[inception] till death do us part [3/9]
‘Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)
Part III: to have and to hold
[masterpost]
<< [to be my wedded Husband] previous
The one thing that Arthur likes from his fake occupation as an architect, is that he’s the one designing their house. In a sense. In truth, it was actually Dom who designed the house for him. But Arthur’s the one who single-handedly oversaw their move into the house six months after their wedding (they spent the first two months of their honeymoon period in Eames’ family manor upon Eames’ mother’s insistence, and the next four months in Arthur’s apartment in New York), and Eames would never question any of his decision about their house at all.
Arthur has free reign over every corner of the house. Except for the kitchen and Eames’ study. They each have their own studies in the house. Eames’-located on the first floor-is full of art pieces, oil paints, canvases, and occasional marble statue. Arthur’s-located on the second floor-is full of books, models of buildings or houses he’s ‘working on’, and it is where he works on his design, or to be exact, where he feigns to be working on his design.
The study is actually where Arthur keeps most of his artillery and other things he needs for his work, as an assassin for the Organisation, a company that sometimes works together with the C.I.A., specialising in disposing people who better off dead than alive. Sometimes, there are some innocents who slip in because they do have to work with every other kind of people from both side of the law. The Organisation never takes ‘no’ as an answer for the mission it gives to its finest assassins and after the first five or ten or fifty, Arthur never bothers to check his-or the Organisation’s-morality anymore. He’s killed people for a living for almost seven years now and morality isn’t something that he needs to worry about.
Sometimes though, Arthur does wonder how Eames will react if the fact that he married an assassin comes into open. Not that Arthur will ever let it happen. As much as leading this double life tires him inside out, and as miserable as it is living a marriage full of lies and secrets on his part, he would never risk ending their marriage that fast. Even without letting the secret that he’s a high profile assassin out in the open, his relationship with Eames is already too vulnerable as it is and would probably end in a divorce sooner or later.
But what he has with Eames, what they have (or had? Arthur doesn’t know) is the only thing that keeps him sane, binds him to the reality of the world, and helps him taking a firm grip on who he really is because after being in the business for seven years, one can never be too sure. Even though their interactions only consist of cold exchanges nowadays (he could not recall when all of this had started), it is enough for him.
Arthur closes his eyes and stops thinking about it. It is not the time to wallow in self-pity or think about Eames. He has a job to do, people to kill.
He secures two NAA Mini revolvers to each of his two ankle holsters, remembers to slip some extra magazines into his pants pocket, and keeps one SIG Sauer P229 in the black small briefcase he has to carry, as his undercover for the night is a businessman seeking for a business deal with the mark-an infamous mob leader who sells drug like candies and the head of a major child trafficking syndicate. After making sure everything is concealed, Arthur returns to the master bedroom and takes his black overcoat from the walk-in closet.
“You’re going somewhere?”
Arthur jumps at the sudden question coming from Eames, who’s standing in front of the dressing table, his back facing the walk in closet but his eyes are looking at Arthur over the mirror. In his haste to retrieve his coat, Arthur didn’t realise Eames is also in the room and he is, for once, wearing a plain beige sweater over a plain black shirt. Even though the colour combination is a bit off, it is certainly better to look at than the paisley patterned shirts.
“Oh, it’s you,” Arthur says, trying to sound calm even though his heart is beating quite frantically. No guns in plain sight and he really doesn’t have to worry about Eames noticing the lines of his pressed pants are a little bit off around the ankles. “Yes. I forgot that I left some important files in the office.”
The lie flows out of his mouth without any preamble and Arthur’s movement stops for a few seconds. Lying to Eames about anything and everything seems to have become a second nature to him. And perhaps, it is one of the reasons why their relationship has turned sour as of lately.
Arthur turns back to fastened the coat’s buttons and bends down to tie the shoelaces. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Eames is pulling out the dressing table’s drawer.
“You have to go now? There’s dinner at Mal’s house at eight, remember?”
Of course Arthur remembers, they visit the Cobbs for dinner on the third weekend of every month. It’s in two hours and Arthur’s sure he can finish the job in less.
“I know. I need the files for Monday. I’ll go get them and be back in time for us to go.” Arthur takes the briefcase and steps out of the closet, and goes to the door before Eames could ask anything further. “I’ll see you later,” he adds before shutting the bedroom door.
--
Eames checks his watch as soon as Arthur closes the bedroom door. It is fifteen past six and if his calculation is right, Arthur will be back in one and a half hours, that’s if he really is only going to take the files from the office and doesn’t take any detours. Arthur is always punctual and he will never risk coming in late to a dinner with the Cobbs. He loves that family to death.
Either way, Eames doesn’t have that much time. He received the call from Yusuf who informed him about the sudden job when he was mowing the grass in front of their house (he had resisted the urge to trim Arthur’s pots of gloxinia). The client wants the target to be dead before midnight and the dinner at the Cobbs is at eight. Eames clucks his tongue thinking about how messy the job will be because of the time constraint.
After making sure Arthur has left the house, Eames goes to the kitchen. The kitchen is Eames’ main territory. Everyone knows Arthur couldn’t cook anything to save his (and Eames’) life. The only thing Arthur can do in the kitchen without setting the fire alarm off is make coffee and boil hot water for Eames’ morning tea.
There’s no downside to this little spot of imperfection actually. Even as he was raised a pampered English boy in a manor full of butlers and maids, Eames spent the last fifteen years fending for himself, cooking is almost like a third nature to Eames and the second being killing people for a living. So he really has no problem being the lord of the kitchen in their house. Arthur, on the other hand, had Mal to feed him, and practically lived off takeouts during the first couple of weeks he and Eames spent holed in Arthur’s apartment.
It was two weeks after the fateful encounter in Mombasa, they had returned stateside and Eames wasted no time in getting to know Arthur better-he even asked for some weeks off from his boss-and he began by infiltrating Arthur’s flat. Suffice to say, it was two weeks full of mind-blowing amazing sex. And in those two weeks, Eames lived off takeouts. He was flabbergasted when he couldn’t find anything edible in Arthur’s kitchen after he got sick of eating noodles and rice and curries for every meal. He had forced Arthur to do some groceries shopping with him, pulled off some magic using the sad excuse of Arthur’s kitchen, and produced what Arthur told him was the best four course meal he had ever had in his entire life. The four course meal had earned him Arthur’s huge smile complete with the adorable dimples, and a night of the most amazing and acrobatic sex in his life.
After the second round, Arthur had idly said to him as he licked off the mess on Eames’ chest, ‘I wouldn’t mind having you cook for me if I get to eat those heavenly cuisine for eternity’, and Eames thought he had been thoroughly whipped. Or falling in love. Or both.
(Two weeks later, he proposed to Arthur. A week later, he had a row with his father right before he and Arthur signed the paper. It was catastrophic.)
Arthur can’t cook. Period. That gives him no reason to touch the kitchen-Eames forbids him to touch anything other than the coffee maker and the kettle-and thus, the kitchen also serves as Eames’ secret armoury. Every cabinet has hidden compartments or hidden spaces in them.
He opens one of the lower cabinets where he keeps some of his unused tea sets. He carefully moves the porcelain cups to the side-ignoring one of the tea pots that has Arthur’s note written with permanent marker on it (‘For your tea addiction, Love, A’)-and opens the lid, revealing two Browning Buckmark Camper pistols and two suppressors hidden underneath the cabinet. He takes both pistols, screws the suppressors on and secures them on the holsters resting on his hips.
The pistols are comfortable weight against his hips, a familiar feeling for him. They are two among his oldest possessions, having accompanied him through the years, for nearly as long as the time he’s being an assassin.
He smirks slightly as he thinks about his current, and by far, most successful, occupation. He never dreamed to be a professional hit man, yet there he is now, carrying a gun to shoot some poor bastard while taking in mind to come home just in time for family dinner. His father had expected-and raised-him to be his successor after all.
It’s so… bizarre in a sense. He has been an assassin for nine, nearly ten years (and his boss has half jokingly told him that he would surely get some plaque done for him on his decennial anniversary-that is if he’s still alive by then) and the last five of them he has spent with Arthur. The dual life he has led might seem really rough, but he would not, could not have it any other way. He could not just leave his job as a top assassin. And he could not leave Arthur. Just no. It is unimaginable.
His life is really screwed up. He often thinks that he should have a special episode in Oprah to talk about his nonstandard life and career choice. But, of course, he doesn’t want to blow his cover so going to Oprah is merely an unattainable dream for now.
But, he thinks, if he manages to do this job and the next properly, the commission that he gets would help him make one of his dreams-in the form of one fabulous Corvette Stingray-a reality. He consults his watch for the last time, taking note of how much time he has, and makes his way out of his house.
Tightening his coat around him, he walks to his car. He smirks. It’s time to face the music.
It starts like this:
--
Arthur arrives at the penthouse where his mark currently resides in and tells the two burly bodyguards on the door he comes for a business deal with the boss. Those two burly guys begin a thorough search for hidden weapons but, of course, being an assassin himself, Arthur has done a yet more thorough job at hiding his guns. The guards don’t even realise the SIG Sauer hidden beneath all the papers inside his bag when they tell him to open it.
It really helps that those burly-bodyguard-type always have more muscle than brain. That fact enables him to saunter into the penthouse with all his weapons still perfectly hidden and at the ready. Arthur can’t help but mourn over the incompetence of the people his target hires for bodyguards as he walks past them. It will indeed be the downfall of his target, Arthur thinks.
But Arthur’s not there to sympathise. He’s there to kill.
Arthur steps in confidently, chin held up high and doesn’t exude any nervousness at all. The very first thing he does as he enters the room is to let his eyes roam, taking in all the possible escape routes. He frowns when he realises that he might be forced to escape through the balcony, but his contemplation does not last long because at that moment, the door to the bathroom opens and his target walks out of it.
Arthur does not have the habit of observing his target much. He has done enough observation with all the data he has gotten before going for the kill. He merely let himself aware of their features to help him recognising them, and that is it. This time is also no exception.
He gives his target a small smile, nothing much, only a tug of his lips, but it’s enough to make his dimples appear.
“Good evening, Mr. Durousseau,” he says amiably to his target. Or as amiably as his position needs.
His target gives him a mild puzzled look. “I don’t remember that I have an appointment with…”
Then suddenly all hint of puzzlement clears out from his target’s face. Instead, there is a small smirk growing as he walks closer to approach Arthur.
