Fic: Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part 3 of 4)
Title: Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part 3 of 4)
Authors:: eternalsojourn and countrypixie1
Team: Angst
Prompt(s): Hunger, Sensual and Touch
Word Count: ~4700 (This part)
Rating: NC-17
Beta:night_reveals
Warnings: Angst, Torture (Happy ending)
Summary: In a world where touch is as essential to human survival as food and water, Arthur and Eames are forced to face the repercussions of their line of work.
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who's commented! This is our first collab of this type, and the first WIP for eternalsojourn. Your support has been integral to powering through this one.
Part One, Part Two
Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part Three)
“We’ll have to tip ourselves over,” Arthur says. His eyes zero in on the bruises spattered across Eames’s chest, then move to his swollen ankle. “Are you going to be able to do this?” he asks.
“I could ask the same of you,” Eames replies, “but it’s now or never, so I’m afraid our answers are rather moot, wouldn’t you say?”
Arthur doesn’t respond, just asks, “Do you think you can move your chair forward about two feet and turn sideways? If I do the same, we should be able to tip so that you can reach my hands.”
Eames nods and jerks himself forward, his chair moving an inch. They awkwardly, gracelessly move their chairs closer together, legs catching on the carpet, slowing their progress.
Arthur stops and glances over his shoulder at Eames, a few feet behind him and to the right. Eames grins. “After you, darling.”
Facing forward, Arthur takes one calm breath before rocking back and forth, careful to time it so that he tips in the right direction. Arthur seems to hang in midair for a second before he falls. He lands heavily, his head banging against the ground and sending pain rolling through him.
“You okay?” Eames asks.
“Fine,” Arthur lies. “Use your feet as much as you can to get going.”
“Thank you, Arthur. I’m sure I never would have figured that out,” Eames says, already rocking. Eames’s ankle must be killing him, but no sounds of discomfort escape him. Arthur hears and feels when Eames hits the floor behind him, hears Eames’s grunt and knows that the fall hurt more than Eames will ever let on.
They awkwardly maneuver themselves into position, arms crushed beneath them by the backs of the chairs. “Excellent, Arthur. Right there,” Eames says after a minute of painful shifting. A second later, Arthur feels Eames start tugging at his restraints. Eames works quickly, but every so often his lips or his cheeks brush Arthur’s hands and Arthur jolts from the contact. Eames never stills, just continues biting and pulling until he gets the rope loosened enough that Arthur can pull his hands free.
Arthur rubs his hands together to increase circulation. Scooting forward, he makes quick work of the restraints around his ankles. He rolls to his knees with the intention of standing, but a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea keep him kneeling, head bowed.
“Arthur?”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Arthur answers. He turns towards Eames but stops, taken aback by the open look of concern. “I’m fine,” he says.
Eames smiles. “Wouldn’t dream otherwise,” he says, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes.
Arthur makes his way around the chairs in an odd crouch. He sits on his heels behind Eames, and gritting his teeth, resolutely ignores the broad expanse of skin and zeroing his focus on the knots. He gets Eames’s hands free and then starts on the ropes around his ankles. As soon as Arthur is done, he reaches for Eames’s ankle to examine it, but Eames moves his leg out of the way and stands, leaving Arthur to look up at him from the floor.
“It’s just a sprain, Arthur. I’ve dealt with worse.” Eames holds a hand out and Arthur accepts it gratefully, both reacting instantly to the touch. Eames breathes deeply, as if Arthur’s scent adds to the pleasure, while Arthur closes his eyes for a second as a shiver runs through him even as warmth floods his body.
Eames pulls him to his feet and they lock gazes over the chair between them, hands still connected. For a moment Eames’s grip is tight and he’s tugging just a little, as though he’s trying not to and failing.
With a sudden hard tug, Eames pulls Arthur to himself and traps him in his arms, their chests pressed together. Arthur’s hands slide over Eames’s back and it’s almost overwhelming, the rush of relief. He could nearly collapse with it. His eyes slam shut involuntarily and he’s lost, trying to get his fill, shifting himself so that there’s a bit of friction between them. He bends to bury his face in Eames’s shoulder, breathes him in and feels Eames doing the same.
Almost at the same time they shove, hands pushing but palms glued to each other’s skin, unable to bear breaking contact completely. Eames grips Arthur by the upper arms, shaking. The skin there is tender, the touch intimate but compared to the touch they just shared, not anywhere near enough. They stand heaving for long moments, unable to meet each other’s eyes but still gripping arms. Arthur feels tears of frustration prick at the corners of his eyes. He clenches his jaw and blinks furiously, fighting to control himself.
Reining himself in with more effort than he thinks he’s ever mustered, Arthur forces himself to assess their situation. He looks over Eames’s shoulder at the door. “We’re not getting out of here yet,” he says, voice strained. “We have no way of getting that door open.”
“I think that’s rather the point of installing a reinforced steel door,” Eames says, not sounding any better than Arthur. “What are you thinking?” Eames asks, his arm brushing briefly against Arthur’s, and it’s all Arthur can do to focus on the tasks ahead.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “We made a lot of noise and no one has come yet. They likely have no idea we’re free.”
Eames just nods, and Arthur knows Eames has already come to the same conclusion. “Element of surprise, then?” Eames asks.
“Next time they come, we rush the door,” Arthur agrees.
“Without knowing how long that’ll be...” he shakes his head. “We can at least use whatever time we have to recover some,” he says, giving Arthur’s hand a squeeze and gazing hungrily at his body.
“Nothing close to enough, but with the state we’re in, we’ll need it,” Arthur says.
“We’ve faced worse,” Eames says confidently. He’s lying, because they’ve never had to fight after more than three days without touch, but that doesn’t change the fact that he obviously believes they’ll come through this.
Arthur starts walking forward, pulling Eames along. “C’mon, let’s get into position. If they come back and we’re not ready...” Arthur says, trailing off. They both know this is their one shot.
They stand next to the door, Arthur with his back against the wall and Eames with his against the door, ready to move when they hear Iliana.
