Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 7b: Dude Looks Like a Lady

Mar 04, 2014 14:27

There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady

Master post of all chapters here.
Wordcount: 15,000


Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady

Billy's a towering boulder of a man with a long, craggy face. Dimmer than a below-average doornail, owing at least in part to the numerous head injuries he's suffered over the years as muscle for hire, he still manages to be a relatively fun bloke to get a pint with. Or at least he used to be, years ago. Who knows what more recent blows to the head have done to his personality since then.

"Parsons," Billy booms, with a crushing hug and punch on the shoulder that leaves Eames' shoulder numb. "How long's it been?"

"Few years, I think," Eames replies, rolling his shoulder to test it.

"You've changed your hair but not that pretty face of yours." Billy pats Eames affectionately on the cheek. "Still making the ladies lose their knickers, I wager."

"And you've a mug as ugly as it's ever been," Eames says, pushing Billy's massive paw away. "What's your point?"

Billy laughs as he takes a seat at the bar. "Have a drink with me and tell me what you've been doing with yourself."

Eames climbs onto the stool besides Billy and orders a whiskey. "Traveling the world, taking a job here, taking a job there. Doing what I need to do in order to get by."

"Isn't it funny, you coming back into town like this, at this particular point in time?" Billy says, smile slipping as he sips his Guinness. "It's fate, you know. You coming along and us meeting up like this."

Eames takes another look at Billy but he's always been hard to read; partial facial paralysis and a mountain of scars will do that. "You believe in fate now?"

"I don't know. Didn't used to, that's for damn sure. But now that I'm-" Billy stops and shakes his head like a dog throwing off water. "Let me ask you something, Parsons. You ever been in love?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?"

"Well, you never talk about birds much, or specific ones at least." Billy shrugs. "Wasn't sure you were the kind to care."

Eames takes a deep swig of his whiskey, abruptly irritated. "For your information, I have been in love."

"Yeah?" The corners of Billy's mouth barely tick upwards, but for him that's a huge grin. "Isn't it brilliant?"

"Abominable, more like," Eames replies. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm a married man now," Billy says, with a hint of pride.

"Oh," Eames says, caught flatfooted. Billy never had much luck with women; they tended to find his lack of expression bizarre and his enormous size terrifying. He, in turn, never could summon much to say on topics women might find remotely interesting. Perhaps time had altered the latter for the better.

"My girl has the biggest tits you ever saw." At Eames' expression, Billy amends, "Natural ones, I mean. And she lets me do whatever I want to 'em for as long as I want. That's when I knew she was the one."

"Well," Eames says as Billy stares at him expectantly. "Congratulations on finding a pair of tits that make you happy."

"Aye." Billy gives Eames a hearty clap on the back, then leans in conspiratorially. "I hear they get bigger when a bird's up the duff. Do you know if that's true?"

"I'm not an expert on pregnancy, but I suppose it stands to reason that if a woman's preparing to breastfeed, the chest should start generating fluid and enlarge," Eames says. "Have you already got her pregnant?"

Billy straightens. "What can I say? Like stallions, my boys are. Unstoppable. Want to see a photo?"

"Alright," Eames says, curious now. Billy holds out his phone to display a pregnant woman, at least six months along. Her tits are indeed enormous. "When'd you say you met her?"

"Three months ago and married a few weeks after. She's religious, you see, and said the baby was a sign that we was fated to marry."

"Well," Eames says, passing the phone back. "She does have most impressive breasts. Hell of a titty-fuck, I bet."

"Hey, you watch your mouth." Billy scowls. "That's the mother of my child you're talking about."

"Apologies," Eames says, returning to his drink.

Billy's expression clears. "You want children, Parsons?"

"Not particularly." Eames never fancied himself the type to run about with little tots; he'd have done it for Malaya, but then again, he'd have done virtually anything for her. They'd never spoken of it and she'd never seemed too concerned. It wasn't till after they were done that he realized she'd wanted children more than she'd let on-but apparently not with him.

"No, I wouldn't figure a bloke like you'd want little ones," Billy says, nodding. "No ties, no regrets."

"That does sound lovely," Eames says. "Unfortunately, life seems determined to disagree. Perhaps it's fate at work."

"I never know what you're on about." Billy chuckles. "You always were a thinker going clear over my head."

"Do you know it's my birthday in a few days?" Eames asks, rhetorically, because Billy probably doesn't even know his own birthday. "We're both over forty-years-old now. Do you understand what that means? It means we're halfway done with our lives. Of all the things we could possibly accomplish in our existence, over half of them are finished already."

"I suppose that's true," Billy says, looking down into his pint. "It's not so bad, is it? You've had a good run. Forty years isn't a small number."

"How did it all pass this quickly?" Eames lifts his glass, half-empty already. "Where did it go?"

"Into your stomach, I reckon."

"Ah yes. My ever expanding waistline." Eames chuckles, a trifle brittle. "I envisioned many futures when I was young. Sitting in an empty bar with you and photos of your baby mama on a mobile was not one of them."

"Who could have expected what telephones would become?" Billy holds his aloft. "It's tiny! Remember when we had to dial a clunker attached to a line in the ground?"

"Yes. Of all the wonders of the modern era, small phones certainly number amongst the greatest." Eames finishes his whiskey.

