Archive of Our Own

Two-Sided Die

It was a strange trick of biology that made Eames aware of his surroundings even before he ever finished beaming over. There was something strange in the mix of human and Fotiallian DNA that produced a singularly unique result: Eames could actually feel himself being reassembled, the pieces of himself coming across the warp field and onto the transporter pad, falling into place. He could hear and see and even smell things before all his parts came together, depending upon which parts of him the transporter matrix dumped out first. He had recognized very early on that this was not the usual and that those extra seconds of awareness, the extra moment to act, could be a tactical advantage in a pinch. He did his best to keep it secret, mostly did manage it, but sometimes he simply couldn't.

This was one of those times. He could see who was waiting for him; he could make out the familiar pointed ears, the severe slicked back hair, and the calm, steady eyes that could belong to only one person. The one person Eames both most and least wanted to see. Eames was smiling and he had the feeling that it was coming through like a Cheshire Cat's.

"Hullo, Arthur," Eames said easily as the transport field dissipated. "I thought you were on New Vulcan?"

"Obviously you were mistaken, Mister Eames," Arthur returned smoothly. Arthur had also rapidly come by the realization that Eames was aware of his piecemeal self and he had never betrayed a hint of surprise beyond that first lifted eyebrow all those years ago. But then again, Arthur rarely betrayed any emotion and this was not going to be one of those times, Eames knew. He knew Arthur. He watched as the half-Vulcan lifted his hands from the console and tucked them behind his back. "I see we're going to be flouting Starfleet regulations, Federation law, and Neutral Zone restrictions on this mission."

Eames clicked his tongue, pulling a face. "That seems quite a large assumption to make based upon a simple greeting, darling."

Arthur's brow wrinkled minutely. "I have asked you repeatedly to not replace my name in such a fashion."

"Apologies, darling, but do tell: how ever did you make such a marvelous leap to our mission simply from my saying hello to you?" Eames stepped off the pad and brought himself to Arthur's side. "It isn't as though you and I aren't friendly, you know."

Arthur tipped his head and made for the door of the transporter room. "It is my turn to offer my apologies, Mister Eames, but it did seem logical. When a known dead man turns up on an Inception Class starship flying under subspace transmission silence it generally indicates that Starfleet is in need of a certain set of talents as well as the ability to disavow any and all knowledge of said dead individual's ability to be within the borders of a declared Neutral Zone. Or have I, in fact, inferred your presence correctly?"

"Of course you have. You know that you have," Eames replied. "Vulcan logic in combination with human intuition serves you very well, Arthur."

The corridor was empty and Eames had no doubt that it was why Arthur chose to stop. "Your continued insistence on bringing my heritage into conversation is puzzling," he said. And then he added, "It is also quite irrational and irritating."

"It was a compliment," Eames insisted. "We've been over this, you and I. And I do it because you're the only other person I know as mixed as I am."

"There are many different human and non-human hybrids in existence and in historical record," Arthur said calmly. "You have met with several many examples of such by your own account." He paused minutely. "Biblically, if rumors are to be believed."

"Never trust a rumor, darling," Eames sighed and set off up the corridor again. "And also: true and yet so few are mixed with something considered completely incompatible. And only you and I were complete accidents. Only you and I are uncontained by science. Only you and I are impossible things." He paused at an intersection, waiting for Arthur. "For god's sake, don't let me lead the way, Arthur; I've never been on this ship before."

"Improbable."

"Oh, Arthur, must you?"

Arthur came abreast of him and turned left. "It seems I must as we are not 'impossible'; we already exist. The word better suited to your intended meaning is 'improbable'." One of Arthur's hands lifted, casually offering out a small container. "Your sodium levels are low," he said.

"Hmm?" Eames slowed, looking at his companion, at Arthur's pretty face and the pointed tip of his ear and the long, lean lines of his body. He needed to get a handle on himself. "I'm sorry? My what is where with who?"

"Teleportation has been proven to lower your levels of blood sodium, Mister Eames, especially a teleportation done at mid-warp. It makes you somewhat…" Arthur paused delicately and Eames grinned at him, delighted with his answer already. "Difficult," Arthur finished.

"Yes, yes, I'm quite trying to be around when my salt is low." He took the proffered pillbox and shook two tablets into his palm, popping them into his mouth as he handed the rest back to Arthur. "You knew I was coming," he accused as he tucked the salt under his tongue for the quickest absorption. "You planned for my being a moody bastard."

Arthur gestured them down another corridor. "I did not indicate that your arrival was unexpected; I merely postulated that your arrival was indicative of a mission in which deception and misdirection would be required. Very few legal and morally sound missions require the sort of stratagem for which you were known. "

"For which I am known, Arthur. Being dead has hardly stopped my reputation." They had come to a halt outside a nondescript door and Eames leaned against it. "You dodged my question."

"You have asked nothing, Mister Eames."

"Fine, ignored my statement, then. You knew that I was coming. Arthur."

Arthur's hand came up and touched the door command, opening it at Eames' back. He didn't stumble through it, merely stepped to the side and let Arthur precede him into the room. "It has recently become knowledge that the Praetor of the Romulan Imperial Senate, Fischer-Morrow, is dead. Also of knowledge is the fact that, until the Continuing Committee is convened, his son and heir holds his title until a new Praetor is commissioned. Lesser known is the fact that Fischer is missing. Extremely well known: there are several interested parties in Proconsul who would benefit greatly from the destabilization of the current regime." The door hissed shut behind them and Eames watched as Arthur set the lock. "Our course, as plotted, brings us hazardously close to the Federation side of the Romulan Neutral Zone. Trajectory suggests that The Romulan Star Empire is set to collapse, Mister Eames."

Eames let out a breath. "It is, yes."

"Then the only question unanswered is why you are here. Specifically."

"What's our speed?"

"You have ignored my question," Arthur pointed out ruthlessly.

It made Eames smile. "I did indeed. Purposefully." He lifted a hand to halt anything Arthur might have had to say, which he suspected was plenty. "Our speed, if you please, Arthur."

