[inception] till death do us part [8/9]
‘Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)
Part VIII: to love and to hold
[masterpost]
<< [in sickness and in health] previous
When Eames opens his eyes, he finds out that it’s still dark outside. He finds out that their house is still standing-though barely. And he finds out that he's smiling. It brings to his mind a sense of astonishment. He can't really recall the last time he woke up smiling. And when he's at it, he also can't recall the last time he woke up with his limbs entangled with Arthur's under their bed sheets, feeling really happy and content just because he could wake up beside his husband.
His husband, Eames thinks with a fond smile, watching the sight of Arthur's sleeping face pressed against his chest. His fingers absentmindedly play with the strands of Arthur's hair, remembering the time long past when he oftentimes did that. He loves playing with Arthur's hair, caressing it, twirling it between his fingers. He loves watching Arthur waking up when he's still having his fingers amidst his hair. He loves Arthur's mildly curious expression that he always wore whenever he caught him playing with his hair when he's asleep.
How many months have it been since the last time he enjoyed that luxury, he thinks. Then Eames recalls the small talk they had last night before they both fell asleep. It has actually been twenty months. Twenty long months, and it reminds him of one more thing that he misses, making him half expecting, half hoping, that Arthur would open his eyes just like how he used to do in the past, smiling at him before kissing his cheek good morning.
And true to the memories, Arthur's eyes blink open in the middle of Eames' playful exploration of his hair. And he smiles. And before either of them can fully comprehend it, Eames has already offered his cheek and Arthur has already planted his kiss there.
A good morning kiss, Eames thinks. And he dares thinking that their morning would be 'good' indeed.
“Well,” he says, smiling to Arthur before his smile turns into one bemused frown. “This is weird.”
Arthur only gives something that can pass as an amused snort as his reply.
“I mean, this isn’t just me, right?” he asks. “This is really weird, don’t you think so?”
“What?” Arthur asks back. “Is it weird that we nearly destroyed our house in a not-so-really domestic fight involving firearms and explosion? Is it weird that after said fighting we had the best sex in… I don’t know, the last three years of our married life? Is it weird that, considering we’ve been trying to kill each other, we now find ourselves waking up in the same bed?”
“Are you trying to be sarcastic? You are trying to be sarcastic, aren’t you?” he says.
Arthur gives a small yawn as he proceeds to sit up on the bed. With his back now propped against the headboard, he stares down at Eames. “It’s the truth.”
Eames only snorts. He scoots closer to Arthur’s waist, and could not hold back a smile when Arthur does not flinch at his touch. Rather, he casually places his hand on Eames’ shoulder, drawing him nearer, as if protecting him from harm.
“Well, at least now we can’t really complain that our married life is dull,” he says.
“I thought you asked for a divorce,” Arthur says lightly.
“I thought you haven’t signed any divorce paper yet,” Eames retorts. Nuzzling his cheek against Arthur’s hip, he says, “Then again, this might be my second chance about this. Divorce is such an exhausting process.”
“Yes, what with all those paperwork that have to be signed and processed,” Arthur says solemnly.
“And not to mention the deal with the court and lawyers and all,” Eames agrees. “So, I guess, we’re stuck as a couple for now.”
“We did say that we’ll love and cherish each other until death do us part,” Arthur says, looking down at Eames fondly. Then his expression turns serious when he says, “William, we need to talk.”
Eames carefully stares at Arthur. “Is this the kind of ‘talk’ that would end with you getting extremely annoyed at me and banish me to sleep on the sofa for a week?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Half our sitting room is destroyed.”
“Oh, right,” Eames says with a grin. “I should remember that for later-hide in the sitting room when we’re fighting and you’re having your trigger happy time. That way, you won’t make me sleep on the sofa.”
“William, seriously,” Arthur says, chuckling, “we need to talk. We have so many things to talk about, and I’m not only speaking about the amount of money that we have to spend to refurbish our house after we nearly…”
“You’re laughing,” Eames cuts in the middle of Arthur’s sentence, making him stop and stare at him in something that looks like surprise. Eames knows that it’s impolite to cut one’s speech-his father would have a fit should he dare doing that to him. But it’s been so long since the last time he saw Arthur chuckling, laughing, being happy in general while lazing around in bed with him.
It makes him realise how he has come to miss it, the sight, the sound of Arthur laughing, the way his eyes lighten up and his smile break on his face forming a pair of dimples that always make him look years younger than he actually is.
“I am,” Arthur says, agreeing and still smiling.
“You look gorgeous when you laugh,” Eames says.
“Always a flatterer, you,” Arthur says. His hand rubs the back of Eames’ neck, making him sigh in contentment. “I guess that part of you is true, then?”
Eames blinks one of his eyes-which have somehow closed under Arthur’s gentle ministration-open and regards Arthur with an inquiring stare.
“What part?” he asks.
“The part about you being a charming, suave bastard,” Arthur says with a smirk. “That’s what I want to talk about with you now, actually. We’re… we’ve been lying to each other for these many years… how many lies have we told each other? And I just-somehow I want to know the truth now that we finally come to this point.”
Thinking about it, Eames knows it’s the truth. What’s the use of hiding anything now that their identities are already out in the open? What’s the use of keep lying to Arthur? What’s the use of keep lying to himself?
Drawing back from Arthur’s gentle fingers, he rises from his lying position and sits beside Arthur.
“Alright,” he says, smiling. “Now you can tell me that your real name is Rex or something equally butch.”
Arthur frowns at him. “Sorry, but Arthur is my real name. What’s wrong with that name, anyway?”
“That doesn’t really sound like a cool name for an assassin to have,” Eames says.
“Oh, like ‘Willy’ is any better,” Arthur snips back.
“You’d hate it too if you spend half your teenage days being called Willy from Willy Wonka by your mum and sisters,” Eames retorts.
They glare at each other before Eames sighs.
“Truce?” he asks.
“Truce,” Arthur agrees. “So, Arthur is my real name, my real identity, even though I’m not really an architect. My parents are not… well, those guys you met during our wedding ceremony… they’re not my real parents, actually.”
Eames tilts his face a bit. “Not your ‘real’ parents as in they are your guardian?”
“Not my ‘real’ parents as in they’re paid actors,” Arthur says with a little wince.
Eames, for a moment, thinks that he must have misheard things. But Arthur’s expression speaks the truth, and he could feel his eyes widen.
“Paid actors?!” he nearly shouts. “You got some bloody paid actors to pose as your parents for our wedding? Our wedding, Arthur… that’s… you are so... impossible!”
“Hey,” Arthur says indignantly. “Undercover assassin agent, here.”
“I knew it. I fucking knew it,” Eames says with a sigh. He rubs his eyes as his mind recalls their wedding. “I’ve seen your ‘dad’ in TV before... he’s in that detergent advert shit. And all along I thought I was delusional after consuming too much wedding champagne.”
Arthur chuckles softly beside him and Eames can see the faint scars on his face. He reaches forward, tracing those long lines marring Arthur’s cheek with his fingers, realising that he’s the one who has put them there.
“So…” he says. “Any chance I can see your real parents? You know, to let them know that I’ve taken their son as my lawfully wedded husband.”
“Er… I don’t think so,” Arthur says, unconsciously leaning to Eames’ touch. “They left me to my grandmother when I was five. I can’t even remember their face…”
Eames’ hand stills, with his fingers still pressed gently against Arthur’s cheek. “Oh.”
“But never mind that… how about you?” Arthur asks. “Is it too much for me to hope that your father is not actually related to you and all that ‘how-can-you-marry-some-American-guy-William-shame-on-you’ nonsense of his was actually only an act?”
Eames actually laughs at that. He retracts his hand and throws his most charming smile to Arthur. “Not a chance, darling. I've brought my real parents even though they almost got a heart attack when I said I wanted to marry you. And that guy you met is really the patriarch of my family, Sir William Eames, Senior...”
“So you are real nobility?” Arthur asks with an arched eyebrow.
“Well, yeah, that part about me is true,” Eames admits. “My family-they are my real family. My lineage and title, very much so. My mansion way across the pond also didn’t come from my imagination alone. But, of course, the part about me being a renowned art curator is merely a cover for my real job.”
“I should have known,” Arthur says. “There’s no way a person with such a terrible taste like you could be an art curator.”
Eames throws a nasty glare to Arthur. “I find myself deeply insulted by that statement. I was just using the most convenient cover.”
“But you said you have a degree in psychology. I think that would have been more convenient. Believable, at least.”
“Nah, that’s just a bluff. I studied Art History.”
Arthur looks so affronted, which makes Eames feels even more insulted.
“Art?”
“Art History. It’s reputable.”
“But I still can’t believe you’ve studied art and still managed to have such awful taste. Just look at that curtain you pick in our sitting room,” Arthur says. “It’s so ugly that even bullets won’t come near. I’m personally insulted when I realised that our house is nearly destroyed yet that curtain is still intact as if mocking me.”
