[fic] Rapid Eye Movement - 1/5 (Eames/Arthur), Inception
Title: Rapid Eye Movement (1/5)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/character(s): Eames/Arthur, Cobb
Word count: this part, ~5,300 (overall, ~28k)
Disclaimer: Nolan built this world. I just filled it with my porny subconscious.
Summary: Dreams were overrated.
Spoilers: Seriously?
Warnings: Smut (this part).
Notes: This is longer than everything I’d previously wrote in English put together. It’s also the second longest fic I’ve wrote (and, huh, was able to finish?) like, ever. Usually I’m an one-shot, ficlet kinda girl, but Darling & Mr. Eames here seem to have this sort of effect on people. Hope you guys enjoy. ;*
All my love and deeply Thanks to: ilovetakahana, laria_gwyn and brilligspoons for their invaluable assistance. Remaining mistakes are mine.
It started easy.
Eames was just a guy Cobb’s guy knew and he had been in the business long enough to be familiar with Cobb’s reputation as an architect and extractor. Eames knew that Cobb used to be one of the good guys, accepting strictly legal jobs only, but he also knew that lately Cobb had been raising his game. It wasn’t really surprising. In this job, sooner or later they all fell off the edge, somehow.
The good news was that kind of change usually meant new money and new scenarios for Eames to crack. So when he was asked for a demonstration, Eames made sure Cobb won’t leave disappointed.
They took a plane to Saint Petersburg on that same evening.
As Cobb briefed him on the mark, Eames wondered who the rest of Cobb’s team would be. He asked, like it was nothing, and he wasn’t surprised when Cobb told him he worked only with this other fellow. An extracting team usually worked just fine as a trio, after all.
What did surprise Eames was Cobb frowning as an afterthought, then trying to warn him about that other fellow. Eames observed as Cobb opened his mouth, struggling with the words.
“He’s just... nothing like you.” Cobb would summarize a few minutes later.
And Eames couldn’t figure out whether he should be flattered or insulted.
Cobb shouldn’t have taken the trouble, though. Eames, who always had considered himself a friendly guy, knew on the spot that it would take a lot more than a smile and a handshake to be worthy of that Arthur boy’s trust. And Eames knew he needed his trust if they were planning to work together.
Their first job wasn’t supposed to be anything extraordinary, but the truth was Arthur gave Eames the hardest time of his career.
Like most point men, Arthur was driven by some pathological need to know everything. He articulated questions that Eames couldn’t put a finger how could they possibly matter. Arthur observed Eames impersonating someone like he was studying a mildly interesting biology class, making quick notes in a little notebook he carried everywhere he went. Arthur didn’t hesitate to criticize him, or Cobb, for that matter.
At the end of the fourth day, he cleared his throat and suggested Eames’ performance as a junkie who would interact with the mark was, maybe, just a little bit over the top? The very next morning, Arthur handed Eames some data, interviews and statistics, so he could prove his point.
Eames was impressed. And annoyed as hell.
Arthur, good at his job like he was, of course, noticed this.
That was the first time Eames ever saw him smile.
It took him three whole days to see Arthur smile again. Arthur had finally cracked a file he’d been working on for weeks, and it turned out that the mark, an ex-dancer who had had a two-year affair with a Moscow mob boss, had a previous boyfriend with dream-sharing training, which gave them the very dangerous probability of having to deal with a militarized subconscious.
And they only had about two hours before the window to pick up the woman, who was having her appendix removed. Eames noticed as Arthur’s face went white for a few seconds, because Eames knew that Arthur knew they hadn’t prepared themselves for that.
“Eames has military training,” Cobb shrugged, talking to nobody in particular. Arthur, however, gave him a meaningful nod in return, his face turning directly to the model of Cobb’s labyrinth, plan B probably already starting to grow inside his head.
Then Eames realized his abilities as a forger obviously weren’t the only reason Cobb had hired him. Thinking about that, it did make a lot of sense to imagine Arthur digging into his life, like Eames was a proper target, before he could bring himself to agree with Cobb’s choice for a new teammate. Again, Eames didn’t know if he should feel insulted or flattered. Not that he wasn’t a little bit curious about what else Arthur might have found in his research.
They ended up changing their approach, but not by much. Eames introduced himself as a young junkie who needed the mark’s help and once her subconscious attacked them, Eames pretended to be on her side. As Arthur fought the projections, which were armed mostly with butcher knives, Eames helped Cobb extract her secret: the location where the mob boss had buried the body of their employer’s son. When Eames woke up in a hospital’s private room, still hooked to the PASIV, Arthur’s face turned to him and he realized Arthur was smiling, though not exactly at Eames. It was more like Arthur just couldn’t believe it had really worked. But it had.
It was early evening, and they had just returned the unconscious mark safely back to her room when Cobb gave Eames his share and thanked him for his help before disappearing, all in a matter of seconds.
“He does that,” Arthur offered as the door closed on Cobb.
And Eames thought that that was the first nice thing Arthur had said to him. He shook his head and watched in silence as Arthur gathered his belongings. All things considered, it had been a damn good job. Apart from the cash, which was considerably more than he was used to getting paid for his services, Eames thought working with Cobb and Arthur was intriguing, to say the least.
Cobb was brilliant; the way he built the dreamscape, how he put Eames’ skills to work with a flawless, beautiful extraction. And, there was Arthur. Well, Eames didn’t have any doubts Arthur was the best point man he had ever worked with.
Truth be told, he had never given that particular position any thought before. Most point men Eames had known over the years were just a bunch of sociopath schizophrenics, always hidden behind a computer or a notebook, taking their precious little notes so they could write down a thirty-page report. Arthur was different. Special, Eames could risk saying. Because even if Arthur did need to know everything, Arthur would share only what Arthur thought was worth sharing.
Eventually, Eames would learn that this also could be an elaborate mousetrap. But he didn’t know it, not back then. Not as Arthur glanced up at him a few minutes after Cobb was gone. As he asked Eames if Eames was planning to leave or to stay in the city for the night. And Eames didn’t know whether Arthur was just making polite small talk or if he was really expecting for an answer.
Eames was a forger, yes. Reading people was what he did for a living. He observed people and gave them whomever the team needed him to be. But Eames knew he couldn’t figure Arthur out. Not well enough, not yet. So Eames did something else he also was pretty good at. He smirked, cocking his head. Then, Eames gambled.
“What, your little research didn’t show my lovely wife and the two children, a smart-mouthed boy and a little girl with ponytails, waiting for me to come home?”