"Parsons," Billy says, and puts a hand on Eames' shoulder to catch his attention. "You sure you don't have a woman waiting on you? You could tell me if you do."

Eames thinks of Malaya, of Tansy, of Chulda. He thinks of Arthur.

"No," Eames says. "No one's waiting on me."

"Freer than a bird, eh?" Billy releases Eames' shoulder. "Sometimes it's better that way. There's nothing worse than making a girl cry."

"About the job," Eames says, trying to steer the conversation back onto less melancholy tracks.

"Ah yeah, it's making a few things for a bloke I work with sometimes. He wants to go to London and needs papers to access places, if you know what I mean," Billy says. "His identity here's a bit hot on account of some recent shootings. Shouldn't carry over, but he's the careful type."

"Is he willing to pay my usual fee?" At Billy's nod, Eames continues, "I don't have any of my tools or materials here."

"A mate of mine's got a workshop you can borrow that'll have all you need. The client will cover cost of the space, tools, and materials."

"What's the timeframe?"

"Client's in no rush." Billy climbs off his stool and peels a few notes from his wallet. When Eames goes to contribute, he waves it off. "It's on me. Least I can do."

"You're already bringing me a job," Eames says, though he puts his money back into his wallet.

"I guess I am," Billy says, as if he'd forgotten. "You want to take a gander at the workshop? We can go now, see if we need to pick anything else up before you start."

Eames glances at the clock. It's late; Arthur's probably asleep already. "Alright. Might as well."

"Good, good." Billy claps Eames on the back again and leads him to the car parked outside.

"Is it far?" Eames asks as Billy takes them outside city limits.

"Somewhat. Wouldn't want anyone to hear what my mate gets up to."

Eames pauses. "I thought this was a workshop. Does he usually make a lot of noise?"

"Uh, I dunno. I'm not sure what he does in there. Lots of things. Some of them make noise." Billy clears his throat. "Parsons, do you like lobster?"

"Sure," Eames says, slowly. "Why?"

"Then you've eaten with that--you know that thing that you crack lobsters open with?"

"A lobster cracker?"

"Yeah, that." Billy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "You ever think about what it'd be like to have your bollocks jammed in the center of one of those? Like, having a lobster cracker wrapped right round you, ready to squeeze."

"I can't say I've ever imagined that, no," Eames says, wondering where this is going.

They pull up in front of what appears to be an abandoned barn. Part of the roof is caved in and there's nothing else around for miles. Billy shuts off the engine and steps out of the car. Eames hasn't much choice but to follow him.

"It's a bad spot to be in, is what I'm saying," Billy says as they walk inside and he flips on the lights. There's equipment scattered around-a letterpress, some workbenches, an old desktop computer. "If you were caught like that, with someone about to crush your bollocks, then you'd be trapped, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have any choices left. You have to do what someone tells you, even if you don't want to."

"Billy," Eames says, keeping his voice calm and easy. He can hear the rumble of motorcycles in the distance. "Is there a loo by any chance?"

"Oh yeah," Billy says, sounding surprised. "Over in the corner over there. Doesn't smell very nice, though."

"I'll manage," Eames replies, clamping down on the urge to break into a sprint. He mustn't let on that he has any idea what's happening. Not until he can get the hell out of this place.

He closes the door of the lavatory behind him and jams the lock, surveying the filthy box he's in. There's no window-naturally, because that would be too easy. There are, however, a few collapsed wooden beams in the roof and a hole between the wall and ceiling.

He climbs onto the rim of the toilet-there's no cover-and shoves at a piece of wood at the edge of the hole. Thankfully, it falls away due to rot and leaves Eames with an opening he might be able to squeeze himself through. It'll be a tight fit but he hasn't, as Billy so eloquently put it, any better choices left.

"Parsons?" Billy calls as the rumble of motorcycles grow louder. "You alright in there?"

"Just a wee bit gun-shy," Eames shouts in reply as he pushes more planks of wood away, ignoring the splinters digging into his fingers. "Give me a minute, will you?"

"I think you oughta come out now," Billy says, and Eames hears the unmistakable click of a gun's safety release. "You've been in there long enough."

Eames pushes the toilet handle down to mask the sound of the last wood pieces falling away. "Let me wipe down my hands. Wouldn't want to leave a mess in your mate's workshop."

He steps onto the toilet tank and then jumps, wincing when he gets caught halfway through, jagged wood digging into his abdomen. He scrabbles at the wall, shoes trying to find purchase enough to push through. The motorcycle engines have cut out as their riders abandon them and head towards the building.

"Parsons," Billy says, now behind the door. "Parsons, come out now."

"One more minute," Eames says, affecting calm even though his legs are making an un-ignorable ruckus at this point. He manages to haul himself a few inches forward, the dark, sharp air outside tantalizing. "I'm almost done."

"This'll all be better if you come easy," Billy says, rattling at the lock. "Parsons, I promise it will if you do."

Eames doesn't bother to reply, panting with effort as he throws his weight back and forth, trying to collect enough momentum to make it the last of the way.

"Parsons, I'm sorry," Billy says as he slams a shoulder against the door. "I didn't want to do this. I swear I didn't. You've been a good mate to me but I had no choice. I have a family. I have a little one on the way to think about."

