Eames/Arthur
Title: Tear Us Apart (Again)
Summary: Wherein Arthur and Eames fall in love, the way normal people do. Rough and with no small amount of heartache.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence. Unmitigated anger. Too many fucking emotions. And, gratuitous sex.
Word Count: 9400/??
Beta: I might need one? Hit me up. Or, if not, point out any mistakes as you see fit!
Original Prompt: For this prompt at
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A/N: So I tried to be ~artsy with the formatting on this piece and I dont know how well I pulled it off. I'm ~80% done with the last part, so...
[September, 2005]
He’s been in this hotel before, plenty of times actually. Prime location, can’t always work out of warehouses, especially when you can afford not to, but something is off. The lobby was never carpeted. In fact, the lobby was tiled the last time they’d booked a room here.
The man at the front desk tips his top hat at Arthur, smiling indulgently as he flashes his carrot top hair. There are gilded elephants with palms growing from their backs and Arthur is almost positive the walls match the distinctly warm, scarlet hues of the movie he fell asleep watching…
Arthur’s mouth ticks down.
He burrows his head deeper into the pillow and curls his toes into the downy comforter, willing himself back to sleep. The curtains are haphazardly drawn, the golden-pink of the morning sun seeping around the edges and spilling into the room with an annoying brilliance that has him thankful he sleeps with his back to the window. He can feel the pillow creases pressed into his cheek and for once his shirt isn’t twisted around him in an attempt on his life. It would be a shame to admit he’s awake when he could otherwise enjoy pretending to be asleep. He inhales deeply, feeling several places in his back pop, when he finally recognizes the warmth surrounding him for what it really is.
The band of heat draped over his side, the familiar weight and warmth of Eames’ calloused hand curled around his own, the disturbance of air across the back of his neck, stirring already wayward hairs at his nape; Arthur knows this scenario intimately. He opens his eyes the tiniest bit, peering through his lashes as if trying to hide the fact that he isn’t asleep from himself.
Their hands curve together and Eames is always so warm, his skin like sunlight after being in the shade. Arthur shifts his feet around under the covers, legs bent at the knees, and when he doesn’t knock against hairy shins he realizes Eames must be sleeping on top of the covers.
Consciousness is making a valiant effort to assert itself over the sleepy, early morning haze that has Arthur wriggling to press his back against Eames’ chest. When Eames pulls him closer, the arm around his waist tightening with a soft, sleepy grunt from its owner, Arthur squeezes his eyes closed.
He is too awake to not acknowledge that he knows what Eames sleeping on top of the covers means; his body not wrapped around Arthur’s frame with knees shoved in all the wrong places or the annoying, hot pool of drool against his back. At the same time, he’s still asleep enough to delay the inevitable. If his mind would just cooperate and stop supplying an annoying rerun of going to bed alone last night, curling up on his side of the bed because sprawling out doesn’t feel natural anymore.
Abstractly, he knows he could go back to sleep. He could save the questions ‘where the fuck were you’ and ‘why didn’t you at least send me a fucking text’ for later, and bask in the easiness of melting against Eames’ chest. Enjoy the way Eames’ wide palm goes on forever, wrapping around the back of Arthur’s hand, and how everywhere they touch is a reminder that Eames is here now.
Arthur curls his hand away from Eames’, smiling when that warm palm follows after his retreating hand. Hell might freeze over before Arthur admits that he enjoys the way Eames’ body seeks his own out during sleep, but he can admit it to himself, and that’s enough in its own right.
He rubs his knuckles against Eames’ fleshy palm, eyes opening lazily and deciding if he can’t get back to sleep, he can at least steal a couple minutes of guilt-free lounging.
Bright red and oval shaped, Arthur has to blink a couple times to recognize the stain on Eames’ wrist as a lipstick print.
Fieldwork, Eames had said. Fieldwork that had his phone turned off and sneaking into Arthur’s apartment well past 4 in the morning. Fieldwork that has rouge smeared across his wrist from a night where Eames was nothing more than an exotic stranger.
It is impossible to swallow around the tightening of his throat.
Somewhere between pissed and disgusted Arthur flings Eames’ arm off of him, rolling out of bed in an angry huff. He storms toward the door, lips drawn in a tight line to hold back the words he wants to fling at Eames like so many sharp objects.
Eames wakes up with the finesse of a drugged bear, struggling to an upright position, all graceless limbs and dazed, unfocused eyes. “W- what? Arthur, what’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Arthur shouts, spinning on his heel and even the sight of his fucking face, flushed with sleep, bottom lip glistening because he licks it subconsciously in his sleep- pisses Arthur off. “Nothing’s wrong with me Eames, I’m really fucking great can’t you tell?”
When Eames frowns it looks distinctly defeated. He rubs a palm over his face, muttering, “Its too early for your bullshit,” before pulling the covers over his bare feet.
Eames’ nonchalance in the face of Arthur’s anger is too much.
It takes two crystal clear steps to close the distance between the doorway and the edge of the bed before Arthur’s fist glances off of Eames’ jaw. Eames’ hazel eyes grow wide, his sleep addled brain connecting the pain in his face to the source, before he remembers that Arthur is perfectly capable and apparently more than willing to hit him again.
“Arthur!” Eames shouts, twisting back in an attempt to avoid the point man’s attack.
“You- fucking stupid-“ Arthur’s words get tangled up in his chest, demanding to be the first out of his mouth and coming out in a garbled, irate mess. At least his fists are cooperating, even if Eames is quick to defend himself.
“Arthur! Bloody hell- calm down and talk to me!” Eames tries to grab Arthur by the wrist, but Arthur knows him too well, and pulls out of his grasp every time.
“Now you want to talk to me?” Arthur shouts, intent on hitting Eames wherever he can.
“I’d rather be sleeping but you’ve gone bleeding mad-“ Eames grabs hold of Arthur’s forearm and tugs him off balance.
Wrestling Arthur to the bed Eames finally gets his leg over Arthur’s kicking legs, straddling his hips, but he can’t keep him still. Arthur knows how to fight and even though Eames has the upper hand, both physically and strategically, he can’t get a hold of Arthur’s arms. As strong as Eames is, Arthur moves like there are no joints involved, slippery and evasive in his anger.
“Calm down and talk to me!” Eames pants, annoyed and fending off Arthur’s open palmed attacks.
“Like you talk to me?” Arthur snaps. He sits up, pressed against Eames’ bare chest and snarls, “Lets see how you like it,” and spits in Eames’ face.
Everything stills in the silence between them.
Arthur has enough time to realize that he doesn’t feel vindicated by the shocked, hurt look on Eames’ face before his back hits the mattress with enough force to knock the wind out of him.
“Don’t you ever,” Eames leans over him, face contorted in anger and bruising Arthur’s arms where his hands hold him down. “Do that again.” Every line of his body is caught in stark relief from the light creeping in through the curtains, framed in the furious tension of his rage as he growls, “Do you understand me?”
It hurts to be still, to have this hurt coiled in his chest, painful and white hot with no outlet, so he digs his thumbs into the juncture of Eames’ groin until the larger man screams and rolls away from him. Arthur rolls off the other side of the bed and storms out.
“Arthur! Fucking hell-“ Eames is hot on his heels. “Arthur, where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.” Arthur growls.
“No you’re not,” Eames throws his hands out to encompass the stylishly sparse living room. “This is your apartment!”
“Don’t tell me what I can do Eames,” Arthur shouts, whirling around with a decisive hand movement. “We’re adults, I can do what ever the fuck I want!”
Arthur can see what’s coming from a mile off. He knows the way Eames’ lips form the words, well rehearsed and just as frustrating as the first time. “Then how about you try acting like one?”
It’s a testament to how well Eames knows Arthur that when he lunges for Eames’ throat, Eames easily throws his hands off.
“What do you want from me?” Arthur screams, body tight. He wants to sweep Eames to the floor and twist his arm behind his back until it breaks, but Eames knows all of Arthur’s tricks and Arthur knows Eames too well. So they stand there, facing off on the precipice of détente.
“I just want you to calm down!” Eames’ stance is solid even when he makes that exasperated, pleading gesture with his hands.
“Isn’t it sad that we cant always get what we want?” Arthur says, voice tight with rage and accusation.
Eames’ mouth opens, sharp words poised on his tongue before it snaps closed, eyes resigned as his hands drop to his sides. “Unless we’re you, Arthur.”
Arthur’s punch is textbook, his body following his arm as his fist connects with Eames’ jaw, the entirety of his weight and rage behind the blow. Eames’ body lurches to the side from the force, but doesn’t hit the floor. Arthur’s knuckles pound from the force of the blow and for a second, he can’t tell who is groaning in pain.
Eames stays curled into his wounded cheek, leaving the soft side just under his ribs vulnerable and Arthur knows at least three ways to cause internal injury from this position.
But the moment has passed, draining out of him with the finality of a switch flicked off. The desire to see Eames hurt lost to the way Arthur’s stomach twists sickly at the protective bend of Eames’ body. Out of the moment, without the bright flare of his rage to blind him, Arthur feels like shit for loosing control like that.
“Eames,” Arthur closes the distance between them, his hands pausing over the curve of Eames’ back, unsure if he’s allowed to touch.
Hand held protectively over his jaw Eames mutters, “This is going to swell.”
There are words he’s supposed to say, words he’s supposed to mean, but all that comes out is, “I’ll get you some ice.”
Arthur comes back with a plastic bag of crushed ice wrapped in a paper towel and hands it to Eames who is slumped on his couch, moving his cheek every so often and wincing when he finds that no, the pain has not gone away yet. He spends an embarrassing moment contemplating whether he should sit down before deciding it’s his damn couch and he’ll sit on it if he wants.
The silence stretches between them, Arthur’s elbows on his knees and his hands shoved into his hair, contemplating the floor for an answer to the question, what comes after this? Eames isn’t vocal with his pain but that isn’t to say he’s quiet about it either. He hisses softly when the ice shifts in the bag, forming to his wide jaw, and rumbles with content when the pain starts to ebb into numbness.
Arthur’s almost got the words formed on his lips when Eames sighs, “I can’t keep up with you Arthur.”
“I don’t ask you to.” Arthur mumbles to the carpet.
“I realize,” Eames shifts against the couch, leaning his head against the back of it. “But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to.”
He knows what that means, but he doesn’t know what this means, that they’re able to rile against each other as easily as they’re able to crash into each other. There’s too much at stake and too little to go on. Trust and promises are as substantial as dreams; easily broken into and exploited by whoever decides to take enough of an interest to fuck them up.
“Then you must be as stupid as you’d have us believe.” Arthur’s means the words when they’re in his head but somehow, out in the open, they don’t sound the same.
Eames pulls the bag away from his face, crushing the ice back into a proper slush before placing it on his face again. “Perhaps.”
Silence settles between them, expansive and palpable against Arthur’s back. Eames doesn’t expect an apology but he wants one and Arthur wants to want to give him one but knows he’s not the one with lipstick on his wrist and that makes him tense up all over again.
“Darling,” Eames leans towards Arthur, the couch giving him away.
All it takes is Eames’ fingers against the back of his arm and its like his anger is bright and new, uncharted and dangerous. He’s on his feet, whirling on Eames who already has his hands up.
“Don’t- just-“ Arthur’s arms tighten as his hands curl into fists and he makes an exasperated noise, walking away before he does something else he’ll regret.
“Arthur.” Eames’ voice is commanding despite his swelling jaw.
Arthur doesn’t even turn around, waving him off as he spits out a dismissive, “Fuck off.”
“Get your knickers out of a twist and just talk to me you insufferable twat!” Eames barks, the scream of leather from the couch and the sound of an ice pack hitting the floor alerting Arthur to his approach.
“Make me,” Arthur challenges.