Arthur snorted. “I never looked anywhere outside of your résumé, Mr. Eames.” He shrugged, finishing packing up graphs and charts. “Not that I had to, to be certain that you’re going to spend to the last penny everything you’ve earned here on a poker table, strong liquor, and with people charging by the hour.”
Eames noticed there was something about the very way Arthur talked. Not only as if Arthur had to be right, but as if he needed everybody else to know it, too. Definitely annoying, Eames concluded. And a little bit charming, maybe, he mentally added.
“You’re pretty full of yourself, are you not?” Eames noted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, leaning against the wall.
Arthur was giving the PASIV inside the case a final check-up, his back turned to him. Eames observed as Arthur’s shoulders tensed up for a second or two, before he relaxed them completely. Arthur let his words out like he had planned each letter, syllable, stop and comma.
“You never look people in the eye when you’re awake, only when you’re under. You keep running a poker chip around your fingers when you’re trying to think. The poker chip is obviously a totem. You don’t seem to realize when you’re doing that or you just don’t care if people notice it. Either way, it makes me think you must have had an emotional breakdown and you discovered yourself very close to losing track of reality, once. Something happened to you and you won’t let that happen again. Being a forger is harder than being just a thief, but it’s also safer.”
During Arthur’s speech Eames had kept a hand on his chin. As it ended, Eames gestured briefly, shaking his head. “Impressive. For a point man, I mean.”
Arthur turned his body to face Eames. It was odd, but Eames thought that Arthur looked more pleasant than smug. Arthur parted his lips like he wanted to say something else, but Eames wasn’t done yet.
“It’s indeed impressive, my dear Arthur, that you’re still able to do your job, since you’re obviously so busy paying attention to me.” And Eames thought he might have overplayed his hand when Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. Arthur’s face, however, still seemed pleasant. He narrowed his eyes slightly at Eames.
“And somehow I’m the one full of myself.”
Eames fought back a laugh. Arthur was good. In a different situation, Eames would be torn between punching Arthur and asking him out. Since he wasn’t doing either, given the real possibility of Arthur kicking his arse, Eames chose to wave a white flag. Because he didn’t have to crack into Arthur’s past to know the man had military training as well and not a single problem in beating people up while awake. And though Eames knew he probably could take Arthur in a fistfight, the perspective wasn’t really how he’d like to spend his first free night in days.
“I apologize.” And of course Arthur scowled at that, looking incredulous. “Why don’t I buy you a drink as a peace offering?”
And Eames asked like it was nothing, because the truth was he never thought Arthur would say yes. Even if it was Arthur who had suggested ‘plans for the night’ in the first place. Suggesting was one thing, expecting an answer, another. And a straight-up question like Eames’ was a completely different matter. Saying yes to that kind of question could end impossibly badly and Eames knew Arthur must have reached the same conclusion before saying yes. So, that meant Arthur didn’t care about the outcomes and it made Eames painfully curious. And Eames was old enough to know that curiosity hardly played nice.
Eames would wonder, later, whether or not he would’ve invited Arthur out if somehow he could have foreseen the outcome.
Maybe not, he would think one day, wishing it was true and feeling alone. And bitter.
They went to a small hotel bar, just a couple of blocks away from the mark’s hospital. Arthur suggested the spot as they climbed down the maintenance stairs, and Eames accepted it without a word, because the truth was he really didn’t have anywhere else to be. After he had checked out of his own hotel early that morning, Eames had had just a couple of things in mind: finish the job, have a few drinks, and gamble a bit before catching a plane for someplace warmer. Jamaica, maybe.
Right then, Eames felt okay just watching Arthur drink a beer. He never would have picked Arthur for a beer drinker, but he was starting to reconsider it. Because, yes, Arthur talked like vodka, clean and deep and burning everything his words touched; and it was also true Arthur behaved like red wine, nice and polite, still fooling anyone who would be stupid enough to drink too much of it. But, yes, Arthur did smile exactly like beer, like something surprisingly easy and refreshing, once you got used to its taste.
They didn’t talk, much. Arthur seemed satisfied with his earlier conclusions and didn’t ask him about anything else. Eames was okay with that as well. Because although Arthur had hit pretty close to home, Arthur didn’t have to know that. Eames couldn’t see how that could turn into anything but trouble; they had spent a whole week deep inside each other’s heads, yes, but that was completely different.
Up above, if you screwed things up, you wouldn’t just wake up and get to do it all over again. And you did not mess around with people you worked with, especially not in this line of business. It was very bad for your sanity, hideously bad for your wallet - and Eames was absolutely fond of both of them. He’d lived long enough to see his share of ruined jobs over somebody else’s instability and given the kind of money usually involved in operations such these, well. You could say those people’s instability could end up being the least of their problems.
So, as long things were kept that way, all neutral, friendly and light, you wouldn’t end up caring, and both of you would be able to get the job done. Because there was no room for personal rubbish when you worked in something so unstable as someone else’s dreams, already filled up with their own set of alien feelings, pained regrets, and suffocated guilt.
But the truth was Eames knew you didn’t need to know a person to care about them. You didn’t have to ask about their favorite color, the middle name of their high school sweetheart. You didn’t need a reason to want to understand all their hopes and dreams. Even if dreams were overrated. Even if they could be dissected, manipulated, built piece by piece, forged, broken, and finally torn apart. A vivid nightmare once you woke up to find out that your most guarded secret had been stolen.
Arthur didn’t sound like he had any secrets worth stealing, though. Arthur talked about his time in the army like it was something he thought of as obvious and unimportant. About how he met Cobb when he was recruited to design a dream, and how Cobb taught Arthur how they could do a lot more than shoot, strangle and stab each other, and finally how Cobb called Arthur to work with him after Arthur was discharged, a few years later.
And yes, Eames thought, he had already figured out that much just from watching Arthur closely. The way he moved, asleep or awake, how he dressed and talked, stabbed, strangled and shot. Everything preplanned and executed like Arthur didn’t have any choice but to be strictly right. How Arthur criticized Cobb as they worked, but obviously still trusted him with his life. It was a partnership only time could build, and Eames imagined how nice it would be to have Arthur trust him like that, one day.
Arthur never mentioned what caused him and Cobb to cross over into illegal activity, and Eames didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. He already knew Cobb was wanted in America, accused of murdering his own wife. Eames had done his research as well. Yet he couldn’t figure out if it was true or not. Though Cobb didn’t strike him as the murdering type, Eames thought Cobb did look guilty, sometimes.