"You stupid git," Eames wheezes as he manages to worm a few more inches forward. He can hear muffled shouting from the motorcycle riders in the building now. "It's not even your bloody baby."

The noise against the door stills as Eames finally pitches headfirst onto the wet ground, never so grateful in his life to taste dirt and grass. He picks himself up. It takes a second to orient himself in the pitch-dark night and he landed hard on his bad knee.

He staggers round the side of the building, hoping fervently that all the riders are inside and that no one knows he's escaped yet. There's no noise and no light, which is why he trips and falls face first into a motorcycle.

After he recovers his wits, he checks the ignition and thanks whatever good luck he's managed to hang on to that the key is still in there, attached to a keychain with a gold skull.

"Fucking cliché," Eames mutters as he turns on the motorcycle. Behind him, he hears shouting and gunshots, but doesn't pause to look.

He takes off. There aren't any streetlamps this far out from the city and the road is a bumpy, pothole-ridden mess. There's the roar of engines behind him but it's distant; he thinks he has enough of a head start to lose them.

He makes it back to Naples and pulls into an enclosed garage near Federico's flat. After tucking the motorcycle into a discreet corner, he checks to see that no one's tailed him and breaks into Federico's building.

As he runs up the stairs to the third floor, Eames texts Arthur a short, encoded message explaining what happened.

"Robin," Federico says, opening the door shirtless and in a bathrobe. "What are you doing here? What happened to you?"

"Aquila's trying to kill me," Eames says tersely, shouldering his way into the flat. "I need to leave Naples."

"Fuck," Federico says, shutting the door and chaining it hurriedly. "Fuck, why did you come here?"

"I need a car," Eames says, going to the sink to wash some of the blood and dirt off his raw hands. "Constantine's coming with my things. We need to take our leave of the city. And Italy."

"Definitely Italy," Federico agrees as he moves a floorboard and grabs first a rifle, then a pistol. "You can't stay here."

"I'm not planning to," Eames says. "As soon as Constantine arrives, we'll leave."

"You should leave now," Federico says, checking the ammo in his gun. "Aquila is dangerous. And he will not be happy you escaped."

"I can't. I told you I need a car." Eames' phone buzzes; it's a return message from Arthur with an ETA. "Constantine will be here soon."

"If you take my car, what the hell will I drive?"

"You can have the motorcycle I stole," Eames says, then snorts. "I think it's a Ducati."

"I am not riding something stolen from one of Aquila's goons, you crazy Englishman." Federico closes all the curtains in the flat. "Did they follow you here? Are they going to shoot holes through my home?"

"Of course they didn't follow me here," Eames responds with a confidence he doesn't feel. "Do you have a motorcycle? Anything else I can borrow? I'll pay you for it."

"Oh no, I do not want to be any more mixed up in this than I already am," Federico says. "You can leave, but Napoli is my life, my world."

"Fuck," Eames mutters as he receives another message from Arthur: ETA two minutes. "Then can you at least take our luggage?" Federico looks as though he's about to argue and Eames adds, "Please, Federico. As a favor to me. I'll contact you in a few days with an address and you can ship it via a courier I'll arrange. I'll pay all costs plus a fee for the inconvenience."

Federico swallows, then finally nods. "Yes."

"Thank you," Eames says, and his phone buzzes again. A text from Arthur: I'm here.

There's a knock and Federico goes to peer through the peephole before opening up. Arthur's standing on the other side, tired but composed. Eames feels a rush of relief, overwhelming and unexpected, at seeing him.

"What's the plan?" Arthur asks, scanning the flat behind them.

"We leave our things with Federico and take a motorcycle I stole out of the country," Eames says briskly. "Or at least as far as we can get before switching to another vehicle."

"Okay," Arthur says, leaving their suitcases on the floor and reserving only a messenger bag to keep. "You're hurt. I should take a look at that."

Eames looks down at his bloodstained shirt and jacket. "Scratches. It's nothing."

"You're probably still running on adrenaline right now, which means you're not capable of accurately assessing how injured you are," Arthur says flatly. "If you're going to pass out from blood loss in the next few hours I'd like a warning."

Eames had nearly forgotten about this side of Arthur, steely and implacable under pressure. Insufferable. "I suppose I need to change anyway," Eames says. "I'll attract too much attention if I'm covered in blood."

"Bathroom," Federico says as he moves another floorboard to reveal a Kevlar vest. "And don't get guts all over my sink."

Arthur procures a first aid kit from his bag and they squeeze into the lavatory awkwardly together. Eames strips off his shirt and jacket, which are shredded in places and beyond repair. His trousers are muddy but otherwise intact.

"This is going to hurt like a bitch," Arthur says a second before he begins wiping Eames down with antiseptic. "I can do a more thorough job when we're outside of Italy and not running for our lives."

Eames hisses in pain and leans heavily against the wall. "Right."

"I'm seeing shallow cuts and abrasions," Arthur says as he finishes with the antiseptic and takes out a roll of gauze. "Nothing too deep or serious, which is good. Blood-loss shouldn't be significant."

"Glad to hear it." Eames exhales deeply as Arthur begins to wind the gauze around his waist. "You don't have to come with me if you're enjoying Naples. I can manage on my own."

"And where would I stay?" Arthur asks, still focused on his task. "In the apartment of a dead man being rented by a wanted man?"