Arthur eyed him carefully, eyes alien under the human arch of his brows. "We are at warp three; if we hold course, we will arrive in two days. If I have guessed our destination correctly then we shall arrive in twelve hours. You will inform me of the details within that time, I believe?" It was very sincerely not a question, for all that Arthur framed it that way.

Eames nodded and held his upraised hand out to Arthur. "Just one tonight," he said. "And not about our mission. We can argue about that tomorrow." He waited for Arthur's hand to meet his.

They had developed a tradition, a game of sorts, which went as far back away over the years to their first meetings. They had been unknown to each other in a place where the unknown had been dangerous. It had been Arthur's idea. He'd known that Eames had inherited his father's telepathy, (though he was extremely limited in what he could perceive, limited to expectation and memory) and Arthur, like all Vulcans, was a touch-telepath. It had been a means to an end and had grown beyond it. They rarely met without an exchange and never left an exchange without an answer.

Never. "No?" Eames asked after a beat. "It's quite all right if you don't want to, Arthur. I'll only doubt your identity for a little while."

"I was not rebuffing your overture," Arthur said in that huffy, stiffly formal way of his. "I was gathering my thoughts so that I would not invalidate your rule tonight." His hand was warm, familiar, as was the slight sound of his indrawn breath as he pressed their palms together.

Vulcan's ran hotter than humans and Arthur held true to the higher heat. Eames himself ran several degrees cooler, the sodium in his blood putting his basal body temperature closer to human hypothermic. Privately he thought it was amusing, the difference between their temperatures and which of them was what. He pressed against the fever heat of Arthur and felt the link between their minds open.

"You know I trust you, don't you, Arthur?" Eames asked. The whole purpose of the link was so that Arthur would know if Eames lied to him. In the beginning, it had been survival. Now it simply was.

Arthur gave him a blank face that Eames knew was a front for being incredibly annoyed. "It is your turn to ask first," he said blandly. There was an echoing feeling in his mind that felt like rolled-eyes and a sigh. Eames smiled at him.

"Why Arthur?" he asked. It was one he'd kept in his back pocket, always curious but rarely so curious as to pry.

It took Arthur a moment to parse the question. "My name." In the back of his mind, where the link between them was forged, Eames felt something that tugged at him like nostalgia, like loneliness, a bit of homesickness.

"You'll forgive me if I say that it seems like an odd choice. Especially for a child raised on Vulcan." He felt the tug of Arthur in the back of his mind again, faintly pleased. Eames had been to Vulcan all of once and could understand perfectly about being pleased to have been raised there. It had been a harsh and lovely world. Through the bond he felt something unnamable flicker inside of Arthur and go still.

"I was born on Earth. Having a name originating from that planet was deemed fitting."

"Certainly fits," Eames said. It did. He could not imagine Arthur as anything but an Arthur. He waited and then raised his own eyebrows. "That's it?"

"To answer that would be to answer a second question and you set the parameters at one."

Eames huffed. "Silly me. I shall work on my wording."

Something like amusement lit in Arthur's eyes and Eames could feel it like a half-heard laugh at the back of his mind. "Please do as it is most inefficient." He paused. "Do you like the taste of salt?"

"Do I what?" Eames startled.

"The taste of salt, Mister Eames," Arthur repeated. "You are free to not answer."

Eames tapped his index finger against Arthur's, feeling the link between them shiver. "You're so impatient. It's an odd question, so let's have a think, yeah?"

He thought of it, unabashedly leaving Arthur to experience the flicker of his thoughts and the bits and bobs of memory that accompanied them. Eames was a giver, was open about himself in a way few humans could grasp. It was why so many people often thought he was a liar as well: the best lies were always centered on truth. "I suppose that I do," Eames said after riffling through his feelings. "Though I'm not sure it's so much the taste as the feel of it. It feels a bit like burning but I do so like the heat, don't I?"

Arthur withdrew his hand, the connection between their minds stretching like taffy before curling in on itself. Eames had said more than once that it was due to the conductivity of the base metals in their blood. Arthur had never said anything on the subject. "You certainly enjoy playing with fire," Arthur allowed.

"Is that a proposition, darling?" Eames asked as Arthur once again tucked his hands behind himself.

"That is another yet another question."

He could feel his lips twitch into a smile. "So it is. If you stay, I'll only keep asking and so I believe that this must be where I say 'Good night, Arthur'," Eames said.

Their minds were no longer connected. Arthur's mental control wasn't something Eames would have been able to overcome even without his limitations. He couldn't know Arthur's thoughts but he fancied that he could feel the warmth in them anyhow. "Sleep well, Eames."

Eames reset the door lock after Arthur left before flopping onto the bunk. "Well, that's not bloody likely, is it?" he muttered. Now he had to think around Arthur and he had a hard enough time trying to think around Arthur to begin with.

He did sleep and it must have been particularly well because he woke to Arthur standing over him, stone-still with something Eames could immediately recognize as fury.

"Oh dear," Eames murmured. He slithered out from under the sheets, keeping a wary eye on Arthur. "I'll just put some pants on, shall I?"

Arthur's glower darkened. "Long range scanners have detected a sizable change in the amount of nuclear fusion activity in the white dwarf designated HD 97528348. This star—"

"—is also known as Beta Hutzel," Eames supplied. He had to cut this short. "Actually, it's the star behind it that's producing that. The formerly black-dwarf star Iota Hutzel. When Vulcan became a singularity it changed the gravitational pull of the whole system. There was a ripple effect across the entire quadrant. Enough to spin a dormant star into an active one again. Your long range scanners—which shouldn't be in use, darling, if you're observing subspace silence—have no doubt also detected that it will reach and exceed the Chandrasekhar limit much sooner rather than very later."

"So you were aware before boarding this ship that we were flying into an unstable area of space?"

Eames stared at him, his pants dangling limply in his hands in shock. "Did you just ask me something completely obvious?"

