Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 8b: American Boy
There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 8b: American Boy
Master post of all chapters here.
Wordcount: 21,500
Chapter 8b: American Boy
"We must leave at once," Eames says once they reach Arthur's flat. "Pack your things and I'll arrange the tickets."
"The tickets," Arthur echoes.
"It'll have to be coach, I'm afraid," Eames says distractedly as he opens his laptop. "Funds aren't quite as liquid as I'd like at the moment, but I'm expecting-"
"You'd rather leave the country than have a conversation with your daughter."
"Don't call her that." Eames' tone is sharper than he intends. "She's a-mad stranger with half-baked notions of my paternity. Really, there's no proof and no way to be certain that-"
"She has your eyes and your mouth."
"Perhaps her mother slept with my father," Eames says. "I wouldn't put it past him. He attempted to sleep with a shocking number of women I-"
"You got your eye color from your mother," Arthur says. "Her grandmother."
"What does it matter?" Eames sputters, cursing his infernal computer's slowness. "Even if it's possible she's-surely you don't have an interest in some sort of reconciliation."
"Your family is your business, and I respect that," Arthur says. "But I can't leave Paris. I need to make that appointment or I'll lose the apartment."
"Then let them take it," Eames says. "Buy another one. Hell, buy ten if you'd like-you certainly have the funds for it."
"I'm not giving this place up," Arthur says. "I have an appointment in three days and it's ridiculous not to-"
"What's truly ridiculous is your attachment to this dreary memorial. Crammed with furniture you don't want, books you don't read--"
"Eames-" Arthur says, warningly.
"You know, there's one thing I've never quite understood. Why you bothered with Cobb. I used to think it was Dom, some unrequited longing." Eames gestures at the flat around them. "Now I see it's been Mal all along. Not an affair, but a surrogate maternal relationship born from her obligation to you as a doctor-"
Eames knows he's on the cusp of something when every muscle in Arthur's face goes tight.
"I know that you're stressed about Tansy, but this is out of bounds."
"I am not stressed," Eames says, fists balling at his sides. "Why should I be stressed that some-some girl is hounding me across the globe, interfering with my finances, acting as if I owe her--"
"I think all of this could be resolved if you met with her. Talked to her. Satisfied whatever curiosity she had and-"
"And then cry and hold hands and hug like some movie?" Eames interrupts. "Why does it matter so bloody much that she meet me? Having a father is vastly overrated. My father, for instance, used to horsewhip me in the summer for embarrassing him in public. During the rest of the year he used an open hand because the whips left marks others might notice."
"Eames-"
"But for you it’s not about the father figure, is it? It's all about the maternal," Eames says. "Single mother, divided between working to support a family and giving attention to two equally needy young boys. Hardly enough of her to go around. No wonder you left home for a new family. Found yourself a new mummy, one that would love you the way you'd always-"
Arthur's face goes pale. "Get out. Get the fuck out right now."
"Gladly," Eames snarls. "I can't stand living with your repressed ghosts and that ridiculously tiny bed."
He has the presence of mind to shove his laptop into a bag before leaving the flat, abandoning everything else. Because he is not a materialistic wanker who can't let go of the past, unlike Arthur.
Eames is far too dignified to storm down the street, but his angry countenance is enough to cause all except the rudest of Parisians to step out of his way.
He walks until a decent hotel comes into view. It's only when he reaches the reception desk that he realizes he has nothing more than a handful of change on him, having left his wallet and keys in the pocket of his jacket. Which is currently hanging from Arthur's coat rack.
Eames mutters a curse and leaves. Dusk is falling.
He picks up a croissant and debates his options. Returning to Arthur's flat is completely out of the question and he's in no mood to explain the situation to any friends or acquaintances in France. He could try to find a way out of the country but he's drained from the row with Arthur, and from being ambushed in public. The first step to creating a larger plan is securing a bed for the evening.
He wanders until he finds a suitably upscale bar with patrons who appear of an age and profession to afford their own homes. Then he spends his last few Euros on a drink and goes to work.
After a few false starts, he ends up conversing with and eventually following home a rather sweaty man-a fact he doesn't discover until their clothes are off and every point at which they touch is soaked. At least the flat is well-appointed, the bed spacious and comfortable.
After a decent blowjob, Eames settles onto the far side of the mattress for a good night's rest. That is rudely interrupted by a rather panicked series of whispers and pokes by his companion, "Tu dois y aller."
"What?" Eames asks, groggily.
"Ma femme est rentrée un jour plus tôt. Tu dois partir avant qu'elle arrive." The man switches to English. "Wife come home."
"Yes, I got that bit," Eames mutters as he squints at the window. It's not yet light out. "Now?"
"Oui."
Thus, Eames finds himself shoved out the door, again. He trudges through empty streets, disoriented and fatigued. His laptop feels ten times as heavy as it had before and now he wishes he'd never brought the damn thing.
It takes him an hour to come to the conclusion that he needs more sleep to function-sleep which cannot take place on a park bench or a sidewalk. He nurtures the faint hope that he could slip into Arthur's flat, seize his things, and escape undetected.
It takes another hour for him to locate the damn place. By this point, his feet hurt, his shoulder aches from bearing the weight of his bag, and his bad knee is sending up agonizing throbs of protest at the day's total exertions.
He creeps inside with nary a sound, but of course Arthur instantly appears in the bedroom doorway, armed with a Glock.
"Don't shoot," Eames says, too weary for pride. "I've been walking for hours, going over and over in my mind how rotten I was-"
"You left your wallet and keys in your jacket," Arthur says flatly, not lowering the gun. "And whoever you were staying with kicked you out."
Eames sighs. He shouldn't have played the apologetic card that aggressively. "Alright, yes. But I have been walking for hours, I'm exhausted, and my knee is killing me. I'll sleep on the couch or the floor. I-please, Arthur."
Arthur lowers his gun, though his expression doesn't soften. "You can sleep on the couch if you call Tansy in the morning and arrange a meeting."
"But-"
"No buts," Arthur says. "And you have to stop being a shithead."
Eames swallows. "I'll try."
"No more bullshit," Arthur says. "Deal with your crap."
The door to the bedroom closes and Eames drops to the couch. He should feel relieved, but alas, the emotions are far more complicated than that.
* * * * *
"Now you've finally met her," Malaya says as they sit together on a heather-covered hill overlooking that same bloody stream. "Is she what you thought she'd be like?"
"She's older," Eames replies. Below them, Tansy-a projection of her-is wandering barefoot through the water. "Why is she here?"
"I don't know," Malaya replies unhelpfully. "You're the one that dreamt her up."
"I am aware," Eames says, annoyed. At least Tansy seems oblivious to their-his-presence.
"You're going to talk to her, then?"
"Not here. Up there."
"Why don't you leave? She's tenacious now, but her money won't last forever and you can go to ground for a year. You can outwait her."
"I can't. Arthur won't-"
"Then leave without him."
"I-" Eames halts. "I won't be able to finish my bucket list without him."
"That excuse is growing a bit thin, isn't it?" Malaya props her chin up on her knee. The sunlight dances on the tan apple of her cheek.
"It's not an excuse, it's the truth. It'll be next to impossible to find anyone to finish up the last few-"
"There's Hyori. Or prostitutes. Or dreams."
Eames looks up at the sky above them, clear and blue like Scotland rarely is. Malaya was so beautiful. He wonders if she still looks like she once did, or if that beauty exists only in dreams and memories now. "I would have been a rotten father."
"As rotten as yours was?"
"That or worse." Eames looks down at where Tansy is seated, skipping stones across the water's surface. "As soon as I could escape, I did. I don't understand what she could possibly want from me."
"She's likely built up a romanticized fantasy of you," Malaya says. "Whenever her mother disciplined or disappointed, the heroic figure of you remained to console, untainted by reality. You're the platonic father at this point. An ideal."
"Then why go and spoil that with the truth?"
Malaya doesn't reply. Eames follows her eye-line, to Tansy.
Tansy touches the surface of the water, and only now does Eames see her reflection-an image that depicts he and her embracing. Even at a distance, he can read the yearning in Tansy's body, the desperate hope.
* * * * *
"I scheduled a meeting with the girl," Eames says when Arthur returns.
Arthur's gaze sweeps across the flat and over Eames. "You also cleaned."
"Yes, I-" Eames clears his throat. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier."
Arthur carries his groceries into the kitchen and Eames trails behind, a few feet away. "When's the meeting?"
"Tomorrow." Arthur sets down the bag and begins unloading the food. "Waiting till tomorrow--that was her scheduling, not mine," Eames hastens to add.
"I see."
"Would you like any assistance?" Eames offers.
"Is this you being nice?" Arthur asks. There's no amusement in his voice.
"This is me attempting-poorly-to make amends." Eames pauses. "I shouldn't have said those things about your mother."
"Damn straight you shouldn't have," Arthur says and now Eames can hear the anger still simmering. "You don't know shit about anything."
"You were right about how difficult I find my situation with Tansy," Eames says, every word harder than the one previous. "I didn't want to admit it-to you or myself. I lashed out at you in my frustration and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."