Eames chuckles, then winces when it aggravates an injury. "You could always find a suitable hotel."

"The only reason I was staying in the first place was Signora Pezzella's lasagna." Arthur tucks the end of the gauze in and goes to wash his hands. "Without that, I might as well pack it in."

Eames examines Arthur's face in the mirror. His expression is somber but unafraid-nearly tranquil in the face of danger. "I'm sorry," Eames says, barely audible.

"I guess leaving the country does resolve the drama, one way or another," Arthur says, a hint of a smile playing across his lips.

Eames huffs a short laugh. "Yes. I suppose it does."

Arthur looks up, meeting Eames' eyes in their reflection. "Now we're even."

Eames follows Arthur out into the foyer, where Federico is tying his bathrobe over the bulletproof vest. "I don't have anything big enough to fit you, Robin."

"No need," Arthur says, opening his luggage and pulling forth an outfit for Eames. "For you."

Once Eames is fully dressed, they make ready to leave.

"Thanks," Arthur says, nodding at Federico.

"Good luck," Federico says to Arthur. To Eames, "You are a curse."

"I bless your life with your adventure and excitement," Eames replies as he clasps Federico by the hand. "Thank you, old friend."

"I hope to be old one day," Federico says as he shuts the door behind them. "Maybe then I'll be happy to see you again."

They make their way down to the garage where the bright yellow Ducati is awaiting them.

"I'll drive," Arthur says.

Normally, Eames would be inclined to argue, but his body feels like pulverized mutton and running for his life is exhausting. He climbs on behind Arthur and holds on tightly.

The motorcycle makes an ungodly amount of noise as they navigate down quiet streets in the dead of night, but it can't be helped. Eames shouts directions into Arthur's ear through the rushing wind, guiding him out of the city once more.

They travel north and across Italy to the Adriatic Sea, discarding the gaudy motorcycle and switching to an unsuspecting sedan halfway. When they reach Ravenna, they catch a ferry to Croatia. This is where they finally take a break, renting a hotel room.

"No sign of any tails," Eames says as he peers through the closed curtain and checks his email. Federico sent one an hour ago saying there was no trouble on his end.

"That's good," Arthur says, checking his own email. "Do you have another place to lay low?"

"Yes, but you're not going to like it," Eames says, taking a seat and kicking off his shoes. "It's in Frankfurt."

As if on cue, Arthur sighs. "I hate German food."

"I know."

"There's nowhere else?"

"I have a hovel in Mombasa I suspect would disagree with you far more than my flat in Frankfurt. Not to mention Cobol's price on your head."

"London?"

"And listen to my wife nag all day? Aquila might as well have me then," Eames says. "We probably shouldn't go to any of your properties on the off-chance that someone has managed to track us-I don't want you being dragged into this further than necessary."

Arthur walks over to where Eames is seated and brushes a thumb over a bandage on his forehead. "Frankfurt," he says. "We can get a real doctor to look over you."

"I'm fine, Arthur. No signs of infection, internal bleeding, or concussion."

"I know someone in Germany," Arthur continues, undeterred. "She can check you out. Make sure everything's okay."

"And if I'm not okay?" Eames tips forward to rest his head against Arthur's chest. "Will you weep bitter tears for me, darling?"

"Oh yeah, I'd be completely inconsolable," Arthur says, flat and dry. After a moment, though, he lays one palm on Eames' back and doesn't move away.

* * * * *

Eames' flat is housed in one of Frankfurt's many ultra-modern plate-glass skyscrapers. The interior is modern and minimalist, furniture from the previous tenant perfectly complementing the space.

"This apartment is nice," Arthur says, sounding surprised. "Why did we go to Naples first?"

"Because sauerkraut gives me heartburn and you hate literal sausage. Plus, Frankfurt is bloody boring when you get down to it."

"Oh yeah." Arthur puts his messenger bag down on the couch. "Did you decorate?"

"Nah," Eames says as he checks the lights and the water: all functional. "Won it in a bet."

"Should I be prepared to pack up in an instant here, too?"

"No price on my head that I know of," Eames says. "Believe me, I'm as tired of running as you are."

"Yeah." Arthur takes off his jacket with a small sigh. "I need a shower and some new clothes."

"I have some you could borrow if you want to put your things in the laundry." Eames heads into the bedroom. "They'll probably be loose on you."

"I don't even care at this point." Arthur says as he walks towards the bedroom, shedding clothes as he goes. Eames watches his retreating form with no small amount of interest, then shakes himself and goes to the kitchen cabinets, where a key ring is stored in a hidden drawer. Priorities.

Leaving Arthur to his shower, Eames heads out of his apartment building and takes a thirty minute walk to a parking garage he hasn't seen in over a year. And there it sits on chocks, as beautiful as the day he last saw it: his darling red Porsche.

* * * * *

"Your injuries are healing well," Gretel says. "Has Arthur been changing the dressing and cleaning the wounds regularly?"

Eames nods. Arthur might not be the gentlest nursemaid he's ever encountered, but he's among the most meticulous.

Gretel touches the edge of one jagged cut with a gloved hand. "Pain level?"

"Mild. Hurts, especially around the bruises, but nothing excessive."

She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She's prototypical German stock: a stern baby face and cool blue eyes. "No concussions or broken ribs?"

"Didn't hit my head or ribs hard enough for that."