“Hey, I picked that curtain for you,” Eames says with mildly affronted tone. “You love flowers. You even joined some gardening club shit and all that. Or are you merely pretending to love flowers? If you are, I have to admit you’re a most exceptional actor with your entire rage-over-gloxinia thing.”
“I do love flowers, and I’m still angry with you over my gloxinia,” Arthur says, glaring at Eames. “But I might have lied a bit about that gardening club…”
“Uh-huh…”
“I’m not really a part of some posh and fancy gardening club, actually,” Arthur admits.
“Then what about that botanical symposium you went to last year?”
“A mission,” Arthur says calmly. “Off to the Alps to hit my target.”
“Ah, that explains the weird souvenirs I got,” Eames says. “You know, it always amazes me why you always seem so reluctant to put up the Christmas tree, considering that you love those bloody gloxinias. I mean, trees and flowers, they’re not so much different.”
“The trees you picked were always horrendous,” Arthur points out.
“They’re environmentally friendly,” Eames replies.
“Just why are you always so anal about picking those ‘environmentally friendly trees’ anyway?” Arthur asks.
“I’m a member of Greenpeace, in case you forgot,” Eames says a bit sullenly.
“No way, you are really part of Greenpeace?”
“I am,” he says. And when Arthur still stares at him sceptically, he huffs. “What? Can’t an assassin care about the fate of this beloved green earth?”
Arthur scoffs at him. “Well, excuse me for being sceptical after all the things you have done to my gloxinia…”
Hearing Arthur’s tone, Eames finds himself suddenly in a defensive mode. Giving Arthur his incredulous stare, he says, “I can’t believe it, our marriage is nearly destroyed, our house is destroyed, we just found out that we're enemies, and you are now queening out about some dying gloxinia?!”
“I love that gloxinia,” Arthur says, returning Eames’ glare with one of his own.
Five years of marriage has taught Eames to read the atmosphere and know when to expect a fight. Thus he knows that their glaring match would soon turn into heated arguments and perhaps even trading insults. Readying himself for some verbal battle, he sits up straighter and crosses his arms in front of his chest.
“I see,” he says scathingly. “More than you love me?”
Arthur stares at him haughtily. “Who said I love you?”
“You married me,” Eames says.
“You slipped something into my tequila that night,” Arthur snaps back.
Eames lets out a mocking chuckle. “Arthur, be reasonable.”
“No. You be reasonable!” Arthur says. “You are the one who’s jealous to some gloxinia... to my gloxinia!”
“I’m your husband, goddamnit.”
“You said you wanted a divorce!”
Eames scoffs. “Yeah, and for some good reasons too…”
Arthur flinches at that. “And what are those, pray tell?”
“Let’s see… lying to me, mistaken identity, being an enemy behind my back, cheating on me…”
“I never cheated on you! I told you I didn’t fuck around!” Arthur cuts him off, looking so enraged that Eames almost feels flattered.
“Excuse me?” Eames says, annoyed that Arthur cut him off in the middle of his speech. “You love your bloody flower garden more than you love me.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fuck… and it all comes back to that again! William, this is not working at all!”
“Oh and what makes you realise that?” Eames says sarcastically. “The fact that we have to see a marriage counsellor? The fact that we nearly killed each other? The fact that we just destroyed our house?”
“Oh, shut up. You're guilty as much as I am.”
“Why, yes, of course, Arthur, sweetheart, darling, need I remind you that we are in this together? Does the word 'marriage' ring any bell in your pretty little head?” Eames says as he turns his face and stares right into Arthur’s eyes. Under his gaze, Arthur maintains his hardened expression for scantly a few seconds before he softly sighs.
“It rings quite a damn huge bell actually,” Arthur admits. He’s pouting a little bit but there’s also the barest hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Very huge bell, I’d say,” Eames says, cannot help but feeling himself also starting to smile.
“Fuck,” Arthur says, burying his face into his hands. “I’m married to my enemy.”
Smirking, Eames raises his eyebrow. “And that’s news?”
As if he didn’t hear him, Arthur continues, “I’m married to my enemy. I am in love with my enemy! This is so fucked up!”
“Well,” Eames says. He uncrosses his arms and says in a tone that he hopes will not betray the fact that he’s very much tempted to blush like a schoolboy. “The enemy loves you too. Guess I just add the fucked up factor a fraction more.”
The quick blinking of Arthur eyes lets Eames know that he’s not that successful at the whole ‘trying-not-too-look-embarrassed’ business. How could he, a trained assassin, suddenly becomes… this pathetic lovesick guy, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he should have put more thought on Arthur’s argument about something slipped into their tequila that night, he thinks sarcastically. Or perhaps… well, perhaps it’s Arthur…
He hesitantly steals a glance to Arthur’s direction, finding out that he was doing the very same thing, and sighs.
“This is ridiculous,” he voices his thought out loud. Spreading his arms wide, he gives Arthur meaningful look, not caring if his score in the ‘lovesick idiot’ scale has just shot up. “Come here.”
Arthur eyes him with something on his face that might be considered as amusement, or incredulity, or confusion, or perhaps, Eames thought as Arthur launches himself into his embrace, it’s love.
And now he’s also a corny bastard aside from a lovesick idiot. But, he thinks as he embraces Arthur tighter and kisses the top of his head, if that would ensure him to get Arthur into his arms, he has no complaint.
“Look at us,” he says softly, his lips are moving against Arthur’s hair, “Having domestic banter in bed like a pair of old married couple.”
“We’re a couple,” Arthur murmurs against his chest, “and married, but not old.”
Eames knows he has a mischievous smile on his lips when he says, “Sorry, darling, but I saw you plucking out your grey hairs in front of the mirror weeks ago.”
Arthur opens his mouth, as if to argue, but at that point both of them hear an unmistakable sound of footsteps. There is no doubt there. They are both people who rely on their keen senses to survive in their jobs so, when they stare at each other, they come to some silent understanding and unspoken agreement.
Eames reaches to the bedside table for his firearm the same moment Arthur takes his gun from under the bedpost. When Eames sees the sleek Para Ordnance LDA pistol Arthur sports, though, he spares a moment to whistle.
“That’s a beauty,” he remarks with a grin. He remembers the gun Arthur used to shoot him during their car chase the other night. He only saw a glimpse of it, but he was sure it was another Para Ordnance. Eames can’t help but think Arthur must have a thing for shiny big guns.
“Flattery will get you very far,” Arthur says, winking at him.
If the situation is different, Eames would surely tackle him back to the bed and have his way with him. But as they both are aware of the possible threat of trespass, they make do with a brief kiss before Eames readies his gun. They’re waiting expectantly as the sounds of footsteps-several people, Eames thinks, possibly two or more-seem to come closer to their bedroom. Fixing his gaze to the door, Eames can see from the corner of his eyes that Arthur has covered his back and eyed the window speculatively.
He smirks. Having an assassin for a husband turns out not to be so bad, as a matter of fact. They could watch each other’s back and Eames knows they would make one very spectacular team if they join forces. Now that’s a nice thought. Arthur is smart and savvy and sexy and anything else that starts with s. Oh, yes, he thinks as the sound comes nearer, they are the real McCoy in the business and they sure as hell are ready for anything.
Yet it somehow escapes their mind that they are currently as naked as the day they’re born to the world. And thus, the first exclamation being uttered after their bedroom door kicked open by the mysterious trespassers is not a threat for their life.
Rather, it’s something that might come from some pearl clutching ladies.
“Oh my fucking God, my eyes!”
…well, minus the ‘fucking’ of course.
Straightening himself in their bed-not minding that the bed sheets are now pooling around his thighs and thus failing in protecting whatever left of his modesty-Eames jumps from the bed and tackle the guy to the floor. The fact that the guy’s eyes are closed helps him a lot in accomplishing his trait. He manages to pin the guy down, shove his face sharply to the floor and press his gun on his neck.
But it seems the trespasser cares more about Eames’ naked state than his gun.
“Cover your fucking bits, you motherfucker!” he screams. “Fucking faggots.”
Feeling his eyebrow twitching, Eames can’t help but shouting back.
“Oh, sorry, Mister, but this faggot shall do what this faggot wants to do,” he says. “And at the moment, this faggot wants to kill you unless you can give me some goddamn good reason why I shouldn’t do that.”
“Remember your blood pressure, dear,” Arthur says soothingly from his position on the bed. His eyes are still trained to the front windows.
“Listen to what your pretty little wifey said, Mister assassin,” the guy says. Eames can see Arthur’s eyes narrowing so he twists the guy’s arm behind him. The scream of pain that follows sounds like music to his ears.
“Who the fuck sent you?” Eames asks icily. He might be in temper, but he can still think rationally. The guy knows about them being assassins. That means it’s no ordinary burglary. The one who sent him must have known about their identities and it can only mean trouble.