“I see,” his target says with a heavily accented drawl, his eyes roving over Arthur’s body and Arthur feels like he’s being eye-raped. “That clever devil. He sent you here, didn’t he?”
Arthur has a brief moment of panic as he wonders if perhaps his mission had been compromised. It is enough to make him drop his guard until a moment later he finds a pair of lips already pressed to his. It is at that moment that his brain gave a mental equivalent of a horrified shriek.
“Now, from which agency are you?” his target whispers against his lips. “Oh, God, you taste good.”
Arthur personally thinks that it is terribly impolite to ask question without waiting for an answer. It is also terribly impolite to kiss random people. It is extremely impolite to mistake him for a fucking whore… of all things.
And the guy isn’t even a good kisser. Damn, Eames is much better than him, Arthur thinks as tries to keep the twitch on his right eye invisible. But of course Eames is better than this douchebag; Eames is better than anyone.
When the guy starts grasping his arse through the material of his tailored pants, Arthur has to roll his eyes and think that this is too easy. Easy and maybe he should tell his boss to take extra charge from the client because of the sexual harassment he has to endure while doing the job.
--
Eames takes a few swigs on his pint of beer and cringes. Nothing could ever beat European beer and Eames figures the Americans never really learnt how to make it properly, just like how they never learnt how to brew proper tea. How he misses the barrels of beer his father keeps in the underground cellar of their manor.
He sways a little bit when he steps down off his stool. Dodging a few people on his way to the back of the bar, he slides through the door marked ‘Employees Only’.
Inside the semi-darkened room, he finds several people sitting around a small table, a couple of long sofas, and a small television broadcasting a re-run of a football match. From the look of it, he can gather several things: one, they are playing poker; two, they are all bulky men; and three, they all look morons whose brain could stand side by side with a peanut and the peanut would have the sense of pride for simply being bigger.
They all turn toward him and Eames gives them a big grin. He shuffles to the room, making sure to bump into some stray chairs on his way and look far too drunk to even remember his own name. He’s a great actor. Really great, if he’s the one to judge.
“What the fuck,” one of the men says as he stands up.
“Hey, man, get outta here!” another one shouts. “This is no place for yer.”
Eames merely grins and slings his arm across one of the men. He checks the man’s face and, nope, not his target. He chuckles and lets the man have a whiff of alcohol from his breath.
“Oh, shit. Fuck! This guy’s drunk!” the man says as he shoves Eames to one of his friends.
“I kin see that for meself, Marty,” his friend says, bracing Eames upright and slapping his face roughly. “Hey, Mister! You hear me? Hey!”
Eames scrunches up his face. Nope. Not his target. Now where in the hell is his dear beloved target anyway? He has a damned dinner date to attend soon.
He points his forefinger to the man who was holding him and says. “Ryder.”
“You searchin’ for Ryder, man?” the man says and Eames giggles. He puts his chin on the man’s shoulder as his gaze travels across the room. Five people. Five burly people. He could take care of them all-snap their necks and drill some bullets into them. He giggles some more. That sounds like a plan.
Fuck. He’s supposed to be pretending to be drunk, not to get actually drunk.
He needs to find this Ryder guy-his target-soon. Arthur would surely kill him if he makes them late for their dinner invitation. Not to mention how he would not-really-kill-but-maim-him-real-bad if he catches the alcohol from his breath. Fuck it, where is this…
Ah-ha.
Eames’s gaze zeroes on one of the guy standing a bit apart from the rest of the others. His face is partially concealed in the shadows but Eames could easily discern his feature to know that he has landed gaze on someone-who-shall-be-dead-in-minutes.
Well, Mister Ryder, he thinks, nice to meet you.
--
And it goes like this:
--
Arthur falls backwards to the bed. The guy has pushed him after slowly pulling off his coat and suit jacket while sniffing over his features like a fucking dog. Arthur never really likes to act, but after years of acting like a normal husband with Eames, one with a normal job, he thinks he could just play along and let his target crawling over him.
His target starts to breathe in Arthur’s neck and kissing his jaw. Arthur clenches his fists on the bed sheet and tries so, so hard to not punch the bastard… yet.
His thoughts swirl back to Eames and suddenly he feels his heart tugging a little. Because dear God in heaven and devil in hell, this bastard just doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing and Arthur misses the times Eames does things with his lips. It has been too long since he last felt Eames’ lips roaming on everywhere on his body, Arthur mourns mentally.
Arthur unclenches his right fist and slowly reaches down to his bent right leg. His target is lapping his neck sloppily and Arthur slowly pulls up his pants leg, slips free one of the mini revolvers he has brought from his ankle holster. When he feels a hand starts to cup his crotch, Arthur groans and quickly flips his target over, straddles him, grabs a pillow with his left hand and shoves it onto his face, and shoots.
He shoots one more time to where he’s sure his target’s forehead is.
Fortunately, the pillow has muffled the gunshot sound, or so Arthur thinks because the bodyguards still don’t storm in after the two gunshots. After making sure the two bullets planted on his target’s head have indeed killed him, Arthur quickly gets off the bed and takes his coat and suit jacket. He cringes as he wipes the saliva on his neck and lips with a handkerchief he keeps in his bag. Then he takes a glance at his watch and cringes some more. He needs to get out fast if he doesn’t want to be late for dinner at Mal’s.
With that thought, he begins weighing his choices; front door or the balcony?
Going out from the front door might be a bit problematic-it would mean seeing those bodyguards again and they could stop him or at the very least remember his face.
Balcony it is, then. Good thing that the room is only on the fifth floor, Arthur thinks as he starts to pull up the window and jump up onto the ledge. Going down via the pipe of rain gutter is perhaps not the most dignified thing to do. It definitely will ruin his clothes, not that it’s not already ruined-Arthur has put up burning the clothes his main priority after he gets home, he feels so dirty after his target touched him all over. Ruined clothes aside, it is efficient enough. Once his feet touches the ground, he dusts off his suit and congratulates himself for a job well done as he walks searching for a taxi to go back to his office building, get his car and drive back home.
Arthur allows himself a small smirk as he imagines how chaotic it would be the moment they find Mr. Slobbery-Kiss dead on his bed.
--
Eames gives the five burly men a huge drunken grin. He just needs to get close enough to his target (who is looking like he’s going to doze off any minute now what with the way he keeps on nodding and jerking his head, yawning) without rousing any unneeded attention, and finish his job quickly. With the extra four persons in this room though, it’s very likely he’ll have to have Yusuf adds extra four names for this week’s hit report.
“Indeed I am looking for Ryder,” he says. He stumbles away from the man holding him and staggers towards Ryder. “Ryder?”
Ryder jerks up and scowls at Eames. “What’s your business?”
Eames squints, still acting like he’s drunk, and gives Ryder a look over. For someone who’s supposed to be the number one leader of an underground movement of some sorts-the client has been secretive as to why he wants Ryder dead, and The Company is never one to question their clients, Ryder looks like some punk kid who just wanted to prove himself better than everyone.
Eames is never one to back off from a hit because his target is just an attention whore though. A job is still a job. And the more time Ryder spends alive, the higher the chances Eames will be going home late and then strangled to death by his own curtain, courtesy of his dearest Arthur.
He approaches Ryder. “Ah! There you are!” he laughs again as he positions himself by Ryder’s side, against the wall and putting an arm around his target’s shoulder, and patting Ryder’s cheek with the other. He glances at Ryder’s friends, they’ve gone back to their poker game.
“You see, mate, I was just wondering…” He traces Ryder’s jawline, his other hand creeping up to the back of his neck. And then with a twist of both hands, Ryder slumps down-dead, the crack of his neck was muffled by the sound of the TV-and Eames catches his limp body, while dramatically exclaiming, “Oh my! The gentleman has fallen asleep!”
Ryder’s four other friends seem to be buying that and just continue with their poker game after they see Eames carefully puts Ryder on one of the sofas near the TV. Eames pats Ryder’s cheek, grinning, and quickly walks towards the exit. “Well, since our dear mate here is asleep now, I think I’ll just call it a night and talk to him some other day,” he says as he pats one of them on the shoulder. “G’night, lads!”
He counts from one (he hears the sound of chair scrapping on the wooden floor), crosses both his hands and slips them inside his coat (one of Ryder friend’s tries to wake him), clicking his beloved Campers’ safety off (“Ryder! Ryder, wake up, man!” “Shit! He’s not breathing!”), and stops counting when he reaches the exit. He pushes the door closed, locks it, and turns back to the room again.
Ryder’s four friends are looking at Eames, realising what he has done, and he gives them a smirk and a wink before pulling out his two suppressed pistols.
“What the-“
Before Marty can finish his sentence, Eames fires eight shots. It’s over in five seconds flat and four bodies are now lying sprawled on the dusty wooden floor, two bullets planted in each of their heads.
Eames puts his pistols back to their holsters with their safety on. He dusts off his coat’s sleeves and as he stares down at the bodies again, frowning, and then fishes out his phone, sending a quick text to Yusuf about the four extra bodies. After he sends the text, he looks at the numbers on the screen and curses. He only has less than twenty minutes until eight and the journey back home from this part of New York will at least take him fifteen minutes.
Well, Eames thinks, that just means he should use a shortcut and breaks some speed. It’s better than having Arthur breaking his neck, he supposes.
Before closing the door, Eames looks inside again and gives the five dead bodies a salute. “Night, lads!”
--
And it ends like this:
--
Arthur hears the sound of the bedroom door opening while he is in the shower. He didn’t see Eames when he got back so he must have just came back from wherever he had gone too, Arthur thinks as he soaps up his body, trying to clean up as best as he could. He could still smell the gun powder; feel it thick on his fingers even though he knows it is ridiculous. He’s used to the smell of course, along with the smell of blood, of burnt flesh, and perhaps even the smell of death in. But tonight Arthur feels he just need to wash that off; the scent, the feeling… the imprint of hands and lips and breath. He still grimaces at the thought of what his latest target had done to his body. It feels so disgusting-the taste of that man in his mouth and his skin.
“Arthur?” he hears Eames’ voice calling him.
“In the shower!” he calls back. And a moment after that he sees Eames coming to the bathroom to join him.
They never lock bathroom door ever since they got married. Arthur doesn’t see the point, neither does Eames. You married a guy, surely you will see him naked. And in the past, it was common occurrence for Eames to slip up behind him when he got his morning shower, kissing his neck and helping him clean up before he proceeded to make Arthur dirty again by fucking him against the tiled wall.