They hold hands as they wait, the contact initially soothing and nourishing, but as his adrenaline lowers and the hunger rushes to the front of his mind, the touch becomes its own torture. He needs more, and Eames is standing right next to him, shirtless. Arthur has never gone three days without touch, has never been so close to dying of deprivation, and to suddenly have exactly what he needs within his reach yet still untouchable is almost worse than being bound and helpless. Knowing that Eames is just as desperate is doing nothing to help.
Unable to push temptation from his mind, Arthur nevertheless tries to focus on the fight ahead. He runs the small bits of information they know about what is on the other side of the door over and over in his head, then talks it over with Eames until they have a basic plan laid out.
With their strategy outlined, Arthur finds his thoughts sliding inexorably back to the few seconds that he and Eames had touched earlier. His only thought had been to touch as much of Eames as possible, but there had also been a rush of emotion in the touch, something that Arthur hasn’t felt since he was a teenager and his father had caught him with Carl Stigora.
“How long has this thing with Stigora’s son been going on, Arthur?” his father asked later when they were both seated in his office.
“Three weeks,” Arthur said.
“And do you have feelings for this boy?” he asked, voice harsh and eyes judgmental.
Arthur’s eyes widened. He’d never had the impression that homosexuality was frowned upon in his father’s house, but maybe he wasn’t so accepting if it was his own son. “I don’t know,” Arthur answered truthfully. “What would you do if I was gay?” Arthur was only brave enough to ask the question because he knew he was his father’s favorite.
“I don’t give a fuck who you touch. Skin is skin, and as long as you’re discreet, it doesn’t matter.” Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, but his father wasn’t finished. “What matters is that you keep touch impersonal. I’m going to say this once, and one time only.”
Arthur sat up straighter, recognizing the importance of an edict from his father.
“Never touch someone based on emotion.” His father’s voice was deep and powerful, his words sharp. “When you touch someone and emotions are involved, you give them power over you. You make yourself vulnerable to their suggestions. You make this family vulnerable, and that is something I will not tolerate.”
Arthur nodded. He didn’t understand yet, but he’d figure it out later. “Family first,” he said firmly, counting on his father’s favorite saying to get him through.
“I knew you would understand,” his father said with a fond smile. “You’re going to learn how to fulfill your needs, no more, no less. From now on, you’ll come with me when I go out. I’ll teach you how to touch someone without risk, so that your decisions are entirely your own. I don’t want to see you with the Stigora boy or anyone else anymore. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father,” Arthur said, nodding his head again.
“Good. Be ready to leave at nine o’clock tonight.”
Within months, Arthur had learned how to compartmentalize his life, everything neat and tidy in its proper place. Fifteen odd years have passed and Eames remains the only thing that Arthur can’t keep locked away. Arthur should be concerned with his own escape, with Eames along as a means to an end; instead, he’s only thinking of plans that will save them both. Any plan that doesn’t accomplish that is unthinkable.
They’ve been silent for a what feels like ages but in reality is probably only ten or fifteen minutes when they hear faint sounds. Arthur turns to Eames, who mouths, “Stairs” as he drops Arthur’s hand and steps to the other side of the door to wait.
A sense of calm washes over Arthur. He’s been off balance since the attack at the warehouse, able to react but never take control, and he welcomes the familiarity of making the first move.
The door begins to open and they move instantly. Eames grabs the door with both hands and pulls, opening the door fast enough for Arthur to dart through before the guards have fully realized what is happening.
Arthur bursts into the hallway, taking in the scene as he moves. He grabs the smaller guard and throws him to the left so that Eames can get to Brick Wall. The guard reaches for the gun holstered at his hip, only managing to undo the flap before Arthur slams the man’s head into the wall and gets his own hand around the grip, pulling it free. He quickly steps back out of range and aims the gun at the man’s head. He directs the guard to move closer to his partner so that his attention isn’t so divided. Arthur moves the gun to the right a few inches and fires a shot into the wall, fixing his aim as soon as he’s done.
“Enough. You’re done,” Arthur orders Brick Wall, his eyes never leaving the one in front of him.
Brick Wall stops fighting immediately and backs away from Eames slowly, but not before Eames disarms him. Eames orders them to remove their shirts and empty their pockets before Arthur roughly pats them down, then uses the gun to herd the men into the room Arthur and he had been held in, locking the door behind them. Stepping back, he points up and simply says, “Iliana,” as Eames deftly sifts through the men’s belongings on the floor, pulling out two mobile phones and leaving the rest. The shirts hang loosely from his hands.
They cautiously make their way up the stairs, expecting either Iliana or more guards to be waiting at the top, but they find no one. Their reluctance to break their touch slows the search and lessens their stealth much more than is prudent.
“Do you think she’s visiting her husband?” Eames asks.
“Possibly,” Arthur answers. “The bigger concern right now is figuring out where we are and finding a safe house.”
“I think I know of a place,” Eames says as he shrugs on one of the shirts, passing the other to Arthur. Once they’re buttoned, Eames grasps Arthur’s hand and they slip quietly, cautiously out the door through the kitchen and out into the night beyond.
---
Eames scans the street looking for a car that’s unlikely to be alarmed. Arthur speaks lowly and quickly into the phone. They’re on the adjacent street to the house and although Eames has to work quickly when his body aches and his fingers move too slow, it’s almost calming doing something so familiar and hearing Arthur’s terse, no-nonsense rumble. Eames isn’t sure who he’s called, just trusts that Arthur’s contacts will be fast and discreet.
“No, Eames has a place. Better you don’t know where, just find everything you can on Iliana or Niels Sørensen. Who their contacts are, who they hired to grab us. I need to know what we’re up against, what her resources are... what?”
Eames selects a non-descript Vauxhall and elbows out the window, wincing at the noise. He opens the door and slides inside, reaching across to unlock the passenger-side door for Arthur. He misses the next bit of Arthur’s conversation as Arthur moves around to get in. With a deft yank, Eames exposes the wires and sets to work starting the car.