"Answer the question, Eames."

He rubbed hand briskly over his face and remembered his pants, pulling them on hastily. "Yes, I was aware. Iota Hutzel is in Romulan Space, a place in which we are not supposed to have eyes and ears. This information, like myself, does not exist." He took a breath and plunged on. "Fischer isn't missing; he is with Proclus Saito."

He glanced at Arthur as he reached for a uniform shirt. Arthur was standing as still as ever but his forehead was wrinkled in consideration. "Why?" he asked. He frowned seemingly at himself. It made Eames smile just a bit because Arthur's love of specificity was something to behold. Arthur's eyes narrowed. "I am confused as to the purpose; why would the Proclus meet with Fischer?"

And this, Eames reflected, was the easy part. "Because Saito's mistress is the Tal Shiar and because it isn't just the Empire that is collapsing; it's everything. The Romulans know about the reactivation of that white dwarf and they're aware of impending nova. They cannot stop it. When Nero destroyed Vulcan he set in motion a chain of events that is going to destroy Romulus."

Brilliant, lovely Arthur. His eyebrows had risen steadily and suddenly dropped as understanding came like a kick over the edge of a high place. "Romulans share ancestry with Vulcans. The Proclus is attempting to reunify the bloodlines using the common thread of mutual annihilation. He means to bring them to New Vulcan."

Eames nodded. "He does. Arthur, this must be done as silently as is possible and as quickly as it can. The star has less than a year of mass to it and Fischer has even less time to do something about it."

Arthur touched the comm panel on the wall. "Engineering, increase speed to warp seven point seven," he instructed, switching off before waiting for a confirmation.

Eames tried to do the math and then stopped. "Do me the numbers, darling; I have to know how much time we have to work something out ourselves."

"At that speed we will reach our destination in just over two hours; I will ready the long-range transporter," Arthur said, leaving.

Collapsing back against the wall, Eames stared at himself in the mirror. "Bloody buggering fuck," he muttered and stripped out of his Starfleet uniform. He had an hour at best.

"I should have suspected it was too easy," he said when he clambered into the shuttle and found Arthur calmly going through the pre-launch checklist. He didn't bother to argue despite wanting to. The best he could hope for would be to knock Arthur unconscious later and stow him somewhere.

"Controls are locked to my voice, Mister Eames," Arthur said smoothly. "Attempting to render me unconscious or to remove me from this shuttlecraft will strand you utterly."

Eames pursed his lips as he slid into the seat beside Arthur. "Tell me, Arthur, what gave me away?"

The glow of the cockpit lights made it look as though Arthur were smiling, just a tiny bit. "If it makes you feel better, it was not anything you did or said: it was what you failed to disclose."

"You know something I know but that I didn't know that you knew, is that it?"

The look Arthur sent him was ever-so-faintly amused. "It is." The look, as mild as it was, faded into ashes. "At zero-four-forty hours this morning the Phillipa James was discovered adrift at the edge of the Romulan Neutral Zone."

Shit, he thought. "Engines not working?" he tried hopefully.

"According to StarFleet Fact Files the Phillipa James was undergoing refit and was not scheduled to be out of the Altarian lunar dock. Captain Mallorie Miles recorded a singular message in the ships log: 'Non, je ne regrette rien'."

It was rather pointless to lie to Arthur. "Zero-four-forty? That's very early in the morning. Especially for Mal."

"The log was dated three days ago, shortly before the Penrose was ordered to divert course and maintain subspace silence."

Unspoken was the fact that Eames had until precisely now to tell Arthur what was going on. He fiddled with the navigation display until it was past the point of being ridiculous. He couldn't outwait Arthur and he knew it but he couldn't resist trying. He glanced up at Arthur.

Arthur had his hands on the ops panel in front of him but was not working. They were resting there long-fingered and competent and devastating and still, waiting.

"You know we argue, Arthur. We haven't time for it." Eames checked their heading and altered the co-ordinates slightly. He was severely tempted to turn off all the lights in the cabin, including the instrument panels. "You were meant to be on New Vulcan," he said softly "spreading your lovely genes about."

"I am not interested in your plans for my genetics," Arthur said, sounding testy. "It is my sister's plans which concern me. Eames."

He deeply didn't want to discuss Mal with Arthur. While they'd talked about Mal before it was a very different thing to swap stories about Mal, Arthur's human half-sister and Eames' protégé than it was to calmly discuss Mal, the woman who had very apparently gone about as far around the twist as it was possible to go.

"Do you know where Dominic Cobb is, by chance?" he asked.

"The Return Home is also in—" Arthur cut off abruptly. "I suspect that Captain Cobb and his ship are no longer in the Altarian lunar docks."

"As of three days ago, Captain Cobb's ship no longer exists," Eames said frankly.

"But Cobb does," Arthur surmised. "Do you know his location?"

"Know? No," Eames answered, still not looking at him. "Suspect heavily that he's gone after Mal who is most likely heading deep into Romulan space, yes." He sent the course correction to Arthur's console.

"Mal's mother was killed aboard the Kelvin when she was a child. When our father married to my mother, Mal was brought from Paris to live in Shi'Kahr. She openly disliked the change. My earliest memories are her stories of her home, her true home. When our father was lost on Vulcan I suspected that she blamed both Vulcan and Romulus for that loss," Arthur went on lowly. "For some time she was enraged and then, suddenly, she was not. It was as though she'd woken from a dream, she said." Silently Arthur reviewed the change in course. "After that, she was...changed. She's going to sabotage the relocation. In retribution." It was not a guess.

Eames refrained from pointing out that Arthur had lost both parents and his entire home world in that same incident and yet Arthur hadn't gone around the bend even in the slightest. "I don't know how she found out about the situation or about Saito's mission but I doubt she'd stand to see Romulans in Federation space. To see them settled on New Vulcan…" he glanced at Arthur and again wanted to turn off the lights. His face spoke volumes, betrayed more than Eames had ever seen before.