But Eames had dealt with worse. In his experience, this sort of thing just came with the job. And Eames’ way to deal with that was by not interfering. As long as Cobb’s past didn’t mess with the job, it wasn’t Eames’ business. All of them had their own skeletons and it wasn’t his place to ask, or to judge. And if Eames so much as smelled trouble, well, he could always leave. No loyalties, no guilt.
Still, Eames was finding it really disturbing that he somehow envied Arthur’s blind trust in Cobb. Loyalty had its perks, apparently.
At some point they ended up talking about the job and Arthur even praised Eames’ performance, observing how his own suggestions had worked well with the mark, in the end. Eames laughed at that, sipping his glass of whisky. He knew that was exactly the sort of compliment he should expect from someone like Arthur. Never giving, not really, never enough.
Arthur, Eames realized, was probably the most insecure person he had ever met. It was sad and fascinating at the same time; sad, because it wasn’t an easy path, and fascinating because in this one way, they were the same. Arthur knew what he wanted and he planned everything out, no matter how deeply he had to bury his own self to get there. Eames always knew what he wanted, too. And Eames always did what he wanted, when he wanted to do. The only difference was he didn’t have any idea of what it was like to need to control everything around him. Having to plan every single step of his way, like shortcuts couldn’t happen, ever.
While Arthur hated being wrong, Eames already knew he couldn’t always be right. Those were both legitimate ways to dealt with information, Eames supposed. Arthur was a point man because it was how he manufactured information. Eames was a forger for the exact same reason. But while Arthur managed to turn information into data, Eames built emotions. He wasn’t a forger because he loved to mess with people’s heads, to turn their inner fears and desires against them. Though that gave him power, it was not about the power. Eames was a forger because even when he found himself behind someone else’s face, he still got to feel, to want, to be amazed, to be someone. It was not just about the looks, the gestures, the subtle tone of voice. A very creative subconscious could come up with all that. Eames knew he was something more than a pretty piece on the dreamscape. As a forger, he was able to play a bigger part. He got to choose and to learn from his mistakes. To be surprised when he found himself happy for being wrong.
“Oh, thank you, Arthur,” Eames toasted him with a smirk. “Though it was your indispensable research which kept our arses safe down there, right?”
Arthur’s reaction was, somehow, unexpected. Eames thought Arthur would be the type who always would choose to take a compliment like it was nothing but the undeniable truth, something he just didn’t have to recognize. Yet it took half a second before Arthur composed himself, that one single look forced Eames to understand something he had failed to notice until then.
Different ways to deal with information, yes. But different ways to deal with meaning, too.
He realized that Arthur worshiped his job as much as Eames enjoyed his, that his job defined who Arthur was. Because having every small, insignificant detail of those people’s lives under his fingertips truly, deeply mattered. To Arthur, everything happening according to plan was only the most important matter in the world. The job going well meant he did well, and it wasn’t a matter of pride or just control. Maybe not even about power or money. And the truth was that Eames’ teasing made Arthur feel small and insignificant.
And he thought about taking that back, but decided against it. Eames knew he could make it worse. So, he took another quick sip of his glass to prevent himself from saying anything else, and as Arthur had already changed the topic, Eames went with it.
An ordinary person could be easily fooled by Arthur’s cool tone of voice. Eames was not an ordinary person, though. Because Arthur could try to deduce all he wanted and then convince himself he knew things, but as long as he wasn’t able to confirm them, black on white, he was just guessing, out of his league, playing the amateur. And when things reached that unstable little gray area, Eames was anything but an amateur. Noticing people’s subtle tones was what he was good at and he had learned most of Arthur’s in the past week. That wasn’t even something Eames consciously did; it was more like a habit he just couldn’t help. He still couldn’t read Arthur like he was an open book, filled with data to be analyzed but Eames could guess and his guesses were usually accurate. And he guessed he sympathized with Arthur’s need to be in control of his own emotions as Eames needed to be in charge of his marks’.
They avoided every topic that involved dream-sharing and ended up talking about boring of stuff: sports, politics. Not that Eames was bothered. In fact, he enjoyed observing how people expressed themselves in the ordinary things. The mundane subjects had given Eames some of his best insights. He smiled, peaceful, as he ordered another shot of whisky for himself and a third beer for Arthur with a wave of his hand. He even faked a face when Arthur refused to say ‘football’ over ‘soccer’. But Eames was barely able to hold back a laugh as Arthur, seeming to run out of topics, started in on the weather.
“Good god,” Eames blurted out, instead. “Now I feel like I’m at home.”
And Arthur must have realized how stupid he had just sounded, because he choked immediately, spitting beer over the counter. Eames was quickly on his feet to pat Arthur on the back. Arthur was all flushed, coughing, his lips wet. He shrugged Eames’ hand off, but murmured something vaguely grateful when Eames took a green handkerchief out of his pocket shirt and handed it to him.
That was when the storm began.
It took Eames one single look before he swore under his breath. That wasn’t a regular storm; it was like the whole damn sky had started falling apart. If it didn’t break soon it would be impossible for him to find a cab, let alone catch a flight. Goodbye, Jamaica.
They sat in silence and watched the rain lashing against the bar’s large window, to the people on the streets putting up umbrellas and running to cover themselves up. Eames saw Arthur smiling, like he was relieved that he had everything under control and those people didn’t. Eames shook his head again. He had to leave, soon, because that smile definitely shouldn’t look so disturbingly charming.
“Talking about the bloody weather,” Eames stated, letting out a heavy sigh because the silence wasn’t doing him any good.
“I have a room. Upstairs,” Arthur declared, his voice cool as ever, eyes locked on the rain, Eames’ green handkerchief gripped hard in his hand. “With a bed,” he added out of necessity, tilting his head a bit so Eames could see his face.
Arthur’s lips were still wet, and Eames felt understanding hit him like a jolting kick. From the corner of his eyes, Eames perceived a lighting bolt forking the sky, very soon followed with the massive sound of thunder. The storm was right above them, and Arthur didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, he just sat there and waited. Eames felt his throat and mouth dry out and he thought what the bloody hell.
“I bet you do,” Eames replied carefully, because what else he could possibly say?
Arthur turned his face back to the rain and fell into total silence for what felt like an endless, dreamy minute. Eames felt like Arthur was busy weighing each one of his next words, whether it was worth it or not to vocalize them. Arthur was planning, analyzing, and measuring the risks, because Eames knew Arthur also couldn’t help it. Eames waited, then, noticing the visible part of Arthur’s neck blushing a deep red and he was surprised for his suddenly aching chest. Because, yes, that was sad.
