Chapter Text
Eames tucks his semiautomatic pistol into his shoulder holster and his Canadian ID into his pocket.
It's not as though he doesn't actually have a plan. Eames always has a plan. He has his go bag stowed in the hotel's car park. There are a great many ships headed for a great many destinations hunkered down in the Vancouver Harbor, waiting for the weather to clear. Eames will be on the bulk carrier bound for western Alaska, hoping like hell the storm has thrown Manago's men off his scent long enough for a head start. He will lead them on a merry chase.
The bullets that zing past his head and spark off the side of the van behind him seem to have other plans.
Eames hits the ground, scrabbling belly-down on the concrete for cover. His gun is already in his hand, a familiar weight, as he squeezes himself under the van and then out on the back side. He peers around the van's back panels. His heart is pounding, but his breath is steady. His fingertips are tingling. His eyes are sharp. There, the glint of fluorescent light off metal. There, a shadow where there shouldn't be. And there. And there. And…so many.
He's fucked.
The gunfire has stopped, and he knows they're changing position, getting him back in sight. He can't stay here. But he can't track them all at once. He's going to have to just pick a direction and move. His fucking go bag is on the other side of the van, so that's lost. He snaps his attention from corner to corner of the car park, watching for movement.
When a body slams the van next to his, Eames swings around to blow its head off. And jerks the barrel of his pistol up again.
"No!" he rasps as panic constricts his throat. "No, no, no, Arthur, no, get out of here!"
Arthur raises his wrist to his mouth. It crackles once before he speaks into it. "Lone Wolf is secure. Light 'em up."
And the car park explodes with gunfire.
Eames instinctively slams Arthur into the side of the van, shielding his body with his own, one arm cradling his head, so he's a little distracted and takes him a moment to realize none of the fire actually seems to be aimed at them.
"Eames. Get off me."
Eames draws away, head still low, and clears his throat. "Forgive me, Arthur," he says conversationally, "I'm a bit perplexed by certain recent developments."
Arthur's wrist crackles again and says, "Corridor to east wall is clear."
"We're moving on three," Arthur returns, looks at Eames, and readies his MP5K.
And this is familiar. This is what they do. It's just a little more real now. Eames nods sharply.
***
It's over quickly and after the last few bullets hit their marks and Arthur's wrist crackles the all clear, they turn and just sit down in the snow on the pavement, backs to the concrete exterior wall of the car park. The park with the trees Eames kissed Arthur under is just across the street. A yacht is chuff - chuffing its cautious way across the icy harbor, circled by a few sluggish seagulls. Eames can hear the sirens making their way closer through the still-icy city streets.
"My arse is numb," he observes.
Arthur reaches into his tactical vest and pulls out a small red disc. He presses it into Eames's hand and says, "You dropped something."
***
They go back to the suite.
They go to their separate rooms and put on dry clothes and come back out to the sitting room. Eames stands beside the fireplace. Arthur stands in front of the sofa.
It would be really very nice to be able to read him more easily.
Eames licks his lips.
Arthur waits.
What can Eames say? He doesn't have the words. They're all too pale. He doesn't even have a bloody tension-relieving quip. Arthur doesn't look much like he wants to laugh anyway. So finally Eames just asks, "How?"
"Jocelyn Evers is in Hawaii. Her eldest daughter is getting married in Oahu this weekend."
"I see." Eames says. He drops his gaze to the floor and his mouth twists wryly. "My congratulations to the happy couple."
"Evan Mactague was murdered in Singapore twenty-eight days ago. Eames, twenty-eight days."
"I know that, Arthur. I was there."
"Did you, on even one of those twenty-eight days, think of asking me for help?"
His voice cracks a little at the end, and Eames's eyes fly up.
Arthur's laugh is hollow. "I thought that's why you wanted me here, at first. To ask. After the Fischer job, I thought we…we had…but you didn't ask, so I then I thought you were trying to seduce me into helping you. Take advantage of the way I felt about you, and I thought…but doesn't he know? Doesn't he know all he needs to do is ask?"
"The way you felt about me?" Eames echoes.
Arthur stares at him. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Eames shakes his head helplessly. "Arthur, I didn't—"
"Shut up." Arthur holds up a hand. "I went along with it. To see. And…and because I feel the way I do and I wanted to. Jesus, Eames, I wanted you."