The guy gives him a sneer. “Like I would tell you.”
Eames doesn’t hesitate to grab the guy’s hair and bang his head to the floor. Hard.
“Try not to have blood staining the floor,” Arthur says. “It’s hard to get the stains out of woods.”
“I’ll try, darling,” Eames singsongs happily. “Now, my dear husband doesn’t want blood on our beautiful wooden floor so I suggest you cooperate. Who. The fuck. Sent. You?”
In all truth, Eames is content to keep pressing the guys down and perhaps punching him some more, but Arthur’s urgent cry of “William, duck!” turns the ingratiated response that came with his five years of marriage life obeying Arthur’s order whenever he’s using that kind of tone. He’s even tempted to say “Yes, sweetheart” as he ducks his head. He merely whistles as his eyes watch several bullets hole appearing on the closet door, knowing that his head would have exploded if Arthur failed to warn him.
--
They are in the fucking second floor.
Second floor!
How come anyone could shoot them when they’re in the second floor, Arthur thinks with half incredulity and half annoyance. It’s thanks to his ever so cautious eyes which managed to catch the sight of the little red dot-presumably coming from a laser sighted gun-on Eames’ temple that Eames can be spared the fate of getting his head blown up. But the fact that there’s someone out there pointing their weapon at him can only mean one thing.
“Fuck,” he says as his eyes search for the son of a bitch who has released the shot. He sees a movement from the roof of the house across the road.
“Are we surrounded?” Eames voices out the very same thought that has been plaguing Arthur’s mind.
He turns his face and feels his eyebrow twitches in annoyance at the sight that meets him. Eames apparently has taken care of the first intruder by knocking him unconscious. It’s all fine and dandy, but Arthur still narrows his eyes at the sight of blood dribbling from the guy’s nose onto their beloved wooden floor.
“Didn’t I warn you about blood on the floor?” he says archly.
Eames shrugs, as if nothing’s wrong. “My hand slipped.”
Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair and tries to count backward from ten. There’s no use getting all worked up and frustrated because his dear William managed yet again not to follow his very rational wish. Truly, five years of marriage should have taught him that.
Closing his eyes, Arthur takes a deep breath to focus his mind to the most pressing matter at hand-the intruders at their house. Deep breath, he calmly instructs himself, very deep breath.
“Okay,” he says, opening his eyes and directs his gaze to Eames. “Now we should… what the fuck are you doing?!”
Eames looks up from his position, bending at the waist as he tries to shove the unconscious, bleeding intruder into their walk-in closet.
“What? You expect me to leave him bleeding there on your precious wooden floor?” Eames asks.
“That’s our walk-in closet,” Arthur reminds him, “My wardrobe! My… suits and…”
“Just think of this as the payment of my suit that you ruined with that little bomb,” Eames says as he locks the guy inside their closet. Giving Arthur his haughty look, he says, “My Ozwald Boateng suit, you remember?”
Staring at his husband in incredulity, Arthur nearly shouts, “This is not the time to play childish vengeance.”
“And this is not the time to think much about your suits,” Eames says, smirking. “Come on, darling, let’s show those pricks who’s the real McCoy.”
Before Arthur can say anything more, Eames has already exited their bedroom with his gun raised and his body devoid of clothes. Feeling torn between trying to warn Eames about his nudity and the urge to join him, he can only spare a few seconds before his feet bring him to follow Eames.
“William,” he hisses at Eames when he sees him standing with his back pressed against the wall on the end of the hallway that leads to their bedroom. His eyes are watchful and his lips pressed determinately. He could make a very striking figure in some spy action movies if one ignores the fact that he wears nothing to protect his modesty.
“Three people at least,” Eames says.
“More than that,” Arthur replies. Without prompting, he finds that his body has moved to a perfect position to watch Eames’ back and cover every point of attack that might come at them. “The guy who shot us earlier, he did it from the house across the street. That means there’s a possibility that they have surrounded the whole block. I think we first need to…”
“There’s one!” Eames says suddenly before he jumps from his partially hidden position, releases some shots, rolls on the carpeted hallway, and hides himself on the corner opposite Arthur.
It’s a pretty admirable feat, actually. In some universe where cool guys in suits and sunglasses could fight a machine gun without getting his suit scratched or his sunglasses falling from his eyes, such move might even get some standing ovation. But in reality, it’s a pretty stupid move to make, and Arthur lets Eames know about his opinion by glaring at him.
“William!” he hisses.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Eames says, smirking at him, mistaking the harsh note. “Though since there’s no scream I think I’ve missed…”
“Of course you missed. Your aim is awful…”
“You never complain about my so-called aim last night when I make you scream in our bed.”
“Be serious!” he snaps. “Okay, so… we need to formulate a plan.”
“I already have a plan,” Eames says. “You see some guy, you shoot the guy. Pretty easy.”
“But…”
“Bet I could score higher than you, baby,” Eames says with a grin before he’s dashing off, leaving Arthur to gape at him in disbelief. His disbelief only rises when he sees Eames slide off the stairs on his naked ass as if he has no shame. Or perhaps Eames really has no shame. He knows that Eames can be so reckless at times, but he just can’t believe that his husband can still behave like that when they’re facing the real danger of being killed or at least inconveniently wounded.
“Put on some fucking clothes!” he shouts after his husband, past caring if his voice might let his enemies know his position. Realising how that statement makes him sound like hypocrite when he considers his own unclothed state, Arthur makes a brief detour to their bedroom to grab a pair of briefs and put them on.
That being done, he readies his gun and exits the bedroom. His eyes sweep the seemingly empty corridor as he carefully makes his way, cautious of any sound or sight of movement that might catch his senses. He can’t see anyone-not the trespassers and not Eames.
Downstairs, his mind tells him. He’s just about to head to the stairs when the sounds of gunshots reach his ears. They came from the general direction of their kitchen. Arthur tries to ignore the twinge of panic that tugs at his heart at the possibility of Eames getting shot to focus on more important matters like trying to find their assailants before they find him.
So, he thinks, where should he start? Should he head downstairs? The sound of gunshots means that there’s at least one of those guys downstairs, in their kitchen, but Eames has already covered that part. But there’s a possibility that there are more. Should he help his husband? But what if there are also some of them on the second floor? If he goes to help Eames, they would cover less space, and there would be in a single place-all the easier for those guys to surround and ambush them. It’s better to stay separated, but where should he check first?
Just who the fuck decided they should build this large house with many rooms anyway?!
When he’s still busy thinking over the possible course of action, a movement on the corner of his eyes catches his attention. Suddenly alert, he points his gun and shoots twice. The bullets are ricocheting across the walls of the corridors as if mocking him, and he curses.
Next time, he thinks as he runs after the target, they should buy a house that doesn’t have too many walls to disrupt his shots.
--
Eames, meanwhile, is busy clipping in a new magazine-that he takes from the oven-to his gun. He hums softly as he hears the sound of gunshots from upstairs, knowing that it surely comes from Arthur.
“Show them how well you can handle your gun, darling,” he whispers softly as he slips some magazines into the back pocket of his trousers-Arthur’s trousers, to tell the truth, but those are the only pair he could find lying on the stairs so he can’t really complain. It’s better to wear Arthur’s trousers-tight as they are-than running around naked and risk having his balls freezing in the cold morning air.
Another round of gunshots is heard while he’s clicking the safety of his gun off. He has had an encounter with one of their assailants himself. He didn’t manage to take him down, but at least he knows that one of his bullets is now residing in the poor guy’s shoulder. And, no, that’s not because he missed aiming at his heart. Hedid aim for the shoulder.
Whoever says that his aim is awful could shut their pretty little mouth, thank-you-very-much.
He’s only about to go and resume his search for the trespassers when his gaze lands on their open window. From their kitchen, he can see the backyard of their house. He can see their nicely trimmed grass and white picket fence. And he can see a stranger with something that suspiciously looks like a very big, very sturdy, and very mortally-challenging bazooka partially hidden behind the bushes. And he can see really well when the guy points his weapon at his direction.
Upon facing situation like that, even the best of assassins is allowed a moment of panic.
With a loud “Oh, fuck!” Eames runs out of the kitchen, just a moment before the whole kitchen cabinet and all of his beloved tea sets contained within are destroyed to smithereens. The force of the explosions smacks him against the wall and the last thing he thinks before blackness consumes him is ‘now he can’t really complain about my curtain getting away from this unscathed’.
--
The explosion shakes the walls quite a bit, making Arthur stumble in his step. His eyes widen as he realises that the sound is coming from their kitchen. He has a great conviction that Eames is in their kitchen.
At times like that, ‘thinking rationally’ is something that only happens in fiction. At the prospect of finding his husband lying in a bloodied mess on the kitchen floor after being victim to the explosion, Arthur spares no time to think and heads straight to the stairs.
