Chapter Text
i. Gunpowder
Arthur runs his finger around the outside of his glass, gathering the condensation. The hotel bar is awash with the dim chatter of a hundred anonymous people, but none of them are the one he’s waiting for. He suppresses the urge to check his watch for what must be the hundredth time, and instead takes another sip of his drink. It’s fragrant. The familiar taste of juniper coupled with a citrus that bursts bright on his tongue. Both notes are undercut by something sharp and spicy, like aniseed. He can’t seem to place it, although he’s certain he’s had it before.
“You must be Arthur.”
Arthur starts, jerked from his reverie. There’s a man in front of him: tall and dark and every bit Arthur’s type, his impeccably-tailored suit showing off the long lines of his body. Arthur rises smoothly to shake his hand, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his face.
“Yes I am, and you are—”
“Peter.” Arthur’s grip falters. Peter’s lip curls, a knowing smile. But it means nothing: Peter’s a common name, and sometimes a coincidence is just that. Arthur forces his own features into a polite smile.
“Nice to meet you,” he says as they both take their seats.
Peter flags the attention of a passing waiter and orders something Arthur’s not familiar with, a name forgotten as soon as it’s uttered. Then he turns back to Arthur and says with far too much confidence and not a single ounce of shame—
“So, do you come here often?”
Arthur takes a sip of his drink, stalling, trying to figure out how he wants to play this. He decides the only appropriate response to such a half-assed come-on is to answer earnestly. “What, here?” He makes a show of looking around the unfamiliar bar, taking in its sleek, minimalist architecture and the soft lighting glancing off the chrome finishes. Finally he says, “I feel as though I spend half my life in hotel bars just like this one.”
“Is that so?” Peter’s leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed, assessing. Peter is somehow bigger than his body, his presence taking up more space than what his narrow shoulders and slim hips should permit, effortlessly commanding Arthur’s attention. “What line of work are you in, to end up in places like this all the time?”
“I’m an architect,” he says. It’s only half a lie, and a lie by omission at that. “And yourself?”
“I work in accounting.”
Arthur’s stomach flips. He keeps his voice carefully casual. “How’s that?”
“Boring as sin,” he says with a laugh, his smile bright and gorgeous and enough to quell that niggling feeling of unease tugging at the back of Arthur’s mind.
Peter’s drink arrives, something amber on ice that Arthur doesn’t recognise. Peter swallows in one smooth glide, and Arthur’s transfixed by the line of his throat, by the bob of his Adam’s apple. Arthur reaches for his own drink and is surprised to find it empty. How long have they been sitting here, anyway?
“Now Arthur,” he says leaning in close, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I could buy you another drink and we can sit and chat some more. Or,” he says, running his hand up the inside of Arthur’s thigh underneath the table, “we could skip the song and dance, go up to your room, and you can fuck my brains out.”
Arthur keeps his expression neutral. He can appreciate a direct approach, and there’s no doubt that Peter is exactly his type. But nothing good ever comes easy—Arthur included.
“That’s very forward of you.”
“I don’t see the point in denying ourselves something we both obviously want.”
Arthur’s hand twitches where it rests on the table, itching to reach for his die. A nervous tic he never managed to get a handle on, and an obvious tell to anyone who knows him. Peter picks up on the movement and smiles knowingly.
“C’mon,” he says dragging his hand higher, toying with the inseam of Arthur’s slacks. Arthur’s resolve crumbles in discrete increments.
“Okay,” he breathes out on a sigh.
“Okay. What’s your room number?”
A sudden hush falls over the room. Everywhere, people are turning to look at them.
Arthur hesitates. “I don’t remember.”
“Check your pocket.”
Arthur reaches for the keycard in his pocket. He can feel the eyes of countless strangers burning into the back of his head. “Uh, fourteenth floor, room 27.”
Peter’s smile sharpens. “Shall we, then?” He rises to his feet and rebuttons his jacket, his deft, elegant fingers gliding over the expensive fabric.
“Sure.” Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to regain some of his composure. As he does, the entire room seems to relax with him, the quiet murmur of the other patrons filling the air once again, chatter accented by the clink of glassware and the scuff of chairs.
Arthur follows Peter into the lobby, his hand clenched tightly around his die where it’s hidden in his pocket. Peter shoots him a crooked grin over his shoulder, the expression looking out of place on his handsome face. Arthur falters. A nearby family stop to stare at them.
“C’mon,” he says, guiding Arthur with a gentle touch to his waist. “Just wait here a second.”
