in the air, like the strangely soothing sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs in the distance.
Like the rumpled mess of Arthur’s hair, the smoothness of his cheeks, the conspicuous lack of dark circles under his eyes.
When he catches Eames staring, Arthur smiles.
This is perhaps the most disconcerting development of all.
Attempting to regain his footing, Eames clears his throat and takes a long sip of tea.
Arthur continues to smile at him benignly.
“Look, I have a job--”
“I’m retired,” Arthur interrupts, firm, but not unkind.
Eames stares at him blankly. “Not even Cobb is retired!” he protests, voice faintly incredulous.
Arthur simply shrugs and carries on petting the purring cat in his lap.
“Nevertheless, I am,” Arthur confirms, sounding relaxed possibly to the point of being zen.
“Am I even in the right place?” Eames exclaims, not sure if he’s addressing Arthur or himself.
“Not if you’re looking for a point man,” Arthur supplies, whether he’s being spoken to or not.
“I meant - are you even Arthur?”
Arthur’s smile grows in prominence on his face. “I know what you meant.”
“And?”
He laughs softly. “I’m Arthur.”
“Are you sure?” Eames questions skeptically, padding himself down, searching for his totem.
For the first time, Arthur’s eyes darken, just a little.
“I’m real, this is real,” he assures Eames, his voice slightly strained, authoritative.
Eames gives up looking for his poker chip, and Arthur relaxes, smiling again.
“I wish you’d stop that,” Eames mutters, despite himself.
“Stop what?”
“Smiling!”
Arthur does. “I’m sorry I make you uncomfortable,” he says, sounding sincere.
Eames sighs, put off with himself. “Don’t be sorry, jesus. This is your home.”
Arthur catches his smile half-formed, but there’s no disguising the pleasure in his voice when he says, “Yes. It is.”
There’s a long pause, and then the most stunning thing that has ever happened to Eames, in all his varied and often fantastical life, occurs.
Arthur looks at him seriously, and says, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
---
Arthur has goats. And a horse.
He tells Eames the horse’s name is Shadowfax without a hint of embarrassment and assures Eames she’s very well behaved.
“You can take her out for a ride, later, if you like. It’s a nice way to see the rest of the island.”
Currently, they’re standing inside Arthur’s barn, one of the three structures visible from his house. One apparently stores Arthur’s well, and the other is a lighthouse.
The barn is larger than one horse and several goats necessitate, but Arthur explains that it was already there when he purchased the island. He talks about this transaction like it’s perfectly ordinary, rather than at least a little bit insane. This is par for the course of all Arthur’s explanations, it transpires.
As they leave the barn, he says, “I’m thinking of getting some chickens,” and then actually looks inquisitively at Eames, like he’s hoping for a second opinion.
“Why not a cow, too, darling. I imagine it would be nice to have fresh milk around here.”
Arthur ignores or isn’t aware of the vaguely hysterical edge in Eames’ voice, and just nods contemplatively, and says, “I only have groceries flown in every three weeks, so I usually end up using powdered milk a lot of the time. Maybe it would be worth it to keep a milk cow around.”
Eames wants to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him, but instead, he asks, “Do you know how to milk a cow?”
“No, but I’m sure I could learn.”
Eames can think of nothing to say in response to this, so he nods in what he hopes is an encouraging manner and follows Arthur down the path.
They walk for roughly 20 minutes, and eventually run out of ground.
They pass through a ring of pine trees and there’s a rocky descent, and the ocean below.
Arthur breathes deeply. Eames takes a cautious step away from him. Incredibly, Arthur barks out a short, genuine laugh.
“I’m not going to push you, Eames,” he says, chuckling around his words.
Eames smiles tentatively. “Why did you bring me here, then?”
Arthur shakes his head, still disproportionately amused. “I come here everyday. You just came along, this time.”
“Waiting for the whales of August?” Eames quips.
Arthur just tosses his head back, laughing again. “Something like that.”
---
Arthur makes stew. It’s delicious.
There’s wine. It’s simple, uncomplicated, but also quite good.
“I made it myself,” Arthur announces after his second glass, his cheeks slightly pink.