At least, that’s his intention, until someone stops him. Or, rather, a hot bullet grazing his upper arm stops him.
Hissing in pain, he turns his body and releases a shot in reflex. He doesn’t need to see, his instinct is leading him. And judging from the scream that follows, his instinct is still doing him good. He hopes that it will slow his assailant down so he can go check their kitchen downstairs and…
Fuck.
He stares at his gun as a sudden realisation comes to him.
He’s low on ammunition. He needs to go to his working room. He cannot face anyone with a gun which only has a single bullet in it. But that means going to opposite direction from the kitchen. If Eames really does need his help, his detour for more ammo would slow him down and who knows what he would come to when he finally surveys the explosion. But going there without ammo means suicide.
Arthur curses and when he’s still pondering over which course of action to take, a man in suit appeared from one end of the hallway. The man calmly points his gun at him and Arthur knows, without needing to turn around, that there’s another man in similar position standing on the other end of the hallway. He sighs, hating himself and his profession and the fact that he has no mean of communication with Eames whatsoever until he could find himself in this situation, before he lowers his gun and watches the guys walking near.
No matter what movies tell you, there’s no way someone could overpower two guys with loaded weapon simply by fistfight. Arthur is still rational.
He’s just annoyed, though, that those guys look so savvy with their pristine suits and sunglasses-who the heck wears sunglasses indoor anyway-while he looks like some savage from faraway island in nothing but his briefs.
--
When Eames opens his eyes, he realises three things. One, his head is pounding like one hell of a motherfucker. Two, he’s lying on Arthur’s lap with them both already dressed haphazardly. Three, they’re in some moving vehicle which windows are tinted so dark they could not see outside.
Those things make him frown. Things don’t look good from his point of view. Especially when he remembers about those guys who sneaked into their house and made their beautiful little house in the suburbs look closer to resemble the leftover of some air raid.
Wincing as he tries to sit up, he feels Arthur’s hand gently supporting his nape, helping him to sit up straight on the seat beside him. Scrunching his face, half because he’s in pain and half is his way of saying ‘what the fuck happened’ without words, he directs his gaze at Arthur.
If he wishes for some form of sympathy from him, his wish is quickly diminished when he takes notice of Arthur’s hardened expression.
“Er,” he says, “what happened?”
“What happened, William Thomas Philip Eames, is some guys kidnapping us, our house destroyed to ruins, you being an idiot, and we being taken to God knows where,” Arthur says with his harsh clipped tone that he often uses to bitch at his assistant.
Eames is not having his best of times, and having Arthur not only failing to sympathise with him but also seem keen to bitch at him only makes it worse.
“Excuse me,” he says coldly. “I can see about the guys kidnapping us part, and the part about our house being destroyed, but why is it connected to me being an idiot?”
“I told you we need a plan,” Arthur snaps at him.
“You’re too anal,” Eames mutters.
“Organised!” Arthur’s narrowing his eyes. “You’re always the first to break the team. You never listen to what I have to say. Like Christmas, like our anniversary, like the time you forgot to bring my mother’s birthday present.”
“Your fake mother’s birthday present,” Eames corrects him. “And no, Arthur, you don’t want a team. What you want is a servant for hire.”
“I want someone I can count on.”
“Arthur, there’s no air around you anymore,” he sighs.
Arthur scowls. “Oh, okay, what is that supposed to mean?”
“That means there’s no room for mistakes, no mistakes whatsoever. No spontaneity. Who can answer to that?”
“You could at least try to listen to my plan.”
“Oh, so you think your plan would spare me the fate of getting blown up by some bloody bazooka?”
“We would be coordinated at least…”
“Brilliant!” Eames snaps. “Coordination, right. At least I have a valid reason why they managed to get me. You? How come mister sharpshooter can be so easily defeated by a bunch of amateurs?”
Arthur’s eyebrow twitches and Eames hears a faint mumble that suspiciously sounds like ‘run out of ammo’ and ‘worried about you’.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“I got… panicked,” Arthur says with a grumble. “There was an explosion… and I had a suspicion that you might be involved in the explosion and, well, it might have clouded my judgment a bit so they could take me when I was unaware…”
Eames is still a bit miffed, but even he could not maintain his annoyance when he sees Arthur uncomfortably refusing to meet his eyes. Sighing as he realizes that they are having that stupid ‘old married couple’ domestic snit again, he reaches out to grab Arthur’s hands. Holding said hand in his grasp, he smiles at him.
“So I guess you do love me,” he says. “More than you love your gloxinia, seeing that here I am with you while you leave your gloxinia behind.”
Arthur pretends to scrutiny him closely.
“Well, who might have guessed?” he says. “It seems sometimes it does need a direct hit to the head to correct your brain.”
He laughs and is about to kiss Arthur when someone yells from the front of the car.
“Can’t you fuckers back there shut your fucking mouth?”
“Who are you people?” Another voice chimes in, clearly confused.
“Shut up!” Arthur yells back.
Blinking, Eames gives Arthur an arched eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
Arthur rolls his eyes and answers, “Our kidnappers.”
“The amateurs?” Eames exclaims in mildly affronted tone. And he’s justified to feel affronted. Those guys-their kidnappers-are really just a bunch of amateurs. They don’t even tie them up properly, only tying their hands in front with zip ties and letting their feet free without any restraints.
“They don’t really appreciate being called ‘amateurs’,” Arthur tells him. “They tried to strangle me when I called them that.”
Eames clucks his tongue. Reaching out, he caresses Arthur’s cheek, clearly having no intention to follow Amateur-A’s order to shut his mouth.
“My poor baby,” he says. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing, really,” Arthur says. “They tried to strangle me, and failing. I tried to kick them on their balls, and succeeding.”
He snorts. That’s definitely his Arthur. He puts his tied hands over Arthur’s head to pull him closer, and he finally kisses him. Who gives a flying fuck what those amateurs think?
The car swerves and Eames curses as that makes him lose his balance and forces his lips apart from Arthur’s.
“Hey, you, we all know you’re amateurs at kidnapping, but couldn’t you please get your heads together and try not to get us fucking killed?” he shouts.
There’s no answer coming from the front seat and Eames grumbles. His grumble only dies down when Arthur pulls him down until they are somewhat horizontal on the seat.
The amusement he feels when he catches Arthur’s devious expression can somewhat make him forget his annoyance toward their captors.
“Why, Mr. Eames,” he whispers, “that was so naughty of you.”
“I merely want to resume our previous... engagement,” Arthur replies. “Shall we, Mr. Eames?”
He lets out a laugh before they proceed to ‘resume their previous engagement’. And if he makes sure not to keep his voice down, or if Arthur blatantly refuses to hold back his moan, well, no one could blame them, really.
“Well, this is quite fun,” Eames says, breaking off their kiss with a loud smack.
Arthur only hums his agreement, which he takes as his cue to continue.
“I never got kidnapped myself, you know,” he says, reminiscing his old days. “Kidnapping people, yes. Keeping them hostage, sure. Sometimes being an assassin requires you to be able to do those things. But to get kidnapped myself? This is my first time...”
“So in a sense you’re a virgin,” Arthur says with an amused snort. He buries his face deeper to Eames’ chest and sighs in contentment.
“Right. So if we fuck now, it would be like... second first time?” he said. “And it would also be our first time fucking on the backseat.”
Arthur stares at him in shock. “We never fucked on the backseat?”
“Actually, we have, but it was such a long time ago,” he says. “Want to relive that? Our first backseat sex after we reconciled?”
“Want to commemorate it?” Arthur asks.
“Why, you bring a camera with you?” he asks back.
“No, pity,” Arthur says.
“Yeah. I kinda wish one day we could show the photos of this day to the kiddies and told them ‘this is from the time when your daddies got kidnapped by some very incompetent kidnappers’.”
“Kiddies?” Arthur asks harshly. “Who said anything about kiddies?”
Eames is all for answering-and perhaps somewhat making Arthur squirm a bit more with his answer-but the van suddenly stops and he finds himself suddenly grow alert. It seems that they have arrived at whatever place their kidnappers are taking them.
Turning his face a bit, he trades a few seconds of meaningful gaze with Arthur before they come to their silent agreement. Straightening themselves out on the seat, they wait for the door to open. Eames knows that Arthur feels the same way with him-he must be curious about the identity of the person behind this. Who has staged this whole kidnapping business? Who could it be, to know their identities as assassins, to know where they live, to order a little squad of people (amateurs as they are) only to capture them without making any attempt to kill them?
Whoever it is, they want them alive. Which means, they surely want to talk with them. About what, he doesn’t know.
“If this turns out not to be good, or interesting,” Eames says. “I’ll surely kill the bastard for making us miss the opportunity to have some nice old fashioned backseat sex.”