Peter makes for concierge desk, leaving Arthur alone with a rising sense of unease. Arthur can’t quite shake the feeling that there’s something off, something that doesn’t quite add up. It’s a feeling that only intensifies when Peter passes the concierge desk to approach a man. The stranger is hidden behind a pillar but Arthur can see the way Peter’s leaning in, whispering very closely.
Arthur strays from his spot, trying to catch a glimpse of who Peter’s talking to. The conversation is brief, lasting mere seconds, and when the man turns to leave, Arthur can’t help but feel that there’s something familiar about his posture, his gait. He’s just about to pursue him when he feels a hand on his upper arm.
“Are you ready?”
Peter has appeared by his side, his voice low and honeyed in Arthur’s ear.
“What the hell was that all about?”
Peter doesn’t reply. People everywhere are stopping to stare at them, setting Arthur’s teeth on edge. As Peter guides him back to the elevators, more than a few of them bump into him, too aggressive to be accidental.
“C’mon,” he says, dragging Arthur into a newly-vacated elevator. Peter presses the button for the fourteenth floor then closes the doors abruptly.
“Do you want to try explaining to me what exactly—”
Peter pushes him against the elevator wall, forcing the air right out of his lungs. He steals what’s left of his breath when he presses his mouth to Arthur’s, the kiss frantic and desperate. Arthur bites at his lips, all his frustration coming to the surface, but that only seems to spur Peter on. He grinds his hips against Arthur’s and rips his shirt out of his belt, the feeling of Peter’s hands on his bare skin setting his nerves alight.
The seconds drag, stretch. The elevator goes up and up and never seems to reach the fourteenth floor. Arthur has a million questions and accusations on the tip of his tongue, but Peter’s hands are all over him, skimming his sides, raking his nails down his back, and Arthur is completely lost to the sensation. Time is elastic, nothing to distinguish one moment from the next except for the fervent roaming of Peter’s hands, the eager press of his mouth. Until—
“Do you hear that?” Arthur is gasping, breathless.
“Hear what?” Peter asks, biting at his jaw.
“Music.” The more he thinks of it, the louder it becomes, like an image coming into focus. Finally, something clicks into place.
Arthur reaches for his die but Peter’s too quick for him, grabbing his wrist and pinning it to the wall above his head. Arthur struggles in his grasp but Peter carries the strength of someone much bigger than himself, his body a solid and immovable wall against Arthur’s. Peter leans in close to murmur in his ear, his voice deep and rough and not his own.
“So sorry about this, Arthur,” he says, and as Arthur’s world fades away into darkness, the last thought that crosses his mind is that Peter’s accent is not American, but thoroughly and undeniably English.
Arthur wakes, dazed and disoriented. A nondescript hotel room blinks into view, floor-length windows revealing a dreary view of the River Liffey. Dublin. The Walsh job. The details come back to Arthur in a slow trickle. Dom is already across the room, frantically sorting through a deck of playing cards. A man in a paisley shirt sits opposite Arthur, carefully removing the IV line from his wrist and not quite meeting his eyes.
Eames.
The new forger.
Fury rises like bile in Arthur’s throat. He rips his own IV from his wrist and stalks over to the window, presses his forehead to the cool glass and uses every trick he knows to keep his anger in check.
“Is this it? Was this your card?”
Dom is holding the three of diamonds between two fingers. Arthur spares a glance at Eames, then returns his gaze to Dom. He nods mutely.
Dom lets out a laugh and collapses onto a chair. Arthur knows that feeling all too well—the exhilaration that comes from a successful extraction. Usually he’s the one recovering secrets from the subject’s mind. It’s only recently that he’s had to come to terms with how it would feel to be the mark.
“That,” Dom says, “was incredible. How did you get the code for the safe?”
Eames’s smile quirks and Arthur has to turn away, can’t bear to see that self-satisfied smirk. “It was his room number. Fourteenth floor—”
“Room 27,” Dom finishes. “014027. You created a scenario in which he would need to give you a set of numbers, and you had his subconscious fill in the blanks for you. That’s genius.”
Arthur’s palms sting where his nails are digging in to his skin. This is the fourth forger they’ve tested, always the same trial: Arthur picks a card from a deck at random, keeping it secret from the other two. Then the three of them go under, and the forger is tasked with distracting Arthur while Dom extracts the information. All of them had managed to forge with varying degrees of proficiency, but only Eames had been skilled enough to devise such a creative strategy, to turn the system on its head and completely bypass Arthur’s conscious desires to tap straight into his subconscious.
Something about that gets under Arthur’s skin.