She begins peeling back the edge of a bandage on Eames' side. "Good."

"Where do you know Arthur from?"

She glances up at him, pale eyes assessing. "The military."

"You were in the military?"

"Technically. I was the head of the medical research team overseeing an experimental project."

"Project Somnacin."

She pauses. "Yes."

"Then you knew Arthur before-"

"Before he started calling himself Arthur." Gretel examines Eames' wound and, apparently satisfied with how it looks, begins applying a fresh bandage.

"Did you ever meet his twin?"

She pauses again, and there's definite surprise in her expression. "Once."

"What was he like?"

"Disapproving. He thought the experiments were barbaric."

"Did you disagree?"

She finishes Eames' dressing and takes a step back. "No."

There's a knock on the door. "It's me, Arthur."

"Come in," Eames calls out.

"Your friend is in good health," Gretel says to Arthur. "Keep doing what you are doing and he may not scar."

"Thanks, Gretel. I really appreciate this." Arthur turns to Eames. "How do you feel?"

"Like a raw shank of lamb covered in bandages." Eames climbs down from the exam table and puts his shirt back on. "But nothing's likely to fall off or grow gangrenous, so that's a good job at least."

"The situation that led to these injuries," she says, "will it follow you here?"

"No," Arthur says firmly. "We left that all behind in Italy. I've been tracking it and they have no idea where we've gone."

"Good." As they ready themselves to go, she adds, "Arthur, I forgot to say earlier. I heard about Mal."

Arthur's spine stiffens. "Yeah?"

"Word travels slowly now that I'm no longer part of dreamshare," Gretel says. "I visited her grave a few months ago. I'm sorry. I know you were close."

"Thank you," Arthur says quietly while Eames pretends to be distracted by a shirt button. "For everything."

As they walk out the door, Gretel says, "Come by anytime. We can get a beer and catch up."

Outside the clinic, Eames asks, "Have you and Gretel ever-" He makes a lewd gesture.

"What? No."

"You and Mal?"

"Eames," Arthur says. "She was my doctor."

"Even better. Doctors know how to give a hell of a prostate exam."

Arthur snorts, but he's smiling. "You're incredible."

"And you say you're not gay."

"I'm-" Arthur hesitates. "I used to have this paranoia. About getting a woman pregnant."

"Seriously?" At Arthur's expression, Eames says, "You do know there are things you can do to prevent that from happening, right?"

"Oh really?" Arthur says, with a look. "Please tell me how that's worked out for you."

Eames coughs. "I see your point."

"Anyway, turns out I didn't need to worry." Arthur looks down at the ground. "Thanks to the early blends of Somnacin, my sperm have next to no motility. I'm not going to be impregnating anyone."

"Oh," Eames says, stopping in front of his Porsche. "Did you want to have children? Biological ones, I mean."

"I hadn't really thought about it. Assumed I'd have the rest of my life to figure it out." Arthur shrugs. "Guess I didn't need that long."

"Arthur." Eames walks round the side of the car and catches Arthur by the wrist.

Arthur hesitates. "What?"

"Come here." Eames pulls Arthur into his arms and hooks his chin over Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stands, unmoving for a few moments, and then the tension begins to leech from his body as he sags into Eames.

* * * * *

"I have a surprise for you," Eames says the next day.

"Yeah?" Arthur replies as he moisturizes his under-eye area. He's in a pair of Eames' pajama bottoms and nothing else. They hang off his hips and Eames does quite like the overall effect. "If it's your erect penis, I hate to break it to you but that's no longer very surprising,"

Eames chuckles. "Well the first surprise is that I've arranged a courier to fetch our luggage from Federico, which should hopefully arrive within the week."

Arthur smiles in the mirror, boyish and pleased. The sight of it makes Eames feel-something he doesn't want to examine. "Yeah? That's good to hear."

"Yeah, it is," Eames finds himself mindlessly agreeing, then shakes himself. "And the second surprise is in this bag."

Arthur takes the proffered shopping bag somewhat gingerly. "Is this a German sex toy? Because I know we joked about a tentacle sling but-"

"Lingerie, darling," Eames says, enjoying the roll of the r's over his tongue. "Thigh high stockings-you put them on like socks-and a pair of black lace panties."

"Oh." Arthur takes the panties out and squints. "Is this going to fit? Looks kind of… small."

"It'll stretch," Eames says, leaning against the counter with one hip, affecting nonchalance. "You should probably shave your legs for the stockings. Might be hard to put on otherwise."

"I should just shave everything." Arthur shoves the underwear back into the bag and returns to moisturizing. "Don't want hair to get caught in the lace."

"You'll be-going bare, then?" Eames' breath catches. Arthur is always immaculately trimmed, but completely shaved would be-

"Probably most convenient," Arthur says, seemingly indifferent. It's only the slightest flicker of his gaze towards Eames that betrays him.

Eames slides behind Arthur and rubs up against his lovely, tight arse while simultaneously putting his hands down Arthur's-his-trousers. Arthur's half-hard already, the sly bastard. "I find myself constantly wanting to put my hands all over you," Eames murmurs into Arthur's ear. "Why is that?"

"I'm really fucking sexy," Arthur says as he turns. "Now take off your pants. I want to bend you over this sink."

