FIC: Kiss Trick, 3/?

[the_ragnarok]

The first time Eames worked with Arthur was shortly before Mal's unfortunate turn. His first impression of Arthur wasn't of particular note – professional, does his job well, and as far as Eames was concerned, that was it.

Eames doesn't remember much of the job itself, which at first appeared to be of some mild interest – vault combinations and secret panels; fun, but nothing very important. Then halfway through it shifted into a screaming chaos.

Because militarization was new at the time, none of them expected it. Nobody even thought to look for it. Arthur was just starting out then as an architect, newly minted and very highly recommended for his meticulous work. Their point man was a grizzled veteran by the name of Parkinson, who'd been skipping in and out of dreamsharing since the technology was first invented.

Five minutes inside the dream, the mark's projection took Parkinson down. Eames would have gone to help him, except he was busy getting his face ground into the dirt by a projection of an old man swearing at him to get off his (presumably metaphorical) lawn.

Eames managed to get away due to a combination of semi-remembered combat training and some truly undignified wriggling, put a shot through the projection's head, and prepared to put the next one through his own – he who fights and runs away, et cetera.

Except then he felt a hand landing on his shoulder, and a voice said, "Come on," right into his ear before grabbing his arm and running like hell. It was something strange, then, to look aside and realize that the bloody architect was the one who stayed alive, who was weaving through enemy lines, ducking live fire and jumping from two stories' height into a shop awning and from there to the sidewalk, rolling through the impact and jumping right back to his feet.

"Pardon me," Eames panted, two steps behind Arthur. "But where the bloody fuck are we going?"

Without even glancing at Eames, Arthur says, "We'll get to a shortcut in five minutes." If you can stop talking and run seemed to be implied.

Eames, for whom not being torn to pieces by angry projections was always a high priority, shut up and ran after Arthur until they reached a brick wall. Fortunately, Eames knew enough by then about dream construction that he didn't say anything, just watched Arthur expectantly, and thus was prevented from embarrassing himself when Arthur pulled a brick out of the wall and the ground dropped under their feet.

Arthur's shortcut was halfway between a trapdoor and a slide. Eames had to strongly rein in the urge to shout in delight as they tumbled down, slipping over smooth stone in the darkness, coming to a stop in a mess of tangled limbs.

There was a pause as they rose, and the dark was pierced by the LED from Arthur's cellphone. Arthur swung it around for a minute before declaring, "North," and setting in the appropriate direction.

They were going through tunnels, vast damp places that put Eames in mind of the Gothic style, and also ninja turtles. Arthur never once seemed lost. Then again, why would he? He built this place himself, spent hours poring over tiny model buildings that Eames paid little attention to. Eames was starting to regret this.

Then Arthur stopped, for no reason that Eames could see. At Eames' quizzical look, Arthur pointed upwards. There was no ladder, but the stones were old and pitted, cracked in a way that offered plenty of handholds. "This goes right into Wester's office. You get up first, make him think about the codes. I'll try to crack the safe."

Eames hesitated for a moment. Then he decided that if Arthur wanted his fool head ripped off, this was no problem of Eames'. He knelt over a smooth bit of floor where he could almost see himself reflected and fell into the forgery of Wester's assistant before climbing up the wall, never looking behind to see whether Arthur followed.

Wester was being entertained by a couple of young women wearing dark suits and serious expressions. Eames (who wasn't as good at being his character back then) commanded his attention by sliding at him a brief full of – well, Eames didn't even know. That was part of the point; he just tried to project general paranoia and hope Wester's mind filled it with something appropriate.

The trick to the human mind is to realize that it's not unlike human institutions, and therefore similar to a beehive in that once one passes the perimeter guard, one is assumed to have the proper clearance to be inside, and therefore one is not stung to death. Eames' chat with Wester was downright cordial. Then Wester sent Eames to his office to get him the financial projections for the next quarter, and Eames went with a song in his heart and a spring in his step. Honestly, sometimes these things couldn't work better if one planned them.

He hadn't seen Arthur before nearly getting brained by him. Eames dropped his forgery in shock, and this is what saved him as Arthur jerked his hand (and the heavy paper weight he was holding) away. Eames decided to be gracious and only asked Arthur, "Got it yet?"