But, of course, that was in the past.
The present Eames, the one who has just entered the bathroom this time, doesn’t move to join him in the shower stall. He merely stands outside the glass partition wall. His silhouette is dimly visible to Arthur through the fogged glass.
Somehow, that simple fact makes Arthur gloomy.
He turns off the shower and reaches for his towel, wrapping it around his waist. He is not really comfortable with the idea of coming out naked under Eames’ gaze. And isn’t that pathetic? But Arthur can’t help shutting himself out and being defensive. He knows the tension between him and Eames has been thickened by Arthur’s own stubbornness to not make it easier for the both of them. He just doesn’t want to be the one admitting defeat… but Arthur doesn’t even know what he-they are both fighting over.
Eames is staring at Arthur intently when he exits the shower stall. He is standing propped against the bathroom wall, his arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression fixed on his face.
“I didn’t see you downstairs,” Arthur says, as he passes Eames to the washing basin area, towelling his hair using one of the clean towels stacked on the marble surface. “You were out somewhere?”
“Downtown. Getting some drinks at the pub to prepare myself for whatever it is Mal’s going to shove down my throat this time,” Eames says nonchalantly, his eyes are locked with Arthur in the mirror. “We only have ten minutes if we want to get to the dinner on time by the way.”
Arthur keeps himself from gritting his teeth and wipes his face using the towel to hide his sour expression. He knows Eames never likes how Mal keeps on pestering and hovering on their marriage, Arthur doesn’t really like it too. But it is one thing to dislike it, it is another thing to be outright displeased about it when Eames knows exactly how much Arthur cares for Mal and her family.
“I know,” Arthur says, stepping out of the bathroom and goes to the walk in closet. He takes a good care to step on the heaps of clothes he wore during his job earlier (he had immediately shed them off and practically ran to the bathroom), but it still doesn’t quell the feeling of disgust. He really needs to burn them-thirteen hundred dollars Burberry suit be damned.
He can feel Eames hovering behind him as he searches through his clothes, looking for something light to wear. Yet Arthur is still surprised when he feels a pair of hands landing on his bare shoulders.
“What the… you startled me,” he says sharply, turning his face to meet Eames’ concerned gaze. He eyes the large hand on his shoulder and thinks he smells a faint scent of gunpowder. But he takes it just as a fragment of his imagination, or maybe it’s just the smell of gunpowder on his body that he knows has permanently stuck, what with the rate of him firing his guns every week.
“Are you okay?” Eames asks, his voice sounds painfully sincere. He begins to gently massaging Arthur’s shoulders. “You’re so tense and jumpy… more than usual kind of tense and jumpy, I must add. Did you get your files? Something happened at your office? Your job?”
At the mention of his job, Arthur could feel his body tensing up. He is reminded again of his now dead target, of his hands roaming over his body, of his disgusting lips slobbering on his neck. But then Eames’ hands rub his shoulders soothingly and working their way up and down, Arthur let himself relax.
It is not his habit to get so worked up over a case, a successful one no less. Perhaps he’s just too tired lately, more tired than he initially imagined.
“I’m okay,” Arthur says. “It’s just… it’s not the most enjoyable work. I guess I’m just tired.”
“As long as you’re all right,” Eames says before Arthur feels a soft kiss lands on his shoulder and another one on his cheek close to his lips. “Get dressed. I’ll start the car.”
Arthur nods and Eames gives one last squeeze before he releases Arthur’s shoulders. A few minutes later, Arthur hears the sound of their car (one of their cars, and by the sound of the engine, it is Arthur’s) starting up. He is standing there, in front of his open closet with half buttoned shirt and pants, and in the process of tugging a worn out but comfortable sweater his mother-in-law had sent him for Christmas two years ago over his head, the only thing Arthur can think of is the simple peck Eames gave him the moment before he dashed off.
It was soft, and chaste, and gentle. And Arthur wonders why did Eames not proceed further? Why stop at mere peck like that? Why did he not grab Eames’ hand and slam him to the wall, kissing him and perhaps even taking him to bed so they could come late to Mal’s diner invitation looking thoroughly fucked with matching sated grins on their faces? They used to do that. Millennia ago, Arthur adds bitterly.
Why have things changed so much between them?
--
Eames listens to the engine whirring as he waits for Arthur to come out. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and hums a random song that’s just coming into his mind. The night is cold and the car’s heater isn’t doing much to give him the necessary heat. He rummages through the glove compartment to find the leather gloves he keeps there. As he slips the gloves on, he feels the grittinotices the faint traces of gunpowder on the back of his palms and some on his coat’s sleeves. Clicking his tongue, he rubs the gunpowder off with some tissues and hopes it doesn’t leave any residual smell.
Then he remembers how he’d massaged Arthur’s shoulder and how close his face was to his hands. He really hopes Arthur didn’t notice. It wouldn’t do to have Arthur sniffing around him and asking why there’s gunpowder smell on his hands. But… well, it’s not like Arthur could even recognise how gunpowder smells like, right?
He leans back in the seat and continued waiting. The job today went smoothly and even though there are additional bodies to be cleared up, it’s nothing Yusuf can’t handle. What bugs him is how stiff and tense Arthur was. Even though Arthur’s always been jumpy and tense around him the past months, today he’s been even more distant and unresponsive.
Eames can still feel the phantom coldness of Arthur’s skin under his hands, and how stiff the muscle had been. And of course how startled Arthur was when he kissed his shoulder and the corner of his lips lightly. Eames… doesn’t really know why he’d given in to his urge to kiss Arthur, and yet managed to be an arse and not go all the way. On one hand, he’s not supposed to do anything drastic during this ‘cold phase’ of their relationship. On another hand, he just remembered how Miles had advised him to be more honest with Arthur. Well, if he couldn’t be honest about his real job to Arthur, he could be more honest with his feelings, right?
Except… Arthur doesn’t seem to approve of his small display of affection in their closet. If the scowl that he sports as he strolls out of the kitchen door and towards the garage is any indication.
Eames has to hold his breath of a few seconds as he watches Arthur. Arthur’s wearing the jumper Eames’ mother sent him a couple of Christmases ago, under a beige coat and his hair is not slicked back to its usual perfection. It’s still damp from the shower and Eames has this strong urge to card his fingers into the curls and maybe drag him back into the house, up to their room and have a good shag.
He tries to drive that particular thought away as Arthur probably will not take it well. They have a dinner with the Cobbs after all. He still doesn’t know when exactly the sex stopped-and well, it’s not like he didn’t have a hand to play in the lack of sex (killing people can be a very tiresome work), but he’s sure it will still remain non-existent as long as they haven’t dealt with their problem. Whatever the problem is.
“You look great,” he says instead. Eames bites his lower lip and looks away as soon as the words come out.
Arthur stops tugging on his coat that’s stuck on the door and looks at him weirdly. He blinks a couple of times and he looks like he wants to say something but then he closes his mouth with a click. “Thanks,” he murmurs, turning his attention back into tugging at his coat. “Goddamnit,” he curses at the door.
The scowl and the little pout of his lips make him looks like a petulant child. A petulant adorable child. And Eames thinks it’s better if he stops thinking altogether because the thought of his own husband as a child is just so disturbing. Particularly because right after he thinks Arthur looks like a petulant adorable child, he thinks about how much he wants to grab Arthur’s coat and kiss him senseless and maybe repeat the experience of having car sex that they’ve had a couple of times… back when they were still a happy, insatiable couple.
A cough. Eames leans closer to Arthur, opens the door and takes the troublesome coat in. “There you go,” he says, patting Arthur’s thigh. And then he quickly removes his hand and places it back on the steering wheel.
He clears his throat, “Ready?” he asks.
“Sure.” Arthur’s eyes are fixed on the road in front of them, looking at everything but him.
Arthur tightens his coat as they walk along the path to the Cobbs’ home. It’s cold outside and even with the layers of clothing he wears, Arthur still feels his skin tingle. He’s sure his skin tingles from the cold and not from the heat emanating from Eames’ body when he leant closer to him and helped him with the stupid stuck tailcoat of his. He scowls and stamps down on that particular idea.
There’s exactly a foot of distance between him and Eames and even as they walk side by side, it seems as though the silence that hangs between them since they left keeps on pushing them apart. It’s only when they both stand in front of the door, and Arthur has knocked, that he and Eames look at each other and-as if there is still some sort of understanding left amongst the remains of their crumbling relationship-Arthur takes one step closer to Eames, just as the door is opened. He doesn’t flinch when Eames’ hand finds its way to his lower back. Instead, he smiles widely at Mal.
“Sorry we’re a bit late, Mal,” he says as his greeting, smiling politely at her as if there is nothing wrong. His job as an assassin surely helped polishing his acting skills.
“We’re late because Arthur took such a long time dolling himself up,” Eames says, his other hand patting Arthur’s rosy cheek (it is cold). Arthur’s eyebrow twitches and Mal chuckles. “By the way, you look lovely as usual,” he adds again, taking time to give Mal a peck on her cheek.
“Why, thank you so very much for the compliment, Eames.” Mal takes their coats and ushers them in. “Come on in, you lovebirds,” she says sweetly and Arthur nearly flinches at that word being used to describe the two of them. He can’t really see Eames’ face but the faint tensing of his arm let Arthur know that Eames feels the same .
The way they act around each other when no one can see them is far from the term lovebirds. Maybe it was, back in the first three years of their marriage. Even though they haven’t really had any big fights over the course of five years, the tense atmosphere around them right now is enough to be classified as ‘cold war’. That, in itself is worse than any heated argument. Arthur prefers having a heated argument instead of thick, boring silence, but he has too many secrets he needs to keep and he can’t trust himself to not spill all of them in the heat of the moment.
They never really verbally agreed on putting up a show in front of everyone and telling them there’s nothing wrong in their marriage (even though the rate of Arthur coming to Mal to rant about Eames is quite high these days). It’s just more convenient that way. And at least that means he and Eames can still share the same feeling toward ‘certain things’. But when he thinks that said ‘certain things’ is the fact that they feel the need to put up an act of being happy together but then get uncomfortable being referred to as ‘lovebirds’-when they are anything but-that does not sound really good.