“Where was the safe?” he asks finally, still not turning away from the window.
“In the basement,” Dom says. “Not very original.”
“I didn’t bury it deep. You were supposed to find it.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. All I had to do is wait until you two disappeared into the elevator before I got the next one going down. How did you manage to lure him in there?”
Arthur turns and shoots a warning look at Eames. Eames meets his eyes for the briefest of seconds before saying with what passes as regret, “Trade secret, I’m afraid. Can’t show my hand all at once now, can I?”
Dom seems satisfied, but Arthur can’t shake the feeling that something doesn’t quite add up.
“Why didn’t I realise I was dreaming?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The signs were all there: altered perception of time, not being able to remember how I arrived. My projections were turning hostile. I do this often enough, I can usually tell.”
Eames’s expression is far from contrite. “The Somnacin I use has a slightly different chemical composition to what you’re used to. It’s a more powerful sedative.”
“That’s cheating.”
“Cheating?” That crooked smile is back, the same one that came through in the dream. Arthur wants to punch it right off his smug fucking face. “Arthur, this isn’t a game.”
“You certainly seemed to think so.”
Eames’s smile twists in a way that makes Arthur’s stomach lurch. “Is that what this is about? Arthur, I’m a forger: it’s my job to deceive people. I thought you knew what you were signing up for.”
“You know that’s not what I mean—”
“Gentlemen, please,” Dom says. “Eames, you gave an impressive performance and we think you’d be a good fit for the job—”
“We?” Arthur interjects.
“—I think you would be a good fit for the job. But I still have to discuss it with my partner here,” he says, shooting Arthur a pointed look.
“Of course, no I understand completely,” he says genteel as you please, and his amicable tone only riles Arthur further. He rises to shake Dom’s hand then turns to Arthur, still loitering by the window. He extends a hand. The petty part of Arthur wants to refuse the handshake, but the pettier part of him doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Finally, he relents. Eames’s hand is warm and broad and so unlike the hands that drove him to ruin in his dream. Arthur hates himself for the thought the instant it occurs to him.
“Arthur,” he says, a sly smile on his face.
“Mr Eames.”
“Hope to hear from you soon,” he says with a wink, and Arthur cannot think of a single thing he wants less.
: : :
Arthur doesn’t linger long after that. He packs up with his usual efficiency, wordlessly collecting the IV leads and closing the PASIV with a decisive click. He’s on the point of leaving with Dom stops him with a hand on his arm.
“Whatever’s going on between you two—you can’t let it get in the way of the job.”
Arthur resolutely does not flinch out of his grasp. “When have you ever known me to do that?”
Dom holds his gaze, considering how far to push this. Finally, he says, “We’ll discuss this later.”
“Can’t wait.” Arthur tosses his jacket over his shoulder and leaves the room without a backwards glance. His own room is across the hall but he finds himself hesitating before it. He wants nothing more than to forget about what happened in the dream, and what he really needs is a drink, something to blur the image of Eames’s projection—that charming smile, those elegant hands. Arthur bites the inside of his lip. Finally, he shrugs on his jacket, and heads down to the lobby.
The hotel bar is almost identical to the one from his dream, hitting Arthur with a feeling of déjà vu that has him itching for his die. Marble floor, floor-length windows, chrome finishes—the sleek and modern design is something Arthur would create in his own dreams. Typically it’s only architects who possess the skill to effortlessly create dreamscapes, and it’s not uncommon for extractors or forgers to base dreamscapes on real life locations. And yet, in all of his time working in the field, Arthur has never seen such a blatant rip-off. He allows himself a small smile as he approaches the bar. For all of Eames’s creativity, this is one area in which Arthur has him outmatched.
Maybe it’s because Eames is on his mind, or the fact that this bar is so reminiscent of the one in his dream, but Arthur is somehow unsurprised to make out a familiar voice through the crowd; the timbre rough and gravelly, the accent undeniably English.
“Two gin and tonics—Gunpowder Gin. Thank you.”
Eames is sitting at the other end of the bar, legs crossed at the knee and looking completely at ease, idly rolling a poker chip across his knuckles.
It’s too much to hope that this is a coincidence.
“Arthur!” Eames says as he approaches, his air of surprise almost insultingly insincere. “So good to see you again.”
“Did you follow me here?”
“’Course not,” he says as the bartender places two drinks on the bar.
“Then whose drink is that?”
“Yours now,” he says, sliding it towards him. Eames takes a sip of his own drink and regards him keenly, but Arthur’s not willing to let this go so easily.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
Eames sets down his drink and says in a passable imitation of Arthur’s voice, “I feel as though I spend half my life in hotel bars exactly like this one.”