"Yes," Arthur said, rolling his eyes, "and that's why I'm awake and running away right now. Oh, wait." Then he smiled at Eames, sudden and sweet and so unexpected it left Eames blinking for a second. "Stand watch," Arthur said. "I almost have it."

Eames stood watch while doing his best to look as if he was searching the office for something important. Arthur busied himself with the safe, quiet except for the clicks of the mechanism right up until it went clonk-hiss and Arthur choked down something that sounded like "Yes."

That caught Eames' attention, and he found himself looking at Arthur as he unfolded himself to rise. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, a bright burst of pigment that made Eames' fingers itch for some unknowable reason. Arthur's eyes were burning with unholy glee as he handed Eames the scrap of paper they've been hunting for.

"We did it," Arthur said, face transformed with joy into something that Eames would see in his dreams for weeks afterwards.

Eames didn't know what to say, so he busied himself with committing the numbers to mind. Then he folded the papers and felt the cold steel of a gun's muzzle at his temple.

"Say when," Arthur said. And Eames, who never allowed anyone to put a gun to his head even in dreams, closed his eyes and said, "Now."

He expected Arthur to argue for a larger share of the proceeding, but Arthur accepted his money in its blank envelope and vanished away, as all good criminals must. Eames did the same.

After that, Arthur started looking for work as a point man, and Eames started looking for jobs that Arthur was working point for. He'd seen the man in action, after all, and you couldn't argue with success.

~~

The jingle of Arthur's keys snaps Eames out of his reverie.

"I'm going to meet the client," Arthur says, packing his laptop into his briefcase.

Eames puts down the papers he's been perusing. "Should I come along?"

Arthur gives him a small smile. "If you feel like it. Otherwise, go ahead and skip it." It's unspoken but acknowledged, now, that Eames will do the job.

Eames nods. "I'll just get into work, then."

"See that you do." Arthur bends to kiss Eames briefly, then shrugs on his jacket and heads for the door.

"Get some milk while you're out," Eames calls after him. He catches Arthur's nod before the door closes, lock clicking shut.

So. Eames gathers the files, looking at the pile of them, and thinks, Bayliss.

Eames can feel a kinship with Bayliss. This is the foundation all of Eames' skills, this kinship. People are all alike, some more so than others, but in the end there is always a common ground. So Eames thumbs through the pieces of paper, reading about corporate merges and purchases. All for himself, nothing for anyone else, and Eames thinks, He must be awfully lonely.

He can't afford to let himself be moved by pity. Not because he might compromise the job, but because if the man does not pity himself, that state of mind would be counterproductive to understanding him, to – in some small measure, for some small time – becoming him. Eames might not have to assume another skin in a dream for this job, but he needs to learn to think like Bayliss.

How does a man like Bayliss think?

In practicalities, Eames thinks, and jots a small note for himself. But not entirely so. Look at his art collection: Some of the pieces are clearly investments, others bought as a financial tactic – Behold my wealth, ye mighty, and despair. But these pieces here, which are neither wildly appreciated nor likely to rise in value – what are they for?

Eames reads about Bayliss' art-storage facilities. State-of-the-art security, of course, but Eames takes a more careful look at the details of temperature and humidity control, the special lighting installed. Bayliss visits each facility – he has three – at least once a fortnight.

A seduction, then. But not the type Eames generally uses.

Eames grins, suddenly, pulling out a pencil and paper, scrawling frantically. A job within a job, by God. Those corporate types always dream of something else, something more, and who but Eames could supply that? Let him take Bayliss on an adventure. Give the bastard his full money's worth.

He can't wear his own face for this, of course, but fortunately he has another one in stock that he thinks will fit beautifully.

By the time Arthur returns home, the living room is covered in sheets of paper and Eames has commandeered Arthur's whiteboard for some of the less well-defined bits. Arthur, bless him, sorts through the papers and comes to join Eames at the board, stealing his dry-erase marker and circling the bits he thinks need more work.

They refine the plan until two in the morning, until Eames' eyesight is too blurry to draw properly. Once in bed, Arthur presses against him, and Eames would love to take care of him, really he would, but as previously mentioned he is literally so tired he can't see straight.

He pushes Arthur away gently. Arthur takes it well enough, slipping away into the bathroom. Eames is asleep before he returns, but Arthur is sprawled all over him when wakes up the next morning, so Eames supposes his darling wasn't too dreadfully offended.