And fascinating, too.
When Arthur finally decided to speak, Eames noticed there was an almost imperceptible note of anxiety in his voice.
“Is that a yes?” Arthur said, and Eames thought about how he must know that up here, in the real world, things rarely went according to plan. He didn’t know what to answer, because Eames had no idea what yes, or even no, could mean. He could guess, of course, always, but that was it. It could be fun, could be the best way to finish what so far had been a hard, though pleasant and lucrative week. It also could be the biggest mistake of his life and Eames had had his great share of mistakes, thank you very much. He didn’t know if could learn anything from this one, though. So yes, Eames could try to guess what Arthur meant, but he only knew one thing for sure.
Eames knew he always knew what he wanted, and at that precise moment, what Eames did want was to have a chance to know Arthur. To know him well enough so he could ask his favorite color, and maybe the middle name of his high school sweetheart. Eames wanted to learn all about Arthur’s hopes and dreams. To get Arthur to trust him as he trusted Cobb.
Eames wanted time, he wanted a chance. A chance to understand how he had ended up there, with the sky falling over his head, a half-glass of whisky pressed against his hand and a stranger at his side, the most insecure person he had ever met, someone who both made his chest ache and fascinated him at the same time.
And Eames also knew he couldn’t get what he wanted, not this time, because the few days he had spent with Arthur had already taught him that nobody could ever get that man to do anything he didn’t plan to do. Though Arthur couldn’t have planned the storm, he certainly had planned all the things he had said. What he had just asked for. If Eames chose to turn Arthur down now, though, he knew he wouldn’t ever get that chance back.
So, Eames made a choice. He emptied his glass and smiled sideways. He put a hand on the small of Arthur’s back and whispered close to his ear.
“Lead the way, darling.”
Eames glimpsed the twist at the corner of Arthur’s lips, but neither of them said anything else. They reached the sixth floor and Arthur was on his knees as soon as the door closed behind them. Arthur opened Eames’ trousers and grasped his cock, sucking Eames until he was impossibly hard. Then, all red cheeks and messy hair courtesy of Eames’ fingers, Arthur stood up and stepped back. He started to take his clothes off, suit jacket, tie, trousers, all loosened and dropped aside in quick, precise little movements.
He stared as Arthur lay on the bed, wearing only a white dress shirt and a pair of deep blue boxer shorts, his brown eyes looking pleased at Eames, busy trying to catch his breath. Arthur stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear as Eames walked closer, every muscle of his body aching to fuck him. Eames wasn’t surprised to discover that Arthur was prepared, that he was expecting this, as Arthur reached for the nightstand, shoving condoms and lube into Eames’ hands.
Eames tore off Arthur’s boxers and lifted one of his legs, sticking two lubed fingers inside him, fucking Arthur with them. He watched, amazed, as Arthur closed his eyes and arched his body, never stopping to stroked himself, biting down on his lower lip. Eames increased the pressure of his fingers, pulling them out and shoving them back in a few times before he could add one more.
Arthur bled his lip a bit and Eames forced himself to resist the urge to lower his head and lick the blood off. Instead, he kept fucking Arthur with his fingers, four of them now, curled, twisted, buried deep inside him, in and out until Arthur couldn’t take it anymore and came with a small cry, muffled against his gritted teeth.
Eames smirked as Arthur gazed at him, his breath settling. Then, looking down at Eames’ fingers still buried inside him, Arthur smiled the dirtiest smile Eames had ever seen on a person. He felt Arthur’s muscles clenching around his fingers, and Eames knew he had had enough. Eames’ cock ached as he took the fingers out so he could unroll a condom on himself, his heart pounding hard and painfully fast against his chest.
Eames looked down at Arthur’s body, the white shirt rumpled in all the wrong ways, and took a long, deep breath. But before he could say or do anything else, Arthur already had spread his legs further apart, making room for Eames. And this time Arthur moaned, softly, as Eames’ cock disappeared inch by inch inside him.
Arthur’s hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it fast and making it hard again. Eames began to pull almost all of his length out, before pushing back in. He observed as Arthur’s head sank into the mattress, his hair and face the most perfect mess, and Eames fucked Arthur hard, pressing him down, shifting his body until he could find the right angle, shoving himself against Arthur’s hips. Between the thrusts, Eames thought he heard something like his name, but once he stared down at Arthur’s face, he knew it didn’t matter, because he was so, so close.
Eames took Arthur’s cock and hand between his fingers, setting a rhythm combined with the thrusts of his hips. They came almost at the same time. Eames hard, blinded, breathless inside Arthur, his fingers instantly squeezing Arthur’s cock and hand, making him gasp and come. He felt Arthur’s free hand plunging five short fingernails into his shoulder.
He fell over Arthur’s chest, still pulsing inside him, his face perfectly placed against Arthur’s warm neck. Eames kissed the sweat off his skin and without thinking about it, because no one could ever blame him for not thinking straight, then, Eames lifted his head so he could look into Arthur’s eyes.
They were wide open, watching him with an unreadable expression, maybe a shadow of a smile upon his face. That was enough for Eames, who put a hand on Arthur’s chest, closer to his collarbone, feeling the heartbeat beneath his fingers. Eames lowered his head, aiming for Arthur’s bruised, swollen lips; he had never wanted to kiss someone so badly before.
But Eames’ mouth brushed against the warm, soft skin of Arthur’s cheek as him shifted his body under Eames’, his heartbeat no longer beneath Eames’ fingertips. Eames felt an icy cold piercing his spine, but he put himself together quickly, taking Arthur’s earlobe between his teeth and biting hard, before sucking it softly. Arthur let out a strangled cry in surprise, but he didn’t try to shove Eames away. They laid in silence for a while, Eames’ breathing warm in Arthur’ hair, until he disentangled himself from Arthur, making his way into the bathroom.
Eames was back a few minutes later, the condom properly disposed of and his face and hands washed with cold water. Eames found Arthur already asleep, little noises muffled against a pillow, a sheet poorly covering his lower body. Then, Eames noticed two things, and he couldn’t decide which one surprised him the most: the fact that Arthur allowed himself to sleep like that, all messy and sticky, or that Arthur had left enough room for Eames to join him in bed, if Eames wanted.
And he did want.
But after Eames had collected all his clothes from the floor, what he chose do was dress himself. He cast a look at the man in the bed, an uncertain, lingering look, before walking away.