Arthur huffs out a laugh. “I didn’t intend for that comment to be so literal. Tell me Eames, did you create anything new in that dreamscape? The layout was different, so you get points for that. But the light fixtures, the pattern and texture of the fabric of the seats—all of it was identical.” He raises his glass to his lips and is met with a familiar blend of citrus and spice: grapefruit, cardamom and—star anise, he realises. That was the missing detail from the dream. “Even the drinks are the same. Same blend of gin, same glass, same garnish, even.”
Eames looks unruffled. “Some things were different.”
“You’re right. You missed the architraves over the entryway. The marble is different too: in your dream it was just white and grey but here it has blue running through it, Italian marble. In the dream it was late afternoon and the sun was streaming in, but in reality the windows face east.” He takes another sip and doesn’t miss the way Eames’s eyes fall to his lips. He feels a thrill of gratification. “The differences weren’t intentional so much as a lack of attention to detail.”
“My, you certainly have a lot of thoughts on architraves don’t you? Unfortunately we can’t all be as talented as you, Arthur.”
“If you’re going to replicate something in a dream you should do it exactly or else the subject will notice the difference immediately.”
“It was passable.”
“It was sloppy.”
“Did you come here just to lecture me?”
“Did you not come here to be lectured?” It comes out harsher than he’d intended. Rather than being perturbed Eames only smiles, pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. It’s a trend that’s becoming disturbingly familiar. Arthur turns back to his drink, stares into its depths. Finally, he says, “Why did you do it?”
A beat. “Do what? Forget the architraves?”
“You know what I mean,” he says, turning back to Eames. “Peter: ‘the accountant’.”
A small shrug. “Peter’s a common name. Lots of people are accountants.”
“Don’t play coy, it doesn’t suit you. You can’t tell me that was a coincidence.”
Eames runs his tongue over his teeth. “Research is half the job. You of all people should know that. I thought you’d like to see that I’d done my homework.”
“So you impersonated one of my exes?”
“I did no such thing. A true forgery requires time, preparation. Ideally I would have days or even weeks to study the subject and master their mannerisms, idiosyncrasies and so forth. You said it yourself: if you’re going to replicate something in a dream, you should do it exactly.”
“But you looked just like him.”
“Did I?”
Arthur thinks back to the dream. He didn’t—not exactly. Same build, same colouring, but that was the extent of their similarities. The more Arthur thought of it, the more he realised that it was only the name that had established the connection in Arthur’s mind.
Eames’s eyes narrow. “You see, most people are—consistent. Predictable. Most people have a type.” His eyes rake Arthur’s body, a small smile curling on the corner of his mouth. Arthur holds his gaze unflinchingly.
“The similarities made me suspicious. You compromised the job.”
“Not suspicious enough to question my motives.”
“You were showing off. That sort of cockiness will get you caught in any situation where the information we’re extracting is more complex than a playing card.”
“I still got what I wanted, didn’t I?”
Arthur’s breath hitches. The question is loaded, weighted. “The code for the safe,” he says carefully. It’s not a question.
Eames’s grin is nothing short of salacious. “Yes Arthur, the code.”
Arthur returns to drink, a stalling tactic that probably isn’t lost on Eames. “Do you always seduce your marks?”
“I’m—versatile,” he says, shameless enough that Arthur knows his double entendre is completely intentional. Arthur licks the taste of juniper off his lips, only realising his error once Eames’s smile widens. Finally, he says, “You want to know what I think, Arthur?”
“I’m honestly not sure that I do.”
“I think you’re the type of person who hates to lose. And you can’t stand that you lost to me in particular.”
“I thought this wasn’t a game.”
“Oh of course not. Never a game. All work, no play.” He’s rolling his poker chip over his knuckles again. Arthur is struck by the urge to snatch it out of his grasp. Instead, he drains the rest of his drink and sets it down with a definite clink. Arthur’s composure is slipping, and he refuses to let Eames see how much he’s getting to him. Time to leave.
“Let me get this for you,” Eames says as Arthur reaches for his wallet.
“I can get my own drink, thanks.”
“Suit yourself. I suppose you’ll be needing this, then?” He reaches into his own jacket pocket and pulls out Arthur’s wallet. Arthur snatches it from his grasp. This is what he gets for hiring a thief.
“Don’t get cocky, Mr Eames,” he says, rifling through his wallet and leaving a bill on the bar. As he rises to leave he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Oh and I don’t have one, actually.”