Arthur pauses, hands hovering over a piece of cloth-wrapped cheese. "Did your dad really try to sleep with one of your girlfriends?"
"Managed to sleep with at least two of them that I know of," Eames says. "Not sure how many others he made a pass at-probably all of them."
"Jesus," Arthur says. "Your father was an abusive scumbag. I'm sure what you told me was only the tip of the iceberg, but whatever stuff he did to you-you didn't deserve it."
Eames swallows down a defensive retort. Why Arthur would choose this moment to discuss his father he doesn't know, but Eames supposes it's a fair bit of turnabout after all he said regarding Arthur's mother. He almost prefers groveling. "I know."
"Tansy stirs up a lot of shit for you. I get how family can do that." Arthur shakes his head. "But Daddy issues are only a valid excuse for crap up to your twenties. You've been on your own for over a decade since then."
"I thought this was no longer an issue," Eames says, and clarifies, "I thought I'd resolved everything sufficiently. I didn't expect-I was a bit blindsided. Emotionally, that is."
Arthur doesn't reply for a long moment. Then he says, "You can put the rest of the groceries away."
He watches in silence as Eames stocks the refrigerator. When he's done, Eames says, "Are you certain fleeing isn't an option?"
"Not if you and I are going to keep moving forward." There's something somber about the way Arthur speaks, as if he were talking about something other than a sex bucket list.
"Your government appointment is a few days from now, isn't it?" At Arthur's nod, Eames reaches out to touch Arthur with one hand. "I can drive you and assist with translation. If you'd like."
Arthur lifts his arm and Eames begins to pull away, afraid he's overstepped. But Arthur catches Eames' fingers in his. "Okay."
Eames stares down at their clasped fingers and wonders how it all came to this. How he came to not want to let go.
* * * * *
"Tansy," Eames says, taking a seat at the table across from her. She's dressed primly, neat and pressed. The resemblance to Bittu is striking, though Bittu was never this buttoned-up.
"Father."
"Do not call me that," Eames says sharply. "It's Eames."
Her face falls, and then she composes herself. "Yes, of course. My apologies."
"Well?" Eames settles, elbows pulled in at his sides. "I'm here."
"Yes, I almost can't believe it." Her eyes rove over his face, as if hungry for every detail. "You're not-you're not what I imagined."
Eames doesn't react one way or another. Silence descends over the table as Tansy stares at him expectantly. He volunteers nothing, and waits.
"Erm," she finally says. "Rather odd weather we're having, isn't it?"
"For the love of god," Eames says, and apparently Arthur's American directness has been rubbing off on him, making him impatient with such roundabout small talk. "Did you really chase me halfway round the world to ask my opinion of the weather?"
"No, I-" She squares her shoulders. "I came to ask you about yourself. To know more about you."
"Anything you want to know about me you can ascertain from your mother."
"She hasn't been entirely forthcoming." Tansy leans forward and places an old, tattered photo on the table. "This was the only clue I had about the identity of my father-of you-for years."
It's a photo of Eames, barely twenty years old and in the full bloom of his youth. He's clean-shaven, with a lean frame and pale, soft hair. His smile is sly, rakish-the perfect canvas for a young girl to project her paternal fantasies onto. He's surprised Bittu bothered keeping the photo.
"When did you find this?" Eames says, after a long pause.
"When I was ten," Tansy says, a touch of pride in her voice. "It was hidden in my mother's trunk in a false bottom. I didn't let on that I'd found it for years. She had no idea I was searching until I was sixteen."
Eames picks up the photo. There's a date on the back but nothing else. He puts it down without turning it over again. "How did you find me?"
"There were quite a few dead ends, but I found your name eventually, even without mum's help. She insisted she didn't know who my father was but I knew she was lying," Tansy says. "Once I knew your name, it was easy to track down your estate, which led me to your wife."
"Chulda directed you here, then?"
"Yes," Tansy says. "She wouldn't tell me--what exactly is it you do?"
"I'm a jack of all trades," Eames says and takes a sip of his water.
"Which trades?"
Eames shrugs. "Whatever's needed.”
Tansy's lips thin. Rather strange to see, considering she has his mouth. He wonders if he's ever made that face before. "Might you be more specific?"
"I am a man that takes care of unpleasant business."
"Is that why you ran from me? To-"
"Protect you? No," he says firmly, able to practically hear the noble fantasies whirring away in her mind.
"Alright," she says, seeming unconvinced. "If you're so-disreputable, how are you married?"
"Marriage is no accomplishment. Anyone desperate to sign on the dotted line can do it if they sink low enough."
"And-and that man you were with?"
"What about him?"
"You're married, but you don't live at home and you're traveling with a-" She fumbles for a word. "Companion."
Eames lifts one shoulder and takes a sip of his water.
Eventually she asks, "Don't you want to know anything about me?" Before he can respond in the negative, she begins rattling off a list of awards, hobbies, achievements. Eames doesn't bother listening and doesn't bother to stop her.
She runs out of breath and years of life, then returns to staring at him expectantly.
Eames wonders if he can leave. He wonders if she'd chase after him and cause a scene if he did.
"Are you planning to tell me anything at all about yourself?" she asks, exasperation finally beginning to show.
"What, whether I prefer pink or blue or both?" Eames shoots back coolly. "Why on earth does it matter?"
"It matters because you're my father and I have spent my entire life waiting to meet you. I've imagined over and over precisely how you'd be. How you'd introduce yourself and ask me questions and tell me-" her voice wavers, falters. "That you wished you'd known. That you would have been a part of my life if you had."
Eames forces himself to meet her eyes, and the sensation is surreal, unnerving. They're his eyes, blinking back at him. Pleading with him. "I'm not the man you built in your head all these years. If you want me to pretend to be, I can, and when I leave that will be the last you'll ever see of me. If you'd rather the truth, I can offer that as well. I suspect you won't care for it."
She swallows. "Be honest."
"When I look at you, I see a stranger wearing your mother's face alongside a few of my features. Nothing more."
She sucks in a noisy breath. Then another. "I think this may have been a mistake." She rises quickly, the wrought-iron legs of her chair scraping noisily across the floor. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I should go."
She goes.
* * * * *
"I spoke with Tansy."
"Okay," Arthur says, looking up from sorting his mail. "No more running?"
"No more running." Eames drops onto the sofa beside him, close enough for their knees to touch. Arthur doesn't move away. "Are you prepared for the appointment tomorrow? Anything you'd like me to review or translate?"
"I think I'm okay," Arthur says, and Eames hears it for the first time-the trace of nervousness in his voice.
Eames studies Arthur, the set of his mouth, the rigidity in his arms. "You really want this, don’t you?"
"I know you don't get it," Arthur says. "But yeah, I do."
"Will you help me understand?" Eames stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, ready for Arthur to shrink away. To his surprise, Arthur slides closer into him. Not quite settled against Eames' shoulder, but-close.
"I grew up moving a lot. My mother was always chasing the big sale, the miracle product, the next thing that was going to make us all rich. Never stayed anywhere more than a year, sometimes a few months. Aiden hated it. He wanted us to be normal."
"And you?"
"I didn't mind, really. I like traveling and seeing new places, meeting new people." Arthur shrugs. "Yeah, sometimes it was hard, having to pack up and leave. And it was tough to make friends that I could keep when we probably wouldn’t see each other again. But I never-I never longed for the white picket fence and a yard and a dog the way Aiden did."
Eames brushes his fingertips along Arthur's bicep, feeling the stiffness in his limbs begin to soften. "What did you want?"
"I wanted to be with my mom and him." Arthur winces and covers his face with a hand. "God, that sounds fucking schmaltzy."
"Well, you were a team, weren't you?" Eames lowers Arthur's hand. "All three together, working to sell piss-warm lemonade."
Arthur snorts. "Yeah." After a pause, he says, in a lower voice. "Now I don't have either of them."
Eames brushes his lips across Arthur's forehead. Arthur's wearing his hair back again, dissipating the illusion of innocent youth. "I'm sorry. That must be difficult."
"Yeah." Arthur clears his throat. "I know this apartment isn't anything special. It's cramped and expensive and the furniture is hideous. I could buy ten like it and with less hassle than I'm going through now."
"But it's one of the first stable places to call home you've ever had. You don't want to leave it."
"I didn't expect to care." Arthur looks around the room. "I thought I'd hold it a few years for Mal's sake and then get rid of it."
"Funny how caring can creep up on you." Eames kisses Arthur's temple and takes a deep breath. Arthur smells warm and familiar and-reassuring. Though it's a mistake to relax deeply into such sentimental ephemera, Eames can't quite force himself to abandon it.
"I wasn't there when she died," Arthur says, voice distant. "I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know how bad it had gotten. Maybe I didn't want to know."
"There's nothing quite as brutal as hindsight in dictating what one should or shouldn't have done," Eames says. "But until we reach a point in which we possess perfect information, we shall have to muddle on with the incomplete knowledge in our grasp."
"Assuming I accept that as a satisfactory answer for the present, what do we do about the past?"