“...the police bands. What’s the fallout? No, I’ll wait. Go.”
As the car sparks to life, Eames shoots Arthur a questioning look. Arthur tilts the mouthpiece away and says, “Niels is dead. It’s on the news; he was killed at the Centre hospitalier universitaire vaudois. Sy’s just looking into it now.”
Eames has no idea where they are so he just drives, trusting that they’ll reach a major identifiable road sooner or later. He knows Lausanne well, and it doesn’t take long before he gets his bearings.
Arthur rests his hand on Eames’s on the gearshift until Sy starts talking again and Arthur withdraws, focusing on the conversation. He grunts a few times in acknowledgment, frowning.
“Yeah, thanks, Sy. I owe you one,” he says and hangs up.
“The police have Iliana in custody. It looks like she killed him,” Arthur reaches across and almost absentmindedly places his hand atop Eames’s again. It would be nothing to Eames usually but it’s like droplets of water on his lips when he’s dying of thirst. He determinedly listens to Arthur’s words.
“Wait,” Eames says as the information gains meaning in his brain. “She killed him.” It’s a statement, not a question. Arthur provides facts, not conjecture. “Mercy killing, then? God, she must have been going barmy right alongside him.”
“Who the fuck knows?” Arthur replies. “The point is, she’s in custody. And unless she’s planning on using her one call to send more guys after us, we should be safe, at least for tonight. It’s doubtful she even knows we’re gone by now. Where are you taking us, anyway?”
“My father’s cabin, actually. It’s...” Eames sucks in a breath as Arthur undoes the button on Eames’s sleeve.
“We need to get some strength back,” Arthur says pragmatically, though the slight breathiness of his voice betrays him. “Probably best if we do this in stages,” he adds, unnecessarily. Eames knows if they take in too much skin too fast the shock would likely make them sicker. He just nods.
“Your father’s cabin?” Arthur prompts, rolling up Eames’s sleeve.
Eames clears his throat. “The family cabin, and it’s more like a cottage. It was our holiday home. It’s mine now, really. He left it to me three years ago.”
Arthur strokes Eames’s forearm, slips his own arm underneath to rub their wrists together. He’s watching the contact intently.
“Yeah, I heard about your dad. I’m sorry about that.”
“Well. The old man and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but we got along well enough by the end.” Eames pauses, his father’s ashen face rising in his mind, unreadable and distant as ever when he told Eames he hadn’t long to live and instructing him where to find the legal documents he’d need. “I check in on it about once a year, do some basic maintenance. I should sell it, but I haven’t got round to it.”
Arthur’s eyes flick up as Eames glances at him, and Eames can see that he isn’t buying busyness as an excuse. He’s gracious enough not to press, though. Arthur turns his attention back down, running the flat of his palm up Eames’s wrist. It shouldn’t have any real charge but it does. It’s probably the intensity of focus Arthur has that makes Eames want to bare himself. He mentally wills Arthur to drift his hand up past Eames’s elbow, to brush the sensitive skin under his upper arm. Eames’s face flushes slightly at the thought.
“Is that why you suggested this job? I thought it was a little basic and small-potatoes for you,” Arthur says, never ceasing his ministrations.
“Mm. Not exactly. I just thought we’d test out the new chemist on something small. The opportunity to stop in at the cabin afterwards was just a bonus.”
“Mm hm. Tell me about the place. How are we going to secure it when we get there?”
Eames glances at Arthur again, then back to the road. He knows Arthur is distracting him, but it’s also true that they’ll need to take a few steps to ensure their safety when they get there. It’s fairly remote and well-equipped; Eames has stayed there on holiday in the past and set the place up for himself. As he tells Arthur about the lay of the land and his particular brand of paranoid but effective modifications, Arthur keeps stroking, warm and firm.
When Arthur’s fingers whisper past the edges of Eames’s folded up shirt, he falters slightly but carries on talking, rattling off a litany of security enhancements. He’s aware of Arthur looking at him be he refuses to turn his attention from the road. He keeps his voice steady but it’s nearly impossible when Arthur’s fingers boldly slide up under the material and Arthur lets out a heavy, slow breath. Eames keeps his arm perfectly still, afraid to move while he carries on talking.
When he finishes his exhaustive description of their imminent hideout, he simply falls silent and lets Arthur continue. Arthur gets more brazen, sliding his fingers up under the material as far as they’ll go, and Eames closes his eyes for a second before snapping them open to look at the road. All he can do is breathe ever more heavily; he can’t reach out and touch, though his fingers practically twitch with the urge to. He’d pull over right here if he could but it’s not much farther now.
In fact it’s about fifteen minutes, both achingly too long and crushingly too short. Eames could soak up Arthur’s shameless touch forever, but soon the car is crunching up the gravel driveway, headlights illuminating the darkened house. Arthur withdraws his hand. Eames lets out a breath - of relief or regret, he’s not sure.
That they both rush out of the car to the door, despite their fatigue, is something they both pretend not to notice. Eames flips open a section of the wall, revealing a discreetly hidden key panel and taps in a passcode with shaking, jittery hands. When he steps inside an alarm begins to beep, so he steps in through the utility room and into the house proper, tapping another code into the keypad on the wall in the kitchen. Arthur steps in cautiously behind Eames.
As soon as the code is entered and the long beep ends, Eames reaches back blindly, seeking Arthur’s hand. Arthur grabs it fiercely and pulls Eames around, rubbing his palm feverishly up and down Eames’s forearm. Eames, after the last few days, after the wait at the door and the touching in the car, is far beyond caring about propriety. He undoes the first few buttons of Arthur’s shirt before getting impatient and just yanking hard, placing his palms on Arthur’s firm stomach, feeling the hard, smooth, vital flesh there. He sighs, body relaxing in immense relief.