"Captain Cobb has gone to stop her?" Arthur's face had smoothed, gone blank, as though he'd heard Eames' thoughts.

"Potentially," said Eames. "You know they were engaged. He's devoted to her. If he can't stop her, it's feared he'll join her."

"Our mission is an extraction?"

"If reasonably possible," Eames answered, turning away and busying himself with meaningless things, checking readouts that didn't need eyes on them at all.

Arthur was watching him. He could feel it like a warm hand put upon his skin. "If unreasonable?"

"If it's not possible to get them out easily my job is to kill them and set it up as some sort of accident. I'm sorry, Arthur."

From the corner of his eye he saw Arthur's jaw tighten. "Are we meant to survive this mission?"

"You were meant to be on New Vulcan," Eames reminded him. "You know I had no intentions of bringing you along on this mission beyond ferrying me to my drop."

"Eames."

Eames turned to face him fully. "Darling, you are the very best at what you do but they're sending in a dead man; if it is not probable to get them out it is also most probable that I cannot get myself out of danger. Logically the best I can do is damage control in the hopes of saving the reunification." He waited and when Arthur said nothing, he filled in the silence. "You must know the story, Arthur. I kill Saito and the Praetor's son because I am a deranged lunatic with anti-Romulan leanings. I mortally wound Mal and Dom as they go about stopping my attempts to sabotage the Romulan Star Empire's survival. I am myself taken with a fatal blow and expire, thus ending my rampage and casting the good Captains, Saito, and young Fischer as heroes and martyrs. The Romulans see that Starfleet and the Federation are vested in their survival, Fischer's faction and a few others come around, the day is saved."

"An impressive plan, Mister Eames," Arthur's hands were fisted at his sides. "Suicide."

"It's hardly my first choice, though I do so appreciate the condescension," Eames snorted mirthlessly. "I promise I am going to do my level best to live through it, such as I can live through anything being that I'm already dead."

"This is a joke to you?"

"No, it's a mission with a rather narrow margin for error. This is my plan and you were meant to be on New Vulcan." He stood and went to the back of the shuttle, closing the door between the hatch and the cockpit with finality.

Arthur came after him anyway.

"A closed door usually means privacy," Eames said, stopping in the middle of opening a package of food rations; he'd skipped eating in the hope of not encountering Arthur so it wasn't too illogical to assume that eating might make him go away. And, Eames could admit, he was in a foul temper.

"A closed door usually means that if one wishes to gain entrance to what lies beyond, one must first open the door," Arthur replied. He held out his hand, empty and palm out. "Just one question," he said "as per last night. Though it is my turn to go first."

Eames set the package down and considered for several long, long moments, watching Arthur's tirelessly offered hand remain steady and unshakeable in the space between them. "If you must," he said shortly. But his hand was gentle as it found its own place. "Ask away," he added as the bond between their minds unfolded.

"Why were you chosen for this mission over and above myself?" Arthur asked. Before Eames could say a word, before the thoughts even truly formed, he felt something sharp crack against his mind like thunder, the very edge of Arthur's anger. "The entire truth, if you will."

On an in-drawn breath Eames let Arthur have the full brunt of his frustration, his incipient anger. "Mal and I worked together extensively when I was still Captain of the Mombasa," he said on the exhale. "I trained her. I took her through the Briar Patch. I taught her how to be all but undetectable. Nobody who wasn't following her directly could hope to find her now."

"The entire truth," Arthur repeated. His voice was calm but the feeling of him on the other end of the bond was like an electrical storm waiting to break. "I am also capable of tracking my sister and I was closer from the start, a fact of which we are both aware."

He didn't know if Arthur meant closer since childhood or just closer in space, either way it didn't really matter; they were both true.

"I knew that," Eames glared. "Of course I knew that. I agreed to this mission because I knew you were going to be a part of it. When I found out the time limit I had to work with, I reconsidered, obviously. I tried to refuse. I wanted to sit it out." He was well aware of the fact that Arthur was probably picking up on a good bit more than Eames was actually saying or attempting to show. "I renegotiated. I'd bring you in only if I felt this was impossible on my own."

"And then failed to inform me of the mission altogether."

"We fight, darling. We bicker. We argue. I poke at you incessantly and you poke holes in every plan I make. We love it. It's pig-tail pulling, Arthur, and this situation is messy as it is; adding in my inability to keep my hands to myself as concerns you will bloody well get us killed. I figured that leaving you behind would at least ensure I had backup because you'd be so fucked off at me you'd hang about just to give me a dressing down." He paused and then added, "If there was time enough, Arthur, I'd have told you everything.

"Was this the reason for my reassignment to New Vulcan?" Arthur asked, calm and cool, his mind suddenly blank against Eames' own.

"That's two and we agreed on one," Eames told him. Eames had mixed feelings about the exact location of Arthur's next assignment. "I don't have to answer that."

"Indeed," Arthur said dryly. "Then you may ask."

He didn't have a question ready. He knew the answer he wanted: the way to get Arthur out of this mission and back to his backup, but the wording would have to be precise. Arthur was clever, beautiful, and an absolute bastard when he wanted to be. Eames knew he had to tread carefully so that Arthur couldn't use half-truths and semantics to get out of staying out of it. Eames almost had it when he felt a familiar tingle deep in his stomach, the sensation of pieces of himself pulling away. "Fancy a potentially hostile transport?" he asked as he saw the teleportation field ripple through Arthur.

Their bond rippled, too, as their hands separated through the field. "Not particularly," Arthur answered anyhow.

His eyes were the last thing Eames saw as everything that he was dissolved.

Of course, the first thing that he saw when he had his eyes again was a room full of heavily armed Romulans. It infuriated him that he was getting caught with his metaphorical pants around his metaphorical ankles. If he and Arthur had to be caught with their pants down he'd have preferred to at least be literal. He shoved that thought away. The transport wasn't complete, not yet, and Eames used his split-second to read the room. There was the vague notion that they weren't sure who they'd caught, some confusion. Distrust, suspicion, violence, but certainly not surety.