"Understand it. Accept it. Perhaps even forgive it."
A wisp of a smile tugs at Arthur's lips. "Is that because holding a grudge will give me wrinkles?"
"Precisely," Eames says, allowing himself to savor the joy he feels at Arthur's half-smile. "Precisely."
* * * * *
Eames sends an email to Chulda informing her he's met with Tansy.
She shoots back a terse reply: good, I'll resume the payments.
* * * * *
The government appointment involves an eternity spent waiting in a lobby, another eternity spent watching several clerks type with two fingers on computers they clearly have no idea how to use, before being ushered into a tiny office with yet more waiting.
Arthur dresses in his most conservative navy suit and does his best to follow along while Eames speaks with the bureaucrat that's handling his case. Arthur answers a few questions in stilted French with a heavy accent that Eames finds rather charming. The bureaucrat is less charmed.
Apparently, passing familiarity with French property law is not a requirement for governmental work, as the bureaucrat has none whatsoever. He pores over all of Arthur's paperwork, refers to several dusty binders full of arcane proclamations which provide no assistance whatsoever, and eventually dismisses them from the meeting with no sense of what to do.
They're told to return in a month for a follow-up appointment, after the office has done its processing. Processing of what, Eames isn't entirely sure, since the bureaucrat seemed uncertain of what the next step of this process-or any process-might be.
On the whole, it's a dispiriting, arduous ordeal that reminds Eames of why he avoids interacting with governments at all costs.
"Your French is improving," Eames says as they get into the car.
"Thanks," Arthur replies. He stares out the window. "I was hoping I could write a check and that this would all be over with today."
"You're not going to lose the flat," Eames says with more confidence than he feels. "Mal's the one who botched the paperwork. Your records are immaculate and you're up to date on all your taxes."
"Do you want to take a little trip away?" Arthur asks abruptly. "We could go somewhere else in France or Europe. The Riviera, Nice, Monaco--get out of here for a week."
"We can go wherever you'd like," Eames replies carefully.
"I don't care where. As long as we're out of the city."
"Anywhere but here. Got it."
They stop for a quick dinner (as quick as it can ever be in Paris, anyway) and return to the flat. To Eames' dismay, Arthur's mood is only mildly improved after being fed.
Eames eyes the unappetizing pillow on the sofa where he's spent the past few nights. He wants to sleep on a proper mattress, and have something touch his dick besides his own hand. "Let's go to bed."
Fortunately, Arthur doesn't call him a presumptuous boor and throw him out. Unfortunately, he also doesn't respond with his usual lecherous enthusiasm. He merely nods his assent and pulls off his jacket distractedly as he walks into the bedroom.
Eames follows and takes a moment to admire Arthur from behind. His arse, the narrowness of his waist, the elegant length of his spine. He's missed this. He's missed--
The strength of the emotion makes Eames queasy. Rather than leaving the room, however, he forces himself to walk forward and slide his arms round Arthur's waist. "You looked gorgeous today. I forgot to mention earlier."
"Thanks." Arthur doesn't move away or lean in. "I haven't worn this suit in years. Good to know it still fits."
Eames squeezes Arthur gently. "Of course it fits. You've barely aged a day since I've known you."
"I can feel the years since we first met. The old injuries, my energy levels-all the cliché stuff I'd heard about but never believed would happen to me."
"When we first met? Why, you were practically an infant. A fetus."
"You were the last thing I expected to see in that Mexican dive," Arthur says. "I half thought someone had spiked my shitty drink and I was hallucinating a guy as hot as you."
"Oh?" Eames says, rather chuffed.
"I knew it was real when you bit my lip three times in under a minute," Arthur says. "You used a lot of teeth."
"You've something against the occasional nibble?" Eames says while he racks his memory, trying to remember how many times he tends to bite during any given sexual encounter.
"I'm fine with occasional biting. If it's a garnish, not the main course." Arthur shrugs. "You know, I can't remember the last time I was in a bar like that. Some place with dancing and men." He trails off. "Maybe we can go to one. It's been a while."
"Maybe," Eames says, and means no. Fuck no. He leans in to murmur against Arthur's ear suggestively, "At the moment I'm more interested in what we'll be doing in the immediate future."
Arthur turns and begins to unbutton Eames' shirt. "How's your chest healing up?"
"A few lingering bruises and scabs, but otherwise doing well." Eames waits for Arthur to lean in for a kiss, but no kiss comes. Arthur finishes undoing Eames' buttons and runs his palms over the remains of the mottled bruising, lightly enough not to hurt. "Do be a dear and refrain from punching me in the solar plexus though, will you?"
Arthur doesn't smile, preoccupied with Eames' chest. "You can hardly see where you were cut up. It's almost like it never happened."
"Were you hoping for some scarring? Another war wound?"
"No, I-" Arthur's tone is serious, not flirtatious at all. "I guess I forgot how everything is temporary with you. Be one thing today, become another the next."
Eames stills. "Arthur."
"I'm glad you came back," he says, so low Eames can barely hear it. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I left all my things here." Eames forces himself to meet Arthur's gaze though it is, frankly, terrifying.
"But you can leave anything behind." Arthur stares, pale with wide eyes. "Isn't that what you're always telling me?"
"I've had the same car since I was twenty-eight. It's not as if I never--grow attached."
"If it broke down, you could buy a new one."
"I don't want a new one."
"That's just because you don't like new things."
Arthur begins to turn away and Eames catches his arm. "I missed you, Arthur."
Arthur pulls Eames in for a kiss, and it should be frantic, hurried, desperate-but it isn't. The way Arthur kisses isn't their usual requisite foreplay on the way to a shag. He kisses as though what he wants is to be close to Eames.
Eames swallows down the urge to drop to his knees and put some distance between himself and Arthur's gaze, Arthur's thumb against his cheek.
Instead, Eames attempts to remove his own clothing. It's difficult to focus between such ardent kisses. Stumbling out of shoes and socks seems a trivial concern compared to experiencing Arthur's lips moving down his neck, the hollow of his throat.
They make their way to the bed, mostly unclothed. Arthur settles on top of Eames, kissing a trail down his chest to suck on one nipple. Eames hums with pleasure, dick swelling as Arthur switches to lap at the other nipple.
"Can I watch you slick yourself?" Arthur asks as he sits up, lips reddened and plump.
"Do you want me to put on a show?" Eames replies, spreading his legs.
"No," Arthur says, and appears to mean it. "I want to see how you do it. How you-like it to be done."
"It's quick," Eames warns as Arthur reaches for a condom and passes him the lubricant. "Not much to see, really."
"I want to see what you usually do."
It's strange, to have someone watch with such intense concentration. Eames has to fight the urge to arch his back and play it up; it somehow makes him feel more self-conscious to go about it in his ordinary way.
After he's done, Arthur smiles and bends down. "Thanks."
Eames accepts the kiss and rolls forward onto his knees, wanting to put his hands all over Arthur's body again. "Can I do you?"
Arthur blinks, seeming startled-perhaps a trifle kiss-dazed-and holds out the condom. "Okay."
Eames takes Arthur's cock in one hand, warm and stiffening in his palm. In his other hand, he cups Arthur's bollocks, massages them gently, and glides the tip of his middle finger backwards over the perineum, Arthur's hole. It's sensitive, fluttering against his fingertip as Arthur breathes heavily. "May I?"
"If you use lube." Arthur flicks the bottle over and hesitates. "Go slow."
Eames slicks his index finger and the rim of Arthur's hole, noting the way Arthur's body goes tense as he does. He wants to feel how tight Arthur would be, to watch Arthur's face go slack with pleasure. He wants to be on top of Arthur, inside him, engulfed by him. He wants everything.
Eames traces the area around the rim, giving Arthur time to adjust, to relax slightly, before moving inwards. He strokes the edge of the hole with one finger and then two, hearing Arthur's breathing speed up as he does. As he dips in with one fingertip, Arthur sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly.
"Good?" Eames murmurs in Arthur's ear.
Arthur nods as his legs open wider.
Eames watches the tiny flickers of expression across Arthur's face as he plays with his hole, pressing one fingertip in and then the other, retreating without ever pushing. Arthur's cock is heavy in his other hand, a bead of precome welling at the tip.
"Eames," Arthur says, low and hoarse enough to make Eames' dick jump. "I want to be inside you. Please let me-"
"Yes," Eames exhales, so eager he can barely rip open the condom wrapper. He ducks down give Arthur's cock a swift lick before rolling the condom on.
Arthur waits, clearly expecting Eames to lie down on his back. When Eames climbs astride him, however, he starts, "Are you-"
Eames sinks onto Arthur's cock with a small sigh. His own cock brushes against the ridges of Arthur's abdomen as they kiss. "I want to feel you."
Arthur groans as he begins to thrust up. Eames grips his shoulders as Arthur hits his stride, hips snapping up in a way that makes Eames see sparks. They kiss until Eames can't anymore, gasping with pleasure and barely capable of breathing.