[till death do us part] next >>
Part VIII: to love and to hold
[masterpost]
<< [in sickness and in health] previous
When Eames opens his eyes, he finds out that it’s still dark outside. He finds out that their house is still standing-though barely. And he finds out that he's smiling. It brings to his mind a sense of astonishment. He can't really recall the last time he woke up smiling. And when he's at it, he also can't recall the last time he woke up with his limbs entangled with Arthur's under their bed sheets, feeling really happy and content just because he could wake up beside his husband.
His husband, Eames thinks with a fond smile, watching the sight of Arthur's sleeping face pressed against his chest. His fingers absentmindedly play with the strands of Arthur's hair, remembering the time long past when he oftentimes did that. He loves playing with Arthur's hair, caressing it, twirling it between his fingers. He loves watching Arthur waking up when he's still having his fingers amidst his hair. He loves Arthur's mildly curious expression that he always wore whenever he caught him playing with his hair when he's asleep.
How many months have it been since the last time he enjoyed that luxury, he thinks. Then Eames recalls the small talk they had last night before they both fell asleep. It has actually been twenty months. Twenty long months, and it reminds him of one more thing that he misses, making him half expecting, half hoping, that Arthur would open his eyes just like how he used to do in the past, smiling at him before kissing his cheek good morning.
And true to the memories, Arthur's eyes blink open in the middle of Eames' playful exploration of his hair. And he smiles. And before either of them can fully comprehend it, Eames has already offered his cheek and Arthur has already planted his kiss there.
A good morning kiss, Eames thinks. And he dares thinking that their morning would be 'good' indeed.
“Well,” he says, smiling to Arthur before his smile turns into one bemused frown. “This is weird.”
Arthur only gives something that can pass as an amused snort as his reply.
“I mean, this isn’t just me, right?” he asks. “This is really weird, don’t you think so?”
“What?” Arthur asks back. “Is it weird that we nearly destroyed our house in a not-so-really domestic fight involving firearms and explosion? Is it weird that after said fighting we had the best sex in… I don’t know, the last three years of our married life? Is it weird that, considering we’ve been trying to kill each other, we now find ourselves waking up in the same bed?”
“Are you trying to be sarcastic? You are trying to be sarcastic, aren’t you?” he says.
Arthur gives a small yawn as he proceeds to sit up on the bed. With his back now propped against the headboard, he stares down at Eames. “It’s the truth.”
Eames only snorts. He scoots closer to Arthur’s waist, and could not hold back a smile when Arthur does not flinch at his touch. Rather, he casually places his hand on Eames’ shoulder, drawing him nearer, as if protecting him from harm.
“Well, at least now we can’t really complain that our married life is dull,” he says.
“I thought you asked for a divorce,” Arthur says lightly.
“I thought you haven’t signed any divorce paper yet,” Eames retorts. Nuzzling his cheek against Arthur’s hip, he says, “Then again, this might be my second chance about this. Divorce is such an exhausting process.”
“Yes, what with all those paperwork that have to be signed and processed,” Arthur says solemnly.
“And not to mention the deal with the court and lawyers and all,” Eames agrees. “So, I guess, we’re stuck as a couple for now.”
“We did say that we’ll love and cherish each other until death do us part,” Arthur says, looking down at Eames fondly. Then his expression turns serious when he says, “William, we need to talk.”
Eames carefully stares at Arthur. “Is this the kind of ‘talk’ that would end with you getting extremely annoyed at me and banish me to sleep on the sofa for a week?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Half our sitting room is destroyed.”
“Oh, right,” Eames says with a grin. “I should remember that for later-hide in the sitting room when we’re fighting and you’re having your trigger happy time. That way, you won’t make me sleep on the sofa.”
“William, seriously,” Arthur says, chuckling, “we need to talk. We have so many things to talk about, and I’m not only speaking about the amount of money that we have to spend to refurbish our house after we nearly…”
“You’re laughing,” Eames cuts in the middle of Arthur’s sentence, making him stop and stare at him in something that looks like surprise. Eames knows that it’s impolite to cut one’s speech-his father would have a fit should he dare doing that to him. But it’s been so long since the last time he saw Arthur chuckling, laughing, being happy in general while lazing around in bed with him.
It makes him realise how he has come to miss it, the sight, the sound of Arthur laughing, the way his eyes lighten up and his smile break on his face forming a pair of dimples that always make him look years younger than he actually is.
“I am,” Arthur says, agreeing and still smiling.
“You look gorgeous when you laugh,” Eames says.
“Always a flatterer, you,” Arthur says. His hand rubs the back of Eames’ neck, making him sigh in contentment. “I guess that part of you is true, then?”
Eames blinks one of his eyes-which have somehow closed under Arthur’s gentle ministration-open and regards Arthur with an inquiring stare.
“What part?” he asks.
“The part about you being a charming, suave bastard,” Arthur says with a smirk. “That’s what I want to talk about with you now, actually. We’re… we’ve been lying to each other for these many years… how many lies have we told each other? And I just-somehow I want to know the truth now that we finally come to this point.”
Thinking about it, Eames knows it’s the truth. What’s the use of hiding anything now that their identities are already out in the open? What’s the use of keep lying to Arthur? What’s the use of keep lying to himself?
Drawing back from Arthur’s gentle fingers, he rises from his lying position and sits beside Arthur.
“Alright,” he says, smiling. “Now you can tell me that your real name is Rex or something equally butch.”
Arthur frowns at him. “Sorry, but Arthur is my real name. What’s wrong with that name, anyway?”
“That doesn’t really sound like a cool name for an assassin to have,” Eames says.
“Oh, like ‘Willy’ is any better,” Arthur snips back.
“You’d hate it too if you spend half your teenage days being called Willy from Willy Wonka by your mum and sisters,” Eames retorts.
They glare at each other before Eames sighs.
“Truce?” he asks.
“Truce,” Arthur agrees. “So, Arthur is my real name, my real identity, even though I’m not really an architect. My parents are not… well, those guys you met during our wedding ceremony… they’re not my real parents, actually.”
Eames tilts his face a bit. “Not your ‘real’ parents as in they are your guardian?”
“Not my ‘real’ parents as in they’re paid actors,” Arthur says with a little wince.
Eames, for a moment, thinks that he must have misheard things. But Arthur’s expression speaks the truth, and he could feel his eyes widen.
“Paid actors?!” he nearly shouts. “You got some bloody paid actors to pose as your parents for our wedding? Our wedding, Arthur… that’s… you are so... impossible!”
“Hey,” Arthur says indignantly. “Undercover assassin agent, here.”
“I knew it. I fucking knew it,” Eames says with a sigh. He rubs his eyes as his mind recalls their wedding. “I’ve seen your ‘dad’ in TV before... he’s in that detergent advert shit. And all along I thought I was delusional after consuming too much wedding champagne.”
Arthur chuckles softly beside him and Eames can see the faint scars on his face. He reaches forward, tracing those long lines marring Arthur’s cheek with his fingers, realising that he’s the one who has put them there.
“So…” he says. “Any chance I can see your real parents? You know, to let them know that I’ve taken their son as my lawfully wedded husband.”
“Er… I don’t think so,” Arthur says, unconsciously leaning to Eames’ touch. “They left me to my grandmother when I was five. I can’t even remember their face…”
Eames’ hand stills, with his fingers still pressed gently against Arthur’s cheek. “Oh.”
“But never mind that… how about you?” Arthur asks. “Is it too much for me to hope that your father is not actually related to you and all that ‘how-can-you-marry-some-American-guy-William-shame-on-you’ nonsense of his was actually only an act?”
Eames actually laughs at that. He retracts his hand and throws his most charming smile to Arthur. “Not a chance, darling. I've brought my real parents even though they almost got a heart attack when I said I wanted to marry you. And that guy you met is really the patriarch of my family, Sir William Eames, Senior...”
“So you are real nobility?” Arthur asks with an arched eyebrow.
“Well, yeah, that part about me is true,” Eames admits. “My family-they are my real family. My lineage and title, very much so. My mansion way across the pond also didn’t come from my imagination alone. But, of course, the part about me being a renowned art curator is merely a cover for my real job.”
“I should have known,” Arthur says. “There’s no way a person with such a terrible taste like you could be an art curator.”
Eames throws a nasty glare to Arthur. “I find myself deeply insulted by that statement. I was just using the most convenient cover.”
“But you said you have a degree in psychology. I think that would have been more convenient. Believable, at least.”
“Nah, that’s just a bluff. I studied Art History.”
Arthur looks so affronted, which makes Eames feels even more insulted.
“Art?”
“Art History. It’s reputable.”
“But I still can’t believe you’ve studied art and still managed to have such awful taste. Just look at that curtain you pick in our sitting room,” Arthur says. “It’s so ugly that even bullets won’t come near. I’m personally insulted when I realised that our house is nearly destroyed yet that curtain is still intact as if mocking me.”