"Arthur—"
"Shut up. But you didn't come to me for help at all, did you? I kept waiting for…for the punchline."
"No." Eames surges forward, takes Arthur by the shoulders so hard he rocks him back a step.
Arthur braces his hands against Eames's chest, holds him away, and locks their gazes. "But last night…"
Eames winces.
Arthur's voice goes soft. "Last night was real. The whole day, all of it. Was real. Wasn't it?"
All Eames can do is pull Arthur into a hard embrace. The air rushes out of their lungs when their bodies slam together and then Arthur's arms are like steel around him.
"I thought about using the PASIV, taking you under, I could say it was a drill, or ask you to look at a dream I was building, more time," Eames whispers, words tumbling out in a tight rush against the side of Arthur's neck, "but I couldn't, because it had to be real. You said yes and I wanted more time, god, you don't know. But, Arthur, you said yes and it had to be real. With you. Every second, every touch had to be real."
"Oh."
"Tell me you understand why, Arthur."
Arthur nods.
"Tell me."
"You left me your totem."
Eames rocks them back and forth, his arms around Arthur, Arthur's arms around him. It feels like they're one person. "That's right. That's exactly right. Christ, Arthur," he huffs into the humid patch he's breathing onto Arthur's neck, "you might have bloody told me."
Arthur twists his fingers in Eames's hair. "You might have bloody asked."
"The odds weren't good enough."
"You always underestimate me."
Eames takes him by the shoulders again and holds him away, just far enough to meet his eyes, because this is important. "No, Arthur," he says gruffly, and holds his palm to Arthur's cheek, stroking with his thumb, "the odds weren't good enough."
Arthur's eyes darken. "You're a terrible gambler."
"Granted."
"And an idiot."
"Granted."
"And an asshole."
"Granted," Eames smiles, and starts to kiss Arthur's beautiful, smart, sullen mouth, but then he remembers. "Manago."
"What about him?"
"Darling, it's not over. He won't stop."
Arthur shakes his head. "It's not a problem."
"Arthur, it is, he won't stop. Manago—"
"Is taken care of," Arthur says steadily, his expression perfectly calm.
Eames stares. "Arthur…you're a bit terrifying, did you know?"
"I'm glad you finally recognize that fact."
"Oh, darling, you've always terrified me."
Arthur's eyelashes sweep down, hiding his eyes, and he shrugs. "I called in a favor."
"You called in a favor."
"Okay…" Arthur glances up, almost sheepishly, and says, "I called in pretty much every favor I've ever been owed. For, you know, for all of it. Manago and the team here and…all of it."
"For me."
"Eames, whatever this is, whatever happens," he gestures between them, "I've got your back. Always, okay?" His expression turns fierce. "Always."
"Darling," Eames says gravely, "you can have my back, my front, my top, and bottom. Particularly my bottom."
"And there he is," Arthur sighs.
"Can I have yours, too? I'll take excellent care of it."
"I was trying to be nice," Arthur grumbles.
Eames grins. "Snowboarding, was it?"
Arthur's mouth twitches. "That was the plan."
"Indeed it was. I believe I promised you some spectacular arse-falling. It's lucky for you, darling, that I have such a spectacular—"
And before Eames knows what's hit him, his foot is caught and his breath is gone and he's toppling backwards. He lands on his backside on the soft carpet with a yelp.
"Now that's out of the way," Arthur grins a fox-sly grin and straddles Eames's hips.
And there it is again, bursting out, knocked out of him, that enormous, goofy embarrassing laugh, full of relief and joy and uncertainty.
And the man who single-handedly took down a bloody crime lord, for Eames, Eames's now-and-forever personal bloody hero, blushes and grins, all bright eyes and dimples.
When he can breathe again, Eames gulps down the last of his laughter into a husky, reverent whisper, "I don't deserve you."
"No," Arthur sighs sadly, and reaches for the buttons of Eames's shirt. "You really don't."
"Well, if it's quite all right with you, I'm going to keep trying, hm?"
"Good." Arthur plucks open the top button of Eames's trousers. "You can start right now."
"Oh, my most darling Arthur," Eames runs his hands up Arthur's long thighs and beams at him helplessly, stupidly, adoringly, "I think this is going to be a very good day."