Eames is moaning nearly continuously, buzzing with the way Arthur fills him. He wants to close his eyes and lose himself, but Arthur's expression is a mixture of awe and affection and-
"You're going to make me come," Eames says, and it's a warning. To himself, maybe. It's too good-having Arthur deep inside him, arms holding him close, as if he could-as if Eames might-
"Look at me," Arthur says, pressing one sweat-slick hand to Eames' jaw. "I want to see you."
Eames bites at the soft point between Arthur's thumb and forefinger, but Arthur refuses to pull away, to allow Eames to look away.
"Stay with me, Eames," Arthur whispers, and it's thrilling, terrible, wonderful. The orgasm rips through him, overwhelming, magnified by Arthur's presence, by Arthur's focus. With Arthur moving inside him, Eames feels vulnerable and afraid and free.
"That was so fucking good," Arthur whispers as he kisses Eames' slack mouth, his cheeks, his nose. "You're gorgeous, fucking amazing."
Eames should pull away. He wraps his lax limbs around Arthur. "I like it when you fuck me hard."
Arthur's panting with exertion now. "Yeah?"
Eames drags his fingers down the come splattered across Arthur's chest. "You made me come on your cock alone."
Arthur rolls Eames onto his back, splays his legs wide open, and shoves in again. Eames moans at the new angle; he's tingling with oversensitivity and it feels good beyond words.
Arthur comes with a grunt and several stuttering thrusts, red from his forehead to his sternum. Eames gentles him through it, kisses him down as his own eyes slide shut.
* * * * *
Eames wakes up with Arthur on top of him and his cock still inside him.
Arthur is fast asleep and remains so as Eames shifts him onto the mattress. He feels a rather unsettling tenderness as he moves Arthur's weight; despite Arthur's slightness, his build is comprised almost entirely of solid muscle. In sleep as in waking, Arthur is ever unassuming.
Eames takes a piss and a brief shower. He dampens a flannel and returns to the bedroom, where Arthur's spread to occupy the entirety of the bed. He stirs as he's wiped down. Eames hums soothingly and he settles once more.
As soon as Eames slips under the sheets, Arthur rolls over and fuses to his back like a limpet. Eames considers trying to fight it, but settles on rearranging Arthur's hands about his waist. There are, he supposes, worse things than having a handsome man tucked up behind you.
"Go back to sleep and stop thinking, Mr. Eames," Arthur mumbles into Eames' ear.
Good advice, really. Eames takes it.
* * * * *
When Eames wakes up again, Arthur is watching him. It's not a dreamy, sweet look, but an analytical one, considering.
"Yes?" Eames rasps.
Arthur opens his mouth, expression pensive. He stops himself mid-word, and restarts. "Can I come on you?"
Eames considers. "Body or face?"
After a pause, Arthur says, "Body."
"Yeah, alright." Eames stretches and settles into a more comfortable position on his back. "As long as you clean me after."
Arthur kneels beside Eames, fist flying steadily over his cock, and comes within minutes over Eames' pectorals. Once he finishes, he slithers down to take Eames' dick in his mouth.
Eames puts his hands behind his head and leans back. "Good morning."
Arthur raises an eyebrow and reaches up to tweak a nipple.
Eames doesn't close his eyes, and neither does Arthur. It feels strangely intimate, to watch Arthur bring him pleasure, and to be watched as Eames experiences pleasure. Eames can't remember if they've ever done it before. If they have, it didn't feel like this.
Eames comes with a satisfied sigh and Arthur sits up again.
"You did that knowing this would happen," Eames accuses as Arthur slides forward to touch the dried come now matted to Eames' chest hair. "You kinky bastard."
Arthur doesn't bother to deny it, shrugging unrepentantly. "You'd let me come on your face?"
"If you give me some warning and aim away from my nostrils. I'd have to close my eyes, of course."
"Of course," Arthur agrees. His fingers drift from Eames' torso up the hairless line across Eames' left eyebrow. "You've had this scar as long as I've known you. Where'd you get it?"
"When I was seven, my mother backhanded me with her wedding ring on." Eames mimics the upward motion across his own face. "The stone cut a path, including across my cornea. The physician said there was a real possibility I might be permanently blinded in that eye."
"Jesus."
Eames shrugs. "My parents were more careful after that. No visible marks, nothing that couldn't be covered up or reversed."
"After everything you've told me, I guess I shouldn't be surprised anymore." Arthur deposits a light kiss on the spot. "You know, you're pretty well-adjusted, all things considered."
"That's what my ex-wife said to me once," Eames says, and pitches his voice higher, trying to emulate her deceptively soft voice, "With a family tree like that, I'm surprised you aren't a serial killer or a Bond villain."
Arthur smiles and brushes the hair from Eames' eyes. "Yeah."
"Instead, I'm simply a two-bit thief who likes to pretend to be someone else every now and again."
"There's nothing two-bit about you. You're definitely at least three-bit."
Eames chuckles. "I appreciate your generous appraisal."
"Thank you," Arthur says, tone grave once more. "For helping me to keep this place."
Eames wants to reply glibly, say something flippant in response. But there's the way Arthur is looking at him and Eames-Eames finds he doesn't want it to stop. "You're welcome."
* * * * *
"Why am I here?" Eames walks through the temple-Arthur's temple-and can't seem to locate an exit. "This isn't an induced dream. I'm not hooked up to a PASIV."
"Then you must be dreaming naturally," Malaya says from behind him. "And your subconscious brought you here."
"This isn't my creation." Eames bats a tree root dangling from the ceiling out of his face. "There's too much unbridled nature here."
"I thought you hated the summer estate."
"Surely I must have more choices than that. A beach, for example."
"Well, there is a fairly decent view here." Malaya walks to the far end of the room, where there is no wall and it opens out to the valley below. "Perhaps you'd like to take a gander?"
He joins her at the edge of the floor. The verdant valley is spread before them in full bloom--a profusion of colors and flowers atop deep green. A bit farther down, Eames can make out the figure of Arthur, laboring in rolled-up shirtsleeves amongst some overgrown hedges.
"What is he doing here?" Eames asks even though he knows the answer already.
Malaya points to another projection, further out than Arthur, barely visible. "Don't forget her."
Eames sighs as he watches Tansy wander through an arboretum. She drifts from tree to tree with what appears to be great curiosity. "Don't tell me she's going to take up permanent residence here."
"And Arthur? Would you mind if he did?"
The projection of Arthur straightens, pausing to wipe his forehead in the morning sun. Eames walks back into the temple, out of sight. "That dress you have on. I remember the first time I saw you wear it."
Malaya smiles as she walks with him, red skirt rustling about her legs. "Our one year anniversary. You told me I was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen."
"You were." At her expression, Eames elaborates, "It wasn't about your dress or hair. It was about-the realization that I might actually get to spend the rest of my life with you. That if you disappeared into the night, I could ring and you'd come back to me."
"You didn't believe in our marriage until then?"
"No," Eames says, quietly. "I loved the way you made me feel. You-the person, my wife-I loved as much as I could, at that age. Though it wasn't as much as you deserved."
"You tried." Malaya has her hair pulled up, and it makes her look older. Closer to her age. "I know you tried as best you could."
"I gave you all I had to offer." He takes her hand, impulsively. She's wearing a wedding band; it isn't the one he gave her. "It wasn't much. I know that now."
She covers his hand with hers, grip firm from years of lock-picking and theft. "We had fun together. We did."
"You wanted more than fun."
"That doesn't mean I didn't want you." She lifts their hands to kiss his knuckles and lets go, taking a step back. "Do you still have that private investigator send a report every year?"
"Yes." Eames feels the warmth of her fading from his grasp. "He used to mail me folders straight out of a film noir. Black and white photos, dossiers on you and your new husband and your children. I never looked at the photos. Now he sends me an email with attachments and I still-I still don't."
"Why not?"
"How could I?" The words stick in his throat. "See the life I might have had? The children we might have raised?"
"You didn't want to be a father."
"Because I knew I'd be worthless at it, like my father was before me, and his father before him." He can see the wrinkles in Malaya's face now, laugh lines round her eyes and mouth. A thread of grey in her hair. "Is that why you left? Because I couldn't be a proper father?"
"Oh, mahal," she says, and what a strange thing it is to hear that endearment after all these years. "We were both miserable towards the end. You know that."
"We could have tried." Eames studies the backs of his hands, the skin beginning to wrinkle, grow loose. The veins appear more prominently now. "I would have tried."
"I know." They walk together to the edge of the room once more. The sun has risen high above them, so bright he can barely see. He can't hear the swishing of Malaya's skirts behind him anymore, and a part of him wants to check over his shoulder if she's still there.
Below, the projection of Arthur finishes with the shrub he was working on and stands. He cocks his head to one side, as if puzzled to see Eames, and waves.
Eames hesitates. His eyes adjust and the sunlight is dazzling, but no longer blinding. He could retreat. He could hide.
He takes a step forward, outside of the temple, and the fragrance of the valley hits him: floral, fruity, fresh as the mountain air.
He waves back.
French line translations in English here
Next: Chapter 8, Part 3
Chapter 8b: American Boy
Master post of all chapters here.