When they both enter the dining room, he sees Dom holding baby James as he tries to get Phillipa to stay in her seat and not fidget. Phillipa jumps off her seat as soon as she sees Arthur and Eames and runs towards them. Arthur extricates himself from Eames to greet her. He has even already opened his arms for the little girl’s hug. What Arthur doesn’t expect is for Phillipa to practically scream in delight and launches herself to Eames instead, with an, “Uncle E!”
He watches Eames laughing as he bends his knees to scoop Phillipa into his arms. Eames has always been good with children and children always love him, Arthur knows that very well. He would make a great father, Arthur muses before he realises what he’s thinking and his expression subsequently turns grim. He turns his gaze from the sight of Phillipa recounting her day to the smiling Eames and comes face to face with Dom, baby James in his arms. He feels his lips twitch automatically to form a smile. It is a natural response.
“Hey,” Dom greets him. “Want to hold this one?”
Arthur feels the smile freezes on his face. He blinks and then stares at the little baby in Dom’s hands, then turns his gaze back to Dom’s face, trying to determine if his friend was joking. He starts to get really nervous when he realises Dom wasn’t joking.
“Oh, no. No,” he says and releases a nervous chuckle. “I’m not good with babies.”
“Oh, please, hold him for a sec while I go help Mal get the food,” Dom insists, holding James out for Arthur. “He won’t bite you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Arthur can’t do anything but accept the eight month old baby into his arms. He looks down and finds James is looking at him as if he’s the most interesting thing in the world. Arthur has only ever seen James this close once, immediately after he was born and Mal insisted that he hold his new godson. He never realised that James has the same bright blue eyes and corn silk hair as his father.
They are looking at each other intently. And then suddenly, James starts to giggle. And, well, he might be not that keen with children but when a sweet little baby is laughing in his arms, he can’t help but to smile back.
It is just his luck that at that precise moment, Mal is walking in on them and sees the scene perfectly.
“Well, why don’t you look at that,” she says, smiling in that self-satisfied way of hers. “Aren’t you two lovely.”
Her words draw Eames’ gaze and Arthur then finds himself under it too. He know how it looks like to Mal, the picturesque view of him and Eames holding children in their arms, the very picture of a normal, happy and domestic couple. Something Arthur knows they will never be as long as he still keeps everything to himself, and their life together is still as boring and fake as ever. He tenses a bit and baby James, as if sensing his discomfort, begins fussing in his arms.
Not wanting the baby to cry, Arthur gently rocks James and tries to soothe him. He smiles at him, he even chuckles when baby James blinks his eyes at him. And when he feels Eames’ breath on the side of his neck, it is only his years of training that prevents him from jumping in fright.
“Awww, he likes you, Arthur,” Eames coos. He himself has Phillipa hanging on his neck. The little girl seems to not want to let her ‘Uncle E’ go (how Phillipa came to that nickname, Arthur never knows), and is patting Eames’ cheeks to get his attention back.
“And Phillipa seems quite taken with you,” Arthur counters.
“No one can resists my charm, darling.” Eames even winks at him.
Arthur is surprised at the playful snort he gives Eames afterward. It feels almost normal, them bantering playfully like that. Of course, normal, if they were to ignore the baby and the little girl in their arms.
“You both are quite good with kids, you know,” Mal says, still smiling meaningfully. “More than you like to admit, I must say.”
“Yeah,” Dom nods. “Never thought of having one of your own?”
Arthur can see Eames’ expression changes. He can feel the sudden coldness in his heart. Having children, he thinks, Eames and him? How could they think of having children when he can’t even be honest with Eames? How could he think of raising children when he knows he could die on some fucked up job one day?
“No,” he says simply. “No, it’s not… our thing.”
“Besides, the last time I heard, men still can’t conceive children on their own, Dom,” Eames says.
Arthur knows it’s just Eames’ way to lighten the suddenly tense air, but he still wants to bang his head, or more preferably Eames’ head on the dining table.
“Haven’t you heard of surrogacy? Adoption, perhaps?” Mal suggests. “You both could really do with a child’s laughter in your life.”
“No, really, Mal, it’s…” Arthur pauses and lets out a tired sigh. “It’s too dangerous.”
Personally, Arthur knows there is nothing really dangerous with the idea of two well-mannered, well-adjusted gentlemen who have been in their relationship for five years, have a nice income and want to have a child of their own by surrogacy or adoption. It’s quite a normal occurrence actually. But when he adds the fact that one of said gentlemen-himself-was a paid assassin, then the scale just tips and the danger point shoots up.
He doesn’t really expect Eames to agree with him though. When they first agreed on tying themselves to each other in civil partnership, and Eames’ father had blown up with the fact that Arthur is, well, a man and will never be able to give the Eames’ family an heir, Eames had said that he didn’t give a damn about that and the argument between both father and son had been epic. But Arthur knows how much Eames loves children and how they always get so easily taken with him. Take Phillipa as an example. Eames dotes on the little girl like she’s his own and Phillipa loves Eames even more than her own ‘Uncle Arthur’. Oh, and not to forget how his dearest mother-in-law always asks when they will give her a grandchild to be doted on (she doesn’t mind whatever way they will use to get said grandchild).
Perhaps if their relationship isn’t as shaky as it is, Eames would have jumped at the first suggestion of having a child in their house.
“Yes, we’re both too busy with work to raise a child,” Eames says, patting Phillipa’s head. “Besides, we can’t even look after some gloxinias, let alone a child.”
Arthur shoots Eames an icy glare. It’s just so Eames to bring up Arthur’s flowers and rile him up during a serious talk.
“Classic reason. You men are just too lazy,” Mal says, frowning at Eames. “Well, come on, then. Dinner is ready.”
Arthur gives James back to Cobb and takes his seat beside Eames. He tries to push the talk about children out of his mind. He really isn’t in the position to even think about siring or adopting a child and raise them.
It is selfish reasoning, Arthur knows that clearly, and it’s as unfair for Eames as it is for the child they will never have.
--
Eames noticed how uncomfortable Arthur was during their brief talk about children in the Cobbs’ house. And to be honest, Eames feels a little bit uncomfortable too. Even after they get home and are getting ready to turn in for the night, he notices how Arthur is even more touchy than usual and he seems lost in thought.
They never breached the subject of children after the great-argument-that-shalt-not-be-spoken-of-again between he and his father five years ago. It is a sensitive subject at best and Eames has tried very hard to not have Arthur and his stubborn father in the same room ever since. He just wishes his mother could stop pestering both of them to consider adoption or surrogacy.
Eames loves children, he really does. But he’s not really in the position to think about having one. He wonders if his opinion would have been different he has another occupation. If he didn’t work as an assassin, would he and Arthur find themselves settling to some classic Stepford household pattern, with two point five children and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence?
That kind of life is simply unimaginable to him. And yet, here Arthur and him are living that very life. They have the whole nice house in the suburbs thing, complete with white picket fence. And a small flower garden to boot.
Eames wonders, though, as he lies in bed with Arthur, if that’s what Arthur hoped for when he agreed to marry him. Even before meeting his parents and before the great-argument-that-shalt-not-be-spoken-of-again happened, they never really talked about children-since they were too busy trying to know each other’s bodies in the biblical sense during the short time span between their initial meeting and their wedding. He wonders if Arthur would have jumped at the first mention of having a child of their own, if he ever mentioned it.
But Arthur’s words when Mal suggested having a child of their own is a clear enough answer for Eames. Arthur is too practical to have a kid turning his life upside down. Eames feels somewhat… remorseful. And thinking about that makes him feel annoyed because, well, why should he feel remorseful?
This whole marriage life thing is so confusing, even more confusing than being an assassin. Being an assassin, he simply has to kill the target assigned to him by the company. Simple and clean, one shot and the deed is done. While with Arthur and their marriage, he more often than not is left to figure out things by himself.
The sound of his mobile phone ringing distracts Eames from his thoughts. He recognises the ringtone. The only contact that has Queen’s ‘We Are The Champion’ is his boss.
He quickly flips the phone open lest it wakes Arthur up. But his deed is futile for not a second after that, Arthur’s own phone starts ringing. He puts the phone on his ear and turns on his side, his back to Arthur.
“Eames speaking,” he says, and at the same time Arthur is picking up his phone on the bedside table and answering it with a ‘Arthur Eames speaking’. It makes Eames want to smile. Just a little bit. He snaps his attention back to the phone when he hears the deep throaty grunt of his boss. He listens for a while and can feel the smile forming on his lips.
“I understand,” he says. “Will get in touch with you later for the details. Yes.”
When he hangs up, a smile on his face, he hears Arthur mumbling ‘Yes, Dad. I know, I understand,’ before hanging up.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, as they both settle back into the bed.
“Mom’s not well and Dad is freaking out,” Arthur says. “He thinks she got pneumonia. Probably just a cough though.”
How convenient, Eames thinks. Not that he’s happy his mother-in-law is ill of course.
“Then maybe you should take a day or two off,” he suggests. “See if your mum’s okay. Your parents would love it if you stay the night too, I think.”
“That’s…” Arthur pauses, “that’s so sweet of you.”
The ‘even after I told you to burn that goddamn curtain and keep the one my mother gave me?’ is left unspoken.
“I’m just thinking of your mum’s well being, darling.”
There’s a faint huff. Eames ignores it and chooses to bury his face into the pillow.
“What was yours?” Arthur asks after a few moments.
“A call from a client,” he says, “He said he got several of Andy Warhol original paintings that he’d like to sell.”
“Oh, that’s good… I think.”
“Yep. Coincidentally, Madame Paxton is looking for some Andy Warhol.” Eames wants to pat himself on the back for the flawless lies he could sprout in just a few minutes. “So yeah, well… I’ll be going out of town for a few days to get them.”
“Ah… that Madame Paxton who tried to grab my ass in that gala dinner a few months ago?”
“The very same.” Eames chuckles at the memory. And then he stops, because suddenly he just has to remember how odd it is to have a light hearted conversation in bed with Arthur. He cringes a bit at his own subconscious for popping out all of a sudden. And well, no one would blame him for feeling a little bit unsettled over having a somewhat normal talk with his own husband. It’s been so long since they have had any kind of civilised ‘pillow talk’, after all.
The sudden silence is unbidden and Eames thinks Arthur must have fallen asleep so he tugs the blanket closer to cover his body. A couple of seconds and suddenly he feels the cold night air again. Arthur’s pulled the blanket closer to himself.
Eames scowls at the ceiling. He pulls the blanket to cover himself again.
A beat.
Arthur pulls back. Again.