* * * * *

Hello,

My name is Tansy Trivedi. You have never met me before, but some years ago, you knew my mother, Bittu Trivedi. I don't know if she has told you anything about me, but I am your daughter.

I am twenty-years-old and currently having a year out from my course at the University College of London, which I am given to understand is your alma mater. I am curious to know what you studied, and whether we have taken any of the same classes. My subject is Biomedical Sciences and Neurosciences, but I don't know if this is really something I want to spend the rest of my life doing. Have you made use of your subject in your career?

I would like to meet you as soon as is convenient for you. I have saved some money from my part-time job and can fly to meet you wherever you are located in the world.

I have attached my CV as well as a list of contact information. You can call me at any time as I am always with my mobile. You can also reach me at this email address.

I look forward to meeting you.
Tansy

* * * * *

Eames wakes up to Arthur sucking his cock. It's not a bad way to wake up, all things considered, especially when Arthur puts a finger up Eames' bum and strokes until he comes.

Afterwards, Arthur crawls up to give Eames a brief, closed-mouth kiss, and asks, "You up for being fucked? All you have to do is lie there."

"The sweetest words in the English language." Eames spreads his legs.

Arthur crawls on top of him and kisses Eames' jaw as he enters. His hair is dry but free of gel, falling loosely in his eyes as he thrusts. He doesn't smell like his usual smells-that is, expensive cologne and aftershave and skin cream-but rather like fresh sweat. He must have gone for a run before waking Eames up, and decided against showering until after. Practical as always. Eames isn't sure he likes the way something warm rises within his chest at that fact.

Arthur comes with a grunt, then sags heavily on top of Eames. His eyelids flutter and he says, "Sorry. You want me to get up?"

"Well, you are crushing my delicate body beneath your tremendous weight," Eames says teasingly as he brushes the hair from Arthur's eyes. "I haven't a clue how I'll survive if you don't."

Arthur chuckles and rolls off, one leg remaining crossed over Eames'.

They lie beside each other in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Eames studies the bridge of Arthur's nose, the distinctive bow of his lips, and says, "We've been traveling together for some months now."

Arthur hums in agreement, eyes closed.

"You haven't left, despite ample opportunity," Eames says. "Why is that?"

Arthur opens his eyes and turns to look at Eames. "Truth or platitude?"

A whirlwind of unpleasant reasons flash through Eames' mind, ranging from: 'I want to steal your PASIV and this is a needlessly elaborate long con,' to 'I'm bored.' They're the types of things Eames thinks he wouldn't have minded hearing from Arthur even three months ago, but somehow, he doesn't want to hear them now.

"Platitude," Eames says, finally.

Something like disappointment crossed with relief flickers across Arthur's face. "Because no one should be alone on their birthday."

"I've spent numerous birthdays alone," Eames replies, after a moment. "Last year I spent it hiding in an Albanian bunker with a cache of weapons-grade uranium."

Arthur chuckles. "Any friends you around you want to meet up with today? That won't sell you out?"

"Ugh, no." Eames flops back on the mattress. "All they'll do is tell me how old I'm getting and how I'm now one year closer to an unmarked grave."

"In that case," Arthur says, "I have an idea."

* * * * *

"Where are we going?" Eames asks as they get into the Porsche.

"It's a surprise," Arthur replies, punching an address into the GPS.

Eames raises an eyebrow while he backs out of the parking garage and onto the street. "I'm to drive us to a mystery destination, then?"

"Trust me, you'll know it when you see it."

As Eames pulls onto the road and the GPS begins chirping directions at him, he asks, "Am I going to like this surprise?"

"I hope so, since it's your birthday present," Arthur replies, deadpan as always.

They drive for an hour outside Frankfurt to a semi-remote spot in the countryside with little besides hills and farmland. Eames is starting to grow dubious about the accuracy of the GPS when a sleek building comes into view, accompanied by a parking lot filled with even sleeker vehicles.

As they pull up beside a silver Rolls Royce that makes Eames' Porsche look positively quaint, a man in an immaculate suit approaches. "Mr. Goldfinger?"

"That's me," Arthur says, rolling down the window. "I have a reservation for one car."

"Yes, we were expecting you." The man inclines his head at Eames in acknowledgment. "You can park over there and take a look around. You're welcome to test drives before you make your final decision, of course."

"Arthur," Eames says as he eyes the Lamborghinis, Ferraris, and McLarens all around them. "Are you buying me a supercar?"

"It's a rental," Arthur says. "We're next to a stretch of the Autobahn with no speed limits."

"Oh," Eames says as realization sinks in. "You mean to say-oh!"

He spends at least an hour in the lot, admiring all the models-a few of which he's only ever seen in magazines-palming the curves, and examining the interiors. Arthur follows along obligingly, nodding in all the right places as Eames rambles on about horsepower and carbon-fiber body. The only comment Arthur makes is about an Aston Martin.

"This is the Bond car, right?"

"You have a skilled eye. This precise model has been used in the past three films," the salesman replies with a smile. "Are you interested in a test drive?"

"Overrated," Eames says with a disdainful sniff.

"The car or MI:6?" Arthur replies with an amused smile.

"Both," Eames says as he walks off.

After much indecision, Eames finally settles on a cherry red Bugatti, gleaming in the sun. The interior is sublime, the handcrafted leather seat practically molded to his body.