Wordcount: 21,500
Chapter 8b: American Boy
"We must leave at once," Eames says once they reach Arthur's flat. "Pack your things and I'll arrange the tickets."
"The tickets," Arthur echoes.
"It'll have to be coach, I'm afraid," Eames says distractedly as he opens his laptop. "Funds aren't quite as liquid as I'd like at the moment, but I'm expecting-"
"You'd rather leave the country than have a conversation with your daughter."
"Don't call her that." Eames' tone is sharper than he intends. "She's a-mad stranger with half-baked notions of my paternity. Really, there's no proof and no way to be certain that-"
"She has your eyes and your mouth."
"Perhaps her mother slept with my father," Eames says. "I wouldn't put it past him. He attempted to sleep with a shocking number of women I-"
"You got your eye color from your mother," Arthur says. "Her grandmother."
"What does it matter?" Eames sputters, cursing his infernal computer's slowness. "Even if it's possible she's-surely you don't have an interest in some sort of reconciliation."
"Your family is your business, and I respect that," Arthur says. "But I can't leave Paris. I need to make that appointment or I'll lose the apartment."
"Then let them take it," Eames says. "Buy another one. Hell, buy ten if you'd like-you certainly have the funds for it."
"I'm not giving this place up," Arthur says. "I have an appointment in three days and it's ridiculous not to-"
"What's truly ridiculous is your attachment to this dreary memorial. Crammed with furniture you don't want, books you don't read--"
"Eames-" Arthur says, warningly.
"You know, there's one thing I've never quite understood. Why you bothered with Cobb. I used to think it was Dom, some unrequited longing." Eames gestures at the flat around them. "Now I see it's been Mal all along. Not an affair, but a surrogate maternal relationship born from her obligation to you as a doctor-"
Eames knows he's on the cusp of something when every muscle in Arthur's face goes tight.
"I know that you're stressed about Tansy, but this is out of bounds."
"I am not stressed," Eames says, fists balling at his sides. "Why should I be stressed that some-some girl is hounding me across the globe, interfering with my finances, acting as if I owe her--"
"I think all of this could be resolved if you met with her. Talked to her. Satisfied whatever curiosity she had and-"
"And then cry and hold hands and hug like some movie?" Eames interrupts. "Why does it matter so bloody much that she meet me? Having a father is vastly overrated. My father, for instance, used to horsewhip me in the summer for embarrassing him in public. During the rest of the year he used an open hand because the whips left marks others might notice."
"Eames-"
"But for you it’s not about the father figure, is it? It's all about the maternal," Eames says. "Single mother, divided between working to support a family and giving attention to two equally needy young boys. Hardly enough of her to go around. No wonder you left home for a new family. Found yourself a new mummy, one that would love you the way you'd always-"
Arthur's face goes pale. "Get out. Get the fuck out right now."
"Gladly," Eames snarls. "I can't stand living with your repressed ghosts and that ridiculously tiny bed."
He has the presence of mind to shove his laptop into a bag before leaving the flat, abandoning everything else. Because he is not a materialistic wanker who can't let go of the past, unlike Arthur.
Eames is far too dignified to storm down the street, but his angry countenance is enough to cause all except the rudest of Parisians to step out of his way.
He walks until a decent hotel comes into view. It's only when he reaches the reception desk that he realizes he has nothing more than a handful of change on him, having left his wallet and keys in the pocket of his jacket. Which is currently hanging from Arthur's coat rack.
Eames mutters a curse and leaves. Dusk is falling.
He picks up a croissant and debates his options. Returning to Arthur's flat is completely out of the question and he's in no mood to explain the situation to any friends or acquaintances in France. He could try to find a way out of the country but he's drained from the row with Arthur, and from being ambushed in public. The first step to creating a larger plan is securing a bed for the evening.
He wanders until he finds a suitably upscale bar with patrons who appear of an age and profession to afford their own homes. Then he spends his last few Euros on a drink and goes to work.
After a few false starts, he ends up conversing with and eventually following home a rather sweaty man-a fact he doesn't discover until their clothes are off and every point at which they touch is soaked. At least the flat is well-appointed, the bed spacious and comfortable.
After a decent blowjob, Eames settles onto the far side of the mattress for a good night's rest. That is rudely interrupted by a rather panicked series of whispers and pokes by his companion, "Tu dois y aller."
"What?" Eames asks, groggily.
"Ma femme est rentrée un jour plus tôt. Tu dois partir avant qu'elle arrive." The man switches to English. "Wife come home."
"Yes, I got that bit," Eames mutters as he squints at the window. It's not yet light out. "Now?"
"Oui."
Thus, Eames finds himself shoved out the door, again. He trudges through empty streets, disoriented and fatigued. His laptop feels ten times as heavy as it had before and now he wishes he'd never brought the damn thing.
It takes him an hour to come to the conclusion that he needs more sleep to function-sleep which cannot take place on a park bench or a sidewalk. He nurtures the faint hope that he could slip into Arthur's flat, seize his things, and escape undetected.
It takes another hour for him to locate the damn place. By this point, his feet hurt, his shoulder aches from bearing the weight of his bag, and his bad knee is sending up agonizing throbs of protest at the day's total exertions.
He creeps inside with nary a sound, but of course Arthur instantly appears in the bedroom doorway, armed with a Glock.
"Don't shoot," Eames says, too weary for pride. "I've been walking for hours, going over and over in my mind how rotten I was-"
"You left your wallet and keys in your jacket," Arthur says flatly, not lowering the gun. "And whoever you were staying with kicked you out."
Eames sighs. He shouldn't have played the apologetic card that aggressively. "Alright, yes. But I have been walking for hours, I'm exhausted, and my knee is killing me. I'll sleep on the couch or the floor. I-please, Arthur."
Arthur lowers his gun, though his expression doesn't soften. "You can sleep on the couch if you call Tansy in the morning and arrange a meeting."
"But-"
"No buts," Arthur says. "And you have to stop being a shithead."
Eames swallows. "I'll try."
"No more bullshit," Arthur says. "Deal with your crap."
The door to the bedroom closes and Eames drops to the couch. He should feel relieved, but alas, the emotions are far more complicated than that.
* * * * *
"Now you've finally met her," Malaya says as they sit together on a heather-covered hill overlooking that same bloody stream. "Is she what you thought she'd be like?"
"She's older," Eames replies. Below them, Tansy-a projection of her-is wandering barefoot through the water. "Why is she here?"
"I don't know," Malaya replies unhelpfully. "You're the one that dreamt her up."
"I am aware," Eames says, annoyed. At least Tansy seems oblivious to their-his-presence.
"You're going to talk to her, then?"
"Not here. Up there."
"Why don't you leave? She's tenacious now, but her money won't last forever and you can go to ground for a year. You can outwait her."
"I can't. Arthur won't-"
"Then leave without him."
"I-" Eames halts. "I won't be able to finish my bucket list without him."
"That excuse is growing a bit thin, isn't it?" Malaya props her chin up on her knee. The sunlight dances on the tan apple of her cheek.
"It's not an excuse, it's the truth. It'll be next to impossible to find anyone to finish up the last few-"
"There's Hyori. Or prostitutes. Or dreams."
Eames looks up at the sky above them, clear and blue like Scotland rarely is. Malaya was so beautiful. He wonders if she still looks like she once did, or if that beauty exists only in dreams and memories now. "I would have been a rotten father."
"As rotten as yours was?"
"That or worse." Eames looks down at where Tansy is seated, skipping stones across the water's surface. "As soon as I could escape, I did. I don't understand what she could possibly want from me."
"She's likely built up a romanticized fantasy of you," Malaya says. "Whenever her mother disciplined or disappointed, the heroic figure of you remained to console, untainted by reality. You're the platonic father at this point. An ideal."
"Then why go and spoil that with the truth?"
Malaya doesn't reply. Eames follows her eye-line, to Tansy.
Tansy touches the surface of the water, and only now does Eames see her reflection-an image that depicts he and her embracing. Even at a distance, he can read the yearning in Tansy's body, the desperate hope.
* * * * *
"I scheduled a meeting with the girl," Eames says when Arthur returns.
Arthur's gaze sweeps across the flat and over Eames. "You also cleaned."
"Yes, I-" Eames clears his throat. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier."
Arthur carries his groceries into the kitchen and Eames trails behind, a few feet away. "When's the meeting?"
"Tomorrow." Arthur sets down the bag and begins unloading the food. "Waiting till tomorrow--that was her scheduling, not mine," Eames hastens to add.
"I see."
"Would you like any assistance?" Eames offers.
"Is this you being nice?" Arthur asks. There's no amusement in his voice.
"This is me attempting-poorly-to make amends." Eames pauses. "I shouldn't have said those things about your mother."
"Damn straight you shouldn't have," Arthur says and now Eames can hear the anger still simmering. "You don't know shit about anything."
"You were right about how difficult I find my situation with Tansy," Eames says, every word harder than the one previous. "I didn't want to admit it-to you or myself. I lashed out at you in my frustration and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."