“Hey, I picked that curtain for you,” Eames says with mildly affronted tone. “You love flowers. You even joined some gardening club shit and all that. Or are you merely pretending to love flowers? If you are, I have to admit you’re a most exceptional actor with your entire rage-over-gloxinia thing.”
“I do love flowers, and I’m still angry with you over my gloxinia,” Arthur says, glaring at Eames. “But I might have lied a bit about that gardening club…”
“Uh-huh…”
“I’m not really a part of some posh and fancy gardening club, actually,” Arthur admits.
“Then what about that botanical symposium you went to last year?”
“A mission,” Arthur says calmly. “Off to the Alps to hit my target.”
“Ah, that explains the weird souvenirs I got,” Eames says. “You know, it always amazes me why you always seem so reluctant to put up the Christmas tree, considering that you love those bloody gloxinias. I mean, trees and flowers, they’re not so much different.”
“The trees you picked were always horrendous,” Arthur points out.
“They’re environmentally friendly,” Eames replies.
“Just why are you always so anal about picking those ‘environmentally friendly trees’ anyway?” Arthur asks.
“I’m a member of Greenpeace, in case you forgot,” Eames says a bit sullenly.
“No way, you are really part of Greenpeace?”
“I am,” he says. And when Arthur still stares at him sceptically, he huffs. “What? Can’t an assassin care about the fate of this beloved green earth?”
Arthur scoffs at him. “Well, excuse me for being sceptical after all the things you have done to my gloxinia…”
Hearing Arthur’s tone, Eames finds himself suddenly in a defensive mode. Giving Arthur his incredulous stare, he says, “I can’t believe it, our marriage is nearly destroyed, our house is destroyed, we just found out that we're enemies, and you are now queening out about some dying gloxinia?!”
“I love that gloxinia,” Arthur says, returning Eames’ glare with one of his own.
Five years of marriage has taught Eames to read the atmosphere and know when to expect a fight. Thus he knows that their glaring match would soon turn into heated arguments and perhaps even trading insults. Readying himself for some verbal battle, he sits up straighter and crosses his arms in front of his chest.
“I see,” he says scathingly. “More than you love me?”
Arthur stares at him haughtily. “Who said I love you?”
“You married me,” Eames says.
“You slipped something into my tequila that night,” Arthur snaps back.
Eames lets out a mocking chuckle. “Arthur, be reasonable.”
“No. You be reasonable!” Arthur says. “You are the one who’s jealous to some gloxinia... to my gloxinia!”
“I’m your husband, goddamnit.”
“You said you wanted a divorce!”
Eames scoffs. “Yeah, and for some good reasons too…”
Arthur flinches at that. “And what are those, pray tell?”
“Let’s see… lying to me, mistaken identity, being an enemy behind my back, cheating on me…”
“I never cheated on you! I told you I didn’t fuck around!” Arthur cuts him off, looking so enraged that Eames almost feels flattered.
“Excuse me?” Eames says, annoyed that Arthur cut him off in the middle of his speech. “You love your bloody flower garden more than you love me.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fuck… and it all comes back to that again! William, this is not working at all!”
“Oh and what makes you realise that?” Eames says sarcastically. “The fact that we have to see a marriage counsellor? The fact that we nearly killed each other? The fact that we just destroyed our house?”
“Oh, shut up. You're guilty as much as I am.”
“Why, yes, of course, Arthur, sweetheart, darling, need I remind you that we are in this together? Does the word 'marriage' ring any bell in your pretty little head?” Eames says as he turns his face and stares right into Arthur’s eyes. Under his gaze, Arthur maintains his hardened expression for scantly a few seconds before he softly sighs.
“It rings quite a damn huge bell actually,” Arthur admits. He’s pouting a little bit but there’s also the barest hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Very huge bell, I’d say,” Eames says, cannot help but feeling himself also starting to smile.
“Fuck,” Arthur says, burying his face into his hands. “I’m married to my enemy.”
Smirking, Eames raises his eyebrow. “And that’s news?”
As if he didn’t hear him, Arthur continues, “I’m married to my enemy. I am in love with my enemy! This is so fucked up!”
“Well,” Eames says. He uncrosses his arms and says in a tone that he hopes will not betray the fact that he’s very much tempted to blush like a schoolboy. “The enemy loves you too. Guess I just add the fucked up factor a fraction more.”
The quick blinking of Arthur eyes lets Eames know that he’s not that successful at the whole ‘trying-not-too-look-embarrassed’ business. How could he, a trained assassin, suddenly becomes… this pathetic lovesick guy, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he should have put more thought on Arthur’s argument about something slipped into their tequila that night, he thinks sarcastically. Or perhaps… well, perhaps it’s Arthur…
He hesitantly steals a glance to Arthur’s direction, finding out that he was doing the very same thing, and sighs.
“This is ridiculous,” he voices his thought out loud. Spreading his arms wide, he gives Arthur meaningful look, not caring if his score in the ‘lovesick idiot’ scale has just shot up. “Come here.”
Arthur eyes him with something on his face that might be considered as amusement, or incredulity, or confusion, or perhaps, Eames thought as Arthur launches himself into his embrace, it’s love.
And now he’s also a corny bastard aside from a lovesick idiot. But, he thinks as he embraces Arthur tighter and kisses the top of his head, if that would ensure him to get Arthur into his arms, he has no complaint.
“Look at us,” he says softly, his lips are moving against Arthur’s hair, “Having domestic banter in bed like a pair of old married couple.”
“We’re a couple,” Arthur murmurs against his chest, “and married, but not old.”
Eames knows he has a mischievous smile on his lips when he says, “Sorry, darling, but I saw you plucking out your grey hairs in front of the mirror weeks ago.”
Arthur opens his mouth, as if to argue, but at that point both of them hear an unmistakable sound of footsteps. There is no doubt there. They are both people who rely on their keen senses to survive in their jobs so, when they stare at each other, they come to some silent understanding and unspoken agreement.
Eames reaches to the bedside table for his firearm the same moment Arthur takes his gun from under the bedpost. When Eames sees the sleek Para Ordnance LDA pistol Arthur sports, though, he spares a moment to whistle.
“That’s a beauty,” he remarks with a grin. He remembers the gun Arthur used to shoot him during their car chase the other night. He only saw a glimpse of it, but he was sure it was another Para Ordnance. Eames can’t help but think Arthur must have a thing for shiny big guns.
“Flattery will get you very far,” Arthur says, winking at him.
If the situation is different, Eames would surely tackle him back to the bed and have his way with him. But as they both are aware of the possible threat of trespass, they make do with a brief kiss before Eames readies his gun. They’re waiting expectantly as the sounds of footsteps-several people, Eames thinks, possibly two or more-seem to come closer to their bedroom. Fixing his gaze to the door, Eames can see from the corner of his eyes that Arthur has covered his back and eyed the window speculatively.
He smirks. Having an assassin for a husband turns out not to be so bad, as a matter of fact. They could watch each other’s back and Eames knows they would make one very spectacular team if they join forces. Now that’s a nice thought. Arthur is smart and savvy and sexy and anything else that starts with s. Oh, yes, he thinks as the sound comes nearer, they are the real McCoy in the business and they sure as hell are ready for anything.
Yet it somehow escapes their mind that they are currently as naked as the day they’re born to the world. And thus, the first exclamation being uttered after their bedroom door kicked open by the mysterious trespassers is not a threat for their life.
Rather, it’s something that might come from some pearl clutching ladies.
“Oh my fucking God, my eyes!”
…well, minus the ‘fucking’ of course.
Straightening himself in their bed-not minding that the bed sheets are now pooling around his thighs and thus failing in protecting whatever left of his modesty-Eames jumps from the bed and tackle the guy to the floor. The fact that the guy’s eyes are closed helps him a lot in accomplishing his trait. He manages to pin the guy down, shove his face sharply to the floor and press his gun on his neck.
But it seems the trespasser cares more about Eames’ naked state than his gun.
“Cover your fucking bits, you motherfucker!” he screams. “Fucking faggots.”
Feeling his eyebrow twitching, Eames can’t help but shouting back.
“Oh, sorry, Mister, but this faggot shall do what this faggot wants to do,” he says. “And at the moment, this faggot wants to kill you unless you can give me some goddamn good reason why I shouldn’t do that.”
“Remember your blood pressure, dear,” Arthur says soothingly from his position on the bed. His eyes are still trained to the front windows.
“Listen to what your pretty little wifey said, Mister assassin,” the guy says. Eames can see Arthur’s eyes narrowing so he twists the guy’s arm behind him. The scream of pain that follows sounds like music to his ears.
“Who the fuck sent you?” Eames asks icily. He might be in temper, but he can still think rationally. The guy knows about them being assassins. That means it’s no ordinary burglary. The one who sent him must have known about their identities and it can only mean trouble.