"Oh, Arthur," Eames sighs as he drives the car off the lot, the salesman waving cheerily in the rearview window, "it's perfect."

"I'm glad you like it," Arthur says as he checks his seatbelt. "Now, just because there's no speed limit doesn’t mean-"

Eames floors the accelerator and loses the rest of Arthur's words as they zoom forward, the engine purring beneath him like a contented feline.

There are a few other cars on the road, zipping along at rational speeds in Audis and BMWs. Eames pays them only the slightest heed as he flies down the Autobahn, the engine humming beneath him.

There's countryside passing by too quickly for Eames to notice. He hasn't driven like this outside of a dream in ages-he'd nearly forgotten the sheer fun of it, of hurtling down a road at insane speeds and leaving the stationary world behind him.

Arthur clutches the sides of the passenger seat and says nothing.

Eventually, they reach a section of the highway with speed limits that dip lower and lower as they re-approach civilization. Eames is forced to turn around and head back from whence they came, with more than a trace of disappointment.

They reach the rental agency and Eames does one last, longing lap around the lot before bidding his Bugatti farewell. Arthur climbs out, complexion a bit ghostly, and settles the bill before meeting Eames back at his Porsche.

"That was marvelous, darling," Eames says as they drive back to Frankfurt. "I loved every moment of it."

"Good." Arthur tries not to look too pleased with himself. "Because it was either supercars or a pony."

Eames chuckles. Then a thought occurs to him. "Is this part of your apology? I thought after Naples that we were even."

"We are even." Arthur's hand comes to rest on Eames' knee. "I just-I wanted you to have a happy birthday."

Eames slants a curious look at Arthur. "All this to give me a happy birthday?"

"Yeah." Arthur squeezes Eames' knee and leaves his hand there for the rest of the drive home.

* * * * *

Dinner is had at a local restaurant in Frankfurt. Eames is pleased to discover a boiled chicken main on the menu while Arthur has schnitzel. Afterwards, they stop at a chocolatier. Eames chooses an enormous gift basket of sweets, which Arthur, once again, pays for.

Back at the apartment, Eames settles on the couch and proceeds to gorge himself on chocolates. Arthur has two.

"Do you have a music system in this place?" Arthur asks as he prods some buttons on the television. "Or is it only the TV?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Eames says. "I suspect the previous tenant was quite fond of his electronic toys. He may have taken the speakers with him."

Arthur manages to turn the telly on and locate a station playing jazz. "I'm going to take a quick shower and change," he says. "Stay put."

Normally, Eames would quibble with Arthur's directive, but he's stuffed with chocolate and a growing malaise over the notion of being in his mid-forties. At this juncture, staying put on the couch seems like the only sensible course of action at all.

Arthur takes his shower and returns clad in a set of Eames' clothes. They're loose on him, though roughly the correct length, and Eames feels a tritely possessive thrill at seeing Arthur in them. Their luggage hasn't yet arrived and Eames suspects he might be sorry when it does.

"Hey," Arthur says as he comes over to stand beside the couch.

Eames allows his eyes to slide half-shut again as he stares up at Arthur's crotch. "Hullo."

"Tired?"

"More filled with existential dread than fatigue."

Arthur makes a thoughtful noise. "Sit up. I've got one more surprise for you."

Eames heaves himself up into a sitting position and blinks when Arthur climbs onto his lap, straddling him. "Arthur?"

Arthur rests his hands lightly on Eames' shoulders and smiles. Up close, he smells clean and fresh, looks handsome and neat. He's careful not to rest all of his weight on Eames' legs, but even so, there's a solidity to him unlike any other lapdancer Eames has ever had. "What do you think about this shirt on me?"

Eames plucks at the material-a cheap cotton blend. He doesn't remember where he first picked it up; for a job, most likely. "It doesn't fit you."

"You're right," Arthur replies, hooking the edge of the shirt with his thumbs and pulls it over his head. "That's better, right?"

"Most certainly," Eames agrees, attention caught by Arthur's bare torso-as it always is.

"What about these jeans?" Arthur asks, guiding Eames' hands down to rest at the gap between his waist and the denim. "How do they look?"

"A travesty since I can't see your bum in them," Eames says. He's not quite certain this is what he thinks this is; Arthur's never had much interest in flirtatious games.

Arthur favors Eames with a small smile as he pulls out of Eames' lap and stands. "That's a good point."

Then he turns, bends over at the waist, and pulls his trousers down to reveal black panties and thigh-high stockings.

Eames gapes openly as Arthur toes off his shoes and jeans, back still turned to Eames. His arse is stupendous, stupefying, clad in lace, and his legs seem to extend forever.

Arthur turns, cock cradled in the fragile fabric. He's not fully hard yet, but the full curve is suggestive, inviting. "Do you like?"

Arthur's legs are planted to the floor, spine perfectly straight, expressionless except for the gathering blush in his ears. The words are flat, not quite playful enough to be coquettish, and nowhere close to Arthur's raspiest bedroom voice. As seduction attempts go, Eames would peg Arthur as a rank amateur, someone Eames could best with a blindfold and no voice.

And yet, somehow, it is better than any fantasy Eames could ever concoct.

"I want to fuck you right here and now," Eames says, with shocking sincerity.

Arthur smiles. "Follow me."

