[FIC] Dream Lover
Title: Dream Lover.
Author: crazyeverafter
Rating: PG, thanks to Mr. Eames and his innuendo-slinging self. ;)
Word Count: 2477.
Disclaimer: Nolan owns, I'm just playing in the sandbox dreamscape.
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Summary: Eames doesn't want to dream alone. Arthur/Eames, pre-slash(ish).
"Arthur, darling?" Eames coos, and Arthur swears he can hear the forger’s eyelashes batting the air from four meters away.
“What, Eames?” he huffs. His eyes do not leave the newspaper, though he has read the same line at least twelve times since Sean entered the room, and still has not made heads or tails of the article. The forger seems to have that discombobulating effect on Arthur.
“Oh, are you really going to make me say it again?”
“I have ignored you to the best of my ability the last three times you have spoken, so yes. I am.”
“Ouch. Your harsh words injure me, Mr. Sims. Grievously so.”
“You will live, Mr. Eames.”
“You cannot be certain of such a thing.”
“I can for as long as you keep sharp objects, firearms, and flammable materials out of my reach.”
“Ooh, I quite like when you brandish your sadism.”
“My sadism is the least of your worries when it comes to things I can brandish,” Arthur says, without realizing exactly how his words sound.
“Now, now, Arthur, don’t go making promises you won’t later keep,” comes the silky retort. It’s effortless. Eames takes in the blush that appears on the silent point man’s cheeks, but he keeps his laugh to himself and busies himself with stirring his coffee. God, how he loves getting under that too-tight skin of Arthur’s. In fact, he considers it an actual hobby after all this time. Arthur simply considers it an unpleasant fact of life. “Oh, come on, you stick in the mud. Even you have to admit that was amusing.”
“No, I don’t, actually,” Arthur replies stonily. He uncrosses his legs before crossing them again in the opposite direction and settling impossibly deeper into the uncomfortable chair.
“Have it your way, then. Brandish as you please.”
Cue the patented Arthur Sims Death Glare. Eames returns with a patented Innocent British Schmoozer Eyebrow Raise and Arthur rolls his eyes gratuitously before his curiosity apparently gets the best of him.
“What, Mr. Eames, did you want to ask me?”
Eames says nothing until Arthur turns to face him. The exasperation in his expression is evident, and Arthur wishes it were not. Something about Eames, though, has taken root beneath his skin, and refuses to leave. Absolutely refuses.
“Oh, my apologies, Arthur. Didn’t realize you were speaking to me, what with the fact that you were talking at the newspaper and refusing to meet my eyes.”
Arthur sighs and inwardly rolls his eyes. Eames giggles, on the inside, before continuing, “Besides, I don’t think you really want to know.”
“Fine,” Arthur says. He is quite good at imitating nonchalance, in his own opinion, at least. Eames begins mentally counting down from fifty, slowly. Just as he is about to reach the number thirteen, he sees, from the corner of his eye, Arthur turn reluctantly back toward him, though the newspaper is still in place. How Arthur manages to appear so fluid throughout these movements, Eames will never know.
“All right. Seriously, Sean. What is it?”
“My, my. I have certainly piqued someone’s interest, haven’t I?”
“Just tell me, already.” The man looks honestly curious. Score one for the forger, who faces the point man without speaking. He looks as though he is puzzling over quite the conundrum in his head, and this only serves to make Arthur even more interested. “Well?” he asks after a minute’s silence.
Eames says nothing, but stands instead and walks to where Arthur is sitting. He places a hand on either arm of the metal chair and leans indecorously close to Arthur’s face, effectively crumpling the newspaper between them. The point man freezes, becomes absolutely still. In fact, Eames cannot be certain, even in this proximity, that Arthur is properly breathing. Their noses are nearly touching until Eames swings his head just slightly to the right.
Arthur is not quite certain what is happening. He only knows that Eames is ‘all up in his Kool-Aid’, as his best childhood friend would have said. He twitches involuntarily when Eames’s lips very nearly brush his jaw and he (barely) suppresses a shiver when the hot breath ghosts against his ear.
“It’s been so long, Arthur,” the man whispers, his accented voice husky. “Weeks, in fact. I feel as though I may explode, at any second.” Eames pauses here, for effect, Arthur is certain. He feels rather than senses the way that Eames’s lips slowly curve into a provocative smile. “Just a few simple strokes, Arthur, and you could solve my dilemma quite nicely…. Darling.”