For the second time this morning Arthur’s breath is knocked out of him as Eames spins him around and slams his back against the wall.
He pins Arthur to the wall with his body, growling, “Listen to me!”
“Get off of me.” Eames’ body is hot, terribly hot against Arthur and he knows where this is going he just doesn’t know if he wants it to stop.
“Not bloody likely!” Eames slams his palm into the wall, missing Arthur’s face by a hair’s breadth.
Arthur glares, blood boiling and pinned under Eames’ weight, glaring up into hazel eyes that normally speak volumes. When Eames breathes, his bare chest presses Arthur more firmly against the wall and he loses count of how many breaths Eames has taken like this in lieu of ignoring the way he enjoys the pressure. Blunt fingertips trace Arthur’s ear, traveling down to ghost over his jaw so lightly Arthur wonders if they’re even there.
Hazel eyes meet his own, Eames’ mouth opening to say something that Arthur knows will ruin the moment. He leans forward, fueled by anger and the constant undercurrent of hunger that Eames produces in him, crushing his mouth to Eames’ in a familiar clash of need and want.
Arthur slips his tongue into Eames’ mouth, demanding and unapologetic and Eames groans, opening his mouth wide to drink Arthur in. Wet and sloppy, they save the pretense of gentle kissing for another time.
Hands pressed to Eames’ shoulders, scratching down his arms to press to his chest. Arthur tries to push Eames off of him, to gain the upper hand or just his breath, but Eames shoves him back against the wall, reattaching their mouths and running his hands all over Arthur’s body. From instinct, or from habit, Arthur’s leg lifts to hook around Eames’ hip, nails digging into his shoulders.
Eames kisses like it’s a competition, and Arthur hates to lose. He runs his hands over Eames’ stubble biting at his lips and maneuvering his face until Eames pulls back with a soft gasp of pain.
“Careful…” Eames puts some distance between his injured cheek and Arthur’s hand, pressing his face to the other and chasing Arthur’s eyes with his own.
Arthur could win medals for avoidance. He kisses Eames once more before he turns the tables and spins them around, pressing Eames to the wall with an arms distance between them.
Stunned, panting with pupils blown wide and lips bruised a delicious red, Eames looks disoriented at the sudden space separating them. Arthur crashes back into him with hungry lips and needy hands, “You’re mine,” slipping past their lips and Eames’ tongue is in Arthur’s mouth before he has a chance to figure out exactly who said it.
They fight for dominance over the kiss, wide mouthed and sloppy, Arthur’s hands tight around his neck and Eames’ knee crushed between Arthur’s legs. Somehow Eames groans an “Arthur,” around a kiss neither can get enough of.
Arthur rides Eames’ leg, hungry for friction and Eames’ fingers burn through the light cotton of his sleep shirt, hungry for every inch of skin he can touch. Eames untangles his tongue from Arthur’s, pulling him close and tries to kiss him closed mouthed and gentle, like an apology neither can articulate. Arthur turns his head away, pressing his fingertips to Eames’ injured cheek just enough to get a hiss of pain.
“I’m angry with you,” Arthur growls, easing up on the pressure, leaning in to bite Eames’ neck hard enough to get another strangled gasp.
“When aren’t you, darling?” Eames trails soft kisses down the side of Arthur’s face despite his warning, tonguing an earlobe.
“When you’re not fucking up.” Arthur pulls away, blood hot under his fingertips but words messing with his head.
“Don’t,” Eames pulls him back, wide palms pressed to the curve of his back, rucking his shirt up and over his head.
“Then do something about it.” Arthur presses against Eames, taking his mouth in another searing kiss.
Eames sweeps Arthur up, Arthur’s legs wrapping around him instinctively as he staggers his way over to the couch, stepping on the discarded ice bag in the process. He throws Arthur on the leather and falls onto him, with just enough time to wonder if it’s a lack of oxygen or his own need that’s making his head spin.
Arthur doesn’t know slow when its like this, all he knows is Eames’ body burning a new topography against his own, rough and demanding everything that Arthur wants to give, everything he wants Eames to steal from him until his chest is hollow and empty. He can’t pay enough attention to getting Eames’ pants off so he pushes them down with blind hands and uncoordinated thighs wriggling around his waist. Eames pulls Arthur’s briefs down just enough to wrap his hand around Arthur’s cock, moaning against Arthur’s mouth like he’s the one being touched.
Shaking, pressing his feet against Eames’ back and catching plump lips between his teeth, Arthur growls, “Eames, fucking-”
Eames shuts him up with his tongue, pressing his hips against Arthur’s backside and smearing his ass with sticky, fumbling to his destination. He stops touching Arthur, trailing a hand up to press his fingers between their lips; Arthur bites his fingers when he does so.
“Just do it.” Arthur demands, turning away from the fingers that return to press against his lips.
Eames gives up and spits into his hand, slipping it between Arthur’s thighs. “Shut up sweetheart and let me bugger you proper.”
He presses his fingers to Arthur’s ass and works him open, savaging his mouth and rubbing the tip of his cock against Arthur in a slick promise of what’s to come. Arthur’s hands are everywhere, pulling, scratching, urging Eames closer until he pulls Eames’ fingers out of him and pushes against that teasing, leaking heat pressed to his ass.
Eames spits into his hand, spreading it over himself in a poor imitation of proper slick and presses the pad of his thumb to Arthur’s hastily stretched hole. Arthur writhes at the contact, cursing Eames and demanding more. He guides himself to press against Arthur’s spit slick entrance and eases in, willing Arthur to stretch to accommodate him.
Arthur cants his hips and pulls Eames in deep, heels digging painfully into his back.
They move together, Eames thrusting into Arthur, fingers roaming over his stomach, down his side and squeezing his ass while his lips devour Arthur’s own. Arthur never lets up, forcing Eames into him with greedy thighs wrapped around his waist, memorizing the wet curve of Eames’ arms all over again and fighting for what little air he can drag into his lungs. When he pulls the forger’s face down to kiss him harder, tasting completion and Eames on his tongue, Eames doesn’t favor his injured cheek, just plunders forward with erratic snaps of his hips.
Arthur comes in messy, wet ribbons that paint his stomach, open mouthed and gasping for air around Eames’ lips. So focused on his own release, he doesn’t realize when Eames finishes until he slips out and collapses onto Arthur, pressing him into the couch with his considerable weight. Arthur’s legs lower, his thighs starting to ache, but remain wrapped around Eames’.
“You want to talk to me now?” Eames pants, mouthing Arthur’s sweaty chest.
Arthur shifts, stalling until he’s caught his breath. “Not really.”
“Mmm,” Eames sucks on his chest while spreading his weight over Arthur more evenly. “If only you didn’t have nearly eleven stone keeping you down.”
Arthur stares at the wall. “Where were you last night?”
“You know where I was.” Eames looks up and Arthur avoids his eyes.
Arthur hates feeling like he needs to beat around the bush, to be gentle with Eames’ feelings when Eames has never asked it of him, so he cuts to the chase. “I know you were on recon for Donaghy. Why is there lipstick on your wrist if you were investigating our male target?”
Eames looks at his wrists, first the left then the right, as if he’s never seen them before. He stares at the faded lipstick mark smeared on the inside of his wrist and turns it toward Arthur, asking rather incredulously, “This?”
He could push Eames off of him if he wanted, avoid this entire scene until it blows over into one of those things they silently agree to not talk about. There are so many between them, they’d hardly notice another.
“Arthur,” Eames rubs a hand down Arthur’s side when he tenses. “Its my job to blend in. You know that…”
Except the way Eames says it sounds more like 'This is what you wanted. This is who we are.' Like an accusation.
This is who they are. Criminals, the upper crust of the mind-heist game, but most of all, they are lethal distractions to each other. They are liabilities, oscillations on an already precariously balanced scale and neither can afford the other.
Arthur knows this because they’ve been here before; this isn’t the first time they’ve gone wrong. He remembers what a broken rib feels like because the mark woke up before they did. He knows how long it takes to wriggle out of a bind, rubbing his wrists raw on the unforgiving industrial rope in the process. They have no room for mistakes, and even though Arthur could see mistake written all over Eames, clear as day, he couldn’t stop himself. He still can’t.
“I can stay in tonight,” Eames offers, fingers brushing against Arthur’s sides.
Arthur feels ‘I don’t care’ on the tip of his tongue but bites it back, wrapping his fingers around Eames’ wrist. Eames takes this as a sign to get comfortable on Arthur’s chest and mumbles, “If you insist,” with more bite to it than Arthur would normally allow if he wasn’t so sure the forger was already halfway asleep.
He rubs his thumb over Eames’ wrist, imagining that it is just an inconsequential sign of affection. Arthur rubs until the lipstick mark is nothing more than a smudge on Eames’ wrist.
~
[June, 1996 // September 2005]
They loved each other once.
Once upon a time when the rush of lust was worth more than the force of their combined wills. Perhaps that was the only reason it worked. Their lust burning too bright to touch; incandescent and intoxicating, like savoring sunspots that stain the vision after staring at the sun for too long. Perhaps it is their will that complicates things.
They fell in love the way missiles fall from the sky, unstoppable in their descent.
It was agonizing, how they needed each other. How they needed in a way they had never known to need before. Impetuous and volatile, Eames had been so in love with Arthur he couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t forge, couldn’t hide, couldn’t do so much as keep his distance from the point man.
It had been a problem they’d overlooked in the wake of their explosive sexual chemistry.
Eames followed Arthur first around the states, mastering the buttons of his waistcoat and memorizing the glint in his eyes, and then around the world, brushing flowers from his sweater vests and savoring the backs of his knees. There was never enough air for the both of them, thin and insubstantial, and Eames swore Arthur didn’t breathe when they touched; still save for the ragged breaths he drew to pull Eames’ name into his mouth, holding it in his chest like it was something more substantial than air.
Regardless of whom Arthur worked with, where he went, what he did, Eames would be there. He followed the point man from job to job, uncaring of what distraction he might pose, because there was nothing as beautiful as the way Arthur lost control.
“Pay attention, Mister Eames.” Arthur snaps, clipped tones like the sharp whip-crack of leather breaking the sound barrier.
Eames spreads his legs, accentuating his disrespectful slouch all the more and raises an eyebrow at Arthur, daring him to do something. Debriefing is always such a bore.
Arthur narrows his eyes, but goes back to explaining.
Of course, Eames was helpless no matter how Arthur lost control.
Always so perfect, in place, put together just right- it was tantalizing to see Arthur the way everyone else saw him and know how the point man could look, how he would look once Eames got his hands on him. He wanted so much more than touch; he wanted to find Arthur’s seams, carefully tucked away where no one else would think to look, and pick them apart stitch by stitch.
He loved to find the little things and flaunt them, the darlings, the touches, the surprises. Arthur would look at him like he couldn’t quite believe he was real; Eames understood the sentiment.
At first it was just needling, pestering, small things to get on the other’s nerves. Eames might have started it but Arthur willingly fueled the fire, blushing through his frown and reprimanding Eames for inappropriate conduct despite being this side of breathless. Arthur didn’t get mad with anyone else, calm and collected in a way that bespoke military training somewhere along the line, and Eames wasn’t content with being just a part of his life. The whites of his knuckles were just as pleasing to Eames as the crow’s feet near his eyes.
In hindsight, they should have expected things to fall apart.
~
[October, 1998]
Eames is no stranger to pain.
Before he was ever into high-class theft like mind-heist, he was into petty theft, trivial crimes that got his fingers broken and his fair share of medic visits. So when he realizes his wrists are burning and sticky wet with what feels suspiciously like blood, he doesn’t panic. Its cold and he can’t remember where he is or how he got there, but his hands hurt like a bitch and if anything, that’s a good sign.