[from this day forward] next >>
Part III: to have and to hold
[masterpost]
<< [to be my wedded Husband] previous
The one thing that Arthur likes from his fake occupation as an architect, is that he’s the one designing their house. In a sense. In truth, it was actually Dom who designed the house for him. But Arthur’s the one who single-handedly oversaw their move into the house six months after their wedding (they spent the first two months of their honeymoon period in Eames’ family manor upon Eames’ mother’s insistence, and the next four months in Arthur’s apartment in New York), and Eames would never question any of his decision about their house at all.
Arthur has free reign over every corner of the house. Except for the kitchen and Eames’ study. They each have their own studies in the house. Eames’-located on the first floor-is full of art pieces, oil paints, canvases, and occasional marble statue. Arthur’s-located on the second floor-is full of books, models of buildings or houses he’s ‘working on’, and it is where he works on his design, or to be exact, where he feigns to be working on his design.
The study is actually where Arthur keeps most of his artillery and other things he needs for his work, as an assassin for the Organisation, a company that sometimes works together with the C.I.A., specialising in disposing people who better off dead than alive. Sometimes, there are some innocents who slip in because they do have to work with every other kind of people from both side of the law. The Organisation never takes ‘no’ as an answer for the mission it gives to its finest assassins and after the first five or ten or fifty, Arthur never bothers to check his-or the Organisation’s-morality anymore. He’s killed people for a living for almost seven years now and morality isn’t something that he needs to worry about.
Sometimes though, Arthur does wonder how Eames will react if the fact that he married an assassin comes into open. Not that Arthur will ever let it happen. As much as leading this double life tires him inside out, and as miserable as it is living a marriage full of lies and secrets on his part, he would never risk ending their marriage that fast. Even without letting the secret that he’s a high profile assassin out in the open, his relationship with Eames is already too vulnerable as it is and would probably end in a divorce sooner or later.
But what he has with Eames, what they have (or had? Arthur doesn’t know) is the only thing that keeps him sane, binds him to the reality of the world, and helps him taking a firm grip on who he really is because after being in the business for seven years, one can never be too sure. Even though their interactions only consist of cold exchanges nowadays (he could not recall when all of this had started), it is enough for him.
Arthur closes his eyes and stops thinking about it. It is not the time to wallow in self-pity or think about Eames. He has a job to do, people to kill.
He secures two NAA Mini revolvers to each of his two ankle holsters, remembers to slip some extra magazines into his pants pocket, and keeps one SIG Sauer P229 in the black small briefcase he has to carry, as his undercover for the night is a businessman seeking for a business deal with the mark-an infamous mob leader who sells drug like candies and the head of a major child trafficking syndicate. After making sure everything is concealed, Arthur returns to the master bedroom and takes his black overcoat from the walk-in closet.
“You’re going somewhere?”
Arthur jumps at the sudden question coming from Eames, who’s standing in front of the dressing table, his back facing the walk in closet but his eyes are looking at Arthur over the mirror. In his haste to retrieve his coat, Arthur didn’t realise Eames is also in the room and he is, for once, wearing a plain beige sweater over a plain black shirt. Even though the colour combination is a bit off, it is certainly better to look at than the paisley patterned shirts.
“Oh, it’s you,” Arthur says, trying to sound calm even though his heart is beating quite frantically. No guns in plain sight and he really doesn’t have to worry about Eames noticing the lines of his pressed pants are a little bit off around the ankles. “Yes. I forgot that I left some important files in the office.”
The lie flows out of his mouth without any preamble and Arthur’s movement stops for a few seconds. Lying to Eames about anything and everything seems to have become a second nature to him. And perhaps, it is one of the reasons why their relationship has turned sour as of lately.
Arthur turns back to fastened the coat’s buttons and bends down to tie the shoelaces. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Eames is pulling out the dressing table’s drawer.
“You have to go now? There’s dinner at Mal’s house at eight, remember?”
Of course Arthur remembers, they visit the Cobbs for dinner on the third weekend of every month. It’s in two hours and Arthur’s sure he can finish the job in less.
“I know. I need the files for Monday. I’ll go get them and be back in time for us to go.” Arthur takes the briefcase and steps out of the closet, and goes to the door before Eames could ask anything further. “I’ll see you later,” he adds before shutting the bedroom door.
--
Eames checks his watch as soon as Arthur closes the bedroom door. It is fifteen past six and if his calculation is right, Arthur will be back in one and a half hours, that’s if he really is only going to take the files from the office and doesn’t take any detours. Arthur is always punctual and he will never risk coming in late to a dinner with the Cobbs. He loves that family to death.
Either way, Eames doesn’t have that much time. He received the call from Yusuf who informed him about the sudden job when he was mowing the grass in front of their house (he had resisted the urge to trim Arthur’s pots of gloxinia). The client wants the target to be dead before midnight and the dinner at the Cobbs is at eight. Eames clucks his tongue thinking about how messy the job will be because of the time constraint.
After making sure Arthur has left the house, Eames goes to the kitchen. The kitchen is Eames’ main territory. Everyone knows Arthur couldn’t cook anything to save his (and Eames’) life. The only thing Arthur can do in the kitchen without setting the fire alarm off is make coffee and boil hot water for Eames’ morning tea.
There’s no downside to this little spot of imperfection actually. Even as he was raised a pampered English boy in a manor full of butlers and maids, Eames spent the last fifteen years fending for himself, cooking is almost like a third nature to Eames and the second being killing people for a living. So he really has no problem being the lord of the kitchen in their house. Arthur, on the other hand, had Mal to feed him, and practically lived off takeouts during the first couple of weeks he and Eames spent holed in Arthur’s apartment.
It was two weeks after the fateful encounter in Mombasa, they had returned stateside and Eames wasted no time in getting to know Arthur better-he even asked for some weeks off from his boss-and he began by infiltrating Arthur’s flat. Suffice to say, it was two weeks full of mind-blowing amazing sex. And in those two weeks, Eames lived off takeouts. He was flabbergasted when he couldn’t find anything edible in Arthur’s kitchen after he got sick of eating noodles and rice and curries for every meal. He had forced Arthur to do some groceries shopping with him, pulled off some magic using the sad excuse of Arthur’s kitchen, and produced what Arthur told him was the best four course meal he had ever had in his entire life. The four course meal had earned him Arthur’s huge smile complete with the adorable dimples, and a night of the most amazing and acrobatic sex in his life.
After the second round, Arthur had idly said to him as he licked off the mess on Eames’ chest, ‘I wouldn’t mind having you cook for me if I get to eat those heavenly cuisine for eternity’, and Eames thought he had been thoroughly whipped. Or falling in love. Or both.
(Two weeks later, he proposed to Arthur. A week later, he had a row with his father right before he and Arthur signed the paper. It was catastrophic.)
Arthur can’t cook. Period. That gives him no reason to touch the kitchen-Eames forbids him to touch anything other than the coffee maker and the kettle-and thus, the kitchen also serves as Eames’ secret armoury. Every cabinet has hidden compartments or hidden spaces in them.
He opens one of the lower cabinets where he keeps some of his unused tea sets. He carefully moves the porcelain cups to the side-ignoring one of the tea pots that has Arthur’s note written with permanent marker on it (‘For your tea addiction, Love, A’)-and opens the lid, revealing two Browning Buckmark Camper pistols and two suppressors hidden underneath the cabinet. He takes both pistols, screws the suppressors on and secures them on the holsters resting on his hips.
The pistols are comfortable weight against his hips, a familiar feeling for him. They are two among his oldest possessions, having accompanied him through the years, for nearly as long as the time he’s being an assassin.
He smirks slightly as he thinks about his current, and by far, most successful, occupation. He never dreamed to be a professional hit man, yet there he is now, carrying a gun to shoot some poor bastard while taking in mind to come home just in time for family dinner. His father had expected-and raised-him to be his successor after all.
It’s so… bizarre in a sense. He has been an assassin for nine, nearly ten years (and his boss has half jokingly told him that he would surely get some plaque done for him on his decennial anniversary-that is if he’s still alive by then) and the last five of them he has spent with Arthur. The dual life he has led might seem really rough, but he would not, could not have it any other way. He could not just leave his job as a top assassin. And he could not leave Arthur. Just no. It is unimaginable.
His life is really screwed up. He often thinks that he should have a special episode in Oprah to talk about his nonstandard life and career choice. But, of course, he doesn’t want to blow his cover so going to Oprah is merely an unattainable dream for now.
But, he thinks, if he manages to do this job and the next properly, the commission that he gets would help him make one of his dreams-in the form of one fabulous Corvette Stingray-a reality. He consults his watch for the last time, taking note of how much time he has, and makes his way out of his house.
Tightening his coat around him, he walks to his car. He smirks. It’s time to face the music.
It starts like this:
--
Arthur arrives at the penthouse where his mark currently resides in and tells the two burly bodyguards on the door he comes for a business deal with the boss. Those two burly guys begin a thorough search for hidden weapons but, of course, being an assassin himself, Arthur has done a yet more thorough job at hiding his guns. The guards don’t even realise the SIG Sauer hidden beneath all the papers inside his bag when they tell him to open it.
It really helps that those burly-bodyguard-type always have more muscle than brain. That fact enables him to saunter into the penthouse with all his weapons still perfectly hidden and at the ready. Arthur can’t help but mourn over the incompetence of the people his target hires for bodyguards as he walks past them. It will indeed be the downfall of his target, Arthur thinks.
But Arthur’s not there to sympathise. He’s there to kill.
Arthur steps in confidently, chin held up high and doesn’t exude any nervousness at all. The very first thing he does as he enters the room is to let his eyes roam, taking in all the possible escape routes. He frowns when he realises that he might be forced to escape through the balcony, but his contemplation does not last long because at that moment, the door to the bathroom opens and his target walks out of it.
Arthur does not have the habit of observing his target much. He has done enough observation with all the data he has gotten before going for the kill. He merely let himself aware of their features to help him recognising them, and that is it. This time is also no exception.
He gives his target a small smile, nothing much, only a tug of his lips, but it’s enough to make his dimples appear.
“Good evening, Mr. Durousseau,” he says amiably to his target. Or as amiably as his position needs.
His target gives him a mild puzzled look. “I don’t remember that I have an appointment with…”
Then suddenly all hint of puzzlement clears out from his target’s face. Instead, there is a small smirk growing as he walks closer to approach Arthur.