Arthur moans and closes his eyes for a moment before opening them and fumbling with Eames’s shirt. Eames refuses to remove his hands from Arthur’s skin, so Arthur simply open the buttons and slides his hands up Eames’s pecs and over his shoulders, under his shirt. The touch is too much, intense, like a flash of a too-bright light and Eames flinches before it subsides slightly into pleasure and he presses into it.
His own hands explore, feeling the dips and planes, the occasional bump of a freckle, the tight line of a scar. At the small of Arthur’s back is a birthmark; Eames trails his fingers over it like braille, reading Arthur’s body. His hands drift up, memorizing the curve of his shoulder blade until Arthur shrugs him off suddenly, shocking Eames into removing his hands as from an open flame. But Arthur is only impatiently removing his shirt, and Eames does the same. Not wanting to be interrupted again, Eames quickly undoes his belt, his trousers, dropping them to the floor with a soft clang, and Arthur follows suit.
“We need to slow down,” Arthur whispers. Then, slightly louder, “It’s not healthy to take too much too fast. Tomorrow we’ll -”
“I know, I know. I can’t... can you slow down?” Eames asks, leaving his hands resting on Arthur’s shoulders, still but for the obsessive brushing of his thumbs over the soft skin in front.
Arthur shakes his head, his eyes feverish, a sickly sheen of sweat on his brow.
“We’ll pay for this tomorrow,” Arthur says, but he’s already given in, arching his fingers to rub and feel at Eames’s shoulders and up his neck.
Eames licks his lips, feels the drag of his tongue too keenly and knows he’s feverish but he says, “It’ll be okay, I’ll - I have medical supplies. I just need to...”
He stops speaking as Arthur draws his palms down Eames’s front, pushes his thumbs up the centre, then widening to rub them against Eames’s nipples. The pressure, so much more than the gentle brushing of palms earlier, causes Eames to hold his breath for a moment, closing his eyes. Arthur caresses in circles, then presses harder, taking Eames’s left nipple between two fingers and rolling it lightly. With a welling of horror, Eames knows he’s about to come, and can’t form the words to tell Arthur to stop. Instead he simply hunches forward, forehead thumping on Arthur’s shoulder as he shudders and spills inside his boxers with a grunt. Arthur huffs out a breath and ducks his head to try to coax Eames into looking up but Eames can’t. He’s frozen, hands gripping Arthur’s waist, eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says and Eames huffs a breath of his own.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Arthur.” He doesn’t move his head, but begins caressing Arthur’s sides again. “The bedroom’s upstairs. We should probably share.”
Slipping his arms around Eames’s shoulders and drifting his hands down Eames’s back, Arthur nods against Eames’s head. It occurs to Eames, now that he can think, that once he gets to bed he won’t want to leave for days. He’s exhausted and weak and needs to keep touching; he can barely muster up the energy to even imagine the walk upstairs, or parting from Arthur’s skin.
When he turns to lead the way, though, Arthur stays close behind, one hand rubbing up and down Eames’s arm and back. Despite the fact that Arthur has been doing this since they came in, something about being turned away from him, walking through his old holiday home half naked, exposed, makes Eames feel intensely vulnerable. He has a flash of a thought, worrying about the fallout, about what they’ll say to each other afterwards. But as he approaches the open door of the room and sees the bed, he pushes the thought from his mind and pulls Arthur to it.
Eames quickly strips himself of his boxers, unselfconscious of his semi-hard cock when so much of him has been exposed already. He sits Arthur down and straddles his lap, starved again now that the whole night stretches in front of him with no other place to go.
Arthur lays back and lets himself be felt. It’s almost obscene the way he stretches out his arms and clasps them above his head, lays himself bare for Eames to take what he needs. It’s incongruous from what Eames knows of Arthur, both the buttoned-down professional and the more recent revelations. He sees hesitance in Arthur’s eyes, but something desperate as well. He’d be more gentle, take it slower, but all that skin... he leans down and lightly drags the tip of his nose over Arthur’s clavicle, taking in his scent. His cologne has long since worn off, the faint sour sweat smell of fear settled onto his skin, but it’s mingled with a warm, familiar scent that’s all Arthur.
Eames leans his weight into his hands on Arthur’s chest, then pushes himself back, watching and feeling every contour, lightly gliding over the dark small ovals of Arthur’s nipples, trailing his fingers down the delicate, tender skin of his armpits. Arthur tenses but is otherwise still. Suddenly Arthur’s position is too much, too vulnerable for Eames to witness. He shifts to the side, grabs Arthur by the hips and tugs. “Over,” he says.
When Arthur turns, Eames taps him, points to the head of the bed. “Up there.” Eames moves down to the foot of the bed, and traces the curve of Arthur’s heel, studies Arthur with his hands from ankle to back of knee, from strong thigh over the edges of his boxer briefs, the dip of his lower back, every scar and blemish from heel to nape. Arthur, for his part, breathes heavier and heavier, the occasional sigh or moan seeping from him.
In all of the experimenting Eames had done in his youth, no one ever touched his feet like this, nor he theirs. That he just did without thought, that Arthur had let him makes something in Eames’s chest shift and flutter. It’s impossible to untangle from his fever, the goosebumps that prickle his too-sensitive skin. He’s ill and overwhelmed, too weakened to either resist or trust his emotions right now.
When he draws his palm up the side of Arthur’s neck, Arthur changes, like a switch has been flipped. He turns and pulls Eames down to lay at his side, facing away on his side. He rests his forehead on Eames’s spine, one hand on Eames’s back, and snakes his other hand around to stroke up Eames’s front. Although Eames’s cock is standing at attention and Arthur’s hand brushes past it, making it twitch, Arthur ignores it. He maps Eames the way he himself had been mapped, and Eames gets lost in it, loses sense of time and place. Exhaustion takes over.
----
The heavy, thick legs entangled in his, the warm arm draped across his middle is shocking to Arthur when he wakes at some ungodly hour of the night. His instinct is to push them away, to protect his body from too much, to protect himself. But he hasn’t the strength and it feels too much like comfort. Before he can muster the energy or the will to do anything, sleep drags him down once more.