He twitched his hand, pulling two fingers in against his palm, leaving his forefingers against Arthur's. As the trans-warp transport beam faded entirely he felt Arthur's fingers slip to mirror his own. A Vulcan kiss. "How scandalous of us," Eames murmured, letting it filter through the shaky connection between his mind and Arthur's. Louder he asked, "What's going on?" in Vulcan.

The perception in the room shifted and Eames had to break entirely with Arthur to project himself to so many at once. They expected a Vulcan female and that was what they were going to get. It was very messed up, he thought, to be grateful to Mal for this. The accuracy of her scathing portrayal of her upbringing was going to be put to the test. "Why have we been brought here?" Eames asked again.

"We are not fooled," one of the Romulans said. His Vulcan was good, hard on the vowels, however, and it marked him as somebody who routinely used the Romulan third dialect; an outlier. They were most likely on a patrol ship. "You were in the Neutral Zone."

So were you, Eames thought.

"So were you," said Arthur. "To all appearances," he added a beat later. He took the blow to the face without expression, not reacting even as blue-green blood welled up at the corner of his mouth. "Apologies," he said.

Eames closed his eyes briefly when he watched the man who'd hit Arthur wipe the blood from his knuckles. Eames couldn't fake the hemocyanin of Vulcan blood. He could project the appearance but the blood that fell, the blood that would be on the hands of anybody who struck him, would stay silver-sheened red. He couldn't afford to be handled too roughly. "Our entrance into the Neutral Zone was unintentional." He focused on not mimicking Arthur's accent entirely. That was such a rookie mistake.

"In a shuttlepod with minimal sensor profile?" one of the other Romulans sneered.

"Our ship was diverted," Eames said and then, going with his gut instinct, "we were on our way to New Vulcan."

The same Romulan repeated, "In a shuttlepod with minimal sensor profile?" but Eames could see that it got a reaction. Eames could feel the change of energy in the room, a half-sensed feeling that raked over his telepathic nerves. They suspected something, suspected it heavily, and were not happy about it. At all. Oh, and lovely, there was a sharp blade being waved in his face.

"Send them for processing," a third Romulan said suddenly. He'd been quiet in the background, the last one for Eames to see and the first he suspected of being a leader. "Their documents can be checked and they can be held for trial for this act of war."

Oh, thought Eames shit.

While he, naturally, had all sorts of forged documents they were all still on the shuttle. He'd been careful to pack nothing at all that could be incriminating, nothing to reveal who he really was, but he didn't know what Arthur had in his gear. Not that it mattered as Eames had no identification with for a Vulcan woman and they hadn't had the chance to wipe the navigation records which clearly showed them aiming for Romulan territory. He could hear the red alert klaxons going off inside his head.

Or, no, that was outside his head. One whole wall was lit up like a holiday planet and blaring several different sorts of alarms.

"Their shuttle has exploded!" he heard one guard shout above the noise.

"Find the cause!" shouted another.

Mouth agape, Eames watched Arthur dart to the transporter panel and start keying in data. "I am the cause. I applied an explosive pack to the main conduits of the shuttle that would trigger in the event of an unapproved transporter event. Mister Eames, a distraction, if you will, please," Arthur said calmly.

Eames swung his gaze to the Romulans. Oh. Right. "Gentlemen, if I might?" he asked and then dropped his projected female persona in favor of his favorite image of his father: hairy, long-fingered, mouth round and open around feeder-teeth. Very few beings would have recognized his father's expression as one of exasperated laughter.

The Romulans reared back. They also reached for their weapons but it had bought Arthur the time needed to finish his task and leap back onto the transporter pad. Eames heard Arthur's parting comment and his own laugher as well as the frenzied, futile cursing of their would-be-captors ringing in his ears before he heard nothing but the whine of the transporter pulling him apart and putting him back together.

"Should you really have said that about their parents, Arthur?" Eames could hear himself asking as they came back to themselves. "Those are you potential in-laws, you realize."

"Doubtful, as I rigged the transporter room console to overload with maximal concussive force," Arthur said before asking, somewhat petulantly in Eames' view, "What is your fascination with breeding me?"

"Oh, darling," Eames said fondly. "Though on that track, I wasn't aware that you could read Romulan." He was studying the room they'd found themselves in. It could have belonged to any starship, any terrestrial building: there were no windows, just the control panels and the transporter. But the air didn't smell as recycled and sterile as a starship and he suspected they were planet-side on some world or other. "How good are you? Because we might need for you to be very good."

Arthur blinked at him. "I cannot read Romulan at all. I merely input coordinates that balanced the maximum distance that particular transporter pad was able to transverse safely against the directional heading of our flight path."

Eames gaped at him. "You took a shot in the dark? We could have materialized anywhere! We could have come up in empty space or the middle of a star! And I'd have felt it!"

"We were in no danger. The transporter was still set for pad-to-pad beaming, Mister Eames." Arthur stepped off the pad, heading for the door.

"Supposedly. Theoretically. You wouldn't have known if that had been changed or not. We could have ended up anywhere. We don't even know where we are now."

"You are in political prison," said a new voice. From over Arthur's shoulder Eames could see that there was an old Romulan in full battle dress standing in the door. "Do you have your processing papers?"

"No," Arthur said shortly.

Eames pulled on his Vulcan female again. "We weren't meant to be here at all."

The old Romulan shrugged. "I don't care. You don't have papers, you have papers, your government knows you are here, they don't know, it doesn't matter. We're in the Outmarches, far from everything. You're going into a cell." He nodded at the corridor and gestured with his disruptor. "You can come or I can shoot you. This thing doesn't have a stun setting." He aimed it at Eames. "This is the last choice you will have, you know?"

He could pick up on the truth of that statement even without his telepathy. "You sincerely don't care," he marveled in Vulcan. "How freeing."

Arthur gave him a warning look. "We will go willingly," he said.