Part II
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/character(s): Eames/Arthur, Cobb
Word count: this part, ~5,300 (overall, ~28k)
Disclaimer: Nolan built this world. I just filled it with my porny subconscious.
Summary: Dreams were overrated.
Spoilers: Seriously?
Warnings: Smut (this part).
Notes: This is longer than everything I’d previously wrote in English put together. It’s also the second longest fic I’ve wrote (and, huh, was able to finish?) like, ever. Usually I’m an one-shot, ficlet kinda girl, but Darling & Mr. Eames here seem to have this sort of effect on people. Hope you guys enjoy. ;*
All my love and deeply Thanks to: ilovetakahana, laria_gwyn and brilligspoons for their invaluable assistance. Remaining mistakes are mine.
It started easy.
Eames was just a guy Cobb’s guy knew and he had been in the business long enough to be familiar with Cobb’s reputation as an architect and extractor. Eames knew that Cobb used to be one of the good guys, accepting strictly legal jobs only, but he also knew that lately Cobb had been raising his game. It wasn’t really surprising. In this job, sooner or later they all fell off the edge, somehow.
The good news was that kind of change usually meant new money and new scenarios for Eames to crack. So when he was asked for a demonstration, Eames made sure Cobb won’t leave disappointed.
They took a plane to Saint Petersburg on that same evening.
As Cobb briefed him on the mark, Eames wondered who the rest of Cobb’s team would be. He asked, like it was nothing, and he wasn’t surprised when Cobb told him he worked only with this other fellow. An extracting team usually worked just fine as a trio, after all.
What did surprise Eames was Cobb frowning as an afterthought, then trying to warn him about that other fellow. Eames observed as Cobb opened his mouth, struggling with the words.
“He’s just... nothing like you.” Cobb would summarize a few minutes later.
And Eames couldn’t figure out whether he should be flattered or insulted.
Cobb shouldn’t have taken the trouble, though. Eames, who always had considered himself a friendly guy, knew on the spot that it would take a lot more than a smile and a handshake to be worthy of that Arthur boy’s trust. And Eames knew he needed his trust if they were planning to work together.
Their first job wasn’t supposed to be anything extraordinary, but the truth was Arthur gave Eames the hardest time of his career.
Like most point men, Arthur was driven by some pathological need to know everything. He articulated questions that Eames couldn’t put a finger how could they possibly matter. Arthur observed Eames impersonating someone like he was studying a mildly interesting biology class, making quick notes in a little notebook he carried everywhere he went. Arthur didn’t hesitate to criticize him, or Cobb, for that matter.
At the end of the fourth day, he cleared his throat and suggested Eames’ performance as a junkie who would interact with the mark was, maybe, just a little bit over the top? The very next morning, Arthur handed Eames some data, interviews and statistics, so he could prove his point.
Eames was impressed. And annoyed as hell.
Arthur, good at his job like he was, of course, noticed this.
That was the first time Eames ever saw him smile.
It took him three whole days to see Arthur smile again. Arthur had finally cracked a file he’d been working on for weeks, and it turned out that the mark, an ex-dancer who had had a two-year affair with a Moscow mob boss, had a previous boyfriend with dream-sharing training, which gave them the very dangerous probability of having to deal with a militarized subconscious.
And they only had about two hours before the window to pick up the woman, who was having her appendix removed. Eames noticed as Arthur’s face went white for a few seconds, because Eames knew that Arthur knew they hadn’t prepared themselves for that.
“Eames has military training,” Cobb shrugged, talking to nobody in particular. Arthur, however, gave him a meaningful nod in return, his face turning directly to the model of Cobb’s labyrinth, plan B probably already starting to grow inside his head.
Then Eames realized his abilities as a forger obviously weren’t the only reason Cobb had hired him. Thinking about that, it did make a lot of sense to imagine Arthur digging into his life, like Eames was a proper target, before he could bring himself to agree with Cobb’s choice for a new teammate. Again, Eames didn’t know if he should feel insulted or flattered. Not that he wasn’t a little bit curious about what else Arthur might have found in his research.
They ended up changing their approach, but not by much. Eames introduced himself as a young junkie who needed the mark’s help and once her subconscious attacked them, Eames pretended to be on her side. As Arthur fought the projections, which were armed mostly with butcher knives, Eames helped Cobb extract her secret: the location where the mob boss had buried the body of their employer’s son. When Eames woke up in a hospital’s private room, still hooked to the PASIV, Arthur’s face turned to him and he realized Arthur was smiling, though not exactly at Eames. It was more like Arthur just couldn’t believe it had really worked. But it had.
It was early evening, and they had just returned the unconscious mark safely back to her room when Cobb gave Eames his share and thanked him for his help before disappearing, all in a matter of seconds.
“He does that,” Arthur offered as the door closed on Cobb.
And Eames thought that that was the first nice thing Arthur had said to him. He shook his head and watched in silence as Arthur gathered his belongings. All things considered, it had been a damn good job. Apart from the cash, which was considerably more than he was used to getting paid for his services, Eames thought working with Cobb and Arthur was intriguing, to say the least.
Cobb was brilliant; the way he built the dreamscape, how he put Eames’ skills to work with a flawless, beautiful extraction. And, there was Arthur. Well, Eames didn’t have any doubts Arthur was the best point man he had ever worked with.
Truth be told, he had never given that particular position any thought before. Most point men Eames had known over the years were just a bunch of sociopath schizophrenics, always hidden behind a computer or a notebook, taking their precious little notes so they could write down a thirty-page report. Arthur was different. Special, Eames could risk saying. Because even if Arthur did need to know everything, Arthur would share only what Arthur thought was worth sharing.
Eventually, Eames would learn that this also could be an elaborate mousetrap. But he didn’t know it, not back then. Not as Arthur glanced up at him a few minutes after Cobb was gone. As he asked Eames if Eames was planning to leave or to stay in the city for the night. And Eames didn’t know whether Arthur was just making polite small talk or if he was really expecting for an answer.
Eames was a forger, yes. Reading people was what he did for a living. He observed people and gave them whomever the team needed him to be. But Eames knew he couldn’t figure Arthur out. Not well enough, not yet. So Eames did something else he also was pretty good at. He smirked, cocking his head. Then, Eames gambled.
“What, your little research didn’t show my lovely wife and the two children, a smart-mouthed boy and a little girl with ponytails, waiting for me to come home?”