----
Authors:: eternalsojourn and countrypixie1
Team: Angst
Prompt(s): Hunger, Sensual and Touch
Word Count: ~4700 (This part)
Rating: NC-17
Beta:night_reveals
Warnings: Angst, Torture (Happy ending)
Summary: In a world where touch is as essential to human survival as food and water, Arthur and Eames are forced to face the repercussions of their line of work.
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who's commented! This is our first collab of this type, and the first WIP for eternalsojourn. Your support has been integral to powering through this one.
Part One, Part Two
Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part Three)
“We’ll have to tip ourselves over,” Arthur says. His eyes zero in on the bruises spattered across Eames’s chest, then move to his swollen ankle. “Are you going to be able to do this?” he asks.
“I could ask the same of you,” Eames replies, “but it’s now or never, so I’m afraid our answers are rather moot, wouldn’t you say?”
Arthur doesn’t respond, just asks, “Do you think you can move your chair forward about two feet and turn sideways? If I do the same, we should be able to tip so that you can reach my hands.”
Eames nods and jerks himself forward, his chair moving an inch. They awkwardly, gracelessly move their chairs closer together, legs catching on the carpet, slowing their progress.
Arthur stops and glances over his shoulder at Eames, a few feet behind him and to the right. Eames grins. “After you, darling.”
Facing forward, Arthur takes one calm breath before rocking back and forth, careful to time it so that he tips in the right direction. Arthur seems to hang in midair for a second before he falls. He lands heavily, his head banging against the ground and sending pain rolling through him.
“You okay?” Eames asks.
“Fine,” Arthur lies. “Use your feet as much as you can to get going.”
“Thank you, Arthur. I’m sure I never would have figured that out,” Eames says, already rocking. Eames’s ankle must be killing him, but no sounds of discomfort escape him. Arthur hears and feels when Eames hits the floor behind him, hears Eames’s grunt and knows that the fall hurt more than Eames will ever let on.
They awkwardly maneuver themselves into position, arms crushed beneath them by the backs of the chairs. “Excellent, Arthur. Right there,” Eames says after a minute of painful shifting. A second later, Arthur feels Eames start tugging at his restraints. Eames works quickly, but every so often his lips or his cheeks brush Arthur’s hands and Arthur jolts from the contact. Eames never stills, just continues biting and pulling until he gets the rope loosened enough that Arthur can pull his hands free.
Arthur rubs his hands together to increase circulation. Scooting forward, he makes quick work of the restraints around his ankles. He rolls to his knees with the intention of standing, but a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea keep him kneeling, head bowed.
“Arthur?”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Arthur answers. He turns towards Eames but stops, taken aback by the open look of concern. “I’m fine,” he says.
Eames smiles. “Wouldn’t dream otherwise,” he says, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes.
Arthur makes his way around the chairs in an odd crouch. He sits on his heels behind Eames, and gritting his teeth, resolutely ignores the broad expanse of skin and zeroing his focus on the knots. He gets Eames’s hands free and then starts on the ropes around his ankles. As soon as Arthur is done, he reaches for Eames’s ankle to examine it, but Eames moves his leg out of the way and stands, leaving Arthur to look up at him from the floor.
“It’s just a sprain, Arthur. I’ve dealt with worse.” Eames holds a hand out and Arthur accepts it gratefully, both reacting instantly to the touch. Eames breathes deeply, as if Arthur’s scent adds to the pleasure, while Arthur closes his eyes for a second as a shiver runs through him even as warmth floods his body.
Eames pulls him to his feet and they lock gazes over the chair between them, hands still connected. For a moment Eames’s grip is tight and he’s tugging just a little, as though he’s trying not to and failing.
With a sudden hard tug, Eames pulls Arthur to himself and traps him in his arms, their chests pressed together. Arthur’s hands slide over Eames’s back and it’s almost overwhelming, the rush of relief. He could nearly collapse with it. His eyes slam shut involuntarily and he’s lost, trying to get his fill, shifting himself so that there’s a bit of friction between them. He bends to bury his face in Eames’s shoulder, breathes him in and feels Eames doing the same.
Almost at the same time they shove, hands pushing but palms glued to each other’s skin, unable to bear breaking contact completely. Eames grips Arthur by the upper arms, shaking. The skin there is tender, the touch intimate but compared to the touch they just shared, not anywhere near enough. They stand heaving for long moments, unable to meet each other’s eyes but still gripping arms. Arthur feels tears of frustration prick at the corners of his eyes. He clenches his jaw and blinks furiously, fighting to control himself.
Reining himself in with more effort than he thinks he’s ever mustered, Arthur forces himself to assess their situation. He looks over Eames’s shoulder at the door. “We’re not getting out of here yet,” he says, voice strained. “We have no way of getting that door open.”
“I think that’s rather the point of installing a reinforced steel door,” Eames says, not sounding any better than Arthur. “What are you thinking?” Eames asks, his arm brushing briefly against Arthur’s, and it’s all Arthur can do to focus on the tasks ahead.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “We made a lot of noise and no one has come yet. They likely have no idea we’re free.”
Eames just nods, and Arthur knows Eames has already come to the same conclusion. “Element of surprise, then?” Eames asks.
“Next time they come, we rush the door,” Arthur agrees.
“Without knowing how long that’ll be...” he shakes his head. “We can at least use whatever time we have to recover some,” he says, giving Arthur’s hand a squeeze and gazing hungrily at his body.
“Nothing close to enough, but with the state we’re in, we’ll need it,” Arthur says.
“We’ve faced worse,” Eames says confidently. He’s lying, because they’ve never had to fight after more than three days without touch, but that doesn’t change the fact that he obviously believes they’ll come through this.
Arthur starts walking forward, pulling Eames along. “C’mon, let’s get into position. If they come back and we’re not ready...” Arthur says, trailing off. They both know this is their one shot.
They stand next to the door, Arthur with his back against the wall and Eames with his against the door, ready to move when they hear Iliana.