The cell was small and rough. It was as though somebody, in building the prison, had simply blasted out random holes in the rock and called them holding cells. Shoved into it with Arthur it seemed even smaller than it actually was. Eames sat on the floor and refused to speak to him for a solid half an hour. He'd have gone longer but the old guard came past their door and Arthur surged to his feet. "Food," he said.

The guard grunted. "In time."

Arthur's hands swept behind his back, balling into fists. "Please. My…" he hesitated on the word "wife must have something. It is—" and he said something in Vulcan that Eames, for the life of him, could not translate.

With a snort the guard walked away.

"Asshole," Arthur muttered.

"Look who's talking," Eames invited nastily. Then he couldn't help a smile. "Do you know, that's the first time I've heard you swear since Canopus Four."

"Eames," Arthur started.

"It is!" Eames said. "You're gorgeous when you curse."

"Appreciated, Eames, but you are not yourself."

Eames frowned. "Arthur, lovely, we both already know that I think you're very attractive and that I am incredibly attracted. Tell me you knew that. I've not been very subtle. Not since…lord, probably not ever."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him. "Your sodium levels are low," he said. "Your mood is unstable."

Eames folded his arms. "Not every emotion I have is predicated on my sodium intake." He let his breath out with a hiss. "And yes, it is rather."

"If you had told me of our mission from the outset, this would not have happened," Arthur said. "At the very least, you would have eaten breakfast."

"Did—did you just say 'I told you so'?" Eames asked, incredulous. "While we're in prison?

Arthur tilted his head, as though in consideration. "Yes."

"On Rigel, after all of it, I thought that I'd never wish you dead ever again. I was very wrong, Arthur," Eames told him.

"My sister is attempting to destroy two races with one stone, Eames. We are trapped in a star system that is bound to be destroyed within a very short time. We have no supplies, no means of communication, and the enemy does not even care that we are here. I am, I believe, entitled to say 'I told you so'."

"The Orion contract," Eames said, his head lolling back against the wall. "You are, yes. To be fair, I told you this wouldn't work with you here."

"We have had some difficulty; difficulty is not failure, it is merely troubling."

"You're nothing but trouble, darling," Eames said. "In the very best and worst ways." He looked Arthur over. "What did you tell him? That last bit?" he let his head drop forward to indicate the door. "I didn't catch it."

Arthur looked away. "You would not have." His back straightened almost imperceptibly. "It is a term rooted in old High Vulcan."

"Goodness," Eames drawled. "It must be a doozy, whatever it is. You've gone all tense." He waited but Arthur didn't speak again. "Did you tell him I was going into blood fever?"

The back of Arthur's neck and the tips of his ears colored, tinting to almost bronze. "Certain physical changes in blood chemistry indicate a heightened need for base electrolytes such as sodium. I could not give away your true nature and so the only logical path to securing your wellbeing was to indicate that you were not, in fact, in a well state of being."

"You told him I was entering the blood fever." Eames gloated, unable to help the pendulum swing of his mood. "If I get pregnant with some sort of Romulan prison baby during my Pon-Farr I will expect you to pay maintenance."

Arthur's flushed deepened. "As improbable as your existence is, the odds of your ability to bear my child are entirely nonexistent."

"Oh, dream bigger! We might manage a happy accident. I'm at my most fertile when the fever is highest as you know."

"You are obviously getting worse. You should sleep. It will conserve your energy and it will help slow your metabolism of the remaining salt in your blood."

"You're such a stick in the mud, Arthur. I hope our prison baby gets your eyes and my sense of humor."

"Go to sleep, Mister Eames."

"Eames."

He woke from dreams of snow to see Arthur hovering over him. "Arthur?" He frowned, disoriented. "Where are we?"

"In the same place we have been for the last several hours." Arthur's face was pinched. "We must make an attempt to escape. I have thus far been unable to find a logical and workable plan that falls within the boundaries of our situation and resources."

Eames felt his face wrinkle in slight confusion. "So you woke me?"

"Yes." Arthur held out his hand. "We must work quickly and the fastest means of communication is a meld."

"If we end up arguing, don't say I didn't warn you," Eames said as he settled his hand into place against Arthur's. He drew back quickly. "You're cold. Arthur, come sit. I haven't got a ton of heat but you know I'll share."

Arthur shook his head. "You are mistaken. Your body temperature is elevated. You have endured two long-distance teleportations within a remarkably short amount of time. You had a third mid-warp beam within the last seventeen hours and you have not eaten. You are unwell, Mister Eames."

Eames frowned. "Oh. Yes. Salt depravation." It was like a slap in the face. While drunk. "I'm not good for much right now, am I?" He smiled and then, because he could absolutely get away with it while he wasn't in his right mind, he reached out and rubbed the back of his fingers against Arthur's jaw. "Well, then, I'm afraid we're not going to be saving the world. I've chased you right to the end of it, haven't I?"

Arthur's face did something complicated.

"Did you just have an expression?"

"I have several many, as you have gleefully pointed out at every opportunity," Arthur said. He was looking around the room. "While you still have your senses, Eames, I need for you to assist me in finding something sharp."

"Why?" Eames gamely looked at the craggy walls.

"The salt tablets I had prepared for you were aboard our shuttle craft and are inaccessible. The ambient temperature is not significant enough to cause my body to sweat nor is there room for exertion to cause a raise in core temperature. I do not dare release my emotional control to the point of being able to weep from sorrow and no other type of tear contains a similar salt solution. The only logical option is blood."

It took far longer than it should have for the explanation to translate into actual meaning. Still, the dull connection of words to actions made Eames push Arthur back far enough to see him clearly. "Arthur, are you offering to secrete something for me?"

"Yes."

"I'd have to drain you off entirely to correct the imbalance, you know, and I'm not willing to do that."

"At present we do not need the balance corrected. It will be enough merely to clear your thoughts. Take enough to do so and then stop. I am strong enough to fight you off should you be unable to stop yourself."