The guy gives him a sneer. “Like I would tell you.”
Eames doesn’t hesitate to grab the guy’s hair and bang his head to the floor. Hard.
“Try not to have blood staining the floor,” Arthur says. “It’s hard to get the stains out of woods.”
“I’ll try, darling,” Eames singsongs happily. “Now, my dear husband doesn’t want blood on our beautiful wooden floor so I suggest you cooperate. Who. The fuck. Sent. You?”
In all truth, Eames is content to keep pressing the guys down and perhaps punching him some more, but Arthur’s urgent cry of “William, duck!” turns the ingratiated response that came with his five years of marriage life obeying Arthur’s order whenever he’s using that kind of tone. He’s even tempted to say “Yes, sweetheart” as he ducks his head. He merely whistles as his eyes watch several bullets hole appearing on the closet door, knowing that his head would have exploded if Arthur failed to warn him.
--
They are in the fucking second floor.
Second floor!
How come anyone could shoot them when they’re in the second floor, Arthur thinks with half incredulity and half annoyance. It’s thanks to his ever so cautious eyes which managed to catch the sight of the little red dot-presumably coming from a laser sighted gun-on Eames’ temple that Eames can be spared the fate of getting his head blown up. But the fact that there’s someone out there pointing their weapon at him can only mean one thing.
“Fuck,” he says as his eyes search for the son of a bitch who has released the shot. He sees a movement from the roof of the house across the road.
“Are we surrounded?” Eames voices out the very same thought that has been plaguing Arthur’s mind.
He turns his face and feels his eyebrow twitches in annoyance at the sight that meets him. Eames apparently has taken care of the first intruder by knocking him unconscious. It’s all fine and dandy, but Arthur still narrows his eyes at the sight of blood dribbling from the guy’s nose onto their beloved wooden floor.
“Didn’t I warn you about blood on the floor?” he says archly.
Eames shrugs, as if nothing’s wrong. “My hand slipped.”
Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair and tries to count backward from ten. There’s no use getting all worked up and frustrated because his dear William managed yet again not to follow his very rational wish. Truly, five years of marriage should have taught him that.
Closing his eyes, Arthur takes a deep breath to focus his mind to the most pressing matter at hand-the intruders at their house. Deep breath, he calmly instructs himself, very deep breath.
“Okay,” he says, opening his eyes and directs his gaze to Eames. “Now we should… what the fuck are you doing?!”
Eames looks up from his position, bending at the waist as he tries to shove the unconscious, bleeding intruder into their walk-in closet.
“What? You expect me to leave him bleeding there on your precious wooden floor?” Eames asks.
“That’s our walk-in closet,” Arthur reminds him, “My wardrobe! My… suits and…”
“Just think of this as the payment of my suit that you ruined with that little bomb,” Eames says as he locks the guy inside their closet. Giving Arthur his haughty look, he says, “My Ozwald Boateng suit, you remember?”
Staring at his husband in incredulity, Arthur nearly shouts, “This is not the time to play childish vengeance.”
“And this is not the time to think much about your suits,” Eames says, smirking. “Come on, darling, let’s show those pricks who’s the real McCoy.”
Before Arthur can say anything more, Eames has already exited their bedroom with his gun raised and his body devoid of clothes. Feeling torn between trying to warn Eames about his nudity and the urge to join him, he can only spare a few seconds before his feet bring him to follow Eames.
“William,” he hisses at Eames when he sees him standing with his back pressed against the wall on the end of the hallway that leads to their bedroom. His eyes are watchful and his lips pressed determinately. He could make a very striking figure in some spy action movies if one ignores the fact that he wears nothing to protect his modesty.
“Three people at least,” Eames says.
“More than that,” Arthur replies. Without prompting, he finds that his body has moved to a perfect position to watch Eames’ back and cover every point of attack that might come at them. “The guy who shot us earlier, he did it from the house across the street. That means there’s a possibility that they have surrounded the whole block. I think we first need to…”
“There’s one!” Eames says suddenly before he jumps from his partially hidden position, releases some shots, rolls on the carpeted hallway, and hides himself on the corner opposite Arthur.
It’s a pretty admirable feat, actually. In some universe where cool guys in suits and sunglasses could fight a machine gun without getting his suit scratched or his sunglasses falling from his eyes, such move might even get some standing ovation. But in reality, it’s a pretty stupid move to make, and Arthur lets Eames know about his opinion by glaring at him.
“William!” he hisses.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Eames says, smirking at him, mistaking the harsh note. “Though since there’s no scream I think I’ve missed…”
“Of course you missed. Your aim is awful…”
“You never complain about my so-called aim last night when I make you scream in our bed.”
“Be serious!” he snaps. “Okay, so… we need to formulate a plan.”
“I already have a plan,” Eames says. “You see some guy, you shoot the guy. Pretty easy.”
“But…”
“Bet I could score higher than you, baby,” Eames says with a grin before he’s dashing off, leaving Arthur to gape at him in disbelief. His disbelief only rises when he sees Eames slide off the stairs on his naked ass as if he has no shame. Or perhaps Eames really has no shame. He knows that Eames can be so reckless at times, but he just can’t believe that his husband can still behave like that when they’re facing the real danger of being killed or at least inconveniently wounded.
“Put on some fucking clothes!” he shouts after his husband, past caring if his voice might let his enemies know his position. Realising how that statement makes him sound like hypocrite when he considers his own unclothed state, Arthur makes a brief detour to their bedroom to grab a pair of briefs and put them on.
That being done, he readies his gun and exits the bedroom. His eyes sweep the seemingly empty corridor as he carefully makes his way, cautious of any sound or sight of movement that might catch his senses. He can’t see anyone-not the trespassers and not Eames.
Downstairs, his mind tells him. He’s just about to head to the stairs when the sounds of gunshots reach his ears. They came from the general direction of their kitchen. Arthur tries to ignore the twinge of panic that tugs at his heart at the possibility of Eames getting shot to focus on more important matters like trying to find their assailants before they find him.
So, he thinks, where should he start? Should he head downstairs? The sound of gunshots means that there’s at least one of those guys downstairs, in their kitchen, but Eames has already covered that part. But there’s a possibility that there are more. Should he help his husband? But what if there are also some of them on the second floor? If he goes to help Eames, they would cover less space, and there would be in a single place-all the easier for those guys to surround and ambush them. It’s better to stay separated, but where should he check first?
Just who the fuck decided they should build this large house with many rooms anyway?!
When he’s still busy thinking over the possible course of action, a movement on the corner of his eyes catches his attention. Suddenly alert, he points his gun and shoots twice. The bullets are ricocheting across the walls of the corridors as if mocking him, and he curses.
Next time, he thinks as he runs after the target, they should buy a house that doesn’t have too many walls to disrupt his shots.
--
Eames, meanwhile, is busy clipping in a new magazine-that he takes from the oven-to his gun. He hums softly as he hears the sound of gunshots from upstairs, knowing that it surely comes from Arthur.
“Show them how well you can handle your gun, darling,” he whispers softly as he slips some magazines into the back pocket of his trousers-Arthur’s trousers, to tell the truth, but those are the only pair he could find lying on the stairs so he can’t really complain. It’s better to wear Arthur’s trousers-tight as they are-than running around naked and risk having his balls freezing in the cold morning air.
Another round of gunshots is heard while he’s clicking the safety of his gun off. He has had an encounter with one of their assailants himself. He didn’t manage to take him down, but at least he knows that one of his bullets is now residing in the poor guy’s shoulder. And, no, that’s not because he missed aiming at his heart. Hedid aim for the shoulder.
Whoever says that his aim is awful could shut their pretty little mouth, thank-you-very-much.
He’s only about to go and resume his search for the trespassers when his gaze lands on their open window. From their kitchen, he can see the backyard of their house. He can see their nicely trimmed grass and white picket fence. And he can see a stranger with something that suspiciously looks like a very big, very sturdy, and very mortally-challenging bazooka partially hidden behind the bushes. And he can see really well when the guy points his weapon at his direction.
Upon facing situation like that, even the best of assassins is allowed a moment of panic.
With a loud “Oh, fuck!” Eames runs out of the kitchen, just a moment before the whole kitchen cabinet and all of his beloved tea sets contained within are destroyed to smithereens. The force of the explosions smacks him against the wall and the last thing he thinks before blackness consumes him is ‘now he can’t really complain about my curtain getting away from this unscathed’.
--
The explosion shakes the walls quite a bit, making Arthur stumble in his step. His eyes widen as he realises that the sound is coming from their kitchen. He has a great conviction that Eames is in their kitchen.
At times like that, ‘thinking rationally’ is something that only happens in fiction. At the prospect of finding his husband lying in a bloodied mess on the kitchen floor after being victim to the explosion, Arthur spares no time to think and heads straight to the stairs.