If you can feel them, it means they’re still there.
He’s calm until the dreaming compound wears off and he’s able to focus on more than the dizzying slant of the floor. He remembers where he is. On a job in Scandinavia, in some frozen, shit hole little town he’d never be in if Arthur wasn’t the one wriggling behind him; the panic that twists his stomach then is something painful.
“Arthur.” It’s a stupid thing to say, unnecessary and wasteful of both time and energy- two aspects of their situation which he has no grasp on at the moment, but it’s the first thing that comes out.
“Are you awake?” Arthur grunts and pulls viciously on the ropes, Eames’ arms going taught behind him.
The furious way Arthur wriggles against their bindings makes Eames hiss in pain, he doesn’t need to see his wrists to know they’re bleeding freely. “Miguel fucked us over.” It’s as good an indicator of Eames’ lucidity as any.
“It looks like he sold us out to Aksel. Do you have anything sharp on you?” Arthur asks, the hope in his voice telling Eames his response is going to be inconsequential.
“The knife in my back poc-“ Eames begins, cut off by Arthur’s sigh.
“Gone.” Arthur starts fidgeting again.
Eames wants to tell him to stop moving, its rubbing them both raw, but says instead, “If they didn’t pat me down thoroughly, there should be a top from a bottle of pop on the inside of my belt.”
Arthur slips his fingers between Eames’ trousers and the leather of his belt, feeling for the hidden bottle cap, and Eames can feel the way his entire hand shakes as he searches for it. The small sigh of relief is all the praise Eames gets.
Even with the serrated edges of the bottle cap it takes Arthur another twenty minutes to free them, Eames accidentally knocking the cap out of Arthur’s fingers with his knuckles when he tries to insist that Arthur is shaking too badly to continue.
“No Eames just- fuck! Just let me do this!” Arthur shouts at him, frustration and fear clearly evident.
Eames rests his head on the floor, feeling bad for feeling bad and allows Arthur to finish the job, pretending that he can ignore the muffled hisses of pain from behind him.
They escape through the back, avoiding the front door and Eames is thankful they thought to throw the mark’s mobile out of the car before they arrived at the warehouse. That, and the fact that they never told that bastard chemist Miguel where the location was. The car the four of them drove up in is gone, but there are no other cars which means they still have time to disappear before Aksel comes back with more competent men. They keep the road in sight but stay in the cover of the trees, tracking back to the last town they went through.
“We are never doing this bullshit in a warehouse again. We’re civilized blokes, not bleeding Mafioso-“ Eames has the distinct feeling that he’s talking to himself. He turns around to find Arthur is about twenty feet back, clutching his side and leaning heavily against a tree; Eames backtracks. “Arthur- what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Arthur grits out, temple resting against the tree he’s using for support.
“Darling, now is not the time for this. Let me see-“ Eames reaches for Arthur’s side but the man turns away, keeping out of reach.
“Now isn’t the time Eames.” Arthur scolds, turning Eames’ words back on him. “I’m just light headed is all.”
Eames wants to yell at the other, tell him to just fucking talk to him and maybe they can figure something out together. But he knows Arthur, the tense bunching around his eyes and the whitewashed look on his face- not even the biting cold enough to bring any color to his cheeks. Now really isn’t the time.
He slips Arthur’s other arm around his shoulders, telling him to shut up when he protests, and continues walking. Eames talks about anything that comes to mind, just trying to keep his mind on moving and not how they drove twenty miles out of the nearest insignificant little town to get to this god-awful place.
When they happen upon a little Inn just before dusk, frozen, bleeding, and slightly delirious, Eames swears he’s never been happier to see anything in his entire life. He leaves Arthur resting against the doorframe and the woman at the front desk gives his wrists a worried look when he slaps down a handful of Krones. All Eames can worry about is that they somehow wandered into Germany in their hasty escape and she won’t take their money. She takes the money and says something that could be Danish or Martian, before handing him a key.
The room has all the amenities one would expect of a tiny Danish Inn located roughly between nowhere and nothingness, but its warm and seems to have a sink set awkwardly into the far wall so he counts his blessings and shuffles them both inside.
“I’m told this is the honeymoon suite.” Eames tries for a smile with his bullshit as Arthur pulls out of his grasp, heading for the sink. “Do tell me you like it, pet.”
Arthur busies himself at the sink while Eames locks the door, not that he has a lot of trust in the flimsy deadbolt’s ability to keep anything out.
The bed looks musty and uncomfortable; that Eames wants to collapse onto it and sleep for days says more about Eames’ state than he ever could. He gets his belt undone, wincing at the pain in his wrists, before it occurs to him that he should follow Arthur’s example and clean his wounds as best as he can.
“Darling,” Eames steps up behind Arthur, propping his chin on the point man’s shoulder and peering over into the sink. His stomach flips.
Eames’ wrists hurt like a bitch, chafed and scabbed over in a couple places but they look nothing like Arthur’s. There is not a patch of skin left unmarred, angry red and rubbed completely raw, the entire bowl of the sink is tinged pink from where he’s repeatedly pulled his wrists out of the faucet’s flow.
“Oh, Arthur.” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s dirty shoulder and disappears into the bathroom. Returning with the three flimsy towels he could find, he motions for the other to get up on the counter. “Go on, let me.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, wincing as he returns his wrist to the gentle flow of the water. “I think I’ve got it under control Eames.”
Eames pauses by the sink, caught in the awkward moment of trying to help and getting shot down that is so significant in his… partnership with Arthur. He sets the towels, more like washcloths, down on the sink and turns Arthur by the waist, pushing him back into the counter until the other is forced to sit on it or have his legs crushed by Eames’ thighs.
“Thank you,” Eames grabs the smallest square of towel and wets it, searching for the customary little bar of complementary soap. “No soap?”
Arthur gives him a look that says ‘If there was soap, I’d have used it already.’ Eames silently cedes that his question, given their current location, was a stupid one.
Wet cloth poised above Arthur’s wrists Eames looks up, warning. “Now darling, this may hurt a bit.” Arthur avoids his eyes, the tired set of his mouth speaks volumes of his disappointment, betrayal, and defeat but he lifts his wrists to award Eames better access.
They clean his wrists, Arthur wincing and screwing his eyes shut when Eames scrubs the rope fibers out of his bloodied wrists and Eames wishing all the while that this place at least had a minibar. This would be a lot easier if they were both drunk. Bloody water drips from the now pink-splotched towel onto Arthur’s black slacks, and when Eames maneuvers Arthur’s arm over the sink the point man tentatively rests his head against Eames’ chest. Eames goes about his task.
Two ruined towels later, Arthur’s wrists are cleaned to Eames’ satisfaction and his head is still on Eames’ chest.
“Kitten,” Eames touches Arthur’s cheek, the dirt under his fingernails washed away from scrubbing at Arthur’s wrists. Arthur turns his face and presses a kiss to Eames’ palm, effectively quelling any words the forger might have had.
He shifts away from Eames’ chest and picks up the last clean towel, running it under the sink and sets to work on the forger’s wrists. Eames’ wrists are dirty and scraped but not nearly as bad as Arthur’s, so when the strokes are significantly gentler than Eames’ had been, he assumes this is Arthur’s excuse. He shifts between Arthur’s legs and drops a kiss on Arthur’s head.
Legs wind their way around Eames’, loose and languid, and his eyebrow raise but he steps closer, forever obliging Arthur’s whims. Done with Eames’ wrists, Arthur sets the towel down in the sink, turning Eames’ wrists over to inspect them.
“Thank you, perfect job as usu-“ Eames is silenced by Arthur pressing into him, lips molding seamlessly to his.
Eames pulls back slightly, mumbling, “Your wrists,” before Arthur’s hands pull him back down, biting at his lips and pressing his shoes into the backs of Eames’ legs.
Greater men would be unable to resist Arthur, Eames is sure, so he gives himself over to the kiss, a slow exploration of Arthur’s mouth in the middle of nowhere. Always so hasty, Arthur runs his tongue along Eames’ lips, demanding entrance; Eames is only too happy to comply. His hands press to Arthur’s sides and the point man groans, immediately redirecting Eames’ hand to the bulge in his blood-damp trousers.
They kiss and Eames palms Arthur through his pants, pulling him closer with his other hand until he can rub against Arthur’s warm, spread thighs, heady with the dizzying cocktail of exhaustion and lust.
“Take this off,” Eames groans, licking into Arthur’s mouth and pulling his ruined oxford from his slacks.
Arthur is too quick and has the added advantage of Eames’ already undone belt, slipping his pants down to wrap cold fingers around his meaty erection. Coherent thought leaves Eames as Arthur tugs him, tight and fast and just damp enough to make it enjoyable. Cradling Arthur’s head in one hand, he pushes Arthur’s slacks down with the other, shirt forgotten in his haste to feel Arthur against him, needing Arthur to lose control the way Eames could feel himself losing it.
“Fuck- darling,“ Eames can feel the way Arthur shudders when the words roll around in his mouth before slipping off his tongue, rough in their drawl. “You’re so ready for it, aren’t you? You feel so good in my hand, fuck, I could- this, I could come right here, you’re so warm and- ah, do that again, tighter.”
Slick lips make their way down his neck, pressing against his stubble to taste the dirty, sweat soaked skin beneath. Eames’ hand stutters around Arthur when teeth graze down his throat, leaving marks stinging deliciously in their wake. He can see the arch of Arthur’s neck in the mirror and Eames groans, feeling feverish and too close as he nuzzles Arthur’s face away from his neck, capturing his lips again.
A small part of Eames is still coherent enough to remember Arthur’s wrists and he pushes Arthur’s hand off of him, pulling the other close enough to grab them both.
“L-let me,” Eames collects them both in one hand, palm warm and calloused but perfect if the way Arthur arches into it and whimpers is anything to go by. “Put your hands on me baby, let me get you off- fuck, how hot for it are you? I’m so close, tell me it’s good Arthur.”
Arthur clings to him, a hand on either shoulder, legs wrapped around his waist, pressed flush against his thighs and perched on the edge of the sink while Eames gracelessly tugs them both with one hand. He doesn’t say anything and Eames doesn’t mind so long as he keeps whimpering, gently writhing in his hand, against his hips, fingers digging into his shoulders almost painfully.
“Eames, I- my-“ Arthur breathes, hot against his throat.
Eames comes with a ragged exhale, spilling between his fingers and slicking the warm circle of his hand around their dicks. His grip on the counter is the only thing keeping him upright as he shudders through the aftershocks. Tender and oversensitive, he slips out of his grip and finishes Arthur with a few practiced strokes, hand slippery and warm with his own come.
They pull air into their greedy lungs, Arthur’s lips pressed to Eames’ neck and Eames lost in the reflection of the curve of Arthur’s back. He rubs his fingers together absently, the stickiness between his knuckles bringing a smile to his face before common sense returns with a disapproving look.
“Bollocks.” Eames pulls away, looking down between them; glad to see his fingers covered in the sticky white substance and nothing more. “That could have complicated things…”
Not bothering to zip himself back up Arthur slips off the counter, bumping hips with the forger when he doesn’t give him enough space as he heads for the bed. Eames turns back to wash the spunk from between his fingers when he realizes he’s watching Arthur. It washes off easy enough, slipping down the drain and Eames watches Arthur through the mirror.
From the bed, Arthur looks tired.
“We’ve got slim pickings out there,” Eames’ mind is already on tomorrow, which car will be easiest to hotwire, how far they’ll be able to get before the lady at the front calls the Politiet. “The Audi looks like a good b-“
“This should never have happened.” Arthur’s voice is subdued, muffled against the arm flung across his face.
Eames shuts the water off, flicking his hands to air dry. “You’re telling me.”