“Well done,” Eames says sincerely before the oddness of any of this can creep into his voice.
Arthur accepts the compliment gracefully, and refills Eames’ glass.
A cat winds its way around Eames’ ankles, and Eames laughs, for a second, imagining it had been Arthur’s foot he felt pressed up against him instead.
Arthur smiles like he’s sharing the joke, and then he reaches across the table, touching Eames’ hand, however briefly, and Eames realizes he probably is.
---
There isn’t a second bed, or a second bedroom. There’s just the main living area, the kitchen bleeding into the bookshelves and comfy chairs scattered throughout the house, a minuscule bathroom with just enough space for a shower and a toilet, no sink, and the equally cramped space into which Arthur has managed to fit a very large bed. It takes up almost the entire room.
The bed is covered by an afghan that is of similar quality and aesthetic offensiveness as Arthur’s jumper.
Eames looks dubiously back and forth between the bed and Arthur.
Arthur pats him consolingly on the back. “I’m not starting the wood stove until at least the first snow. You’ll be glad for the extra warmth.”
This is the first time it has actually occurred to Eames that Arthur means for them to share.
“I can take one of the couches out front,” Eames offers, thumbing behind him.
Arthur shakes his head. “Nonsense. None of them are long enough for you, and like I said, it’s going to get cold. Sharing body heat will help.”
“Are you offering to snuggle with me, darling?” Eames asks, voice light and joking.
Arthur just shrugs, and says, “I’m warning you in advance that I have very cold feet.”
Eames swallows with difficulty, and says, “Noted,” with the degree of solemnity he feels it deserves.
They change in separate corners of the room, and Eames is glad he bothered to back more than one day’s worth of clothing. They both forgo teeth brushing, and climb into bed, picking opposite sides without discussing it.
Arthur turns off the lamp on his side, and says, “Good night, Eames,” in a voice already half taken by sleep.
Eames responds, “Sleep well, Arthur,” but if Arthur is still awake, he doesn’t reply.
When Eames wakes up the next morning, he’s lost most of his share of the blankets, but he’s still comfortably warm, likely because Arthur is wrapped around him instead, lying half on top of Eames like he belongs there.
Instead of getting up, Eames runs an experimental hand through Arthur’s hair, and Arthur makes a muffled, pleased sound, and burrows in closer against Eames’ neck.
Eames draws in a stuttering breath, and stays exactly where he is.
---
When he wakes up again, Arthur is gone, but the afghan has been wrapped securely around Eames to make up for it.
He sits up in bed, and listens carefully. He can hear Arthur talking to his cats, he can smell porridge and coffee.
Eames gets out of bed, and leans in the door frame of the bedroom, watching Arthur stirring honey into his bowl of porridge.
He looks up, and smiles at Eames.
Eames smiles back.
---
They go for another walk after breakfast, longer this time. It takes them over an hour before Arthur stops.
Eames looks at him curiously, but Arthur doesn’t notice, distracted. He rifles through the satchel he has strapped across his chest, digging out a pair of binoculars.
He hands them to Eames, and then pulls out another pair for himself. Eames holds them uncertainly.
Arthur hunches down amidst the trees, casting his eyes skyward, binoculars held loosely in his hands.
“What are we doing here, Arthur? Give me a clue,” Eames says, crouching beside him.
“Bird watching,” Arthur explains airily, leaning into Eames’ shoulder, just a little.
“Bird watching?”
Arthur nods, and pats his bag significantly. “I keep track of everything I see in my notebook, let me know if you spot anything interesting.”
Eames has no idea what would qualify as such, but he nods anyway, and joins Arthur in watching the sky.
---
There’s a thunderstorm that night. All the cats hide, but Arthur revels in it, standing out on his porch, letting the wind and rain batter down hard against him. Eames watches from inside, where it’s warm and dry.
At one point, Arthur closes his eyes, face upturned, grinning rapturously.
Eames has never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
---
Arthur has a very clear routine, possibly this is what comes from living for over a year in utter solitude, possibly this is just Arthur being Arthur.