Arthur snorted. “I never looked anywhere outside of your résumé, Mr. Eames.” He shrugged, finishing packing up graphs and charts. “Not that I had to, to be certain that you’re going to spend to the last penny everything you’ve earned here on a poker table, strong liquor, and with people charging by the hour.”
Eames noticed there was something about the very way Arthur talked. Not only as if Arthur had to be right, but as if he needed everybody else to know it, too. Definitely annoying, Eames concluded. And a little bit charming, maybe, he mentally added.
“You’re pretty full of yourself, are you not?” Eames noted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, leaning against the wall.
Arthur was giving the PASIV inside the case a final check-up, his back turned to him. Eames observed as Arthur’s shoulders tensed up for a second or two, before he relaxed them completely. Arthur let his words out like he had planned each letter, syllable, stop and comma.
“You never look people in the eye when you’re awake, only when you’re under. You keep running a poker chip around your fingers when you’re trying to think. The poker chip is obviously a totem. You don’t seem to realize when you’re doing that or you just don’t care if people notice it. Either way, it makes me think you must have had an emotional breakdown and you discovered yourself very close to losing track of reality, once. Something happened to you and you won’t let that happen again. Being a forger is harder than being just a thief, but it’s also safer.”
During Arthur’s speech Eames had kept a hand on his chin. As it ended, Eames gestured briefly, shaking his head. “Impressive. For a point man, I mean.”
Arthur turned his body to face Eames. It was odd, but Eames thought that Arthur looked more pleasant than smug. Arthur parted his lips like he wanted to say something else, but Eames wasn’t done yet.
“It’s indeed impressive, my dear Arthur, that you’re still able to do your job, since you’re obviously so busy paying attention to me.” And Eames thought he might have overplayed his hand when Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. Arthur’s face, however, still seemed pleasant. He narrowed his eyes slightly at Eames.
“And somehow I’m the one full of myself.”
Eames fought back a laugh. Arthur was good. In a different situation, Eames would be torn between punching Arthur and asking him out. Since he wasn’t doing either, given the real possibility of Arthur kicking his arse, Eames chose to wave a white flag. Because he didn’t have to crack into Arthur’s past to know the man had military training as well and not a single problem in beating people up while awake. And though Eames knew he probably could take Arthur in a fistfight, the perspective wasn’t really how he’d like to spend his first free night in days.
“I apologize.” And of course Arthur scowled at that, looking incredulous. “Why don’t I buy you a drink as a peace offering?”
And Eames asked like it was nothing, because the truth was he never thought Arthur would say yes. Even if it was Arthur who had suggested ‘plans for the night’ in the first place. Suggesting was one thing, expecting an answer, another. And a straight-up question like Eames’ was a completely different matter. Saying yes to that kind of question could end impossibly badly and Eames knew Arthur must have reached the same conclusion before saying yes. So, that meant Arthur didn’t care about the outcomes and it made Eames painfully curious. And Eames was old enough to know that curiosity hardly played nice.
Eames would wonder, later, whether or not he would’ve invited Arthur out if somehow he could have foreseen the outcome.
Maybe not, he would think one day, wishing it was true and feeling alone. And bitter.
They went to a small hotel bar, just a couple of blocks away from the mark’s hospital. Arthur suggested the spot as they climbed down the maintenance stairs, and Eames accepted it without a word, because the truth was he really didn’t have anywhere else to be. After he had checked out of his own hotel early that morning, Eames had had just a couple of things in mind: finish the job, have a few drinks, and gamble a bit before catching a plane for someplace warmer. Jamaica, maybe.
Right then, Eames felt okay just watching Arthur drink a beer. He never would have picked Arthur for a beer drinker, but he was starting to reconsider it. Because, yes, Arthur talked like vodka, clean and deep and burning everything his words touched; and it was also true Arthur behaved like red wine, nice and polite, still fooling anyone who would be stupid enough to drink too much of it. But, yes, Arthur did smile exactly like beer, like something surprisingly easy and refreshing, once you got used to its taste.
They didn’t talk, much. Arthur seemed satisfied with his earlier conclusions and didn’t ask him about anything else. Eames was okay with that as well. Because although Arthur had hit pretty close to home, Arthur didn’t have to know that. Eames couldn’t see how that could turn into anything but trouble; they had spent a whole week deep inside each other’s heads, yes, but that was completely different.
Up above, if you screwed things up, you wouldn’t just wake up and get to do it all over again. And you did not mess around with people you worked with, especially not in this line of business. It was very bad for your sanity, hideously bad for your wallet - and Eames was absolutely fond of both of them. He’d lived long enough to see his share of ruined jobs over somebody else’s instability and given the kind of money usually involved in operations such these, well. You could say those people’s instability could end up being the least of their problems.
So, as long things were kept that way, all neutral, friendly and light, you wouldn’t end up caring, and both of you would be able to get the job done. Because there was no room for personal rubbish when you worked in something so unstable as someone else’s dreams, already filled up with their own set of alien feelings, pained regrets, and suffocated guilt.
But the truth was Eames knew you didn’t need to know a person to care about them. You didn’t have to ask about their favorite color, the middle name of their high school sweetheart. You didn’t need a reason to want to understand all their hopes and dreams. Even if dreams were overrated. Even if they could be dissected, manipulated, built piece by piece, forged, broken, and finally torn apart. A vivid nightmare once you woke up to find out that your most guarded secret had been stolen.
Arthur didn’t sound like he had any secrets worth stealing, though. Arthur talked about his time in the army like it was something he thought of as obvious and unimportant. About how he met Cobb when he was recruited to design a dream, and how Cobb taught Arthur how they could do a lot more than shoot, strangle and stab each other, and finally how Cobb called Arthur to work with him after Arthur was discharged, a few years later.
And yes, Eames thought, he had already figured out that much just from watching Arthur closely. The way he moved, asleep or awake, how he dressed and talked, stabbed, strangled and shot. Everything preplanned and executed like Arthur didn’t have any choice but to be strictly right. How Arthur criticized Cobb as they worked, but obviously still trusted him with his life. It was a partnership only time could build, and Eames imagined how nice it would be to have Arthur trust him like that, one day.
Arthur never mentioned what caused him and Cobb to cross over into illegal activity, and Eames didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. He already knew Cobb was wanted in America, accused of murdering his own wife. Eames had done his research as well. Yet he couldn’t figure out if it was true or not. Though Cobb didn’t strike him as the murdering type, Eames thought Cobb did look guilty, sometimes.