“That isn’t what I mean Eames…”
Eames leans his shoulder against the wall, watching the steady rise and fall of the band of Arthur’s briefs against his stomach as he breathes. “I’m sorry? Should I not have helped your randy self out?”
“That’s not-“ Arthur sighs, mouth turning down. “We were tricked by a member of our team because-“
“Miguel isn’t part of our operations.“ Eames interrupts, just the thought of the man making his blood boil.
“That!” Arthur winces when he tries to sit up, face going white as he lies back down. “That is what I’m talking about. This, this thing that we’re doing,” Arthur’s face is turned away from Eames, watching the door. “Its not an operation. It isn’t even- we can’t let this continue to mess up what we do.”
“Arthur?” Eames feels too large, obtrusive in the space Arthur has decided to pin him in. “If you’re trying to say something, the class would appreciate it if you’d just come out with it.”
“We need to focus on our work.” Arthur finally meets Eames’ eyes, his drawn and tired expression rallied in a way that puts any thought of possible spontaneity from Eames’ mind; this isn’t the first time Arthur has thought about this.
“We should get some rest,” Arthur sighs into the uncomfortable silence. “Tomorrow is going to be a bitch.”
Arthur maneuvers himself under the stale covers, too tired to acknowledge that they audibly crinkle when he slips under them. The woman at the front desk had a box of cigarettes next to her elbow and Eames itches for one, the promise of smooth nicotine more appealing than the discomforted pressure slowly easing out of their room like liquid from a popped blister. He flicks the light out and crawls into the bed instead, settling beside Arthur with his hands folded over his stomach.
It feels strange to sleep in his trousers, stranger still to sleep beside Arthur who is still fully clothed.
He stares at the ceiling for a long while, listening to Arthur listen to him breathe, each waiting for the other to fall asleep first. It’s ridiculous, Eames decides, and rolls over to drape his arm across Arthur’s side. Arthur winces and pulls away from him with a pained, “Eames!”
Eames pulls his hand back, shocked by the sound of Arthur’s voice in the dark. “Sorry,” Falls from his mouth, immediate and sincere. “Sorry.”
Eames settles on his back, the roil in his stomach reminiscent of being sick, but he’d rather be sick all over the cheap motel rug than jostle the bed even slightly to get up and find a bin. He’s sure he cannot possibly fall asleep with so much worry and frustration building up in him, words queuing behind his teeth only to be swallowed back down when his name rings through his head in Arthur’s voice.
When Eames wakes up the next morning Arthur is gone. He finds a note by the sink.
Don’t find me Eames. We are professionals, its about time we started acting like them.
Eames doesn’t see Arthur for a month but he keeps an eye on his records, checking up on aliases Arthur doesn’t know he knows about. Arthur still thinks he doesn’t know about the broken rib.
~
[April, 2004]
In the years that follow they will both realize that addiction is too light a word for what they have. They will slip into each other’s lives, destructive and encompassing, slaking a thirst neither could ever completely ignore until they're either drowning in it, or each other.
Arthur will lose control and hate it, rile against it with teeth bared and furious tears in his eyes.
What will hurt is knowing that this isn’t as complicated as it makes him feel. They are just two people who repeatedly give into each other, not special in any sense of the word and Arthur knows this. Knows it the way he knows Eames’ crooked pinky and the small scar under his chin. Knows it like the straight line of Eames’ nose and the smell of tea turning his stomach in the morning.
He knows Eames is bound to explore every surface, and that he is no exception.
In 2003 Eames will ask to stay with him and Arthur will say, “You’ve always got a place with me, whether I like it or not,” thanks to too much alcohol and a sky that seems to go on forever.
How much Arthur needs to fall asleep in Eames’ arms is embarrassing, comforted only when pressed between the sheets and his warm stomach. How he loves the well-tended gardens of Eames’ jaw and upper lips, raspy against his soft, early morning skin. His warmth that fills empty doorways and the way he gets lost when kissing Arthur. Arthur breaks their kisses to get lost in the dazed look in his hazel eyes.
Sometime in 2002 Eames will finally figure out that his forgeries, while impressive, always sport a pair of brilliant brown eyes. They will work better together when Eames stops that.
Eames will realize one can’t truly be a good forger and care for someone else. Eames has two strikes against him. He is The Best, and he doesn’t just care for Arthur.
They will puzzle this out slowly, pulling the information from each other bit by bit. It will take them much longer to figure out what to do with the knowledge once they have it.
~
[November, 1998]
It had been inevitable that their paths would cross again.
Eames was the best, before Arthur derailed him so completely, but he slipped back into that position with a practiced ease. He took jobs indiscriminately, major and minor, just to throw himself back into the game, to prove through the circuit of theft and larceny that would inevitably get back to Arthur, regardless of whether he was looking or not (Eames always hoped that he was) that he could. That contrary to what they might have thought, Eames had chosen to be distracted by Arthur, not blindsided by something entirely uncontrollable.
When Cobb, a friend through Arthur, calls him three weeks after the Askel bust, Eames has only one question. He knows he doesn’t do nonchalant well so he comes right out with it. “Is Arthur your Point for this job?”
“That’s hardly relevant information Eames.” Cobb’s voice is stern; fatherhood is apparently a role that carries into working relationships as well.
“Good to know, I’ll bring something for Mallorie.” Eames promises, hanging up before Cobb can tell him not to.
A week later he gets a package with an address and a ticket to Abbotsford International Airport. Eames is extremely unimpressed with the cold location and lets Dom know this when he meets the extractor at the designated coffee shop rendezvous point. They make small talk about how Cobb doesn’t care what Eames thinks and how there’s a second Cobb on the way and where Eames possibly obtained perfectly formed red roses from in the last few days of November.
He compliments Mallorie (and James, “Good job lad, your old Dad needs a bloke to even things out a little,” placing a hand on Mal’s swollen belly when she introduces them prematurely) and almost convinces everyone present that he isn’t searching for Arthur in the Cobb’s neat little apartment.
“Arthur is in the living room.” Mal says when Dom takes the roses from her, despite her fussing that she can very well handle roses and carry a baby at the same time.
Eames saunters into the room, following the pictures that document the passing of time- a tiny, wispy haired Phillipa in a wooden highchair with spaghetti all over her face, Dominique reading a colorful book to a sleepy, slightly older Phillipa resting in his lap, Mallorie and a toddler Phillipa building sandcastles on the beach. When he comes upon the living room he finds Arthur is seated in the left-most of three lounge chairs pushed to the center of the room, a PASIV device set up on a side table between the right-most chair and a tasteful leather chaise lounger.
He looks at Eames with all the professionalism it’s taken Eames five weeks to piece together. It might explain why the first thing out of his mouth is, “How are your wrists, darling?”
“Going back to Denmark anytime soon Mister Eames?“
“Why, would you like to come with me?” He takes the seat next to him just to piss him off.
Dom takes that moment to follow Mal into the living room, holding a folder that he hands to Eames before sitting on the chaise beside Mal. Arthur goes back to ignoring the room at large while Eames skims the file and Dom outlines the job.
The job is fairly simple, Arthur constructs a posh little apartment which turns out, as Eames finds out later that day, to be the mistress’ chic abode, Cobb focuses on extraction, and Eames has a wonderful blue-eyed bombshell to slip into. They practice the simulation three times a day after Eames comes back with disappointingly little on the mistress. For the most part, Arthur avoids him, but Eames has never been one to wait for things to come to him.
He pesters Arthur relentlessly, slipping between the mistress and several other favorites, some Arthur knows intimately, others Arthur has never seen before- just to see what he’ll do. Arthur always seems to know when it’s Eames.
Mal offers them coffee after a day of dreaming and manages to convince Arthur to dine with them only once, catching him on his way to the door with a request to help her in the kitchen. He’s helpless under her charm. Eames does nothing less than stare at the point man, daring him to make a move, to raise the stakes from across the Cobb’s dinning room table. He excuses himself before dessert and Mal shoves two pieces of too-sweet dessert on Eames' plate; he doesn’t enjoy them at all.
The day before the hit, they’re on their third run through and Eames can tell Arthur has been on edge every time they go under, catching his eyes when they wake up and scowling when they go under. It only entices Eames to pester him all the more.
Eames slips up to Arthur’s side in his little blonde body, letting his smile reach his eyes. “Fancy a drink with a beautiful stranger, darling?”
“Stop dicking around Eames.” Arthur grinds out, knuckles a blotched white.
“Really pet, stop worrying so obviously. It’s hardly any fun when you’re so wound up.” Eames rolls his eyes, lids heavy with mascara. “You’re working with the best, loosen up and have some fun.”
“Do you think this is funny?” Arthur turns on him, livid and looming over Eames’ perfectly forged 5’4” blonde mistress.
Eames looks around, smiling winningly at the irritated projections. The simulation is broken now and Eames feels particularly exposed in Arthur’s subconscious. “I don’t-“
“Do you do this to get at me?” Arthur looks him in the eyes and Eames feels like he’s being looked at, not talked to. “Its not fun anymore Eames, we’re professionals and you need to do your fucking job or step down.”
“Arthur, I hardly think this is appropriate conversation for two professionals to be having at work.” He stresses the word ‘professional’ because he knows it will piss the point man off even more. “And using that language with women present? How very ungentlemanly of you.” Eames bats his very feminine lashes at the other for effect.
It seems to work because Arthur looks on the verge of strangling the forger. “What’s unprofessional is your complete lack of respect for everything we’re working towards. You decide to play these games and change things on a whim- this is why we draw up plans before hand! You cannot go around changing things to get on my-“
“Dom, please,” Eames sighs, turning to cast a pleading look on Cobb just in time to see the other man raise a pistol, glinting off the low light of the lamps Arthur dreamt up, and shoot Arthur in the head. Eames sees Arthur’s knees start to crumple, his body tilting to the right before the crack of another bullet being fired rips through his head.
Eames is suddenly struggling awake, the sedative still heavy in his system with the kick administered too soon. Arthur is beside him, ripping the lead out of his arm and storming off.
“What happened?” Mal asks, watching Arthur storm out of the living room. The front door to their little apartment slams as she turns a concerned look back to Eames. “You have thirty more minutes down there, what happened?“
Eames pulls his lead out, fighting for control of his body when Cobb comes to on his other side.
“Your husband,” Eames gives Cobb a dirty look as he gets to his feet, feeling slightly dizzy but more than able to walk it off. “Decided homicide was better than hearing our dearest Arthur bitch like a hatter at yours truly.” He puts a hand on her shoulder when she tries to attempts to gain her feet, the soft mound of her great pregnant belly demanding otherwise. “Duck, stay seated. We’re done here.”
Shrugging into his jacket Eames heads for the door, beyond annoyed at everything, when Cobb calls him back to the living room. Mal is draped on the couch, elegant even ripe with pregnancy, and has this look about her that makes Eames want to apologize on reflex. Cobb gets up and hands him a manila folder with the name of the mark’s mistress on it. A file Eames has seen eight hundred thousand times this week.
“What is this?” Eames flips it open, rifling through the pages for something new. There is nothing, just the same pictures of the blue-eyed bombshell that he’s been perfecting all week.
Cobb has the ability to sound disappointed in the way Eames’ father never could. Inherent, an ability that Eames is sure Cobb has had even as a young lad. “Just remember what we’re doing here.”
Eames snaps the file closed, annoyed with this cryptic bullshit and wishing Mallorie anywhere but here so he could tell her husband off properly. Instead he turns on his heel with a spiteful “Kind of hard to forget, isn’t it?” and walks out of their cozy little apartment.
When they make the pick up the next day, everything runs smoothly. The mark goes down easily, they get the information, and deposit the man back in his car 45 minutes later, none the wiser.
The mark never notices Eames’ brown eyes but then again, neither does Eames.