Arthur pauses, hands hovering over a piece of cloth-wrapped cheese. "Did your dad really try to sleep with one of your girlfriends?"
"Managed to sleep with at least two of them that I know of," Eames says. "Not sure how many others he made a pass at-probably all of them."
"Jesus," Arthur says. "Your father was an abusive scumbag. I'm sure what you told me was only the tip of the iceberg, but whatever stuff he did to you-you didn't deserve it."
Eames swallows down a defensive retort. Why Arthur would choose this moment to discuss his father he doesn't know, but Eames supposes it's a fair bit of turnabout after all he said regarding Arthur's mother. He almost prefers groveling. "I know."
"Tansy stirs up a lot of shit for you. I get how family can do that." Arthur shakes his head. "But Daddy issues are only a valid excuse for crap up to your twenties. You've been on your own for over a decade since then."
"I thought this was no longer an issue," Eames says, and clarifies, "I thought I'd resolved everything sufficiently. I didn't expect-I was a bit blindsided. Emotionally, that is."
Arthur doesn't reply for a long moment. Then he says, "You can put the rest of the groceries away."
He watches in silence as Eames stocks the refrigerator. When he's done, Eames says, "Are you certain fleeing isn't an option?"
"Not if you and I are going to keep moving forward." There's something somber about the way Arthur speaks, as if he were talking about something other than a sex bucket list.
"Your government appointment is a few days from now, isn't it?" At Arthur's nod, Eames reaches out to touch Arthur with one hand. "I can drive you and assist with translation. If you'd like."
Arthur lifts his arm and Eames begins to pull away, afraid he's overstepped. But Arthur catches Eames' fingers in his. "Okay."
Eames stares down at their clasped fingers and wonders how it all came to this. How he came to not want to let go.
* * * * *
"Tansy," Eames says, taking a seat at the table across from her. She's dressed primly, neat and pressed. The resemblance to Bittu is striking, though Bittu was never this buttoned-up.
"Father."
"Do not call me that," Eames says sharply. "It's Eames."
Her face falls, and then she composes herself. "Yes, of course. My apologies."
"Well?" Eames settles, elbows pulled in at his sides. "I'm here."
"Yes, I almost can't believe it." Her eyes rove over his face, as if hungry for every detail. "You're not-you're not what I imagined."
Eames doesn't react one way or another. Silence descends over the table as Tansy stares at him expectantly. He volunteers nothing, and waits.
"Erm," she finally says. "Rather odd weather we're having, isn't it?"
"For the love of god," Eames says, and apparently Arthur's American directness has been rubbing off on him, making him impatient with such roundabout small talk. "Did you really chase me halfway round the world to ask my opinion of the weather?"
"No, I-" She squares her shoulders. "I came to ask you about yourself. To know more about you."
"Anything you want to know about me you can ascertain from your mother."
"She hasn't been entirely forthcoming." Tansy leans forward and places an old, tattered photo on the table. "This was the only clue I had about the identity of my father-of you-for years."
It's a photo of Eames, barely twenty years old and in the full bloom of his youth. He's clean-shaven, with a lean frame and pale, soft hair. His smile is sly, rakish-the perfect canvas for a young girl to project her paternal fantasies onto. He's surprised Bittu bothered keeping the photo.
"When did you find this?" Eames says, after a long pause.
"When I was ten," Tansy says, a touch of pride in her voice. "It was hidden in my mother's trunk in a false bottom. I didn't let on that I'd found it for years. She had no idea I was searching until I was sixteen."
Eames picks up the photo. There's a date on the back but nothing else. He puts it down without turning it over again. "How did you find me?"
"There were quite a few dead ends, but I found your name eventually, even without mum's help. She insisted she didn't know who my father was but I knew she was lying," Tansy says. "Once I knew your name, it was easy to track down your estate, which led me to your wife."
"Chulda directed you here, then?"
"Yes," Tansy says. "She wouldn't tell me--what exactly is it you do?"
"I'm a jack of all trades," Eames says and takes a sip of his water.
"Which trades?"
Eames shrugs. "Whatever's needed.”
Tansy's lips thin. Rather strange to see, considering she has his mouth. He wonders if he's ever made that face before. "Might you be more specific?"
"I am a man that takes care of unpleasant business."
"Is that why you ran from me? To-"
"Protect you? No," he says firmly, able to practically hear the noble fantasies whirring away in her mind.
"Alright," she says, seeming unconvinced. "If you're so-disreputable, how are you married?"
"Marriage is no accomplishment. Anyone desperate to sign on the dotted line can do it if they sink low enough."
"And-and that man you were with?"
"What about him?"
"You're married, but you don't live at home and you're traveling with a-" She fumbles for a word. "Companion."
Eames lifts one shoulder and takes a sip of his water.
Eventually she asks, "Don't you want to know anything about me?" Before he can respond in the negative, she begins rattling off a list of awards, hobbies, achievements. Eames doesn't bother listening and doesn't bother to stop her.
She runs out of breath and years of life, then returns to staring at him expectantly.
Eames wonders if he can leave. He wonders if she'd chase after him and cause a scene if he did.
"Are you planning to tell me anything at all about yourself?" she asks, exasperation finally beginning to show.
"What, whether I prefer pink or blue or both?" Eames shoots back coolly. "Why on earth does it matter?"
"It matters because you're my father and I have spent my entire life waiting to meet you. I've imagined over and over precisely how you'd be. How you'd introduce yourself and ask me questions and tell me-" her voice wavers, falters. "That you wished you'd known. That you would have been a part of my life if you had."
Eames forces himself to meet her eyes, and the sensation is surreal, unnerving. They're his eyes, blinking back at him. Pleading with him. "I'm not the man you built in your head all these years. If you want me to pretend to be, I can, and when I leave that will be the last you'll ever see of me. If you'd rather the truth, I can offer that as well. I suspect you won't care for it."
She swallows. "Be honest."
"When I look at you, I see a stranger wearing your mother's face alongside a few of my features. Nothing more."
She sucks in a noisy breath. Then another. "I think this may have been a mistake." She rises quickly, the wrought-iron legs of her chair scraping noisily across the floor. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I should go."
She goes.
* * * * *
"I spoke with Tansy."
"Okay," Arthur says, looking up from sorting his mail. "No more running?"
"No more running." Eames drops onto the sofa beside him, close enough for their knees to touch. Arthur doesn't move away. "Are you prepared for the appointment tomorrow? Anything you'd like me to review or translate?"
"I think I'm okay," Arthur says, and Eames hears it for the first time-the trace of nervousness in his voice.
Eames studies Arthur, the set of his mouth, the rigidity in his arms. "You really want this, don’t you?"
"I know you don't get it," Arthur says. "But yeah, I do."
"Will you help me understand?" Eames stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, ready for Arthur to shrink away. To his surprise, Arthur slides closer into him. Not quite settled against Eames' shoulder, but-close.
"I grew up moving a lot. My mother was always chasing the big sale, the miracle product, the next thing that was going to make us all rich. Never stayed anywhere more than a year, sometimes a few months. Aiden hated it. He wanted us to be normal."
"And you?"
"I didn't mind, really. I like traveling and seeing new places, meeting new people." Arthur shrugs. "Yeah, sometimes it was hard, having to pack up and leave. And it was tough to make friends that I could keep when we probably wouldn’t see each other again. But I never-I never longed for the white picket fence and a yard and a dog the way Aiden did."
Eames brushes his fingertips along Arthur's bicep, feeling the stiffness in his limbs begin to soften. "What did you want?"
"I wanted to be with my mom and him." Arthur winces and covers his face with a hand. "God, that sounds fucking schmaltzy."
"Well, you were a team, weren't you?" Eames lowers Arthur's hand. "All three together, working to sell piss-warm lemonade."
Arthur snorts. "Yeah." After a pause, he says, in a lower voice. "Now I don't have either of them."
Eames brushes his lips across Arthur's forehead. Arthur's wearing his hair back again, dissipating the illusion of innocent youth. "I'm sorry. That must be difficult."
"Yeah." Arthur clears his throat. "I know this apartment isn't anything special. It's cramped and expensive and the furniture is hideous. I could buy ten like it and with less hassle than I'm going through now."
"But it's one of the first stable places to call home you've ever had. You don't want to leave it."
"I didn't expect to care." Arthur looks around the room. "I thought I'd hold it a few years for Mal's sake and then get rid of it."
"Funny how caring can creep up on you." Eames kisses Arthur's temple and takes a deep breath. Arthur smells warm and familiar and-reassuring. Though it's a mistake to relax deeply into such sentimental ephemera, Eames can't quite force himself to abandon it.
"I wasn't there when she died," Arthur says, voice distant. "I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know how bad it had gotten. Maybe I didn't want to know."
"There's nothing quite as brutal as hindsight in dictating what one should or shouldn't have done," Eames says. "But until we reach a point in which we possess perfect information, we shall have to muddle on with the incomplete knowledge in our grasp."
"Assuming I accept that as a satisfactory answer for the present, what do we do about the past?"