Arthur does not know whether to be appalled or enthralled, and he cannot be sure which emotion is showing on his face. Just to be safe, he tries his best to frown condescendingly and remains silent, until Eames speaks up.
“So, what do you say, Arthur?” Eames asks as he straightens to his full height, smug smile securely in place.
Arthur fumbles for words and scrambles gracelessly in his chair in a way that is very akin to the way he scrambles when Eames attempts to kick him over. This sight only adds to Eames’s current state of near-ecstasy, though keeping a straight face now is one of the most difficult things he has ever done in his life. Adding even more to Eames’s enjoyment is the fact that Arthur’s cheeks are sporting a lovely blush and the point man almost looks flustered. Almost. Speaking of almost, Eames is almost sad. He knows that it will be a long time before he can get any deeper under the point man’s skin than he currently is. After several long moments of silence, though, Eames decides that Arthur has squirmed enough. For now.
“Oh, come on. I am simply asking for an hour or two of your precious dream time.”
Arthur’s face goes rapidly blank and he can feel the lull as his brain literally comes to a halt, just for a split second.
“Wait. Dream time? What are you talking about?”
“Do you never pay me any attention, Arthur? I feel so unloved…. I’ve just told you what it is I am talking about. I have not gone under to dream in weeks. The lack of manipulability in my regular dreams bores me, and I will explode if this creative energy remains pent-up for any longer. Why? What did you think I meant?” Eames cocks his head to the side and studies Arthur, again, before pacing a couple of feet away.
“I…. Nothing, Mr. Eames.”
“Nothing? I hardly believe….” Eames begins. Then, he feigns sudden enlightenment, though he knows full well what he has insinuated, and turns on his heel to face Arthur. Arthur is very suddenly interested in his crumpled newspaper. He never did get the gist of that article. “My God, darling. You thought that I meant…. Oh, bloody hell, Arthur. You’re going to make me blush.”
“Shut up, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, trying his best to sound unaffected.
“So you aren’t denying it?”
“Shut up, Mr. Eames.” Apparently, he is failing.
“Well, well. You’re not such a stick in the mud, after all, are you, pet?” Eames grins from ear to ear.
“You know full well what you insinuated, Mr. Eames.” Arthur can still feel his cheeks burning, and he knows that he is not the only person aware of the fact that his face is currently brighter than most of Eames’s wardrobe.
“You suggest that I am aiming to make you uncomfortable merely for my own amusement, Arthur.”
“Aren’t you, Sean?”
“Heavens no! Not merely for my amusement. I also do it for your benefit, of course. Getting all riled up every now and again is good for the soul! Haven’t you heard?”
“I must have missed the memo.”
“I’ll find you a copy first chance I get. Now, about that dream….”
“Why must I join you?” Arthur folds the newspaper and tosses it onto his desk. He twists in his chair so that he is facing Eames completely.
“Because, Arthur, dreaming solo is a bloody bore.”
“Really? I thought you had imagination,” Arthur emphasizes the last word, and wiggles his fingers. The way he says it, he makes it sound like some secret power known only to God and mystical voodoo priestesses.
“I never said I didn’t. I simply said that dreaming alone is no fun. My projections are dandy fellows, but they get tiring after a while.”
“Fragments of your subconscious? Tiring? Surely you jest.”
“Did growing a sense of humor so abruptly cause you physical pain?”
“Seriously, Eames. Why? And why me?”
“I am speaking seriously. Boredom.” And a chance to see you really cut loose, he thinks, but that part remains unspoken. He hopes it is implied, at the very least, and he thinks that it might be when the expression on Arthur’s face changes from one that would definitely suggest a negative answer to an expression that seems to be at least considering a yes.
Arthur is sorely tempted for a moment to run, not walk, to the nearest PASIV, to hook up to it and see just where it takes him. But, he realizes just how unwise such an action would be, and he declines.
“That’s not a good enough reason. And you still haven‘t answered my question.” Though I’m certain I could be persuaded if you would try again, he thinks, but that part remains unspoken. He hopes it is implied, and he thinks that it might be when he sees the slight sparkle of determination in Eames’s eyes. The man never could resist a challenge, which was why he had not yet tired of bothering Arthur. And possibly never would.