[Part ii]
Summary: Wherein Arthur and Eames fall in love, the way normal people do. Rough and with no small amount of heartache.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence. Unmitigated anger. Too many fucking emotions. And, gratuitous sex.
Word Count: 9400/??
Beta: I might need one? Hit me up. Or, if not, point out any mistakes as you see fit!
Original Prompt: For this prompt at
.
A/N: So I tried to be ~artsy with the formatting on this piece and I dont know how well I pulled it off. I'm ~80% done with the last part, so...
[September, 2005]
He’s been in this hotel before, plenty of times actually. Prime location, can’t always work out of warehouses, especially when you can afford not to, but something is off. The lobby was never carpeted. In fact, the lobby was tiled the last time they’d booked a room here.
The man at the front desk tips his top hat at Arthur, smiling indulgently as he flashes his carrot top hair. There are gilded elephants with palms growing from their backs and Arthur is almost positive the walls match the distinctly warm, scarlet hues of the movie he fell asleep watching…
Arthur’s mouth ticks down.
He burrows his head deeper into the pillow and curls his toes into the downy comforter, willing himself back to sleep. The curtains are haphazardly drawn, the golden-pink of the morning sun seeping around the edges and spilling into the room with an annoying brilliance that has him thankful he sleeps with his back to the window. He can feel the pillow creases pressed into his cheek and for once his shirt isn’t twisted around him in an attempt on his life. It would be a shame to admit he’s awake when he could otherwise enjoy pretending to be asleep. He inhales deeply, feeling several places in his back pop, when he finally recognizes the warmth surrounding him for what it really is.
The band of heat draped over his side, the familiar weight and warmth of Eames’ calloused hand curled around his own, the disturbance of air across the back of his neck, stirring already wayward hairs at his nape; Arthur knows this scenario intimately. He opens his eyes the tiniest bit, peering through his lashes as if trying to hide the fact that he isn’t asleep from himself.
Their hands curve together and Eames is always so warm, his skin like sunlight after being in the shade. Arthur shifts his feet around under the covers, legs bent at the knees, and when he doesn’t knock against hairy shins he realizes Eames must be sleeping on top of the covers.
Consciousness is making a valiant effort to assert itself over the sleepy, early morning haze that has Arthur wriggling to press his back against Eames’ chest. When Eames pulls him closer, the arm around his waist tightening with a soft, sleepy grunt from its owner, Arthur squeezes his eyes closed.
He is too awake to not acknowledge that he knows what Eames sleeping on top of the covers means; his body not wrapped around Arthur’s frame with knees shoved in all the wrong places or the annoying, hot pool of drool against his back. At the same time, he’s still asleep enough to delay the inevitable. If his mind would just cooperate and stop supplying an annoying rerun of going to bed alone last night, curling up on his side of the bed because sprawling out doesn’t feel natural anymore.
Abstractly, he knows he could go back to sleep. He could save the questions ‘where the fuck were you’ and ‘why didn’t you at least send me a fucking text’ for later, and bask in the easiness of melting against Eames’ chest. Enjoy the way Eames’ wide palm goes on forever, wrapping around the back of Arthur’s hand, and how everywhere they touch is a reminder that Eames is here now.
Arthur curls his hand away from Eames’, smiling when that warm palm follows after his retreating hand. Hell might freeze over before Arthur admits that he enjoys the way Eames’ body seeks his own out during sleep, but he can admit it to himself, and that’s enough in its own right.
He rubs his knuckles against Eames’ fleshy palm, eyes opening lazily and deciding if he can’t get back to sleep, he can at least steal a couple minutes of guilt-free lounging.
Bright red and oval shaped, Arthur has to blink a couple times to recognize the stain on Eames’ wrist as a lipstick print.
Fieldwork, Eames had said. Fieldwork that had his phone turned off and sneaking into Arthur’s apartment well past 4 in the morning. Fieldwork that has rouge smeared across his wrist from a night where Eames was nothing more than an exotic stranger.
It is impossible to swallow around the tightening of his throat.
Somewhere between pissed and disgusted Arthur flings Eames’ arm off of him, rolling out of bed in an angry huff. He storms toward the door, lips drawn in a tight line to hold back the words he wants to fling at Eames like so many sharp objects.
Eames wakes up with the finesse of a drugged bear, struggling to an upright position, all graceless limbs and dazed, unfocused eyes. “W- what? Arthur, what’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Arthur shouts, spinning on his heel and even the sight of his fucking face, flushed with sleep, bottom lip glistening because he licks it subconsciously in his sleep- pisses Arthur off. “Nothing’s wrong with me Eames, I’m really fucking great can’t you tell?”
When Eames frowns it looks distinctly defeated. He rubs a palm over his face, muttering, “Its too early for your bullshit,” before pulling the covers over his bare feet.
Eames’ nonchalance in the face of Arthur’s anger is too much.
It takes two crystal clear steps to close the distance between the doorway and the edge of the bed before Arthur’s fist glances off of Eames’ jaw. Eames’ hazel eyes grow wide, his sleep addled brain connecting the pain in his face to the source, before he remembers that Arthur is perfectly capable and apparently more than willing to hit him again.
“Arthur!” Eames shouts, twisting back in an attempt to avoid the point man’s attack.
“You- fucking stupid-“ Arthur’s words get tangled up in his chest, demanding to be the first out of his mouth and coming out in a garbled, irate mess. At least his fists are cooperating, even if Eames is quick to defend himself.
“Arthur! Bloody hell- calm down and talk to me!” Eames tries to grab Arthur by the wrist, but Arthur knows him too well, and pulls out of his grasp every time.
“Now you want to talk to me?” Arthur shouts, intent on hitting Eames wherever he can.
“I’d rather be sleeping but you’ve gone bleeding mad-“ Eames grabs hold of Arthur’s forearm and tugs him off balance.
Wrestling Arthur to the bed Eames finally gets his leg over Arthur’s kicking legs, straddling his hips, but he can’t keep him still. Arthur knows how to fight and even though Eames has the upper hand, both physically and strategically, he can’t get a hold of Arthur’s arms. As strong as Eames is, Arthur moves like there are no joints involved, slippery and evasive in his anger.
“Calm down and talk to me!” Eames pants, annoyed and fending off Arthur’s open palmed attacks.
“Like you talk to me?” Arthur snaps. He sits up, pressed against Eames’ bare chest and snarls, “Lets see how you like it,” and spits in Eames’ face.
Everything stills in the silence between them.
Arthur has enough time to realize that he doesn’t feel vindicated by the shocked, hurt look on Eames’ face before his back hits the mattress with enough force to knock the wind out of him.
“Don’t you ever,” Eames leans over him, face contorted in anger and bruising Arthur’s arms where his hands hold him down. “Do that again.” Every line of his body is caught in stark relief from the light creeping in through the curtains, framed in the furious tension of his rage as he growls, “Do you understand me?”
It hurts to be still, to have this hurt coiled in his chest, painful and white hot with no outlet, so he digs his thumbs into the juncture of Eames’ groin until the larger man screams and rolls away from him. Arthur rolls off the other side of the bed and storms out.
“Arthur! Fucking hell-“ Eames is hot on his heels. “Arthur, where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.” Arthur growls.
“No you’re not,” Eames throws his hands out to encompass the stylishly sparse living room. “This is your apartment!”
“Don’t tell me what I can do Eames,” Arthur shouts, whirling around with a decisive hand movement. “We’re adults, I can do what ever the fuck I want!”
Arthur can see what’s coming from a mile off. He knows the way Eames’ lips form the words, well rehearsed and just as frustrating as the first time. “Then how about you try acting like one?”
It’s a testament to how well Eames knows Arthur that when he lunges for Eames’ throat, Eames easily throws his hands off.
“What do you want from me?” Arthur screams, body tight. He wants to sweep Eames to the floor and twist his arm behind his back until it breaks, but Eames knows all of Arthur’s tricks and Arthur knows Eames too well. So they stand there, facing off on the precipice of détente.
“I just want you to calm down!” Eames’ stance is solid even when he makes that exasperated, pleading gesture with his hands.
“Isn’t it sad that we cant always get what we want?” Arthur says, voice tight with rage and accusation.
Eames’ mouth opens, sharp words poised on his tongue before it snaps closed, eyes resigned as his hands drop to his sides. “Unless we’re you, Arthur.”
Arthur’s punch is textbook, his body following his arm as his fist connects with Eames’ jaw, the entirety of his weight and rage behind the blow. Eames’ body lurches to the side from the force, but doesn’t hit the floor. Arthur’s knuckles pound from the force of the blow and for a second, he can’t tell who is groaning in pain.
Eames stays curled into his wounded cheek, leaving the soft side just under his ribs vulnerable and Arthur knows at least three ways to cause internal injury from this position.
But the moment has passed, draining out of him with the finality of a switch flicked off. The desire to see Eames hurt lost to the way Arthur’s stomach twists sickly at the protective bend of Eames’ body. Out of the moment, without the bright flare of his rage to blind him, Arthur feels like shit for loosing control like that.
“Eames,” Arthur closes the distance between them, his hands pausing over the curve of Eames’ back, unsure if he’s allowed to touch.
Hand held protectively over his jaw Eames mutters, “This is going to swell.”
There are words he’s supposed to say, words he’s supposed to mean, but all that comes out is, “I’ll get you some ice.”
Arthur comes back with a plastic bag of crushed ice wrapped in a paper towel and hands it to Eames who is slumped on his couch, moving his cheek every so often and wincing when he finds that no, the pain has not gone away yet. He spends an embarrassing moment contemplating whether he should sit down before deciding it’s his damn couch and he’ll sit on it if he wants.
The silence stretches between them, Arthur’s elbows on his knees and his hands shoved into his hair, contemplating the floor for an answer to the question, what comes after this? Eames isn’t vocal with his pain but that isn’t to say he’s quiet about it either. He hisses softly when the ice shifts in the bag, forming to his wide jaw, and rumbles with content when the pain starts to ebb into numbness.
Arthur’s almost got the words formed on his lips when Eames sighs, “I can’t keep up with you Arthur.”
“I don’t ask you to.” Arthur mumbles to the carpet.
“I realize,” Eames shifts against the couch, leaning his head against the back of it. “But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to.”
He knows what that means, but he doesn’t know what this means, that they’re able to rile against each other as easily as they’re able to crash into each other. There’s too much at stake and too little to go on. Trust and promises are as substantial as dreams; easily broken into and exploited by whoever decides to take enough of an interest to fuck them up.
“Then you must be as stupid as you’d have us believe.” Arthur’s means the words when they’re in his head but somehow, out in the open, they don’t sound the same.
Eames pulls the bag away from his face, crushing the ice back into a proper slush before placing it on his face again. “Perhaps.”
Silence settles between them, expansive and palpable against Arthur’s back. Eames doesn’t expect an apology but he wants one and Arthur wants to want to give him one but knows he’s not the one with lipstick on his wrist and that makes him tense up all over again.
“Darling,” Eames leans towards Arthur, the couch giving him away.
All it takes is Eames’ fingers against the back of his arm and its like his anger is bright and new, uncharted and dangerous. He’s on his feet, whirling on Eames who already has his hands up.
“Don’t- just-“ Arthur’s arms tighten as his hands curl into fists and he makes an exasperated noise, walking away before he does something else he’ll regret.
“Arthur.” Eames’ voice is commanding despite his swelling jaw.
Arthur doesn’t even turn around, waving him off as he spits out a dismissive, “Fuck off.”
“Get your knickers out of a twist and just talk to me you insufferable twat!” Eames barks, the scream of leather from the couch and the sound of an ice pack hitting the floor alerting Arthur to his approach.
“Make me,” Arthur challenges.