At least, that’s his intention, until someone stops him. Or, rather, a hot bullet grazing his upper arm stops him.
Hissing in pain, he turns his body and releases a shot in reflex. He doesn’t need to see, his instinct is leading him. And judging from the scream that follows, his instinct is still doing him good. He hopes that it will slow his assailant down so he can go check their kitchen downstairs and…
Fuck.
He stares at his gun as a sudden realisation comes to him.
He’s low on ammunition. He needs to go to his working room. He cannot face anyone with a gun which only has a single bullet in it. But that means going to opposite direction from the kitchen. If Eames really does need his help, his detour for more ammo would slow him down and who knows what he would come to when he finally surveys the explosion. But going there without ammo means suicide.
Arthur curses and when he’s still pondering over which course of action to take, a man in suit appeared from one end of the hallway. The man calmly points his gun at him and Arthur knows, without needing to turn around, that there’s another man in similar position standing on the other end of the hallway. He sighs, hating himself and his profession and the fact that he has no mean of communication with Eames whatsoever until he could find himself in this situation, before he lowers his gun and watches the guys walking near.
No matter what movies tell you, there’s no way someone could overpower two guys with loaded weapon simply by fistfight. Arthur is still rational.
He’s just annoyed, though, that those guys look so savvy with their pristine suits and sunglasses-who the heck wears sunglasses indoor anyway-while he looks like some savage from faraway island in nothing but his briefs.
--
When Eames opens his eyes, he realises three things. One, his head is pounding like one hell of a motherfucker. Two, he’s lying on Arthur’s lap with them both already dressed haphazardly. Three, they’re in some moving vehicle which windows are tinted so dark they could not see outside.
Those things make him frown. Things don’t look good from his point of view. Especially when he remembers about those guys who sneaked into their house and made their beautiful little house in the suburbs look closer to resemble the leftover of some air raid.
Wincing as he tries to sit up, he feels Arthur’s hand gently supporting his nape, helping him to sit up straight on the seat beside him. Scrunching his face, half because he’s in pain and half is his way of saying ‘what the fuck happened’ without words, he directs his gaze at Arthur.
If he wishes for some form of sympathy from him, his wish is quickly diminished when he takes notice of Arthur’s hardened expression.
“Er,” he says, “what happened?”
“What happened, William Thomas Philip Eames, is some guys kidnapping us, our house destroyed to ruins, you being an idiot, and we being taken to God knows where,” Arthur says with his harsh clipped tone that he often uses to bitch at his assistant.
Eames is not having his best of times, and having Arthur not only failing to sympathise with him but also seem keen to bitch at him only makes it worse.
“Excuse me,” he says coldly. “I can see about the guys kidnapping us part, and the part about our house being destroyed, but why is it connected to me being an idiot?”
“I told you we need a plan,” Arthur snaps at him.
“You’re too anal,” Eames mutters.
“Organised!” Arthur’s narrowing his eyes. “You’re always the first to break the team. You never listen to what I have to say. Like Christmas, like our anniversary, like the time you forgot to bring my mother’s birthday present.”
“Your fake mother’s birthday present,” Eames corrects him. “And no, Arthur, you don’t want a team. What you want is a servant for hire.”
“I want someone I can count on.”
“Arthur, there’s no air around you anymore,” he sighs.
Arthur scowls. “Oh, okay, what is that supposed to mean?”
“That means there’s no room for mistakes, no mistakes whatsoever. No spontaneity. Who can answer to that?”
“You could at least try to listen to my plan.”
“Oh, so you think your plan would spare me the fate of getting blown up by some bloody bazooka?”
“We would be coordinated at least…”
“Brilliant!” Eames snaps. “Coordination, right. At least I have a valid reason why they managed to get me. You? How come mister sharpshooter can be so easily defeated by a bunch of amateurs?”
Arthur’s eyebrow twitches and Eames hears a faint mumble that suspiciously sounds like ‘run out of ammo’ and ‘worried about you’.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“I got… panicked,” Arthur says with a grumble. “There was an explosion… and I had a suspicion that you might be involved in the explosion and, well, it might have clouded my judgment a bit so they could take me when I was unaware…”
Eames is still a bit miffed, but even he could not maintain his annoyance when he sees Arthur uncomfortably refusing to meet his eyes. Sighing as he realizes that they are having that stupid ‘old married couple’ domestic snit again, he reaches out to grab Arthur’s hands. Holding said hand in his grasp, he smiles at him.
“So I guess you do love me,” he says. “More than you love your gloxinia, seeing that here I am with you while you leave your gloxinia behind.”
Arthur pretends to scrutiny him closely.
“Well, who might have guessed?” he says. “It seems sometimes it does need a direct hit to the head to correct your brain.”
He laughs and is about to kiss Arthur when someone yells from the front of the car.
“Can’t you fuckers back there shut your fucking mouth?”
“Who are you people?” Another voice chimes in, clearly confused.
“Shut up!” Arthur yells back.
Blinking, Eames gives Arthur an arched eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
Arthur rolls his eyes and answers, “Our kidnappers.”
“The amateurs?” Eames exclaims in mildly affronted tone. And he’s justified to feel affronted. Those guys-their kidnappers-are really just a bunch of amateurs. They don’t even tie them up properly, only tying their hands in front with zip ties and letting their feet free without any restraints.
“They don’t really appreciate being called ‘amateurs’,” Arthur tells him. “They tried to strangle me when I called them that.”
Eames clucks his tongue. Reaching out, he caresses Arthur’s cheek, clearly having no intention to follow Amateur-A’s order to shut his mouth.
“My poor baby,” he says. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing, really,” Arthur says. “They tried to strangle me, and failing. I tried to kick them on their balls, and succeeding.”
He snorts. That’s definitely his Arthur. He puts his tied hands over Arthur’s head to pull him closer, and he finally kisses him. Who gives a flying fuck what those amateurs think?
The car swerves and Eames curses as that makes him lose his balance and forces his lips apart from Arthur’s.
“Hey, you, we all know you’re amateurs at kidnapping, but couldn’t you please get your heads together and try not to get us fucking killed?” he shouts.
There’s no answer coming from the front seat and Eames grumbles. His grumble only dies down when Arthur pulls him down until they are somewhat horizontal on the seat.
The amusement he feels when he catches Arthur’s devious expression can somewhat make him forget his annoyance toward their captors.
“Why, Mr. Eames,” he whispers, “that was so naughty of you.”
“I merely want to resume our previous... engagement,” Arthur replies. “Shall we, Mr. Eames?”
He lets out a laugh before they proceed to ‘resume their previous engagement’. And if he makes sure not to keep his voice down, or if Arthur blatantly refuses to hold back his moan, well, no one could blame them, really.
“Well, this is quite fun,” Eames says, breaking off their kiss with a loud smack.
Arthur only hums his agreement, which he takes as his cue to continue.
“I never got kidnapped myself, you know,” he says, reminiscing his old days. “Kidnapping people, yes. Keeping them hostage, sure. Sometimes being an assassin requires you to be able to do those things. But to get kidnapped myself? This is my first time...”
“So in a sense you’re a virgin,” Arthur says with an amused snort. He buries his face deeper to Eames’ chest and sighs in contentment.
“Right. So if we fuck now, it would be like... second first time?” he said. “And it would also be our first time fucking on the backseat.”
Arthur stares at him in shock. “We never fucked on the backseat?”
“Actually, we have, but it was such a long time ago,” he says. “Want to relive that? Our first backseat sex after we reconciled?”
“Want to commemorate it?” Arthur asks.
“Why, you bring a camera with you?” he asks back.
“No, pity,” Arthur says.
“Yeah. I kinda wish one day we could show the photos of this day to the kiddies and told them ‘this is from the time when your daddies got kidnapped by some very incompetent kidnappers’.”
“Kiddies?” Arthur asks harshly. “Who said anything about kiddies?”
Eames is all for answering-and perhaps somewhat making Arthur squirm a bit more with his answer-but the van suddenly stops and he finds himself suddenly grow alert. It seems that they have arrived at whatever place their kidnappers are taking them.
Turning his face a bit, he trades a few seconds of meaningful gaze with Arthur before they come to their silent agreement. Straightening themselves out on the seat, they wait for the door to open. Eames knows that Arthur feels the same way with him-he must be curious about the identity of the person behind this. Who has staged this whole kidnapping business? Who could it be, to know their identities as assassins, to know where they live, to order a little squad of people (amateurs as they are) only to capture them without making any attempt to kill them?
Whoever it is, they want them alive. Which means, they surely want to talk with them. About what, he doesn’t know.
“If this turns out not to be good, or interesting,” Eames says. “I’ll surely kill the bastard for making us miss the opportunity to have some nice old fashioned backseat sex.”
[till death do us part] next >>