“I see,” his target says with a heavily accented drawl, his eyes roving over Arthur’s body and Arthur feels like he’s being eye-raped. “That clever devil. He sent you here, didn’t he?”
Arthur has a brief moment of panic as he wonders if perhaps his mission had been compromised. It is enough to make him drop his guard until a moment later he finds a pair of lips already pressed to his. It is at that moment that his brain gave a mental equivalent of a horrified shriek.
“Now, from which agency are you?” his target whispers against his lips. “Oh, God, you taste good.”
Arthur personally thinks that it is terribly impolite to ask question without waiting for an answer. It is also terribly impolite to kiss random people. It is extremely impolite to mistake him for a fucking whore… of all things.
And the guy isn’t even a good kisser. Damn, Eames is much better than him, Arthur thinks as tries to keep the twitch on his right eye invisible. But of course Eames is better than this douchebag; Eames is better than anyone.
When the guy starts grasping his arse through the material of his tailored pants, Arthur has to roll his eyes and think that this is too easy. Easy and maybe he should tell his boss to take extra charge from the client because of the sexual harassment he has to endure while doing the job.
--
Eames takes a few swigs on his pint of beer and cringes. Nothing could ever beat European beer and Eames figures the Americans never really learnt how to make it properly, just like how they never learnt how to brew proper tea. How he misses the barrels of beer his father keeps in the underground cellar of their manor.
He sways a little bit when he steps down off his stool. Dodging a few people on his way to the back of the bar, he slides through the door marked ‘Employees Only’.
Inside the semi-darkened room, he finds several people sitting around a small table, a couple of long sofas, and a small television broadcasting a re-run of a football match. From the look of it, he can gather several things: one, they are playing poker; two, they are all bulky men; and three, they all look morons whose brain could stand side by side with a peanut and the peanut would have the sense of pride for simply being bigger.
They all turn toward him and Eames gives them a big grin. He shuffles to the room, making sure to bump into some stray chairs on his way and look far too drunk to even remember his own name. He’s a great actor. Really great, if he’s the one to judge.
“What the fuck,” one of the men says as he stands up.
“Hey, man, get outta here!” another one shouts. “This is no place for yer.”
Eames merely grins and slings his arm across one of the men. He checks the man’s face and, nope, not his target. He chuckles and lets the man have a whiff of alcohol from his breath.
“Oh, shit. Fuck! This guy’s drunk!” the man says as he shoves Eames to one of his friends.
“I kin see that for meself, Marty,” his friend says, bracing Eames upright and slapping his face roughly. “Hey, Mister! You hear me? Hey!”
Eames scrunches up his face. Nope. Not his target. Now where in the hell is his dear beloved target anyway? He has a damned dinner date to attend soon.
He points his forefinger to the man who was holding him and says. “Ryder.”
“You searchin’ for Ryder, man?” the man says and Eames giggles. He puts his chin on the man’s shoulder as his gaze travels across the room. Five people. Five burly people. He could take care of them all-snap their necks and drill some bullets into them. He giggles some more. That sounds like a plan.
Fuck. He’s supposed to be pretending to be drunk, not to get actually drunk.
He needs to find this Ryder guy-his target-soon. Arthur would surely kill him if he makes them late for their dinner invitation. Not to mention how he would not-really-kill-but-maim-him-real-bad if he catches the alcohol from his breath. Fuck it, where is this…
Ah-ha.
Eames’s gaze zeroes on one of the guy standing a bit apart from the rest of the others. His face is partially concealed in the shadows but Eames could easily discern his feature to know that he has landed gaze on someone-who-shall-be-dead-in-minutes.
Well, Mister Ryder, he thinks, nice to meet you.
--
And it goes like this:
--
Arthur falls backwards to the bed. The guy has pushed him after slowly pulling off his coat and suit jacket while sniffing over his features like a fucking dog. Arthur never really likes to act, but after years of acting like a normal husband with Eames, one with a normal job, he thinks he could just play along and let his target crawling over him.
His target starts to breathe in Arthur’s neck and kissing his jaw. Arthur clenches his fists on the bed sheet and tries so, so hard to not punch the bastard… yet.
His thoughts swirl back to Eames and suddenly he feels his heart tugging a little. Because dear God in heaven and devil in hell, this bastard just doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing and Arthur misses the times Eames does things with his lips. It has been too long since he last felt Eames’ lips roaming on everywhere on his body, Arthur mourns mentally.
Arthur unclenches his right fist and slowly reaches down to his bent right leg. His target is lapping his neck sloppily and Arthur slowly pulls up his pants leg, slips free one of the mini revolvers he has brought from his ankle holster. When he feels a hand starts to cup his crotch, Arthur groans and quickly flips his target over, straddles him, grabs a pillow with his left hand and shoves it onto his face, and shoots.
He shoots one more time to where he’s sure his target’s forehead is.
Fortunately, the pillow has muffled the gunshot sound, or so Arthur thinks because the bodyguards still don’t storm in after the two gunshots. After making sure the two bullets planted on his target’s head have indeed killed him, Arthur quickly gets off the bed and takes his coat and suit jacket. He cringes as he wipes the saliva on his neck and lips with a handkerchief he keeps in his bag. Then he takes a glance at his watch and cringes some more. He needs to get out fast if he doesn’t want to be late for dinner at Mal’s.
With that thought, he begins weighing his choices; front door or the balcony?
Going out from the front door might be a bit problematic-it would mean seeing those bodyguards again and they could stop him or at the very least remember his face.
Balcony it is, then. Good thing that the room is only on the fifth floor, Arthur thinks as he starts to pull up the window and jump up onto the ledge. Going down via the pipe of rain gutter is perhaps not the most dignified thing to do. It definitely will ruin his clothes, not that it’s not already ruined-Arthur has put up burning the clothes his main priority after he gets home, he feels so dirty after his target touched him all over. Ruined clothes aside, it is efficient enough. Once his feet touches the ground, he dusts off his suit and congratulates himself for a job well done as he walks searching for a taxi to go back to his office building, get his car and drive back home.
Arthur allows himself a small smirk as he imagines how chaotic it would be the moment they find Mr. Slobbery-Kiss dead on his bed.
--
Eames gives the five burly men a huge drunken grin. He just needs to get close enough to his target (who is looking like he’s going to doze off any minute now what with the way he keeps on nodding and jerking his head, yawning) without rousing any unneeded attention, and finish his job quickly. With the extra four persons in this room though, it’s very likely he’ll have to have Yusuf adds extra four names for this week’s hit report.
“Indeed I am looking for Ryder,” he says. He stumbles away from the man holding him and staggers towards Ryder. “Ryder?”
Ryder jerks up and scowls at Eames. “What’s your business?”
Eames squints, still acting like he’s drunk, and gives Ryder a look over. For someone who’s supposed to be the number one leader of an underground movement of some sorts-the client has been secretive as to why he wants Ryder dead, and The Company is never one to question their clients, Ryder looks like some punk kid who just wanted to prove himself better than everyone.
Eames is never one to back off from a hit because his target is just an attention whore though. A job is still a job. And the more time Ryder spends alive, the higher the chances Eames will be going home late and then strangled to death by his own curtain, courtesy of his dearest Arthur.
He approaches Ryder. “Ah! There you are!” he laughs again as he positions himself by Ryder’s side, against the wall and putting an arm around his target’s shoulder, and patting Ryder’s cheek with the other. He glances at Ryder’s friends, they’ve gone back to their poker game.
“You see, mate, I was just wondering…” He traces Ryder’s jawline, his other hand creeping up to the back of his neck. And then with a twist of both hands, Ryder slumps down-dead, the crack of his neck was muffled by the sound of the TV-and Eames catches his limp body, while dramatically exclaiming, “Oh my! The gentleman has fallen asleep!”
Ryder’s four other friends seem to be buying that and just continue with their poker game after they see Eames carefully puts Ryder on one of the sofas near the TV. Eames pats Ryder’s cheek, grinning, and quickly walks towards the exit. “Well, since our dear mate here is asleep now, I think I’ll just call it a night and talk to him some other day,” he says as he pats one of them on the shoulder. “G’night, lads!”
He counts from one (he hears the sound of chair scrapping on the wooden floor), crosses both his hands and slips them inside his coat (one of Ryder friend’s tries to wake him), clicking his beloved Campers’ safety off (“Ryder! Ryder, wake up, man!” “Shit! He’s not breathing!”), and stops counting when he reaches the exit. He pushes the door closed, locks it, and turns back to the room again.
Ryder’s four friends are looking at Eames, realising what he has done, and he gives them a smirk and a wink before pulling out his two suppressed pistols.
“What the-“
Before Marty can finish his sentence, Eames fires eight shots. It’s over in five seconds flat and four bodies are now lying sprawled on the dusty wooden floor, two bullets planted in each of their heads.
Eames puts his pistols back to their holsters with their safety on. He dusts off his coat’s sleeves and as he stares down at the bodies again, frowning, and then fishes out his phone, sending a quick text to Yusuf about the four extra bodies. After he sends the text, he looks at the numbers on the screen and curses. He only has less than twenty minutes until eight and the journey back home from this part of New York will at least take him fifteen minutes.
Well, Eames thinks, that just means he should use a shortcut and breaks some speed. It’s better than having Arthur breaking his neck, he supposes.
Before closing the door, Eames looks inside again and gives the five dead bodies a salute. “Night, lads!”
--
And it ends like this:
--
Arthur hears the sound of the bedroom door opening while he is in the shower. He didn’t see Eames when he got back so he must have just came back from wherever he had gone too, Arthur thinks as he soaps up his body, trying to clean up as best as he could. He could still smell the gun powder; feel it thick on his fingers even though he knows it is ridiculous. He’s used to the smell of course, along with the smell of blood, of burnt flesh, and perhaps even the smell of death in. But tonight Arthur feels he just need to wash that off; the scent, the feeling… the imprint of hands and lips and breath. He still grimaces at the thought of what his latest target had done to his body. It feels so disgusting-the taste of that man in his mouth and his skin.
“Arthur?” he hears Eames’ voice calling him.
“In the shower!” he calls back. And a moment after that he sees Eames coming to the bathroom to join him.
They never lock bathroom door ever since they got married. Arthur doesn’t see the point, neither does Eames. You married a guy, surely you will see him naked. And in the past, it was common occurrence for Eames to slip up behind him when he got his morning shower, kissing his neck and helping him clean up before he proceeded to make Arthur dirty again by fucking him against the tiled wall.