They hold hands as they wait, the contact initially soothing and nourishing, but as his adrenaline lowers and the hunger rushes to the front of his mind, the touch becomes its own torture. He needs more, and Eames is standing right next to him, shirtless. Arthur has never gone three days without touch, has never been so close to dying of deprivation, and to suddenly have exactly what he needs within his reach yet still untouchable is almost worse than being bound and helpless. Knowing that Eames is just as desperate is doing nothing to help.
Unable to push temptation from his mind, Arthur nevertheless tries to focus on the fight ahead. He runs the small bits of information they know about what is on the other side of the door over and over in his head, then talks it over with Eames until they have a basic plan laid out.
With their strategy outlined, Arthur finds his thoughts sliding inexorably back to the few seconds that he and Eames had touched earlier. His only thought had been to touch as much of Eames as possible, but there had also been a rush of emotion in the touch, something that Arthur hasn’t felt since he was a teenager and his father had caught him with Carl Stigora.
“How long has this thing with Stigora’s son been going on, Arthur?” his father asked later when they were both seated in his office.
“Three weeks,” Arthur said.
“And do you have feelings for this boy?” he asked, voice harsh and eyes judgmental.
Arthur’s eyes widened. He’d never had the impression that homosexuality was frowned upon in his father’s house, but maybe he wasn’t so accepting if it was his own son. “I don’t know,” Arthur answered truthfully. “What would you do if I was gay?” Arthur was only brave enough to ask the question because he knew he was his father’s favorite.
“I don’t give a fuck who you touch. Skin is skin, and as long as you’re discreet, it doesn’t matter.” Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, but his father wasn’t finished. “What matters is that you keep touch impersonal. I’m going to say this once, and one time only.”
Arthur sat up straighter, recognizing the importance of an edict from his father.
“Never touch someone based on emotion.” His father’s voice was deep and powerful, his words sharp. “When you touch someone and emotions are involved, you give them power over you. You make yourself vulnerable to their suggestions. You make this family vulnerable, and that is something I will not tolerate.”
Arthur nodded. He didn’t understand yet, but he’d figure it out later. “Family first,” he said firmly, counting on his father’s favorite saying to get him through.
“I knew you would understand,” his father said with a fond smile. “You’re going to learn how to fulfill your needs, no more, no less. From now on, you’ll come with me when I go out. I’ll teach you how to touch someone without risk, so that your decisions are entirely your own. I don’t want to see you with the Stigora boy or anyone else anymore. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father,” Arthur said, nodding his head again.
“Good. Be ready to leave at nine o’clock tonight.”
Within months, Arthur had learned how to compartmentalize his life, everything neat and tidy in its proper place. Fifteen odd years have passed and Eames remains the only thing that Arthur can’t keep locked away. Arthur should be concerned with his own escape, with Eames along as a means to an end; instead, he’s only thinking of plans that will save them both. Any plan that doesn’t accomplish that is unthinkable.
They’ve been silent for a what feels like ages but in reality is probably only ten or fifteen minutes when they hear faint sounds. Arthur turns to Eames, who mouths, “Stairs” as he drops Arthur’s hand and steps to the other side of the door to wait.
A sense of calm washes over Arthur. He’s been off balance since the attack at the warehouse, able to react but never take control, and he welcomes the familiarity of making the first move.
The door begins to open and they move instantly. Eames grabs the door with both hands and pulls, opening the door fast enough for Arthur to dart through before the guards have fully realized what is happening.
Arthur bursts into the hallway, taking in the scene as he moves. He grabs the smaller guard and throws him to the left so that Eames can get to Brick Wall. The guard reaches for the gun holstered at his hip, only managing to undo the flap before Arthur slams the man’s head into the wall and gets his own hand around the grip, pulling it free. He quickly steps back out of range and aims the gun at the man’s head. He directs the guard to move closer to his partner so that his attention isn’t so divided. Arthur moves the gun to the right a few inches and fires a shot into the wall, fixing his aim as soon as he’s done.
“Enough. You’re done,” Arthur orders Brick Wall, his eyes never leaving the one in front of him.
Brick Wall stops fighting immediately and backs away from Eames slowly, but not before Eames disarms him. Eames orders them to remove their shirts and empty their pockets before Arthur roughly pats them down, then uses the gun to herd the men into the room Arthur and he had been held in, locking the door behind them. Stepping back, he points up and simply says, “Iliana,” as Eames deftly sifts through the men’s belongings on the floor, pulling out two mobile phones and leaving the rest. The shirts hang loosely from his hands.
They cautiously make their way up the stairs, expecting either Iliana or more guards to be waiting at the top, but they find no one. Their reluctance to break their touch slows the search and lessens their stealth much more than is prudent.
“Do you think she’s visiting her husband?” Eames asks.
“Possibly,” Arthur answers. “The bigger concern right now is figuring out where we are and finding a safe house.”
“I think I know of a place,” Eames says as he shrugs on one of the shirts, passing the other to Arthur. Once they’re buttoned, Eames grasps Arthur’s hand and they slip quietly, cautiously out the door through the kitchen and out into the night beyond.
---
Eames scans the street looking for a car that’s unlikely to be alarmed. Arthur speaks lowly and quickly into the phone. They’re on the adjacent street to the house and although Eames has to work quickly when his body aches and his fingers move too slow, it’s almost calming doing something so familiar and hearing Arthur’s terse, no-nonsense rumble. Eames isn’t sure who he’s called, just trusts that Arthur’s contacts will be fast and discreet.
“No, Eames has a place. Better you don’t know where, just find everything you can on Iliana or Niels Sørensen. Who their contacts are, who they hired to grab us. I need to know what we’re up against, what her resources are... what?”
Eames selects a non-descript Vauxhall and elbows out the window, wincing at the noise. He opens the door and slides inside, reaching across to unlock the passenger-side door for Arthur. He misses the next bit of Arthur’s conversation as Arthur moves around to get in. With a deft yank, Eames exposes the wires and sets to work starting the car.