For the second time this morning Arthur’s breath is knocked out of him as Eames spins him around and slams his back against the wall.
He pins Arthur to the wall with his body, growling, “Listen to me!”
“Get off of me.” Eames’ body is hot, terribly hot against Arthur and he knows where this is going he just doesn’t know if he wants it to stop.
“Not bloody likely!” Eames slams his palm into the wall, missing Arthur’s face by a hair’s breadth.
Arthur glares, blood boiling and pinned under Eames’ weight, glaring up into hazel eyes that normally speak volumes. When Eames breathes, his bare chest presses Arthur more firmly against the wall and he loses count of how many breaths Eames has taken like this in lieu of ignoring the way he enjoys the pressure. Blunt fingertips trace Arthur’s ear, traveling down to ghost over his jaw so lightly Arthur wonders if they’re even there.
Hazel eyes meet his own, Eames’ mouth opening to say something that Arthur knows will ruin the moment. He leans forward, fueled by anger and the constant undercurrent of hunger that Eames produces in him, crushing his mouth to Eames’ in a familiar clash of need and want.
Arthur slips his tongue into Eames’ mouth, demanding and unapologetic and Eames groans, opening his mouth wide to drink Arthur in. Wet and sloppy, they save the pretense of gentle kissing for another time.
Hands pressed to Eames’ shoulders, scratching down his arms to press to his chest. Arthur tries to push Eames off of him, to gain the upper hand or just his breath, but Eames shoves him back against the wall, reattaching their mouths and running his hands all over Arthur’s body. From instinct, or from habit, Arthur’s leg lifts to hook around Eames’ hip, nails digging into his shoulders.
Eames kisses like it’s a competition, and Arthur hates to lose. He runs his hands over Eames’ stubble biting at his lips and maneuvering his face until Eames pulls back with a soft gasp of pain.
“Careful…” Eames puts some distance between his injured cheek and Arthur’s hand, pressing his face to the other and chasing Arthur’s eyes with his own.
Arthur could win medals for avoidance. He kisses Eames once more before he turns the tables and spins them around, pressing Eames to the wall with an arms distance between them.
Stunned, panting with pupils blown wide and lips bruised a delicious red, Eames looks disoriented at the sudden space separating them. Arthur crashes back into him with hungry lips and needy hands, “You’re mine,” slipping past their lips and Eames’ tongue is in Arthur’s mouth before he has a chance to figure out exactly who said it.
They fight for dominance over the kiss, wide mouthed and sloppy, Arthur’s hands tight around his neck and Eames’ knee crushed between Arthur’s legs. Somehow Eames groans an “Arthur,” around a kiss neither can get enough of.
Arthur rides Eames’ leg, hungry for friction and Eames’ fingers burn through the light cotton of his sleep shirt, hungry for every inch of skin he can touch. Eames untangles his tongue from Arthur’s, pulling him close and tries to kiss him closed mouthed and gentle, like an apology neither can articulate. Arthur turns his head away, pressing his fingertips to Eames’ injured cheek just enough to get a hiss of pain.
“I’m angry with you,” Arthur growls, easing up on the pressure, leaning in to bite Eames’ neck hard enough to get another strangled gasp.
“When aren’t you, darling?” Eames trails soft kisses down the side of Arthur’s face despite his warning, tonguing an earlobe.
“When you’re not fucking up.” Arthur pulls away, blood hot under his fingertips but words messing with his head.
“Don’t,” Eames pulls him back, wide palms pressed to the curve of his back, rucking his shirt up and over his head.
“Then do something about it.” Arthur presses against Eames, taking his mouth in another searing kiss.
Eames sweeps Arthur up, Arthur’s legs wrapping around him instinctively as he staggers his way over to the couch, stepping on the discarded ice bag in the process. He throws Arthur on the leather and falls onto him, with just enough time to wonder if it’s a lack of oxygen or his own need that’s making his head spin.
Arthur doesn’t know slow when its like this, all he knows is Eames’ body burning a new topography against his own, rough and demanding everything that Arthur wants to give, everything he wants Eames to steal from him until his chest is hollow and empty. He can’t pay enough attention to getting Eames’ pants off so he pushes them down with blind hands and uncoordinated thighs wriggling around his waist. Eames pulls Arthur’s briefs down just enough to wrap his hand around Arthur’s cock, moaning against Arthur’s mouth like he’s the one being touched.
Shaking, pressing his feet against Eames’ back and catching plump lips between his teeth, Arthur growls, “Eames, fucking-”
Eames shuts him up with his tongue, pressing his hips against Arthur’s backside and smearing his ass with sticky, fumbling to his destination. He stops touching Arthur, trailing a hand up to press his fingers between their lips; Arthur bites his fingers when he does so.
“Just do it.” Arthur demands, turning away from the fingers that return to press against his lips.
Eames gives up and spits into his hand, slipping it between Arthur’s thighs. “Shut up sweetheart and let me bugger you proper.”
He presses his fingers to Arthur’s ass and works him open, savaging his mouth and rubbing the tip of his cock against Arthur in a slick promise of what’s to come. Arthur’s hands are everywhere, pulling, scratching, urging Eames closer until he pulls Eames’ fingers out of him and pushes against that teasing, leaking heat pressed to his ass.
Eames spits into his hand, spreading it over himself in a poor imitation of proper slick and presses the pad of his thumb to Arthur’s hastily stretched hole. Arthur writhes at the contact, cursing Eames and demanding more. He guides himself to press against Arthur’s spit slick entrance and eases in, willing Arthur to stretch to accommodate him.
Arthur cants his hips and pulls Eames in deep, heels digging painfully into his back.
They move together, Eames thrusting into Arthur, fingers roaming over his stomach, down his side and squeezing his ass while his lips devour Arthur’s own. Arthur never lets up, forcing Eames into him with greedy thighs wrapped around his waist, memorizing the wet curve of Eames’ arms all over again and fighting for what little air he can drag into his lungs. When he pulls the forger’s face down to kiss him harder, tasting completion and Eames on his tongue, Eames doesn’t favor his injured cheek, just plunders forward with erratic snaps of his hips.
Arthur comes in messy, wet ribbons that paint his stomach, open mouthed and gasping for air around Eames’ lips. So focused on his own release, he doesn’t realize when Eames finishes until he slips out and collapses onto Arthur, pressing him into the couch with his considerable weight. Arthur’s legs lower, his thighs starting to ache, but remain wrapped around Eames’.
“You want to talk to me now?” Eames pants, mouthing Arthur’s sweaty chest.
Arthur shifts, stalling until he’s caught his breath. “Not really.”
“Mmm,” Eames sucks on his chest while spreading his weight over Arthur more evenly. “If only you didn’t have nearly eleven stone keeping you down.”
Arthur stares at the wall. “Where were you last night?”
“You know where I was.” Eames looks up and Arthur avoids his eyes.
Arthur hates feeling like he needs to beat around the bush, to be gentle with Eames’ feelings when Eames has never asked it of him, so he cuts to the chase. “I know you were on recon for Donaghy. Why is there lipstick on your wrist if you were investigating our male target?”
Eames looks at his wrists, first the left then the right, as if he’s never seen them before. He stares at the faded lipstick mark smeared on the inside of his wrist and turns it toward Arthur, asking rather incredulously, “This?”
He could push Eames off of him if he wanted, avoid this entire scene until it blows over into one of those things they silently agree to not talk about. There are so many between them, they’d hardly notice another.
“Arthur,” Eames rubs a hand down Arthur’s side when he tenses. “Its my job to blend in. You know that…”
Except the way Eames says it sounds more like 'This is what you wanted. This is who we are.' Like an accusation.
This is who they are. Criminals, the upper crust of the mind-heist game, but most of all, they are lethal distractions to each other. They are liabilities, oscillations on an already precariously balanced scale and neither can afford the other.
Arthur knows this because they’ve been here before; this isn’t the first time they’ve gone wrong. He remembers what a broken rib feels like because the mark woke up before they did. He knows how long it takes to wriggle out of a bind, rubbing his wrists raw on the unforgiving industrial rope in the process. They have no room for mistakes, and even though Arthur could see mistake written all over Eames, clear as day, he couldn’t stop himself. He still can’t.
“I can stay in tonight,” Eames offers, fingers brushing against Arthur’s sides.
Arthur feels ‘I don’t care’ on the tip of his tongue but bites it back, wrapping his fingers around Eames’ wrist. Eames takes this as a sign to get comfortable on Arthur’s chest and mumbles, “If you insist,” with more bite to it than Arthur would normally allow if he wasn’t so sure the forger was already halfway asleep.
He rubs his thumb over Eames’ wrist, imagining that it is just an inconsequential sign of affection. Arthur rubs until the lipstick mark is nothing more than a smudge on Eames’ wrist.
~
[June, 1996 // September 2005]
They loved each other once.
Once upon a time when the rush of lust was worth more than the force of their combined wills. Perhaps that was the only reason it worked. Their lust burning too bright to touch; incandescent and intoxicating, like savoring sunspots that stain the vision after staring at the sun for too long. Perhaps it is their will that complicates things.
They fell in love the way missiles fall from the sky, unstoppable in their descent.
It was agonizing, how they needed each other. How they needed in a way they had never known to need before. Impetuous and volatile, Eames had been so in love with Arthur he couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t forge, couldn’t hide, couldn’t do so much as keep his distance from the point man.
It had been a problem they’d overlooked in the wake of their explosive sexual chemistry.
Eames followed Arthur first around the states, mastering the buttons of his waistcoat and memorizing the glint in his eyes, and then around the world, brushing flowers from his sweater vests and savoring the backs of his knees. There was never enough air for the both of them, thin and insubstantial, and Eames swore Arthur didn’t breathe when they touched; still save for the ragged breaths he drew to pull Eames’ name into his mouth, holding it in his chest like it was something more substantial than air.
Regardless of whom Arthur worked with, where he went, what he did, Eames would be there. He followed the point man from job to job, uncaring of what distraction he might pose, because there was nothing as beautiful as the way Arthur lost control.
“Pay attention, Mister Eames.” Arthur snaps, clipped tones like the sharp whip-crack of leather breaking the sound barrier.
Eames spreads his legs, accentuating his disrespectful slouch all the more and raises an eyebrow at Arthur, daring him to do something. Debriefing is always such a bore.
Arthur narrows his eyes, but goes back to explaining.
Of course, Eames was helpless no matter how Arthur lost control.
Always so perfect, in place, put together just right- it was tantalizing to see Arthur the way everyone else saw him and know how the point man could look, how he would look once Eames got his hands on him. He wanted so much more than touch; he wanted to find Arthur’s seams, carefully tucked away where no one else would think to look, and pick them apart stitch by stitch.
He loved to find the little things and flaunt them, the darlings, the touches, the surprises. Arthur would look at him like he couldn’t quite believe he was real; Eames understood the sentiment.
At first it was just needling, pestering, small things to get on the other’s nerves. Eames might have started it but Arthur willingly fueled the fire, blushing through his frown and reprimanding Eames for inappropriate conduct despite being this side of breathless. Arthur didn’t get mad with anyone else, calm and collected in a way that bespoke military training somewhere along the line, and Eames wasn’t content with being just a part of his life. The whites of his knuckles were just as pleasing to Eames as the crow’s feet near his eyes.
In hindsight, they should have expected things to fall apart.
~
[October, 1998]
Eames is no stranger to pain.
Before he was ever into high-class theft like mind-heist, he was into petty theft, trivial crimes that got his fingers broken and his fair share of medic visits. So when he realizes his wrists are burning and sticky wet with what feels suspiciously like blood, he doesn’t panic. Its cold and he can’t remember where he is or how he got there, but his hands hurt like a bitch and if anything, that’s a good sign.
If you can feel them, it means they’re still there.