"Understand it. Accept it. Perhaps even forgive it."
A wisp of a smile tugs at Arthur's lips. "Is that because holding a grudge will give me wrinkles?"
"Precisely," Eames says, allowing himself to savor the joy he feels at Arthur's half-smile. "Precisely."
* * * * *
Eames sends an email to Chulda informing her he's met with Tansy.
She shoots back a terse reply: good, I'll resume the payments.
* * * * *
The government appointment involves an eternity spent waiting in a lobby, another eternity spent watching several clerks type with two fingers on computers they clearly have no idea how to use, before being ushered into a tiny office with yet more waiting.
Arthur dresses in his most conservative navy suit and does his best to follow along while Eames speaks with the bureaucrat that's handling his case. Arthur answers a few questions in stilted French with a heavy accent that Eames finds rather charming. The bureaucrat is less charmed.
Apparently, passing familiarity with French property law is not a requirement for governmental work, as the bureaucrat has none whatsoever. He pores over all of Arthur's paperwork, refers to several dusty binders full of arcane proclamations which provide no assistance whatsoever, and eventually dismisses them from the meeting with no sense of what to do.
They're told to return in a month for a follow-up appointment, after the office has done its processing. Processing of what, Eames isn't entirely sure, since the bureaucrat seemed uncertain of what the next step of this process-or any process-might be.
On the whole, it's a dispiriting, arduous ordeal that reminds Eames of why he avoids interacting with governments at all costs.
"Your French is improving," Eames says as they get into the car.
"Thanks," Arthur replies. He stares out the window. "I was hoping I could write a check and that this would all be over with today."
"You're not going to lose the flat," Eames says with more confidence than he feels. "Mal's the one who botched the paperwork. Your records are immaculate and you're up to date on all your taxes."
"Do you want to take a little trip away?" Arthur asks abruptly. "We could go somewhere else in France or Europe. The Riviera, Nice, Monaco--get out of here for a week."
"We can go wherever you'd like," Eames replies carefully.
"I don't care where. As long as we're out of the city."
"Anywhere but here. Got it."
They stop for a quick dinner (as quick as it can ever be in Paris, anyway) and return to the flat. To Eames' dismay, Arthur's mood is only mildly improved after being fed.
Eames eyes the unappetizing pillow on the sofa where he's spent the past few nights. He wants to sleep on a proper mattress, and have something touch his dick besides his own hand. "Let's go to bed."
Fortunately, Arthur doesn't call him a presumptuous boor and throw him out. Unfortunately, he also doesn't respond with his usual lecherous enthusiasm. He merely nods his assent and pulls off his jacket distractedly as he walks into the bedroom.
Eames follows and takes a moment to admire Arthur from behind. His arse, the narrowness of his waist, the elegant length of his spine. He's missed this. He's missed--
The strength of the emotion makes Eames queasy. Rather than leaving the room, however, he forces himself to walk forward and slide his arms round Arthur's waist. "You looked gorgeous today. I forgot to mention earlier."
"Thanks." Arthur doesn't move away or lean in. "I haven't worn this suit in years. Good to know it still fits."
Eames squeezes Arthur gently. "Of course it fits. You've barely aged a day since I've known you."
"I can feel the years since we first met. The old injuries, my energy levels-all the cliché stuff I'd heard about but never believed would happen to me."
"When we first met? Why, you were practically an infant. A fetus."
"You were the last thing I expected to see in that Mexican dive," Arthur says. "I half thought someone had spiked my shitty drink and I was hallucinating a guy as hot as you."
"Oh?" Eames says, rather chuffed.
"I knew it was real when you bit my lip three times in under a minute," Arthur says. "You used a lot of teeth."
"You've something against the occasional nibble?" Eames says while he racks his memory, trying to remember how many times he tends to bite during any given sexual encounter.
"I'm fine with occasional biting. If it's a garnish, not the main course." Arthur shrugs. "You know, I can't remember the last time I was in a bar like that. Some place with dancing and men." He trails off. "Maybe we can go to one. It's been a while."
"Maybe," Eames says, and means no. Fuck no. He leans in to murmur against Arthur's ear suggestively, "At the moment I'm more interested in what we'll be doing in the immediate future."
Arthur turns and begins to unbutton Eames' shirt. "How's your chest healing up?"
"A few lingering bruises and scabs, but otherwise doing well." Eames waits for Arthur to lean in for a kiss, but no kiss comes. Arthur finishes undoing Eames' buttons and runs his palms over the remains of the mottled bruising, lightly enough not to hurt. "Do be a dear and refrain from punching me in the solar plexus though, will you?"
Arthur doesn't smile, preoccupied with Eames' chest. "You can hardly see where you were cut up. It's almost like it never happened."
"Were you hoping for some scarring? Another war wound?"
"No, I-" Arthur's tone is serious, not flirtatious at all. "I guess I forgot how everything is temporary with you. Be one thing today, become another the next."
Eames stills. "Arthur."
"I'm glad you came back," he says, so low Eames can barely hear it. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I left all my things here." Eames forces himself to meet Arthur's gaze though it is, frankly, terrifying.
"But you can leave anything behind." Arthur stares, pale with wide eyes. "Isn't that what you're always telling me?"
"I've had the same car since I was twenty-eight. It's not as if I never--grow attached."
"If it broke down, you could buy a new one."
"I don't want a new one."
"That's just because you don't like new things."
Arthur begins to turn away and Eames catches his arm. "I missed you, Arthur."
Arthur pulls Eames in for a kiss, and it should be frantic, hurried, desperate-but it isn't. The way Arthur kisses isn't their usual requisite foreplay on the way to a shag. He kisses as though what he wants is to be close to Eames.
Eames swallows down the urge to drop to his knees and put some distance between himself and Arthur's gaze, Arthur's thumb against his cheek.
Instead, Eames attempts to remove his own clothing. It's difficult to focus between such ardent kisses. Stumbling out of shoes and socks seems a trivial concern compared to experiencing Arthur's lips moving down his neck, the hollow of his throat.
They make their way to the bed, mostly unclothed. Arthur settles on top of Eames, kissing a trail down his chest to suck on one nipple. Eames hums with pleasure, dick swelling as Arthur switches to lap at the other nipple.
"Can I watch you slick yourself?" Arthur asks as he sits up, lips reddened and plump.
"Do you want me to put on a show?" Eames replies, spreading his legs.
"No," Arthur says, and appears to mean it. "I want to see how you do it. How you-like it to be done."
"It's quick," Eames warns as Arthur reaches for a condom and passes him the lubricant. "Not much to see, really."
"I want to see what you usually do."
It's strange, to have someone watch with such intense concentration. Eames has to fight the urge to arch his back and play it up; it somehow makes him feel more self-conscious to go about it in his ordinary way.
After he's done, Arthur smiles and bends down. "Thanks."
Eames accepts the kiss and rolls forward onto his knees, wanting to put his hands all over Arthur's body again. "Can I do you?"
Arthur blinks, seeming startled-perhaps a trifle kiss-dazed-and holds out the condom. "Okay."
Eames takes Arthur's cock in one hand, warm and stiffening in his palm. In his other hand, he cups Arthur's bollocks, massages them gently, and glides the tip of his middle finger backwards over the perineum, Arthur's hole. It's sensitive, fluttering against his fingertip as Arthur breathes heavily. "May I?"
"If you use lube." Arthur flicks the bottle over and hesitates. "Go slow."
Eames slicks his index finger and the rim of Arthur's hole, noting the way Arthur's body goes tense as he does. He wants to feel how tight Arthur would be, to watch Arthur's face go slack with pleasure. He wants to be on top of Arthur, inside him, engulfed by him. He wants everything.
Eames traces the area around the rim, giving Arthur time to adjust, to relax slightly, before moving inwards. He strokes the edge of the hole with one finger and then two, hearing Arthur's breathing speed up as he does. As he dips in with one fingertip, Arthur sucks in a breath, eyes closing briefly.
"Good?" Eames murmurs in Arthur's ear.
Arthur nods as his legs open wider.
Eames watches the tiny flickers of expression across Arthur's face as he plays with his hole, pressing one fingertip in and then the other, retreating without ever pushing. Arthur's cock is heavy in his other hand, a bead of precome welling at the tip.
"Eames," Arthur says, low and hoarse enough to make Eames' dick jump. "I want to be inside you. Please let me-"
"Yes," Eames exhales, so eager he can barely rip open the condom wrapper. He ducks down give Arthur's cock a swift lick before rolling the condom on.
Arthur waits, clearly expecting Eames to lie down on his back. When Eames climbs astride him, however, he starts, "Are you-"
Eames sinks onto Arthur's cock with a small sigh. His own cock brushes against the ridges of Arthur's abdomen as they kiss. "I want to feel you."
Arthur groans as he begins to thrust up. Eames grips his shoulders as Arthur hits his stride, hips snapping up in a way that makes Eames see sparks. They kiss until Eames can't anymore, gasping with pleasure and barely capable of breathing.