He gets up with the sun every morning, makes coffee and breakfast, adjusting his patterns only far enough to make enough of both for Eames instead of only himself. He goes birdwatching in the mornings, returns home for lunch, and then goes out to the barn to feed his goats and brush Shadowfax while she munches on carrots and barley.
In the afternoons, he reads and listens to records, and there is just enough room on his favorite couch for Eames to sit beside Arthur, reading over his shoulder and making the occasional comment that Arthur always smiles at absently, even though Eames knows he’s not really paying any attention.
In the early evening, Arthur usually bakes something, a pie or a loaf of bread, and he knits while he waits for whatever is in the oven to finish cooking. He’s an abysmal knitter, as his jumper and afghan can attest to, but he seems determined to keep trying, all the same.
It’s usually dark by the time Arthur starts dinner, and he shoos away Eames’ half-hearted offers to help.
One night, Eames asks, “Where did you learn to cook like this?” over a delectable mouthful of chicken pot pie.
Arthur waves his fork modestly and says, “I taught myself,” adding, upon Eames’ impressed look, “You should have been here the first few months. It was all burnt toast and half-cooked meat. Terrible.”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Eames teases, but when Arthur looks up at him, after, eyes soft and serious, Eames realizes he actually means it.
---
After the first night, Arthur doesn’t bother waiting until they’re both asleep to roll unconsciously against Eames. As soon as he’s shut off the light, he says, “Good night, Eames,” and then curls up against him, tucking his head in the crook of Eames’ neck, breathing shallowly, drifting off so effortlessly that no one would ever think Arthur’d spent half of his life unable to sleep without the aid of a PASIV.
Sleep starts coming to Eames almost as easily, after he’s been there for a few weeks. Arthur remarks that the sea air must be agreeing with Eames.
Eames thinks Arthur’s company probably has a lot more to do with it.
---
Arthur’s island is roughly 60 kilometres off the coast of Newfoundland. Evidently he brokered the sale from the government of Canada, or possibly the French, it’s not entirely clear to Eames which.
After he’s been there for over two months, Eames finally takes Shadowfax out for a ride, and it takes them almost an hour to get all the way across.
The helicopter Eames flew himself over in is still sitting in the eastern most clearing, waiting for him. He doesn’t even slow as he rides past it on his way back to Arthur’s house.
When Eames returns, Arthur smiles at him and holds up a plate.
“Apple pie?”
Eames takes the pie and sits down at the table beside Arthur.
They eat in silence, save the occasional murmur of appreciation. The pie, like everything else Arthur has made, apart from his knitting projects, is superb.
This time, when Eames feels something warm press against his leg, he already has all the cats accounted for, so he knows for certain that it’s Arthur.
In case there was any remaining doubt, Arthur smiles at him softly, and says, “I’m glad you’re finally here.”
---
At the time, Arthur’s comment over pie had seemed sweet, but wholly nonsensical. But lying in bed later that night, with Arthur sleeping against him, it occurs to Eames that, technically, he had been invited.
When they’d gotten off the plane and collected their luggage after performing inception, Eames had waited for Arthur, and Arthur hadn’t seemed surprised.
They’d left the airport together, queuing up for a taxi.
Arthur was in front, and so he’d gotten in first, looking at Eames over his shoulder. He’d said, “I’m off to live a life of rugged individualism, unless you want to join me, that is.”
Eames had laughed, assuming, quite reasonably, he thought, that Arthur was joking, and he’d closed Arthur’s door for him, waiting his turn for the next taxi.
Apparently Arthur hadn’t been joking after all.
Not about any of it.
---
“I came here to convince you to leave with me,” Eames begins over breakfast the next morning, staring hard at his hands instead of looking at Arthur.
“I know,” Arthur responds simply.
Eames nods a little. “But I think now - I think I might,” he forces himself to look up, and, sure enough, Arthur is smiling encouragingly, eyes patient. “I think I might stay,” Eames finishes, wondering why he feels so uncertain, when Arthur has seemed anything but since the moment Eames arrived.
True to form, Arthur just nods, still smiling, and says, “As long as you like.”
Eames doesn’t say so, not aloud, but he thinks they both understand, now, that this will probably be a very long time indeed.