“...the police bands. What’s the fallout? No, I’ll wait. Go.”
As the car sparks to life, Eames shoots Arthur a questioning look. Arthur tilts the mouthpiece away and says, “Niels is dead. It’s on the news; he was killed at the Centre hospitalier universitaire vaudois. Sy’s just looking into it now.”
Eames has no idea where they are so he just drives, trusting that they’ll reach a major identifiable road sooner or later. He knows Lausanne well, and it doesn’t take long before he gets his bearings.
Arthur rests his hand on Eames’s on the gearshift until Sy starts talking again and Arthur withdraws, focusing on the conversation. He grunts a few times in acknowledgment, frowning.
“Yeah, thanks, Sy. I owe you one,” he says and hangs up.
“The police have Iliana in custody. It looks like she killed him,” Arthur reaches across and almost absentmindedly places his hand atop Eames’s again. It would be nothing to Eames usually but it’s like droplets of water on his lips when he’s dying of thirst. He determinedly listens to Arthur’s words.
“Wait,” Eames says as the information gains meaning in his brain. “She killed him.” It’s a statement, not a question. Arthur provides facts, not conjecture. “Mercy killing, then? God, she must have been going barmy right alongside him.”
“Who the fuck knows?” Arthur replies. “The point is, she’s in custody. And unless she’s planning on using her one call to send more guys after us, we should be safe, at least for tonight. It’s doubtful she even knows we’re gone by now. Where are you taking us, anyway?”
“My father’s cabin, actually. It’s...” Eames sucks in a breath as Arthur undoes the button on Eames’s sleeve.
“We need to get some strength back,” Arthur says pragmatically, though the slight breathiness of his voice betrays him. “Probably best if we do this in stages,” he adds, unnecessarily. Eames knows if they take in too much skin too fast the shock would likely make them sicker. He just nods.
“Your father’s cabin?” Arthur prompts, rolling up Eames’s sleeve.
Eames clears his throat. “The family cabin, and it’s more like a cottage. It was our holiday home. It’s mine now, really. He left it to me three years ago.”
Arthur strokes Eames’s forearm, slips his own arm underneath to rub their wrists together. He’s watching the contact intently.
“Yeah, I heard about your dad. I’m sorry about that.”
“Well. The old man and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but we got along well enough by the end.” Eames pauses, his father’s ashen face rising in his mind, unreadable and distant as ever when he told Eames he hadn’t long to live and instructing him where to find the legal documents he’d need. “I check in on it about once a year, do some basic maintenance. I should sell it, but I haven’t got round to it.”
Arthur’s eyes flick up as Eames glances at him, and Eames can see that he isn’t buying busyness as an excuse. He’s gracious enough not to press, though. Arthur turns his attention back down, running the flat of his palm up Eames’s wrist. It shouldn’t have any real charge but it does. It’s probably the intensity of focus Arthur has that makes Eames want to bare himself. He mentally wills Arthur to drift his hand up past Eames’s elbow, to brush the sensitive skin under his upper arm. Eames’s face flushes slightly at the thought.
“Is that why you suggested this job? I thought it was a little basic and small-potatoes for you,” Arthur says, never ceasing his ministrations.
“Mm. Not exactly. I just thought we’d test out the new chemist on something small. The opportunity to stop in at the cabin afterwards was just a bonus.”
“Mm hm. Tell me about the place. How are we going to secure it when we get there?”
Eames glances at Arthur again, then back to the road. He knows Arthur is distracting him, but it’s also true that they’ll need to take a few steps to ensure their safety when they get there. It’s fairly remote and well-equipped; Eames has stayed there on holiday in the past and set the place up for himself. As he tells Arthur about the lay of the land and his particular brand of paranoid but effective modifications, Arthur keeps stroking, warm and firm.
When Arthur’s fingers whisper past the edges of Eames’s folded up shirt, he falters slightly but carries on talking, rattling off a litany of security enhancements. He’s aware of Arthur looking at him be he refuses to turn his attention from the road. He keeps his voice steady but it’s nearly impossible when Arthur’s fingers boldly slide up under the material and Arthur lets out a heavy, slow breath. Eames keeps his arm perfectly still, afraid to move while he carries on talking.
When he finishes his exhaustive description of their imminent hideout, he simply falls silent and lets Arthur continue. Arthur gets more brazen, sliding his fingers up under the material as far as they’ll go, and Eames closes his eyes for a second before snapping them open to look at the road. All he can do is breathe ever more heavily; he can’t reach out and touch, though his fingers practically twitch with the urge to. He’d pull over right here if he could but it’s not much farther now.
In fact it’s about fifteen minutes, both achingly too long and crushingly too short. Eames could soak up Arthur’s shameless touch forever, but soon the car is crunching up the gravel driveway, headlights illuminating the darkened house. Arthur withdraws his hand. Eames lets out a breath - of relief or regret, he’s not sure.
That they both rush out of the car to the door, despite their fatigue, is something they both pretend not to notice. Eames flips open a section of the wall, revealing a discreetly hidden key panel and taps in a passcode with shaking, jittery hands. When he steps inside an alarm begins to beep, so he steps in through the utility room and into the house proper, tapping another code into the keypad on the wall in the kitchen. Arthur steps in cautiously behind Eames.
As soon as the code is entered and the long beep ends, Eames reaches back blindly, seeking Arthur’s hand. Arthur grabs it fiercely and pulls Eames around, rubbing his palm feverishly up and down Eames’s forearm. Eames, after the last few days, after the wait at the door and the touching in the car, is far beyond caring about propriety. He undoes the first few buttons of Arthur’s shirt before getting impatient and just yanking hard, placing his palms on Arthur’s firm stomach, feeling the hard, smooth, vital flesh there. He sighs, body relaxing in immense relief.