"No doubt, but that's an awful thought, to say the least." Eames probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. "I haven't sprouted feeders yet. We're not so bad off that we need to weaken you just to make me a tad bit less peckish."

Arthur's lips twitched. "You do not grow feeder teeth, Mister Eames. I have seen your biologic scans in some detail."

"Scandalous," Eames murmured. He touched the corner of Arthur's mouth. "I remember comparing pictures. You said my existence was incredibly illogical." He moved his fingers, touching Arthur's cheek, his temple. "I want to kiss you. Not like a Vulcan," he swept the pad of his thumb against the corner of Arthur's mouth. "Like a human. The impossible parts of us that match up. Come and kiss me, darling."

"No," Arthur's hand caught his, lowered it.

"You're saving yourself for marriage," Eames said, smiling. "I remember you said that, too."

"That was not at all what I said," Arthur tugged at his hand. "Pay attention. We're creating a plan of escape."

Plan. "The plan is to stop Mal," he said, frowning. "Stop Mal and Cobb from disrupting Saito's conference with Fischer."

"We do not know where that is. We can fulfill no parameters of the original mission and so we must save ourselves and regroup."

"Hellguard," Eames said, blinking and blinking. He needed to clear his head. "I didn't tell you because I knew if you knew you'd run me down hard. It's on Trianguli Five. It's a failed colony world. The Proclus—"

"Would have found it meaningful," Arthur guessed. "If that is where the Praetor is…" Arthur trailed to a stop. "It is unlikely that Mal will set foot on a world with a living Romulan upon it. She will set herself near." His eyes met Eames. "Is Goloroth still an active Tal Shiar outpost?"

Eames stared at him. "You're asking me? Now?"

Arthur's face twisted. "If you had perhaps told me of this mission," he said waspishly.

"I told you we'd fight," Eames said, slumping back. He realized that Arthur still had his hand in his own. It wasn't the usual warm shock but if Arthur was to be believed—and he was, always—then it was more that Eames was unaware of his own body.

Unaware…

"Ask me," he said, sliding his hand so that he was palm-to-palm with Arthur. He dragged at the place in the back of his mind that always opened to the half-Vulcan. "I can't recall but I know."

Comprehension dawned in Arthur's eyes and Eames could feel the telepathic link open like a floodgate. Arthur's mind was cool in a way his skin never was. "Eames, at current, is Goloroth occupied by the Tal Shiar?"

Somewhere distantly he could feel Arthur's mind positively rummaging in the thoughts of Goloroth that slipped through Eames' salt-deprived brain. He knew these thing but could not focus. He didn't have to, however, when Arthur could. All he had to do was remember that he already knew. Occupied. No, no they didn't think it was. Not anymore. But it had been once. By the Tal Shiar. By Saito's mistress and her forces. She was a tricky, smart woman. Eames had never met her but he knew so many things about her. She was both hot-headed and coolly logical, she liked to be well prepared. Ruthlessly curious. She reminded him of Arthur more than Mal ever had.

"Focus, Mister Eames."

"You're in political prison," Eames offered. And why did that thought niggle at him? He felt Arthur's mind seize on something and pull so hard it all but hurt. "Ow."

"I am in political prison on Goloroth," said Arthur. "The Tal Shiar abandoned the tactical base but it was suspected that it was also used as a top secret political prison, a detail considered unimportant at the time of the original report. Eames you are, impossibly, both brilliant and an idiot."

"Thank you," Eames mumbled as he struggled desperately to focus. "Wait, are we going to save the day?"

"No, you're not. Captain Cobb has already made that attempt," said a young woman as the door opened. "But we're all going to get the hell out of here."

"Ariadne," Eames said. "It's lovely meeting you. The previous Tal Shiar murdered me some six years back."

"Fuck," said Arthur, his voice far away as Eames gave up on staying conscious.

He woke suddenly. "Did you slap me?" he asked dazedly. He still felt fuzzy-minded but also like he was coming back around. He could taste the sharp burn of salt in his mouth.

Arthur was watching him steadily. "I kicked you," he said. "The Tal Shiar gave you salt."

"I knew somebody had," he said, sitting up gingerly. They were still in the cell but the door was still open and the Tal Shiar was standing over him, just at Arthur's elbow. "Thank you?" he offered confusedly.

She cocked her head in a way that, again, reminded Eames of Arthur. "You are too heavy to carry and this base, hell most of this planet, is going to very shortly be reduced to nothing more than a debris field. Arthur insists that you should live despite already being dead. Waking you was prudent."

He pushed to his feet, swaying slightly forward and getting held steady by Arthur's inhumanly warm hands. "We're exploding?"

"Mal," said Arthur. And yes, Mal. They had to find her. He knew how to find her, knew where she'd be and what she'd want.

"She—"

"Is not our concern," Ariadne snapped. "There is no time for anything but leaving for our own survival. I will leave you to find your own way back out of this base if you will not come with me." She spun on her heel and out the door.

"Technically we didn't even find our way in," Eames said brightly chasing after her. The salt was working quickly into his blood. He was going to have a headache and he was going to crash hard even when he did manage to fully load his system again but for the time being he was able to move and he was damn well going to. "Arthur did it on accident."

"It was not accidental," Arthur said. He was holding a disruptor and covering their rear.

"Well, I suppose not entirely accidentally," Eames acknowledged "but close enough. Give me the gun, darling, you got lucky with your last aim but you're a horrible shot.

Ariadne was moving swiftly down the hall, shooting with preternatural grace. "Anything that moves here is not friendly," she said. "My people are off this rock. Shoot first; stun settings are inefficient and we do not have them."

Eames shot at the first movement he saw, his reflexes working before his brain.

"That was a rodent," Arthur said.

"It moved; it wasn't friendly," Eames said primly. They turned a corner, away from the smoking lump. "Additionally, that was a wonderful shot."

"Keep moving," Ariadne said sharply. "We've got to get to the level one transporter room in order to get out of here."

"We are three levels up," Arthur pointed out "in a building full of hostile encounters."