Eames is moaning nearly continuously, buzzing with the way Arthur fills him. He wants to close his eyes and lose himself, but Arthur's expression is a mixture of awe and affection and-
"You're going to make me come," Eames says, and it's a warning. To himself, maybe. It's too good-having Arthur deep inside him, arms holding him close, as if he could-as if Eames might-
"Look at me," Arthur says, pressing one sweat-slick hand to Eames' jaw. "I want to see you."
Eames bites at the soft point between Arthur's thumb and forefinger, but Arthur refuses to pull away, to allow Eames to look away.
"Stay with me, Eames," Arthur whispers, and it's thrilling, terrible, wonderful. The orgasm rips through him, overwhelming, magnified by Arthur's presence, by Arthur's focus. With Arthur moving inside him, Eames feels vulnerable and afraid and free.
"That was so fucking good," Arthur whispers as he kisses Eames' slack mouth, his cheeks, his nose. "You're gorgeous, fucking amazing."
Eames should pull away. He wraps his lax limbs around Arthur. "I like it when you fuck me hard."
Arthur's panting with exertion now. "Yeah?"
Eames drags his fingers down the come splattered across Arthur's chest. "You made me come on your cock alone."
Arthur rolls Eames onto his back, splays his legs wide open, and shoves in again. Eames moans at the new angle; he's tingling with oversensitivity and it feels good beyond words.
Arthur comes with a grunt and several stuttering thrusts, red from his forehead to his sternum. Eames gentles him through it, kisses him down as his own eyes slide shut.
* * * * *
Eames wakes up with Arthur on top of him and his cock still inside him.
Arthur is fast asleep and remains so as Eames shifts him onto the mattress. He feels a rather unsettling tenderness as he moves Arthur's weight; despite Arthur's slightness, his build is comprised almost entirely of solid muscle. In sleep as in waking, Arthur is ever unassuming.
Eames takes a piss and a brief shower. He dampens a flannel and returns to the bedroom, where Arthur's spread to occupy the entirety of the bed. He stirs as he's wiped down. Eames hums soothingly and he settles once more.
As soon as Eames slips under the sheets, Arthur rolls over and fuses to his back like a limpet. Eames considers trying to fight it, but settles on rearranging Arthur's hands about his waist. There are, he supposes, worse things than having a handsome man tucked up behind you.
"Go back to sleep and stop thinking, Mr. Eames," Arthur mumbles into Eames' ear.
Good advice, really. Eames takes it.
* * * * *
When Eames wakes up again, Arthur is watching him. It's not a dreamy, sweet look, but an analytical one, considering.
"Yes?" Eames rasps.
Arthur opens his mouth, expression pensive. He stops himself mid-word, and restarts. "Can I come on you?"
Eames considers. "Body or face?"
After a pause, Arthur says, "Body."
"Yeah, alright." Eames stretches and settles into a more comfortable position on his back. "As long as you clean me after."
Arthur kneels beside Eames, fist flying steadily over his cock, and comes within minutes over Eames' pectorals. Once he finishes, he slithers down to take Eames' dick in his mouth.
Eames puts his hands behind his head and leans back. "Good morning."
Arthur raises an eyebrow and reaches up to tweak a nipple.
Eames doesn't close his eyes, and neither does Arthur. It feels strangely intimate, to watch Arthur bring him pleasure, and to be watched as Eames experiences pleasure. Eames can't remember if they've ever done it before. If they have, it didn't feel like this.
Eames comes with a satisfied sigh and Arthur sits up again.
"You did that knowing this would happen," Eames accuses as Arthur slides forward to touch the dried come now matted to Eames' chest hair. "You kinky bastard."
Arthur doesn't bother to deny it, shrugging unrepentantly. "You'd let me come on your face?"
"If you give me some warning and aim away from my nostrils. I'd have to close my eyes, of course."
"Of course," Arthur agrees. His fingers drift from Eames' torso up the hairless line across Eames' left eyebrow. "You've had this scar as long as I've known you. Where'd you get it?"
"When I was seven, my mother backhanded me with her wedding ring on." Eames mimics the upward motion across his own face. "The stone cut a path, including across my cornea. The physician said there was a real possibility I might be permanently blinded in that eye."
"Jesus."
Eames shrugs. "My parents were more careful after that. No visible marks, nothing that couldn't be covered up or reversed."
"After everything you've told me, I guess I shouldn't be surprised anymore." Arthur deposits a light kiss on the spot. "You know, you're pretty well-adjusted, all things considered."
"That's what my ex-wife said to me once," Eames says, and pitches his voice higher, trying to emulate her deceptively soft voice, "With a family tree like that, I'm surprised you aren't a serial killer or a Bond villain."
Arthur smiles and brushes the hair from Eames' eyes. "Yeah."
"Instead, I'm simply a two-bit thief who likes to pretend to be someone else every now and again."
"There's nothing two-bit about you. You're definitely at least three-bit."
Eames chuckles. "I appreciate your generous appraisal."
"Thank you," Arthur says, tone grave once more. "For helping me to keep this place."
Eames wants to reply glibly, say something flippant in response. But there's the way Arthur is looking at him and Eames-Eames finds he doesn't want it to stop. "You're welcome."
* * * * *
"Why am I here?" Eames walks through the temple-Arthur's temple-and can't seem to locate an exit. "This isn't an induced dream. I'm not hooked up to a PASIV."
"Then you must be dreaming naturally," Malaya says from behind him. "And your subconscious brought you here."
"This isn't my creation." Eames bats a tree root dangling from the ceiling out of his face. "There's too much unbridled nature here."
"I thought you hated the summer estate."
"Surely I must have more choices than that. A beach, for example."
"Well, there is a fairly decent view here." Malaya walks to the far end of the room, where there is no wall and it opens out to the valley below. "Perhaps you'd like to take a gander?"
He joins her at the edge of the floor. The verdant valley is spread before them in full bloom--a profusion of colors and flowers atop deep green. A bit farther down, Eames can make out the figure of Arthur, laboring in rolled-up shirtsleeves amongst some overgrown hedges.
"What is he doing here?" Eames asks even though he knows the answer already.
Malaya points to another projection, further out than Arthur, barely visible. "Don't forget her."
Eames sighs as he watches Tansy wander through an arboretum. She drifts from tree to tree with what appears to be great curiosity. "Don't tell me she's going to take up permanent residence here."
"And Arthur? Would you mind if he did?"
The projection of Arthur straightens, pausing to wipe his forehead in the morning sun. Eames walks back into the temple, out of sight. "That dress you have on. I remember the first time I saw you wear it."
Malaya smiles as she walks with him, red skirt rustling about her legs. "Our one year anniversary. You told me I was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen."
"You were." At her expression, Eames elaborates, "It wasn't about your dress or hair. It was about-the realization that I might actually get to spend the rest of my life with you. That if you disappeared into the night, I could ring and you'd come back to me."
"You didn't believe in our marriage until then?"
"No," Eames says, quietly. "I loved the way you made me feel. You-the person, my wife-I loved as much as I could, at that age. Though it wasn't as much as you deserved."
"You tried." Malaya has her hair pulled up, and it makes her look older. Closer to her age. "I know you tried as best you could."
"I gave you all I had to offer." He takes her hand, impulsively. She's wearing a wedding band; it isn't the one he gave her. "It wasn't much. I know that now."
She covers his hand with hers, grip firm from years of lock-picking and theft. "We had fun together. We did."
"You wanted more than fun."
"That doesn't mean I didn't want you." She lifts their hands to kiss his knuckles and lets go, taking a step back. "Do you still have that private investigator send a report every year?"
"Yes." Eames feels the warmth of her fading from his grasp. "He used to mail me folders straight out of a film noir. Black and white photos, dossiers on you and your new husband and your children. I never looked at the photos. Now he sends me an email with attachments and I still-I still don't."
"Why not?"
"How could I?" The words stick in his throat. "See the life I might have had? The children we might have raised?"
"You didn't want to be a father."
"Because I knew I'd be worthless at it, like my father was before me, and his father before him." He can see the wrinkles in Malaya's face now, laugh lines round her eyes and mouth. A thread of grey in her hair. "Is that why you left? Because I couldn't be a proper father?"
"Oh, mahal," she says, and what a strange thing it is to hear that endearment after all these years. "We were both miserable towards the end. You know that."
"We could have tried." Eames studies the backs of his hands, the skin beginning to wrinkle, grow loose. The veins appear more prominently now. "I would have tried."
"I know." They walk together to the edge of the room once more. The sun has risen high above them, so bright he can barely see. He can't hear the swishing of Malaya's skirts behind him anymore, and a part of him wants to check over his shoulder if she's still there.
Below, the projection of Arthur finishes with the shrub he was working on and stands. He cocks his head to one side, as if puzzled to see Eames, and waves.
Eames hesitates. His eyes adjust and the sunlight is dazzling, but no longer blinding. He could retreat. He could hide.
He takes a step forward, outside of the temple, and the fragrance of the valley hits him: floral, fruity, fresh as the mountain air.
He waves back.
French line translations in English here
Next: Chapter 8, Part 3