“Because Cobb’s projection of Mal is an absolute nutter, Yusuf can’t hold his liquids, and Ariadne does not know how to shut up. Ever. That is why. And how about if I ask you very nicely?”
Arthur accepts the meager explanation and answers Eames question, “I doubt it.”
“What can I do, then, Arthur, to make you see that I need your company?”
Arthur pretends to think about this for a moment before answering, “Nothing.”
“Nothing? How about if I sing to you? Oh, yes, I quite like that idea. A little serenade might just change your mind.”
Sometimes Eames absolutely adores the little ideas that pop up in his mind, and this is most definitely one of those times.
“Please, no. Just no…. Please.”
Arthur stands from the chair and quickly makes his way toward the small room where the coffee machine awaits him. Before he is even out of reach of his chair, though, he hears shoes tapping softly on the concrete floor, and he inwardly cringes, preparing for the assault on his eardrums. Instead, he hears a surprisingly decent voice begin to sing, and he wonders briefly if perhaps Eames has prepared for this moment and brought a radio. He then realizes how silly that would be, and he also realizes that Eames is apparently more talented than is widely known. This is why he forgets about the coffee, not that he really wanted any in the first place.
“Every night, I hope and I pray a dream lover will come my way…. ‘Cause I want a boy to call my own. I want a dream lover so I don’t have to dream alone.”
Eames can hardly believe that he has not done this sooner. It is as if he has cast a spell over the point man, and he likes the idea of that very much. Arthur refuses to turn around and give the man his full attention, refuses to give Eames the satisfaction, but he cannot seem to walk away. Eames takes note of this, revels in this as he sings. He begins to sing even louder, and, though he is certain he muddles a few words here and there, he knows the message is the same.
He walks to where Arthur stands, circles him until he can see the smile on that unhappy little face, the smile Arthur is not even bothering to hide. Eames takes this as a good sign, and so he skips to the end of the song. He gets down on his knees as he hums the final chorus, looks up at Arthur with his most pleading expression, and belts the closing lyrics,
“Please don’t make me dream alone. I beg you, don’t make me dream alone. No, I don’t want to dream… Alone,” he finishes with a flourish. He remains there, hands outstretched, kneeling dramatically at Arthur’s feet and waiting for the man to say something, anything.
“On your feet, Mr. Eames,” Arthur finally says, holding out a hand to pull the man up. “Has anyone ever told you that you can be quite ridiculous sometimes?”
“Often. Right before they fall in love with me.”
Arthur drops Eames hand and scoffs at this, at Sean Eames’s daring and self-surety, and then rolls his eyes.
“Right,” he laughs and turns away.
“I’m being quite serious, Arthur. Rumor has it I can be rather charming when I want to be.”
“And do you currently want to be?”
“Well, it’s all means to an end, at the moment, darling. Therefore, I shall ask you once more: will you accompany me into a magnificent land of dreaming, where, for a short time, we can rule side by side as kings of our dreamy dominion?” Eames says all of this as if he is advertising some far away island resort.
“Must you make everything sound so tawdry, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks.
“Makes the words more memorable, in my opinion,” Eames says. He shrugs his shoulders and quirks his lips slightly sideways.
“You don’t need assistance in being memorable, believe me. And yes, I will join you, but only to make you stop mangling classic American music.”
“Oh, flattery will get you everywhere, dearest. And I knew you would be unable to resist.”
“That wasn’t necessarily a compliment, and you knew no such thing,” Arthur laughs. He turns and begins walking toward the chair he normally sits in during a dream session.
“Well, Arthur, from you, I have to take what I can get, and you might be surprised.” Forger slowly follows point man to the group of chairs. He watches as Arthur settles into the chair and begins rolling up his left shirtsleeve.
“You might get more if you weren’t so obnoxious, and I doubt it.”
“Again, Arthur, don’t go making promises you won’t later keep.” Eames follows suit, rolling up his own right shirtsleeve. He grabs an IV just as Arthur does and each man tucks a needle neatly into his waiting vein.
“Who says I won’t keep them later?”
“Oh, from your mouth to God’s ears, darling,” Eames sighs.
Arthur presses a button on the PASIV device and whispers “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”
And he does.