Eames watches him walk to the bedroom and scrambles after in a sort of daze, confounded by his newfound desire to bend Arthur over the nearest flat surface and stuff him full of cock. It must be a byproduct of all the chocolate he devoured earlier.

Arthur halts by the bed. "What do you want to do with me?"

"I want to rip those panties right off you."

Arthur takes a seat while Eames crowds him, crawls half on top him in a reversal of their earlier positions. "And then what?"

"I don't know," Eames says as he bends down to mindlessly nuzzle at Arthur's long neck. "Let me-"

Arthur plants a stocking-clad foot in the middle of Eames' chest to halt him. "No. And then what?"

"I'll--I'll eat you out," Eames says, words coming out in a rush. "I want to put my hands on your perfect round arse and eat you out for ages."

Arthur's eyes widen slightly with-nervousness? Excitement? It's difficult to determine, but ultimately he says, "Yes."

He rolls onto his front, arse in the air, and waits while Eames gropes him. Eames savors the roundness in his palms and bends down to lick Arthur's hole through the lace. Arthur sucks in a quick breath, and Eames takes a minute to nose down the cleft, rub against the sensitive flesh.

Arthur's beginning to relax when Eames straightens up, takes the delicate material in his fingers, and rips the panties right off. This provokes a reaction from Arthur-startled before he forces himself to still, arse completely exposed.

Eames eases a hand under Arthur's body to take his cock in hand, noting the half-full erection, and then delivers a light slap to Arthur's right buttcheek. Arthur jumps in surprise and though he makes no sound, Eames feels Arthur's cock swell.

It's been a while since Eames last rimmed a man; rarely has it seemed worth the trouble. But Arthur's arse is exceptional, bitable and lickable and delicious to bury his face in. A part of him wonders why it's taken him so long to do this, but another part of him knows precisely why.

He licks and sucks and kisses with obscenity, taking as his guide the sound of Arthur's labored breathing, the twitch of Arthur's cock in his grasp. He takes a moment to breathe periodically, spanking Arthur lightly before diving back in to soothe the hurt.

Eames continues past the point of his tongue's exhaustion, until Arthur's completely boneless and rock hard. Eames traces his thumb in a tight circle around Arthur's pucker and watches it accept him, easily, wetly.

"Would you spread even wider if I fingered you?" Eames wonders aloud, testing the rim of Arthur's hole and imagining how something this tight would feel around his dick. "If I fucked you?"

With an alacrity that catches Eames off guard, Arthur flips over on the bed. He drags Eames down by the neck and kisses him, hungry and demanding. "Are you offering to top, Mr. Eames?"

"Does the proposition interest you?" Eames hedges, abruptly-afraid. Afraid that Arthur might say no. Afraid that he might say yes.

Arthur's quiet for a beat and suddenly Eames recognizes the emotion mirrored in Arthur's eyes. "Maybe-one day."

"Yeah," Eames says, feeling relieved and oddly twisted up inside as he kisses Arthur again, softer. "Let me-I want to suck you off."

"Okay," Arthur says, and a hint of humor returns to his mouth. "This shaved thing feels weird but it does make my dick look bigger."

Eames bends down to kiss the bare base of Arthur's cock, skin around it tender and hairless. "Oh, it's enormous."

Arthur chuckles, but seems pleased nonetheless.

Eames kisses the crown of Arthur's cock before sliding it into his mouth, one hand supporting the base while his other strokes over Arthur's balls. In turn, Arthur smooths his fingers through Eames' hair without breaking eye contact.

They don't break it until Arthur murmurs something unintelligible and closes his eyes, coming. Eames watches his flushed, sweaty face, the way his nose scrunches and mouth falls open. He's every bit a man no matter what he wears and bloody sexy for it.

Arthur opens his eyes, lazy. His thumb skims across the underside of Eames' chin. "You ever done it between the legs?"

"Using the thighs, you mean?" At Arthur's nod, Eames says, "Once. When I was still a teenager."

"Couldn't wait, huh?"

"Barely managed to get my boxers down," Eames replies, wry. "Made a hell of a mess."

"Are you going to mess up my stockings?" Arthur asks as he sits up, gets on his knees and reaches for the lube.

"Maybe," Eames says as he slicks up his cock, the inside of Arthur's thighs. "Are you going to send it to the cleaners? Wonder what they'll say."

"That someone got a little too excited and missed," Arthur says as he guides Eames in between his legs. It's tight and slick-nothing like a pussy or a mouth or an ass, but Arthur has a runner's legs, muscular and unmoving. It's not going to take Eames long.

"Do you want to see how I fuck?" Eames whispers in Arthur's ear. "Do you like it fast or slow?"

Arthur winds his arms around Eames and drops his forehead to Eames' left shoulder. "I don't know," he says, muffled.

"Slow, then," Eames says even though a part of him wants to go fast, wants to come and pull out, pull away. It's too hot and too close like this; the sweat's pouring off him and they've barely started.

"Eames," Arthur says, barely a whisper in Eames' ear. "If you wanted lingerie, why didn't you go pick up a woman?"

Maybe it's the heat or that Eames has sweated so profusely he's lightheaded from dehydration, but the words come out before he can stop to examine them. "Because I wanted you."

Poll Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady

Next - Chapter 8: American Boy

writing, fic, inception

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