But, of course, that was in the past.
The present Eames, the one who has just entered the bathroom this time, doesn’t move to join him in the shower stall. He merely stands outside the glass partition wall. His silhouette is dimly visible to Arthur through the fogged glass.
Somehow, that simple fact makes Arthur gloomy.
He turns off the shower and reaches for his towel, wrapping it around his waist. He is not really comfortable with the idea of coming out naked under Eames’ gaze. And isn’t that pathetic? But Arthur can’t help shutting himself out and being defensive. He knows the tension between him and Eames has been thickened by Arthur’s own stubbornness to not make it easier for the both of them. He just doesn’t want to be the one admitting defeat… but Arthur doesn’t even know what he-they are both fighting over.
Eames is staring at Arthur intently when he exits the shower stall. He is standing propped against the bathroom wall, his arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression fixed on his face.
“I didn’t see you downstairs,” Arthur says, as he passes Eames to the washing basin area, towelling his hair using one of the clean towels stacked on the marble surface. “You were out somewhere?”
“Downtown. Getting some drinks at the pub to prepare myself for whatever it is Mal’s going to shove down my throat this time,” Eames says nonchalantly, his eyes are locked with Arthur in the mirror. “We only have ten minutes if we want to get to the dinner on time by the way.”
Arthur keeps himself from gritting his teeth and wipes his face using the towel to hide his sour expression. He knows Eames never likes how Mal keeps on pestering and hovering on their marriage, Arthur doesn’t really like it too. But it is one thing to dislike it, it is another thing to be outright displeased about it when Eames knows exactly how much Arthur cares for Mal and her family.
“I know,” Arthur says, stepping out of the bathroom and goes to the walk in closet. He takes a good care to step on the heaps of clothes he wore during his job earlier (he had immediately shed them off and practically ran to the bathroom), but it still doesn’t quell the feeling of disgust. He really needs to burn them-thirteen hundred dollars Burberry suit be damned.
He can feel Eames hovering behind him as he searches through his clothes, looking for something light to wear. Yet Arthur is still surprised when he feels a pair of hands landing on his bare shoulders.
“What the… you startled me,” he says sharply, turning his face to meet Eames’ concerned gaze. He eyes the large hand on his shoulder and thinks he smells a faint scent of gunpowder. But he takes it just as a fragment of his imagination, or maybe it’s just the smell of gunpowder on his body that he knows has permanently stuck, what with the rate of him firing his guns every week.
“Are you okay?” Eames asks, his voice sounds painfully sincere. He begins to gently massaging Arthur’s shoulders. “You’re so tense and jumpy… more than usual kind of tense and jumpy, I must add. Did you get your files? Something happened at your office? Your job?”
At the mention of his job, Arthur could feel his body tensing up. He is reminded again of his now dead target, of his hands roaming over his body, of his disgusting lips slobbering on his neck. But then Eames’ hands rub his shoulders soothingly and working their way up and down, Arthur let himself relax.
It is not his habit to get so worked up over a case, a successful one no less. Perhaps he’s just too tired lately, more tired than he initially imagined.
“I’m okay,” Arthur says. “It’s just… it’s not the most enjoyable work. I guess I’m just tired.”
“As long as you’re all right,” Eames says before Arthur feels a soft kiss lands on his shoulder and another one on his cheek close to his lips. “Get dressed. I’ll start the car.”
Arthur nods and Eames gives one last squeeze before he releases Arthur’s shoulders. A few minutes later, Arthur hears the sound of their car (one of their cars, and by the sound of the engine, it is Arthur’s) starting up. He is standing there, in front of his open closet with half buttoned shirt and pants, and in the process of tugging a worn out but comfortable sweater his mother-in-law had sent him for Christmas two years ago over his head, the only thing Arthur can think of is the simple peck Eames gave him the moment before he dashed off.
It was soft, and chaste, and gentle. And Arthur wonders why did Eames not proceed further? Why stop at mere peck like that? Why did he not grab Eames’ hand and slam him to the wall, kissing him and perhaps even taking him to bed so they could come late to Mal’s diner invitation looking thoroughly fucked with matching sated grins on their faces? They used to do that. Millennia ago, Arthur adds bitterly.
Why have things changed so much between them?
--
Eames listens to the engine whirring as he waits for Arthur to come out. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and hums a random song that’s just coming into his mind. The night is cold and the car’s heater isn’t doing much to give him the necessary heat. He rummages through the glove compartment to find the leather gloves he keeps there. As he slips the gloves on, he feels the grittinotices the faint traces of gunpowder on the back of his palms and some on his coat’s sleeves. Clicking his tongue, he rubs the gunpowder off with some tissues and hopes it doesn’t leave any residual smell.
Then he remembers how he’d massaged Arthur’s shoulder and how close his face was to his hands. He really hopes Arthur didn’t notice. It wouldn’t do to have Arthur sniffing around him and asking why there’s gunpowder smell on his hands. But… well, it’s not like Arthur could even recognise how gunpowder smells like, right?
He leans back in the seat and continued waiting. The job today went smoothly and even though there are additional bodies to be cleared up, it’s nothing Yusuf can’t handle. What bugs him is how stiff and tense Arthur was. Even though Arthur’s always been jumpy and tense around him the past months, today he’s been even more distant and unresponsive.
Eames can still feel the phantom coldness of Arthur’s skin under his hands, and how stiff the muscle had been. And of course how startled Arthur was when he kissed his shoulder and the corner of his lips lightly. Eames… doesn’t really know why he’d given in to his urge to kiss Arthur, and yet managed to be an arse and not go all the way. On one hand, he’s not supposed to do anything drastic during this ‘cold phase’ of their relationship. On another hand, he just remembered how Miles had advised him to be more honest with Arthur. Well, if he couldn’t be honest about his real job to Arthur, he could be more honest with his feelings, right?
Except… Arthur doesn’t seem to approve of his small display of affection in their closet. If the scowl that he sports as he strolls out of the kitchen door and towards the garage is any indication.
Eames has to hold his breath of a few seconds as he watches Arthur. Arthur’s wearing the jumper Eames’ mother sent him a couple of Christmases ago, under a beige coat and his hair is not slicked back to its usual perfection. It’s still damp from the shower and Eames has this strong urge to card his fingers into the curls and maybe drag him back into the house, up to their room and have a good shag.
He tries to drive that particular thought away as Arthur probably will not take it well. They have a dinner with the Cobbs after all. He still doesn’t know when exactly the sex stopped-and well, it’s not like he didn’t have a hand to play in the lack of sex (killing people can be a very tiresome work), but he’s sure it will still remain non-existent as long as they haven’t dealt with their problem. Whatever the problem is.
“You look great,” he says instead. Eames bites his lower lip and looks away as soon as the words come out.
Arthur stops tugging on his coat that’s stuck on the door and looks at him weirdly. He blinks a couple of times and he looks like he wants to say something but then he closes his mouth with a click. “Thanks,” he murmurs, turning his attention back into tugging at his coat. “Goddamnit,” he curses at the door.
The scowl and the little pout of his lips make him looks like a petulant child. A petulant adorable child. And Eames thinks it’s better if he stops thinking altogether because the thought of his own husband as a child is just so disturbing. Particularly because right after he thinks Arthur looks like a petulant adorable child, he thinks about how much he wants to grab Arthur’s coat and kiss him senseless and maybe repeat the experience of having car sex that they’ve had a couple of times… back when they were still a happy, insatiable couple.
A cough. Eames leans closer to Arthur, opens the door and takes the troublesome coat in. “There you go,” he says, patting Arthur’s thigh. And then he quickly removes his hand and places it back on the steering wheel.
He clears his throat, “Ready?” he asks.
“Sure.” Arthur’s eyes are fixed on the road in front of them, looking at everything but him.
Arthur tightens his coat as they walk along the path to the Cobbs’ home. It’s cold outside and even with the layers of clothing he wears, Arthur still feels his skin tingle. He’s sure his skin tingles from the cold and not from the heat emanating from Eames’ body when he leant closer to him and helped him with the stupid stuck tailcoat of his. He scowls and stamps down on that particular idea.
There’s exactly a foot of distance between him and Eames and even as they walk side by side, it seems as though the silence that hangs between them since they left keeps on pushing them apart. It’s only when they both stand in front of the door, and Arthur has knocked, that he and Eames look at each other and-as if there is still some sort of understanding left amongst the remains of their crumbling relationship-Arthur takes one step closer to Eames, just as the door is opened. He doesn’t flinch when Eames’ hand finds its way to his lower back. Instead, he smiles widely at Mal.
“Sorry we’re a bit late, Mal,” he says as his greeting, smiling politely at her as if there is nothing wrong. His job as an assassin surely helped polishing his acting skills.
“We’re late because Arthur took such a long time dolling himself up,” Eames says, his other hand patting Arthur’s rosy cheek (it is cold). Arthur’s eyebrow twitches and Mal chuckles. “By the way, you look lovely as usual,” he adds again, taking time to give Mal a peck on her cheek.
“Why, thank you so very much for the compliment, Eames.” Mal takes their coats and ushers them in. “Come on in, you lovebirds,” she says sweetly and Arthur nearly flinches at that word being used to describe the two of them. He can’t really see Eames’ face but the faint tensing of his arm let Arthur know that Eames feels the same .
The way they act around each other when no one can see them is far from the term lovebirds. Maybe it was, back in the first three years of their marriage. Even though they haven’t really had any big fights over the course of five years, the tense atmosphere around them right now is enough to be classified as ‘cold war’. That, in itself is worse than any heated argument. Arthur prefers having a heated argument instead of thick, boring silence, but he has too many secrets he needs to keep and he can’t trust himself to not spill all of them in the heat of the moment.
They never really verbally agreed on putting up a show in front of everyone and telling them there’s nothing wrong in their marriage (even though the rate of Arthur coming to Mal to rant about Eames is quite high these days). It’s just more convenient that way. And at least that means he and Eames can still share the same feeling toward ‘certain things’. But when he thinks that said ‘certain things’ is the fact that they feel the need to put up an act of being happy together but then get uncomfortable being referred to as ‘lovebirds’-when they are anything but-that does not sound really good.