He’s calm until the dreaming compound wears off and he’s able to focus on more than the dizzying slant of the floor. He remembers where he is. On a job in Scandinavia, in some frozen, shit hole little town he’d never be in if Arthur wasn’t the one wriggling behind him; the panic that twists his stomach then is something painful.
“Arthur.” It’s a stupid thing to say, unnecessary and wasteful of both time and energy- two aspects of their situation which he has no grasp on at the moment, but it’s the first thing that comes out.
“Are you awake?” Arthur grunts and pulls viciously on the ropes, Eames’ arms going taught behind him.
The furious way Arthur wriggles against their bindings makes Eames hiss in pain, he doesn’t need to see his wrists to know they’re bleeding freely. “Miguel fucked us over.” It’s as good an indicator of Eames’ lucidity as any.
“It looks like he sold us out to Aksel. Do you have anything sharp on you?” Arthur asks, the hope in his voice telling Eames his response is going to be inconsequential.
“The knife in my back poc-“ Eames begins, cut off by Arthur’s sigh.
“Gone.” Arthur starts fidgeting again.
Eames wants to tell him to stop moving, its rubbing them both raw, but says instead, “If they didn’t pat me down thoroughly, there should be a top from a bottle of pop on the inside of my belt.”
Arthur slips his fingers between Eames’ trousers and the leather of his belt, feeling for the hidden bottle cap, and Eames can feel the way his entire hand shakes as he searches for it. The small sigh of relief is all the praise Eames gets.
Even with the serrated edges of the bottle cap it takes Arthur another twenty minutes to free them, Eames accidentally knocking the cap out of Arthur’s fingers with his knuckles when he tries to insist that Arthur is shaking too badly to continue.
“No Eames just- fuck! Just let me do this!” Arthur shouts at him, frustration and fear clearly evident.
Eames rests his head on the floor, feeling bad for feeling bad and allows Arthur to finish the job, pretending that he can ignore the muffled hisses of pain from behind him.
They escape through the back, avoiding the front door and Eames is thankful they thought to throw the mark’s mobile out of the car before they arrived at the warehouse. That, and the fact that they never told that bastard chemist Miguel where the location was. The car the four of them drove up in is gone, but there are no other cars which means they still have time to disappear before Aksel comes back with more competent men. They keep the road in sight but stay in the cover of the trees, tracking back to the last town they went through.
“We are never doing this bullshit in a warehouse again. We’re civilized blokes, not bleeding Mafioso-“ Eames has the distinct feeling that he’s talking to himself. He turns around to find Arthur is about twenty feet back, clutching his side and leaning heavily against a tree; Eames backtracks. “Arthur- what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Arthur grits out, temple resting against the tree he’s using for support.
“Darling, now is not the time for this. Let me see-“ Eames reaches for Arthur’s side but the man turns away, keeping out of reach.
“Now isn’t the time Eames.” Arthur scolds, turning Eames’ words back on him. “I’m just light headed is all.”
Eames wants to yell at the other, tell him to just fucking talk to him and maybe they can figure something out together. But he knows Arthur, the tense bunching around his eyes and the whitewashed look on his face- not even the biting cold enough to bring any color to his cheeks. Now really isn’t the time.
He slips Arthur’s other arm around his shoulders, telling him to shut up when he protests, and continues walking. Eames talks about anything that comes to mind, just trying to keep his mind on moving and not how they drove twenty miles out of the nearest insignificant little town to get to this god-awful place.
When they happen upon a little Inn just before dusk, frozen, bleeding, and slightly delirious, Eames swears he’s never been happier to see anything in his entire life. He leaves Arthur resting against the doorframe and the woman at the front desk gives his wrists a worried look when he slaps down a handful of Krones. All Eames can worry about is that they somehow wandered into Germany in their hasty escape and she won’t take their money. She takes the money and says something that could be Danish or Martian, before handing him a key.
The room has all the amenities one would expect of a tiny Danish Inn located roughly between nowhere and nothingness, but its warm and seems to have a sink set awkwardly into the far wall so he counts his blessings and shuffles them both inside.
“I’m told this is the honeymoon suite.” Eames tries for a smile with his bullshit as Arthur pulls out of his grasp, heading for the sink. “Do tell me you like it, pet.”
Arthur busies himself at the sink while Eames locks the door, not that he has a lot of trust in the flimsy deadbolt’s ability to keep anything out.
The bed looks musty and uncomfortable; that Eames wants to collapse onto it and sleep for days says more about Eames’ state than he ever could. He gets his belt undone, wincing at the pain in his wrists, before it occurs to him that he should follow Arthur’s example and clean his wounds as best as he can.
“Darling,” Eames steps up behind Arthur, propping his chin on the point man’s shoulder and peering over into the sink. His stomach flips.
Eames’ wrists hurt like a bitch, chafed and scabbed over in a couple places but they look nothing like Arthur’s. There is not a patch of skin left unmarred, angry red and rubbed completely raw, the entire bowl of the sink is tinged pink from where he’s repeatedly pulled his wrists out of the faucet’s flow.
“Oh, Arthur.” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s dirty shoulder and disappears into the bathroom. Returning with the three flimsy towels he could find, he motions for the other to get up on the counter. “Go on, let me.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, wincing as he returns his wrist to the gentle flow of the water. “I think I’ve got it under control Eames.”
Eames pauses by the sink, caught in the awkward moment of trying to help and getting shot down that is so significant in his… partnership with Arthur. He sets the towels, more like washcloths, down on the sink and turns Arthur by the waist, pushing him back into the counter until the other is forced to sit on it or have his legs crushed by Eames’ thighs.
“Thank you,” Eames grabs the smallest square of towel and wets it, searching for the customary little bar of complementary soap. “No soap?”
Arthur gives him a look that says ‘If there was soap, I’d have used it already.’ Eames silently cedes that his question, given their current location, was a stupid one.
Wet cloth poised above Arthur’s wrists Eames looks up, warning. “Now darling, this may hurt a bit.” Arthur avoids his eyes, the tired set of his mouth speaks volumes of his disappointment, betrayal, and defeat but he lifts his wrists to award Eames better access.
They clean his wrists, Arthur wincing and screwing his eyes shut when Eames scrubs the rope fibers out of his bloodied wrists and Eames wishing all the while that this place at least had a minibar. This would be a lot easier if they were both drunk. Bloody water drips from the now pink-splotched towel onto Arthur’s black slacks, and when Eames maneuvers Arthur’s arm over the sink the point man tentatively rests his head against Eames’ chest. Eames goes about his task.
Two ruined towels later, Arthur’s wrists are cleaned to Eames’ satisfaction and his head is still on Eames’ chest.
“Kitten,” Eames touches Arthur’s cheek, the dirt under his fingernails washed away from scrubbing at Arthur’s wrists. Arthur turns his face and presses a kiss to Eames’ palm, effectively quelling any words the forger might have had.
He shifts away from Eames’ chest and picks up the last clean towel, running it under the sink and sets to work on the forger’s wrists. Eames’ wrists are dirty and scraped but not nearly as bad as Arthur’s, so when the strokes are significantly gentler than Eames’ had been, he assumes this is Arthur’s excuse. He shifts between Arthur’s legs and drops a kiss on Arthur’s head.
Legs wind their way around Eames’, loose and languid, and his eyebrow raise but he steps closer, forever obliging Arthur’s whims. Done with Eames’ wrists, Arthur sets the towel down in the sink, turning Eames’ wrists over to inspect them.
“Thank you, perfect job as usu-“ Eames is silenced by Arthur pressing into him, lips molding seamlessly to his.
Eames pulls back slightly, mumbling, “Your wrists,” before Arthur’s hands pull him back down, biting at his lips and pressing his shoes into the backs of Eames’ legs.
Greater men would be unable to resist Arthur, Eames is sure, so he gives himself over to the kiss, a slow exploration of Arthur’s mouth in the middle of nowhere. Always so hasty, Arthur runs his tongue along Eames’ lips, demanding entrance; Eames is only too happy to comply. His hands press to Arthur’s sides and the point man groans, immediately redirecting Eames’ hand to the bulge in his blood-damp trousers.
They kiss and Eames palms Arthur through his pants, pulling him closer with his other hand until he can rub against Arthur’s warm, spread thighs, heady with the dizzying cocktail of exhaustion and lust.
“Take this off,” Eames groans, licking into Arthur’s mouth and pulling his ruined oxford from his slacks.
Arthur is too quick and has the added advantage of Eames’ already undone belt, slipping his pants down to wrap cold fingers around his meaty erection. Coherent thought leaves Eames as Arthur tugs him, tight and fast and just damp enough to make it enjoyable. Cradling Arthur’s head in one hand, he pushes Arthur’s slacks down with the other, shirt forgotten in his haste to feel Arthur against him, needing Arthur to lose control the way Eames could feel himself losing it.
“Fuck- darling,“ Eames can feel the way Arthur shudders when the words roll around in his mouth before slipping off his tongue, rough in their drawl. “You’re so ready for it, aren’t you? You feel so good in my hand, fuck, I could- this, I could come right here, you’re so warm and- ah, do that again, tighter.”
Slick lips make their way down his neck, pressing against his stubble to taste the dirty, sweat soaked skin beneath. Eames’ hand stutters around Arthur when teeth graze down his throat, leaving marks stinging deliciously in their wake. He can see the arch of Arthur’s neck in the mirror and Eames groans, feeling feverish and too close as he nuzzles Arthur’s face away from his neck, capturing his lips again.
A small part of Eames is still coherent enough to remember Arthur’s wrists and he pushes Arthur’s hand off of him, pulling the other close enough to grab them both.
“L-let me,” Eames collects them both in one hand, palm warm and calloused but perfect if the way Arthur arches into it and whimpers is anything to go by. “Put your hands on me baby, let me get you off- fuck, how hot for it are you? I’m so close, tell me it’s good Arthur.”
Arthur clings to him, a hand on either shoulder, legs wrapped around his waist, pressed flush against his thighs and perched on the edge of the sink while Eames gracelessly tugs them both with one hand. He doesn’t say anything and Eames doesn’t mind so long as he keeps whimpering, gently writhing in his hand, against his hips, fingers digging into his shoulders almost painfully.
“Eames, I- my-“ Arthur breathes, hot against his throat.
Eames comes with a ragged exhale, spilling between his fingers and slicking the warm circle of his hand around their dicks. His grip on the counter is the only thing keeping him upright as he shudders through the aftershocks. Tender and oversensitive, he slips out of his grip and finishes Arthur with a few practiced strokes, hand slippery and warm with his own come.
They pull air into their greedy lungs, Arthur’s lips pressed to Eames’ neck and Eames lost in the reflection of the curve of Arthur’s back. He rubs his fingers together absently, the stickiness between his knuckles bringing a smile to his face before common sense returns with a disapproving look.
“Bollocks.” Eames pulls away, looking down between them; glad to see his fingers covered in the sticky white substance and nothing more. “That could have complicated things…”
Not bothering to zip himself back up Arthur slips off the counter, bumping hips with the forger when he doesn’t give him enough space as he heads for the bed. Eames turns back to wash the spunk from between his fingers when he realizes he’s watching Arthur. It washes off easy enough, slipping down the drain and Eames watches Arthur through the mirror.
From the bed, Arthur looks tired.
“We’ve got slim pickings out there,” Eames’ mind is already on tomorrow, which car will be easiest to hotwire, how far they’ll be able to get before the lady at the front calls the Politiet. “The Audi looks like a good b-“
“This should never have happened.” Arthur’s voice is subdued, muffled against the arm flung across his face.
Eames shuts the water off, flicking his hands to air dry. “You’re telling me.”