But Eames had dealt with worse. In his experience, this sort of thing just came with the job. And Eames’ way to deal with that was by not interfering. As long as Cobb’s past didn’t mess with the job, it wasn’t Eames’ business. All of them had their own skeletons and it wasn’t his place to ask, or to judge. And if Eames so much as smelled trouble, well, he could always leave. No loyalties, no guilt.
Still, Eames was finding it really disturbing that he somehow envied Arthur’s blind trust in Cobb. Loyalty had its perks, apparently.
At some point they ended up talking about the job and Arthur even praised Eames’ performance, observing how his own suggestions had worked well with the mark, in the end. Eames laughed at that, sipping his glass of whisky. He knew that was exactly the sort of compliment he should expect from someone like Arthur. Never giving, not really, never enough.
Arthur, Eames realized, was probably the most insecure person he had ever met. It was sad and fascinating at the same time; sad, because it wasn’t an easy path, and fascinating because in this one way, they were the same. Arthur knew what he wanted and he planned everything out, no matter how deeply he had to bury his own self to get there. Eames always knew what he wanted, too. And Eames always did what he wanted, when he wanted to do. The only difference was he didn’t have any idea of what it was like to need to control everything around him. Having to plan every single step of his way, like shortcuts couldn’t happen, ever.
While Arthur hated being wrong, Eames already knew he couldn’t always be right. Those were both legitimate ways to dealt with information, Eames supposed. Arthur was a point man because it was how he manufactured information. Eames was a forger for the exact same reason. But while Arthur managed to turn information into data, Eames built emotions. He wasn’t a forger because he loved to mess with people’s heads, to turn their inner fears and desires against them. Though that gave him power, it was not about the power. Eames was a forger because even when he found himself behind someone else’s face, he still got to feel, to want, to be amazed, to be someone. It was not just about the looks, the gestures, the subtle tone of voice. A very creative subconscious could come up with all that. Eames knew he was something more than a pretty piece on the dreamscape. As a forger, he was able to play a bigger part. He got to choose and to learn from his mistakes. To be surprised when he found himself happy for being wrong.
“Oh, thank you, Arthur,” Eames toasted him with a smirk. “Though it was your indispensable research which kept our arses safe down there, right?”
Arthur’s reaction was, somehow, unexpected. Eames thought Arthur would be the type who always would choose to take a compliment like it was nothing but the undeniable truth, something he just didn’t have to recognize. Yet it took half a second before Arthur composed himself, that one single look forced Eames to understand something he had failed to notice until then.
Different ways to deal with information, yes. But different ways to deal with meaning, too.
He realized that Arthur worshiped his job as much as Eames enjoyed his, that his job defined who Arthur was. Because having every small, insignificant detail of those people’s lives under his fingertips truly, deeply mattered. To Arthur, everything happening according to plan was only the most important matter in the world. The job going well meant he did well, and it wasn’t a matter of pride or just control. Maybe not even about power or money. And the truth was that Eames’ teasing made Arthur feel small and insignificant.
And he thought about taking that back, but decided against it. Eames knew he could make it worse. So, he took another quick sip of his glass to prevent himself from saying anything else, and as Arthur had already changed the topic, Eames went with it.
An ordinary person could be easily fooled by Arthur’s cool tone of voice. Eames was not an ordinary person, though. Because Arthur could try to deduce all he wanted and then convince himself he knew things, but as long as he wasn’t able to confirm them, black on white, he was just guessing, out of his league, playing the amateur. And when things reached that unstable little gray area, Eames was anything but an amateur. Noticing people’s subtle tones was what he was good at and he had learned most of Arthur’s in the past week. That wasn’t even something Eames consciously did; it was more like a habit he just couldn’t help. He still couldn’t read Arthur like he was an open book, filled with data to be analyzed but Eames could guess and his guesses were usually accurate. And he guessed he sympathized with Arthur’s need to be in control of his own emotions as Eames needed to be in charge of his marks’.
They avoided every topic that involved dream-sharing and ended up talking about boring of stuff: sports, politics. Not that Eames was bothered. In fact, he enjoyed observing how people expressed themselves in the ordinary things. The mundane subjects had given Eames some of his best insights. He smiled, peaceful, as he ordered another shot of whisky for himself and a third beer for Arthur with a wave of his hand. He even faked a face when Arthur refused to say ‘football’ over ‘soccer’. But Eames was barely able to hold back a laugh as Arthur, seeming to run out of topics, started in on the weather.
“Good god,” Eames blurted out, instead. “Now I feel like I’m at home.”
And Arthur must have realized how stupid he had just sounded, because he choked immediately, spitting beer over the counter. Eames was quickly on his feet to pat Arthur on the back. Arthur was all flushed, coughing, his lips wet. He shrugged Eames’ hand off, but murmured something vaguely grateful when Eames took a green handkerchief out of his pocket shirt and handed it to him.
That was when the storm began.
It took Eames one single look before he swore under his breath. That wasn’t a regular storm; it was like the whole damn sky had started falling apart. If it didn’t break soon it would be impossible for him to find a cab, let alone catch a flight. Goodbye, Jamaica.
They sat in silence and watched the rain lashing against the bar’s large window, to the people on the streets putting up umbrellas and running to cover themselves up. Eames saw Arthur smiling, like he was relieved that he had everything under control and those people didn’t. Eames shook his head again. He had to leave, soon, because that smile definitely shouldn’t look so disturbingly charming.
“Talking about the bloody weather,” Eames stated, letting out a heavy sigh because the silence wasn’t doing him any good.
“I have a room. Upstairs,” Arthur declared, his voice cool as ever, eyes locked on the rain, Eames’ green handkerchief gripped hard in his hand. “With a bed,” he added out of necessity, tilting his head a bit so Eames could see his face.
Arthur’s lips were still wet, and Eames felt understanding hit him like a jolting kick. From the corner of his eyes, Eames perceived a lighting bolt forking the sky, very soon followed with the massive sound of thunder. The storm was right above them, and Arthur didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, he just sat there and waited. Eames felt his throat and mouth dry out and he thought what the bloody hell.
“I bet you do,” Eames replied carefully, because what else he could possibly say?
Arthur turned his face back to the rain and fell into total silence for what felt like an endless, dreamy minute. Eames felt like Arthur was busy weighing each one of his next words, whether it was worth it or not to vocalize them. Arthur was planning, analyzing, and measuring the risks, because Eames knew Arthur also couldn’t help it. Eames waited, then, noticing the visible part of Arthur’s neck blushing a deep red and he was surprised for his suddenly aching chest. Because, yes, that was sad.