When they both enter the dining room, he sees Dom holding baby James as he tries to get Phillipa to stay in her seat and not fidget. Phillipa jumps off her seat as soon as she sees Arthur and Eames and runs towards them. Arthur extricates himself from Eames to greet her. He has even already opened his arms for the little girl’s hug. What Arthur doesn’t expect is for Phillipa to practically scream in delight and launches herself to Eames instead, with an, “Uncle E!”
He watches Eames laughing as he bends his knees to scoop Phillipa into his arms. Eames has always been good with children and children always love him, Arthur knows that very well. He would make a great father, Arthur muses before he realises what he’s thinking and his expression subsequently turns grim. He turns his gaze from the sight of Phillipa recounting her day to the smiling Eames and comes face to face with Dom, baby James in his arms. He feels his lips twitch automatically to form a smile. It is a natural response.
“Hey,” Dom greets him. “Want to hold this one?”
Arthur feels the smile freezes on his face. He blinks and then stares at the little baby in Dom’s hands, then turns his gaze back to Dom’s face, trying to determine if his friend was joking. He starts to get really nervous when he realises Dom wasn’t joking.
“Oh, no. No,” he says and releases a nervous chuckle. “I’m not good with babies.”
“Oh, please, hold him for a sec while I go help Mal get the food,” Dom insists, holding James out for Arthur. “He won’t bite you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Arthur can’t do anything but accept the eight month old baby into his arms. He looks down and finds James is looking at him as if he’s the most interesting thing in the world. Arthur has only ever seen James this close once, immediately after he was born and Mal insisted that he hold his new godson. He never realised that James has the same bright blue eyes and corn silk hair as his father.
They are looking at each other intently. And then suddenly, James starts to giggle. And, well, he might be not that keen with children but when a sweet little baby is laughing in his arms, he can’t help but to smile back.
It is just his luck that at that precise moment, Mal is walking in on them and sees the scene perfectly.
“Well, why don’t you look at that,” she says, smiling in that self-satisfied way of hers. “Aren’t you two lovely.”
Her words draw Eames’ gaze and Arthur then finds himself under it too. He know how it looks like to Mal, the picturesque view of him and Eames holding children in their arms, the very picture of a normal, happy and domestic couple. Something Arthur knows they will never be as long as he still keeps everything to himself, and their life together is still as boring and fake as ever. He tenses a bit and baby James, as if sensing his discomfort, begins fussing in his arms.
Not wanting the baby to cry, Arthur gently rocks James and tries to soothe him. He smiles at him, he even chuckles when baby James blinks his eyes at him. And when he feels Eames’ breath on the side of his neck, it is only his years of training that prevents him from jumping in fright.
“Awww, he likes you, Arthur,” Eames coos. He himself has Phillipa hanging on his neck. The little girl seems to not want to let her ‘Uncle E’ go (how Phillipa came to that nickname, Arthur never knows), and is patting Eames’ cheeks to get his attention back.
“And Phillipa seems quite taken with you,” Arthur counters.
“No one can resists my charm, darling.” Eames even winks at him.
Arthur is surprised at the playful snort he gives Eames afterward. It feels almost normal, them bantering playfully like that. Of course, normal, if they were to ignore the baby and the little girl in their arms.
“You both are quite good with kids, you know,” Mal says, still smiling meaningfully. “More than you like to admit, I must say.”
“Yeah,” Dom nods. “Never thought of having one of your own?”
Arthur can see Eames’ expression changes. He can feel the sudden coldness in his heart. Having children, he thinks, Eames and him? How could they think of having children when he can’t even be honest with Eames? How could he think of raising children when he knows he could die on some fucked up job one day?
“No,” he says simply. “No, it’s not… our thing.”
“Besides, the last time I heard, men still can’t conceive children on their own, Dom,” Eames says.
Arthur knows it’s just Eames’ way to lighten the suddenly tense air, but he still wants to bang his head, or more preferably Eames’ head on the dining table.
“Haven’t you heard of surrogacy? Adoption, perhaps?” Mal suggests. “You both could really do with a child’s laughter in your life.”
“No, really, Mal, it’s…” Arthur pauses and lets out a tired sigh. “It’s too dangerous.”
Personally, Arthur knows there is nothing really dangerous with the idea of two well-mannered, well-adjusted gentlemen who have been in their relationship for five years, have a nice income and want to have a child of their own by surrogacy or adoption. It’s quite a normal occurrence actually. But when he adds the fact that one of said gentlemen-himself-was a paid assassin, then the scale just tips and the danger point shoots up.
He doesn’t really expect Eames to agree with him though. When they first agreed on tying themselves to each other in civil partnership, and Eames’ father had blown up with the fact that Arthur is, well, a man and will never be able to give the Eames’ family an heir, Eames had said that he didn’t give a damn about that and the argument between both father and son had been epic. But Arthur knows how much Eames loves children and how they always get so easily taken with him. Take Phillipa as an example. Eames dotes on the little girl like she’s his own and Phillipa loves Eames even more than her own ‘Uncle Arthur’. Oh, and not to forget how his dearest mother-in-law always asks when they will give her a grandchild to be doted on (she doesn’t mind whatever way they will use to get said grandchild).
Perhaps if their relationship isn’t as shaky as it is, Eames would have jumped at the first suggestion of having a child in their house.
“Yes, we’re both too busy with work to raise a child,” Eames says, patting Phillipa’s head. “Besides, we can’t even look after some gloxinias, let alone a child.”
Arthur shoots Eames an icy glare. It’s just so Eames to bring up Arthur’s flowers and rile him up during a serious talk.
“Classic reason. You men are just too lazy,” Mal says, frowning at Eames. “Well, come on, then. Dinner is ready.”
Arthur gives James back to Cobb and takes his seat beside Eames. He tries to push the talk about children out of his mind. He really isn’t in the position to even think about siring or adopting a child and raise them.
It is selfish reasoning, Arthur knows that clearly, and it’s as unfair for Eames as it is for the child they will never have.
--
Eames noticed how uncomfortable Arthur was during their brief talk about children in the Cobbs’ house. And to be honest, Eames feels a little bit uncomfortable too. Even after they get home and are getting ready to turn in for the night, he notices how Arthur is even more touchy than usual and he seems lost in thought.
They never breached the subject of children after the great-argument-that-shalt-not-be-spoken-of-again between he and his father five years ago. It is a sensitive subject at best and Eames has tried very hard to not have Arthur and his stubborn father in the same room ever since. He just wishes his mother could stop pestering both of them to consider adoption or surrogacy.
Eames loves children, he really does. But he’s not really in the position to think about having one. He wonders if his opinion would have been different he has another occupation. If he didn’t work as an assassin, would he and Arthur find themselves settling to some classic Stepford household pattern, with two point five children and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence?
That kind of life is simply unimaginable to him. And yet, here Arthur and him are living that very life. They have the whole nice house in the suburbs thing, complete with white picket fence. And a small flower garden to boot.
Eames wonders, though, as he lies in bed with Arthur, if that’s what Arthur hoped for when he agreed to marry him. Even before meeting his parents and before the great-argument-that-shalt-not-be-spoken-of-again happened, they never really talked about children-since they were too busy trying to know each other’s bodies in the biblical sense during the short time span between their initial meeting and their wedding. He wonders if Arthur would have jumped at the first mention of having a child of their own, if he ever mentioned it.
But Arthur’s words when Mal suggested having a child of their own is a clear enough answer for Eames. Arthur is too practical to have a kid turning his life upside down. Eames feels somewhat… remorseful. And thinking about that makes him feel annoyed because, well, why should he feel remorseful?
This whole marriage life thing is so confusing, even more confusing than being an assassin. Being an assassin, he simply has to kill the target assigned to him by the company. Simple and clean, one shot and the deed is done. While with Arthur and their marriage, he more often than not is left to figure out things by himself.
The sound of his mobile phone ringing distracts Eames from his thoughts. He recognises the ringtone. The only contact that has Queen’s ‘We Are The Champion’ is his boss.
He quickly flips the phone open lest it wakes Arthur up. But his deed is futile for not a second after that, Arthur’s own phone starts ringing. He puts the phone on his ear and turns on his side, his back to Arthur.
“Eames speaking,” he says, and at the same time Arthur is picking up his phone on the bedside table and answering it with a ‘Arthur Eames speaking’. It makes Eames want to smile. Just a little bit. He snaps his attention back to the phone when he hears the deep throaty grunt of his boss. He listens for a while and can feel the smile forming on his lips.
“I understand,” he says. “Will get in touch with you later for the details. Yes.”
When he hangs up, a smile on his face, he hears Arthur mumbling ‘Yes, Dad. I know, I understand,’ before hanging up.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, as they both settle back into the bed.
“Mom’s not well and Dad is freaking out,” Arthur says. “He thinks she got pneumonia. Probably just a cough though.”
How convenient, Eames thinks. Not that he’s happy his mother-in-law is ill of course.
“Then maybe you should take a day or two off,” he suggests. “See if your mum’s okay. Your parents would love it if you stay the night too, I think.”
“That’s…” Arthur pauses, “that’s so sweet of you.”
The ‘even after I told you to burn that goddamn curtain and keep the one my mother gave me?’ is left unspoken.
“I’m just thinking of your mum’s well being, darling.”
There’s a faint huff. Eames ignores it and chooses to bury his face into the pillow.
“What was yours?” Arthur asks after a few moments.
“A call from a client,” he says, “He said he got several of Andy Warhol original paintings that he’d like to sell.”
“Oh, that’s good… I think.”
“Yep. Coincidentally, Madame Paxton is looking for some Andy Warhol.” Eames wants to pat himself on the back for the flawless lies he could sprout in just a few minutes. “So yeah, well… I’ll be going out of town for a few days to get them.”
“Ah… that Madame Paxton who tried to grab my ass in that gala dinner a few months ago?”
“The very same.” Eames chuckles at the memory. And then he stops, because suddenly he just has to remember how odd it is to have a light hearted conversation in bed with Arthur. He cringes a bit at his own subconscious for popping out all of a sudden. And well, no one would blame him for feeling a little bit unsettled over having a somewhat normal talk with his own husband. It’s been so long since they have had any kind of civilised ‘pillow talk’, after all.
The sudden silence is unbidden and Eames thinks Arthur must have fallen asleep so he tugs the blanket closer to cover his body. A couple of seconds and suddenly he feels the cold night air again. Arthur’s pulled the blanket closer to himself.
Eames scowls at the ceiling. He pulls the blanket to cover himself again.
A beat.
Arthur pulls back. Again.
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