“That isn’t what I mean Eames…”
Eames leans his shoulder against the wall, watching the steady rise and fall of the band of Arthur’s briefs against his stomach as he breathes. “I’m sorry? Should I not have helped your randy self out?”
“That’s not-“ Arthur sighs, mouth turning down. “We were tricked by a member of our team because-“
“Miguel isn’t part of our operations.“ Eames interrupts, just the thought of the man making his blood boil.
“That!” Arthur winces when he tries to sit up, face going white as he lies back down. “That is what I’m talking about. This, this thing that we’re doing,” Arthur’s face is turned away from Eames, watching the door. “Its not an operation. It isn’t even- we can’t let this continue to mess up what we do.”
“Arthur?” Eames feels too large, obtrusive in the space Arthur has decided to pin him in. “If you’re trying to say something, the class would appreciate it if you’d just come out with it.”
“We need to focus on our work.” Arthur finally meets Eames’ eyes, his drawn and tired expression rallied in a way that puts any thought of possible spontaneity from Eames’ mind; this isn’t the first time Arthur has thought about this.
“We should get some rest,” Arthur sighs into the uncomfortable silence. “Tomorrow is going to be a bitch.”
Arthur maneuvers himself under the stale covers, too tired to acknowledge that they audibly crinkle when he slips under them. The woman at the front desk had a box of cigarettes next to her elbow and Eames itches for one, the promise of smooth nicotine more appealing than the discomforted pressure slowly easing out of their room like liquid from a popped blister. He flicks the light out and crawls into the bed instead, settling beside Arthur with his hands folded over his stomach.
It feels strange to sleep in his trousers, stranger still to sleep beside Arthur who is still fully clothed.
He stares at the ceiling for a long while, listening to Arthur listen to him breathe, each waiting for the other to fall asleep first. It’s ridiculous, Eames decides, and rolls over to drape his arm across Arthur’s side. Arthur winces and pulls away from him with a pained, “Eames!”
Eames pulls his hand back, shocked by the sound of Arthur’s voice in the dark. “Sorry,” Falls from his mouth, immediate and sincere. “Sorry.”
Eames settles on his back, the roil in his stomach reminiscent of being sick, but he’d rather be sick all over the cheap motel rug than jostle the bed even slightly to get up and find a bin. He’s sure he cannot possibly fall asleep with so much worry and frustration building up in him, words queuing behind his teeth only to be swallowed back down when his name rings through his head in Arthur’s voice.
When Eames wakes up the next morning Arthur is gone. He finds a note by the sink.
Don’t find me Eames. We are professionals, its about time we started acting like them.
Eames doesn’t see Arthur for a month but he keeps an eye on his records, checking up on aliases Arthur doesn’t know he knows about. Arthur still thinks he doesn’t know about the broken rib.
~
[April, 2004]
In the years that follow they will both realize that addiction is too light a word for what they have. They will slip into each other’s lives, destructive and encompassing, slaking a thirst neither could ever completely ignore until they're either drowning in it, or each other.
Arthur will lose control and hate it, rile against it with teeth bared and furious tears in his eyes.
What will hurt is knowing that this isn’t as complicated as it makes him feel. They are just two people who repeatedly give into each other, not special in any sense of the word and Arthur knows this. Knows it the way he knows Eames’ crooked pinky and the small scar under his chin. Knows it like the straight line of Eames’ nose and the smell of tea turning his stomach in the morning.
He knows Eames is bound to explore every surface, and that he is no exception.
In 2003 Eames will ask to stay with him and Arthur will say, “You’ve always got a place with me, whether I like it or not,” thanks to too much alcohol and a sky that seems to go on forever.
How much Arthur needs to fall asleep in Eames’ arms is embarrassing, comforted only when pressed between the sheets and his warm stomach. How he loves the well-tended gardens of Eames’ jaw and upper lips, raspy against his soft, early morning skin. His warmth that fills empty doorways and the way he gets lost when kissing Arthur. Arthur breaks their kisses to get lost in the dazed look in his hazel eyes.
Sometime in 2002 Eames will finally figure out that his forgeries, while impressive, always sport a pair of brilliant brown eyes. They will work better together when Eames stops that.
Eames will realize one can’t truly be a good forger and care for someone else. Eames has two strikes against him. He is The Best, and he doesn’t just care for Arthur.
They will puzzle this out slowly, pulling the information from each other bit by bit. It will take them much longer to figure out what to do with the knowledge once they have it.
~
[November, 1998]
It had been inevitable that their paths would cross again.
Eames was the best, before Arthur derailed him so completely, but he slipped back into that position with a practiced ease. He took jobs indiscriminately, major and minor, just to throw himself back into the game, to prove through the circuit of theft and larceny that would inevitably get back to Arthur, regardless of whether he was looking or not (Eames always hoped that he was) that he could. That contrary to what they might have thought, Eames had chosen to be distracted by Arthur, not blindsided by something entirely uncontrollable.
When Cobb, a friend through Arthur, calls him three weeks after the Askel bust, Eames has only one question. He knows he doesn’t do nonchalant well so he comes right out with it. “Is Arthur your Point for this job?”
“That’s hardly relevant information Eames.” Cobb’s voice is stern; fatherhood is apparently a role that carries into working relationships as well.
“Good to know, I’ll bring something for Mallorie.” Eames promises, hanging up before Cobb can tell him not to.
A week later he gets a package with an address and a ticket to Abbotsford International Airport. Eames is extremely unimpressed with the cold location and lets Dom know this when he meets the extractor at the designated coffee shop rendezvous point. They make small talk about how Cobb doesn’t care what Eames thinks and how there’s a second Cobb on the way and where Eames possibly obtained perfectly formed red roses from in the last few days of November.
He compliments Mallorie (and James, “Good job lad, your old Dad needs a bloke to even things out a little,” placing a hand on Mal’s swollen belly when she introduces them prematurely) and almost convinces everyone present that he isn’t searching for Arthur in the Cobb’s neat little apartment.
“Arthur is in the living room.” Mal says when Dom takes the roses from her, despite her fussing that she can very well handle roses and carry a baby at the same time.
Eames saunters into the room, following the pictures that document the passing of time- a tiny, wispy haired Phillipa in a wooden highchair with spaghetti all over her face, Dominique reading a colorful book to a sleepy, slightly older Phillipa resting in his lap, Mallorie and a toddler Phillipa building sandcastles on the beach. When he comes upon the living room he finds Arthur is seated in the left-most of three lounge chairs pushed to the center of the room, a PASIV device set up on a side table between the right-most chair and a tasteful leather chaise lounger.
He looks at Eames with all the professionalism it’s taken Eames five weeks to piece together. It might explain why the first thing out of his mouth is, “How are your wrists, darling?”
“Going back to Denmark anytime soon Mister Eames?“
“Why, would you like to come with me?” He takes the seat next to him just to piss him off.
Dom takes that moment to follow Mal into the living room, holding a folder that he hands to Eames before sitting on the chaise beside Mal. Arthur goes back to ignoring the room at large while Eames skims the file and Dom outlines the job.
The job is fairly simple, Arthur constructs a posh little apartment which turns out, as Eames finds out later that day, to be the mistress’ chic abode, Cobb focuses on extraction, and Eames has a wonderful blue-eyed bombshell to slip into. They practice the simulation three times a day after Eames comes back with disappointingly little on the mistress. For the most part, Arthur avoids him, but Eames has never been one to wait for things to come to him.
He pesters Arthur relentlessly, slipping between the mistress and several other favorites, some Arthur knows intimately, others Arthur has never seen before- just to see what he’ll do. Arthur always seems to know when it’s Eames.
Mal offers them coffee after a day of dreaming and manages to convince Arthur to dine with them only once, catching him on his way to the door with a request to help her in the kitchen. He’s helpless under her charm. Eames does nothing less than stare at the point man, daring him to make a move, to raise the stakes from across the Cobb’s dinning room table. He excuses himself before dessert and Mal shoves two pieces of too-sweet dessert on Eames' plate; he doesn’t enjoy them at all.
The day before the hit, they’re on their third run through and Eames can tell Arthur has been on edge every time they go under, catching his eyes when they wake up and scowling when they go under. It only entices Eames to pester him all the more.
Eames slips up to Arthur’s side in his little blonde body, letting his smile reach his eyes. “Fancy a drink with a beautiful stranger, darling?”
“Stop dicking around Eames.” Arthur grinds out, knuckles a blotched white.
“Really pet, stop worrying so obviously. It’s hardly any fun when you’re so wound up.” Eames rolls his eyes, lids heavy with mascara. “You’re working with the best, loosen up and have some fun.”
“Do you think this is funny?” Arthur turns on him, livid and looming over Eames’ perfectly forged 5’4” blonde mistress.
Eames looks around, smiling winningly at the irritated projections. The simulation is broken now and Eames feels particularly exposed in Arthur’s subconscious. “I don’t-“
“Do you do this to get at me?” Arthur looks him in the eyes and Eames feels like he’s being looked at, not talked to. “Its not fun anymore Eames, we’re professionals and you need to do your fucking job or step down.”
“Arthur, I hardly think this is appropriate conversation for two professionals to be having at work.” He stresses the word ‘professional’ because he knows it will piss the point man off even more. “And using that language with women present? How very ungentlemanly of you.” Eames bats his very feminine lashes at the other for effect.
It seems to work because Arthur looks on the verge of strangling the forger. “What’s unprofessional is your complete lack of respect for everything we’re working towards. You decide to play these games and change things on a whim- this is why we draw up plans before hand! You cannot go around changing things to get on my-“
“Dom, please,” Eames sighs, turning to cast a pleading look on Cobb just in time to see the other man raise a pistol, glinting off the low light of the lamps Arthur dreamt up, and shoot Arthur in the head. Eames sees Arthur’s knees start to crumple, his body tilting to the right before the crack of another bullet being fired rips through his head.
Eames is suddenly struggling awake, the sedative still heavy in his system with the kick administered too soon. Arthur is beside him, ripping the lead out of his arm and storming off.
“What happened?” Mal asks, watching Arthur storm out of the living room. The front door to their little apartment slams as she turns a concerned look back to Eames. “You have thirty more minutes down there, what happened?“
Eames pulls his lead out, fighting for control of his body when Cobb comes to on his other side.
“Your husband,” Eames gives Cobb a dirty look as he gets to his feet, feeling slightly dizzy but more than able to walk it off. “Decided homicide was better than hearing our dearest Arthur bitch like a hatter at yours truly.” He puts a hand on her shoulder when she tries to attempts to gain her feet, the soft mound of her great pregnant belly demanding otherwise. “Duck, stay seated. We’re done here.”
Shrugging into his jacket Eames heads for the door, beyond annoyed at everything, when Cobb calls him back to the living room. Mal is draped on the couch, elegant even ripe with pregnancy, and has this look about her that makes Eames want to apologize on reflex. Cobb gets up and hands him a manila folder with the name of the mark’s mistress on it. A file Eames has seen eight hundred thousand times this week.
“What is this?” Eames flips it open, rifling through the pages for something new. There is nothing, just the same pictures of the blue-eyed bombshell that he’s been perfecting all week.
Cobb has the ability to sound disappointed in the way Eames’ father never could. Inherent, an ability that Eames is sure Cobb has had even as a young lad. “Just remember what we’re doing here.”
Eames snaps the file closed, annoyed with this cryptic bullshit and wishing Mallorie anywhere but here so he could tell her husband off properly. Instead he turns on his heel with a spiteful “Kind of hard to forget, isn’t it?” and walks out of their cozy little apartment.
When they make the pick up the next day, everything runs smoothly. The mark goes down easily, they get the information, and deposit the man back in his car 45 minutes later, none the wiser.
The mark never notices Eames’ brown eyes but then again, neither does Eames.
[Part ii]