"I'm aware," Ariadne said dryly. "But that is the only transporter room that is not locked down to this planet. I have a shuttle in low orbit."

"Our chances of making—"

Eames shot at the window, vaporizing the glass. "Let's find a bit of rope and then we can all try really, really hard to not fall and crack our skulls open like so many eggs, all right?"

Arthur crossed to the window and peered down. When he looked up again he merely shrugged.

The transporter room on the first level wasn't empty. Dom Cobb was there. He was cradling Mal's body in his arms, keening and pressing kisses to her hair.

Eames skidded to a stop and felt Arthur slam into his back. "Sister," he said and Eames knew that Arthur hadn't lost his breath from the climb or the run.

Cobb looked up. "She wouldn't stop. I couldn't let her become what she hated. Arthur, she wouldn't stop. I couldn't get her to listen to reason."

"Keep moving!" Ariadne barked before shoving her way into the room.

Dom made a sound low in his throat. "She wouldn't—I had to stop her. It was her own phaser. She wasn't— It wasn't set to stun. It wasn't set on stun. It wasn't—"

"Die with her or don't," Ariadne said carelessly, fingers flying over the control panels. She spared Dom a look. "Captain, you could not stop her missiles so you turned them back on themselves. You have already chosen life where she chose death." She stepped on to the pad and dematerialized.

Eames stumbled forward because he'd known Mal. He'd known her laugh and her anger and her life. He didn't need to know her madness and her death, but did. They all had choices right up until they didn't. "Cobb," he said. "Cobb, we've got to get out of here."

"Mal," Cobb whispered.

Arthur stepped forward and lifted his sister from Cobb's arms. "Enough," he said. His face was a mask. "Dom, Eames is unwell. Get him to the shuttle. I—" he stopped. Simply stopped as though he had no intention of moving or speaking again.

"I haven't had my question yet," Eames said and ignored Cobb's distracted, empty hands. "Just remember that, Arthur." He might have been unsteady on his feet, but he was on them and moving and moving on, he thought.

"Do you remember how I've always said your liver was my worst nightmare and that you were the worst two days of my life?" was the first thing Eames heard as he materialized, weak and dizzy and disoriented, in Ariadne's waiting shuttle. "Well, I've just had worse."

Shaking his head to clear it he peered blearily in the direction of the StarFleet standard-issue shuttle cockpit. "Yusuf?" he asked. He didn't recognize the host Trill but there was only one symbiont that Eames had ever housed amongst his internal organs. "Why are you driving the Tal Shiar's shuttle?"

"Because Dominic Cobb didn't tell me what the hell I was in for!" Yusuf said. "And Ariadne is scary. Now get off the pad, I've still got to bring Arthur up!"

"Oh, good, I like Arthur," Eames wheezed, rolling himself out of the way. "We're having a baby, he and I. Because I've gone into my mating cycle." He listened to the hum and whine of the transporter. "I told them about the impending highlight of our prison tryst."

"Your sodium levels are abysmally low," Arthur said dispassionately, stepping away from the transporter. "Your questionable preoccupation with my genetic legacy remains quite vexing." His hand were gentle, though, as he pressed Eames up and buckled him into his seat. "You are incredibly puzzling."

"I might be terribly in love with you," Eames said.

"Now?" said Yusuf, sounding pained. "Really? While we're trying to outrun an explosion?"

Ariadne, in the copilot seat, said "They are no credit to StarFleet's discipline. They are unruly and must be prompted to save their own lives."

"You are out of your mind," said Arthur, buckling in next to Eames. "You need medical attention."

Cobb's voice was tired, strained. "I think you're going to have to do a little bit better than 'might', Eames."

"Marry me, darling," Eames managed and then passed out for the second time in twenty minutes.

When he woke again he was in the hospital bay of a ship. Arthur was standing over him yet again, face and posture severe.

"Darling, this keeps happening," Eames told him.

"You asked if we were going to save the day," Arthur said in return. At Eames' undoubtedly confused look he continued, "You said, on Goloroth, that you had not yet asked your question. You did, in fact, ask."

Eames squinted at him. "I've been unconscious for how long?"

"A day and a half," Arthur said.

"Have you been waiting all this while to tell me that I already had my question?"

Arthur blinked at him. Slowly. As though Eames was trying his patience. Eames knew that feeling. "I have been waiting for you to regain consciousness."

"Because you never answered my question and it's driving you mad," Eames guessed. "Too late, I already know that we saved the day. I think. We did, yes?"

"Proclus Saito and Fischer have finished and returned to their respective homes. How much they have accomplished is yet unclear. We, ourselves, did very little besides getting caught, getting thrown in a cell, and getting rescued."

"Kick a man while he's down, Arthur. You're a delight." Eames pushed himself up to his elbows and was happily surprised when nothing ached unduly and the world remained steady. "Do us a favor and rescue me now. I hate sickbay."

Holding out a hand, Arthur helped Eames all the way to sitting and then to standing. "You have been cleared to return to quarters."

Eames waited, watching the way Arthur was watching him. "Have I been on this ship before?" he asked after a moment. "Because if I haven't I don't know where my quarters are, much less how to get to them.

If startled, Arthur didn't show it. He nodded. "We are aboard the Penrose though I doubt you could find your way from this location." He turned and walked off, leaving Eames to trail silently in his wake as they went up corridors and down turbolifts, their path winding through the ship.

"You know, Arthur, I actually asked you a second question that you failed to answer," he said as they finally arrived at his door. He propped himself against the frame and raised his eyebrows.

Arthur leaned around and triggered the door. "I was unaware that you recalled asking."

"Quite apparently I do recall."

"You were in a compromised state."

Eames gave him a pointed look. "I am always compromised when you're involved, Arthur. I was moody and sick when I asked you to marry me, not insane. Will you answer me or won't you?"

Arthur pushed him through the door, then up against it and kissed him. "Do you require a more specific response or does that suffice?" he asked pleasantly.

"Darling, I cannot begin to tell you the level of specificity that I require."