“Don’t have a what?”
“A type,” he says, letting his eyes fall to Eames’s mouth. Eames catches his gaze and flashes him a long, slow smile. “You can expect a call from us soon,” he says, cool and professional.
“I look forward to it,” he says leisurely, poker chip dancing along his knuckles.
: : :
When Arthur gets back to his room, the first thing he does is roll his die. He does it three, four, five times, and when it comes up the same number every time, he sighs and slumps down onto the bed, exhausted. His encounter with Eames has left him slightly off-kilter, like the rug has been pulled out from underneath him. There’s something grating about it, about the way Eames can rile him up so effortlessly. I think you’re the type of person who hates to lose. And you can’t stand that you lost to me in particular.
He runs a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind. Finally he reaches for his jacket and fishes out his phone.
The text he sends to Dom is short, curt, just two simple words. Hire him, he taps out, then presses send before he changes his mind. As he watches the message go through, he’s left with an unsettling feeling, like a man who’s just dug his own grave.
: : :
The Walsh job goes as smoothly as can be expected. Eames proves he’s as adept at forgery as Dom and Arthur could have hoped, effortlessly impersonating Walsh’s wife from the singsong lilt of her voice to her delicate features, right down to the last freckle. More than that, he’s flexible, adaptable. When Walsh doesn’t give up the intel to his wife, Eames suggests they go a level deeper and try a new angle. Forging Walsh’s business partner was never a part of the plan, but Eames does it so convincingly it takes them only minutes to extract the necessary information.
It seems Arthur is not the only one who plans for contingencies.
“I have to say, I’m impressed.”
They’re back on the first level now, having left Walsh on the second with a face-full of lead. Dom is interrogating some of Walsh’s projections to see if there’s anything else they might be able to work with, and Eames—
Eames has taken the form Walsh’s wife once again, standing so close that Arthur can smell her perfume.
“I told you I was versatile.”
The accent, the voice, they’re all pitch-perfect, but the intonation is all Eames. He leans in closer, his mouth just inches from Arthur’s. Arthur blinks and when he opens his eyes, he’s faced with Walsh’s business partner, suddenly so much taller and using every inch of his height to his advantage. He crowds into Arthur’s personal space, pinning him with dark eyes so unlike Eames’s own.
“Or perhaps this is more your type?”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t have a type—”
“History says otherwise.”
“—and if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your business,” he continues as if Eames hadn’t spoken. Arthur knows he shouldn’t say what’s on his mind but, Eames has been pushing and pushing and now he can’t help but push back. “Why do you care, anyway?”
He juts his chin out, defiant. Arthur’s pulse is hammering in his throat, a staccato beat that has him holding his breath. Eames opens his mouth, the words forming on his lips, when he’s interrupted by Edith Piaf’s warble, crooning about regret.
He cuts himself off with a smile. “That’ll be the kick. Best be off then,” he says with a wink, and Arthur barely has a moment brace himself before the dream is dissolving around him, and Eames is fading away along with it.
Arthur wakes in Dublin, Eames at his side. There’s a small smile on his lips, like he’s enjoying a private joke, but Arthur has no time to indulge him. They clear the room before Walsh can wake, and after that there’s nothing more to be done but meet with their buyers and finalise the payment. Eames looks almost regretful to be parting ways, though Arthur can’t say he’s sorry to be seeing the last of him. Eames may be brilliant, but Arthur can’t stand the way he gets under his skin, like splinters cutting him from the inside out. It’s a distraction he can’t afford.
“Arthur,” he says, extending a hand.
“Eames,” he says, taking it and squeezing it tightly. “It’s been a pleasure,” he says stiffly.
“Oh the pleasure was all mine,” he says with what can only be described as a leer. At least he’s consistent.
After that, Arthur keeps tabs on Eames. It’s only a professional curiosity, it’s his job to stay informed. Eames takes on a string of jobs all over the UK, inundated with offers as word of his talent gets out. And then, without warning, he drops off the radar entirely. Arthur hears nothing of him for six months. Gradually he resurfaces, taking jobs in East Africa. But this time it’s different. He’s selective. He ditches the corporate offers, and only takes jobs that are out of left field, challenging. Freelance mostly, if Arthur’s sources are correct.
Arthur takes on exactly two forgers in the year following the Walsh job. Both of them performed well in their interview, forging convincingly enough to fool both himself and Dom in the trials leading up to the job. But the mark could always tell, some small imperfection arousing their suspicion, some tiny detail giving them away, and costing them the job.
Arthur refuses to work with forgers after that.