And fascinating, too.
When Arthur finally decided to speak, Eames noticed there was an almost imperceptible note of anxiety in his voice.
“Is that a yes?” Arthur said, and Eames thought about how he must know that up here, in the real world, things rarely went according to plan. He didn’t know what to answer, because Eames had no idea what yes, or even no, could mean. He could guess, of course, always, but that was it. It could be fun, could be the best way to finish what so far had been a hard, though pleasant and lucrative week. It also could be the biggest mistake of his life and Eames had had his great share of mistakes, thank you very much. He didn’t know if could learn anything from this one, though. So yes, Eames could try to guess what Arthur meant, but he only knew one thing for sure.
Eames knew he always knew what he wanted, and at that precise moment, what Eames did want was to have a chance to know Arthur. To know him well enough so he could ask his favorite color, and maybe the middle name of his high school sweetheart. Eames wanted to learn all about Arthur’s hopes and dreams. To get Arthur to trust him as he trusted Cobb.
Eames wanted time, he wanted a chance. A chance to understand how he had ended up there, with the sky falling over his head, a half-glass of whisky pressed against his hand and a stranger at his side, the most insecure person he had ever met, someone who both made his chest ache and fascinated him at the same time.
And Eames also knew he couldn’t get what he wanted, not this time, because the few days he had spent with Arthur had already taught him that nobody could ever get that man to do anything he didn’t plan to do. Though Arthur couldn’t have planned the storm, he certainly had planned all the things he had said. What he had just asked for. If Eames chose to turn Arthur down now, though, he knew he wouldn’t ever get that chance back.
So, Eames made a choice. He emptied his glass and smiled sideways. He put a hand on the small of Arthur’s back and whispered close to his ear.
“Lead the way, darling.”
Eames glimpsed the twist at the corner of Arthur’s lips, but neither of them said anything else. They reached the sixth floor and Arthur was on his knees as soon as the door closed behind them. Arthur opened Eames’ trousers and grasped his cock, sucking Eames until he was impossibly hard. Then, all red cheeks and messy hair courtesy of Eames’ fingers, Arthur stood up and stepped back. He started to take his clothes off, suit jacket, tie, trousers, all loosened and dropped aside in quick, precise little movements.
He stared as Arthur lay on the bed, wearing only a white dress shirt and a pair of deep blue boxer shorts, his brown eyes looking pleased at Eames, busy trying to catch his breath. Arthur stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear as Eames walked closer, every muscle of his body aching to fuck him. Eames wasn’t surprised to discover that Arthur was prepared, that he was expecting this, as Arthur reached for the nightstand, shoving condoms and lube into Eames’ hands.
Eames tore off Arthur’s boxers and lifted one of his legs, sticking two lubed fingers inside him, fucking Arthur with them. He watched, amazed, as Arthur closed his eyes and arched his body, never stopping to stroked himself, biting down on his lower lip. Eames increased the pressure of his fingers, pulling them out and shoving them back in a few times before he could add one more.
Arthur bled his lip a bit and Eames forced himself to resist the urge to lower his head and lick the blood off. Instead, he kept fucking Arthur with his fingers, four of them now, curled, twisted, buried deep inside him, in and out until Arthur couldn’t take it anymore and came with a small cry, muffled against his gritted teeth.
Eames smirked as Arthur gazed at him, his breath settling. Then, looking down at Eames’ fingers still buried inside him, Arthur smiled the dirtiest smile Eames had ever seen on a person. He felt Arthur’s muscles clenching around his fingers, and Eames knew he had had enough. Eames’ cock ached as he took the fingers out so he could unroll a condom on himself, his heart pounding hard and painfully fast against his chest.
Eames looked down at Arthur’s body, the white shirt rumpled in all the wrong ways, and took a long, deep breath. But before he could say or do anything else, Arthur already had spread his legs further apart, making room for Eames. And this time Arthur moaned, softly, as Eames’ cock disappeared inch by inch inside him.
Arthur’s hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it fast and making it hard again. Eames began to pull almost all of his length out, before pushing back in. He observed as Arthur’s head sank into the mattress, his hair and face the most perfect mess, and Eames fucked Arthur hard, pressing him down, shifting his body until he could find the right angle, shoving himself against Arthur’s hips. Between the thrusts, Eames thought he heard something like his name, but once he stared down at Arthur’s face, he knew it didn’t matter, because he was so, so close.
Eames took Arthur’s cock and hand between his fingers, setting a rhythm combined with the thrusts of his hips. They came almost at the same time. Eames hard, blinded, breathless inside Arthur, his fingers instantly squeezing Arthur’s cock and hand, making him gasp and come. He felt Arthur’s free hand plunging five short fingernails into his shoulder.
He fell over Arthur’s chest, still pulsing inside him, his face perfectly placed against Arthur’s warm neck. Eames kissed the sweat off his skin and without thinking about it, because no one could ever blame him for not thinking straight, then, Eames lifted his head so he could look into Arthur’s eyes.
They were wide open, watching him with an unreadable expression, maybe a shadow of a smile upon his face. That was enough for Eames, who put a hand on Arthur’s chest, closer to his collarbone, feeling the heartbeat beneath his fingers. Eames lowered his head, aiming for Arthur’s bruised, swollen lips; he had never wanted to kiss someone so badly before.
But Eames’ mouth brushed against the warm, soft skin of Arthur’s cheek as him shifted his body under Eames’, his heartbeat no longer beneath Eames’ fingertips. Eames felt an icy cold piercing his spine, but he put himself together quickly, taking Arthur’s earlobe between his teeth and biting hard, before sucking it softly. Arthur let out a strangled cry in surprise, but he didn’t try to shove Eames away. They laid in silence for a while, Eames’ breathing warm in Arthur’ hair, until he disentangled himself from Arthur, making his way into the bathroom.
Eames was back a few minutes later, the condom properly disposed of and his face and hands washed with cold water. Eames found Arthur already asleep, little noises muffled against a pillow, a sheet poorly covering his lower body. Then, Eames noticed two things, and he couldn’t decide which one surprised him the most: the fact that Arthur allowed himself to sleep like that, all messy and sticky, or that Arthur had left enough room for Eames to join him in bed, if Eames wanted.
And he did want.
But after Eames had collected all his clothes from the floor, what he chose do was dress himself. He cast a look at the man in the bed, an uncertain, lingering look, before walking away.
Part II