Arthur moans and closes his eyes for a moment before opening them and fumbling with Eames’s shirt. Eames refuses to remove his hands from Arthur’s skin, so Arthur simply open the buttons and slides his hands up Eames’s pecs and over his shoulders, under his shirt. The touch is too much, intense, like a flash of a too-bright light and Eames flinches before it subsides slightly into pleasure and he presses into it.
His own hands explore, feeling the dips and planes, the occasional bump of a freckle, the tight line of a scar. At the small of Arthur’s back is a birthmark; Eames trails his fingers over it like braille, reading Arthur’s body. His hands drift up, memorizing the curve of his shoulder blade until Arthur shrugs him off suddenly, shocking Eames into removing his hands as from an open flame. But Arthur is only impatiently removing his shirt, and Eames does the same. Not wanting to be interrupted again, Eames quickly undoes his belt, his trousers, dropping them to the floor with a soft clang, and Arthur follows suit.
“We need to slow down,” Arthur whispers. Then, slightly louder, “It’s not healthy to take too much too fast. Tomorrow we’ll -”
“I know, I know. I can’t... can you slow down?” Eames asks, leaving his hands resting on Arthur’s shoulders, still but for the obsessive brushing of his thumbs over the soft skin in front.
Arthur shakes his head, his eyes feverish, a sickly sheen of sweat on his brow.
“We’ll pay for this tomorrow,” Arthur says, but he’s already given in, arching his fingers to rub and feel at Eames’s shoulders and up his neck.
Eames licks his lips, feels the drag of his tongue too keenly and knows he’s feverish but he says, “It’ll be okay, I’ll - I have medical supplies. I just need to...”
He stops speaking as Arthur draws his palms down Eames’s front, pushes his thumbs up the centre, then widening to rub them against Eames’s nipples. The pressure, so much more than the gentle brushing of palms earlier, causes Eames to hold his breath for a moment, closing his eyes. Arthur caresses in circles, then presses harder, taking Eames’s left nipple between two fingers and rolling it lightly. With a welling of horror, Eames knows he’s about to come, and can’t form the words to tell Arthur to stop. Instead he simply hunches forward, forehead thumping on Arthur’s shoulder as he shudders and spills inside his boxers with a grunt. Arthur huffs out a breath and ducks his head to try to coax Eames into looking up but Eames can’t. He’s frozen, hands gripping Arthur’s waist, eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says and Eames huffs a breath of his own.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Arthur.” He doesn’t move his head, but begins caressing Arthur’s sides again. “The bedroom’s upstairs. We should probably share.”
Slipping his arms around Eames’s shoulders and drifting his hands down Eames’s back, Arthur nods against Eames’s head. It occurs to Eames, now that he can think, that once he gets to bed he won’t want to leave for days. He’s exhausted and weak and needs to keep touching; he can barely muster up the energy to even imagine the walk upstairs, or parting from Arthur’s skin.
When he turns to lead the way, though, Arthur stays close behind, one hand rubbing up and down Eames’s arm and back. Despite the fact that Arthur has been doing this since they came in, something about being turned away from him, walking through his old holiday home half naked, exposed, makes Eames feel intensely vulnerable. He has a flash of a thought, worrying about the fallout, about what they’ll say to each other afterwards. But as he approaches the open door of the room and sees the bed, he pushes the thought from his mind and pulls Arthur to it.
Eames quickly strips himself of his boxers, unselfconscious of his semi-hard cock when so much of him has been exposed already. He sits Arthur down and straddles his lap, starved again now that the whole night stretches in front of him with no other place to go.
Arthur lays back and lets himself be felt. It’s almost obscene the way he stretches out his arms and clasps them above his head, lays himself bare for Eames to take what he needs. It’s incongruous from what Eames knows of Arthur, both the buttoned-down professional and the more recent revelations. He sees hesitance in Arthur’s eyes, but something desperate as well. He’d be more gentle, take it slower, but all that skin... he leans down and lightly drags the tip of his nose over Arthur’s clavicle, taking in his scent. His cologne has long since worn off, the faint sour sweat smell of fear settled onto his skin, but it’s mingled with a warm, familiar scent that’s all Arthur.
Eames leans his weight into his hands on Arthur’s chest, then pushes himself back, watching and feeling every contour, lightly gliding over the dark small ovals of Arthur’s nipples, trailing his fingers down the delicate, tender skin of his armpits. Arthur tenses but is otherwise still. Suddenly Arthur’s position is too much, too vulnerable for Eames to witness. He shifts to the side, grabs Arthur by the hips and tugs. “Over,” he says.
When Arthur turns, Eames taps him, points to the head of the bed. “Up there.” Eames moves down to the foot of the bed, and traces the curve of Arthur’s heel, studies Arthur with his hands from ankle to back of knee, from strong thigh over the edges of his boxer briefs, the dip of his lower back, every scar and blemish from heel to nape. Arthur, for his part, breathes heavier and heavier, the occasional sigh or moan seeping from him.
In all of the experimenting Eames had done in his youth, no one ever touched his feet like this, nor he theirs. That he just did without thought, that Arthur had let him makes something in Eames’s chest shift and flutter. It’s impossible to untangle from his fever, the goosebumps that prickle his too-sensitive skin. He’s ill and overwhelmed, too weakened to either resist or trust his emotions right now.
When he draws his palm up the side of Arthur’s neck, Arthur changes, like a switch has been flipped. He turns and pulls Eames down to lay at his side, facing away on his side. He rests his forehead on Eames’s spine, one hand on Eames’s back, and snakes his other hand around to stroke up Eames’s front. Although Eames’s cock is standing at attention and Arthur’s hand brushes past it, making it twitch, Arthur ignores it. He maps Eames the way he himself had been mapped, and Eames gets lost in it, loses sense of time and place. Exhaustion takes over.
----
The heavy, thick legs entangled in his, the warm arm draped across his middle is shocking to Arthur when he wakes at some ungodly hour of the night. His instinct is to push them away, to protect his body from too much, to protect himself. But he hasn’t the strength and it feels too much like comfort. Before he can muster the energy or the will to do anything, sleep drags him down once more.
----