2010-09-08:
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, prompt: " Arthur, in a drunken stupor or sleepy in-the-dark escape from the bedroom the morning after accidentally puts on Eames's shirt."
939 words
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“I believe,” Eames says at the doorway, “that you have my jacket in your possession.”
“I'm not sure what you're talking about.” Arthur tells Eames astutely, although he backtracks quickly to the events of the last seven days: a job in Sarajevo where he was assaulted with a cane by an old lady who mistook him for a thief (an honest mistake to make as they broke into the wrong apartment, using coordinates given to them by what Nash claims to have been "reliable" sources), a lecture at Boston University on Sustainable Architecture which Cobb had invited him to.
And then, ah, yes, that subsequent night in Providence - one of the lesser moments of Arthur's life - when he'd had far too many drinks in him and pressed Eames against a jukebox, sang You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman and hit all the wrong notes. The rest of the night went pearshaped after that and Arthur wound up losing a good pair of suspenders, but at least it wasn't as bad as the summer he went fly fishing with Cobb and Mal.
Arthur finds the jacket in question hanging in his closet, starched and stiff from its recent trip to the drycleaners. The silk brocade should've been his first tip off - how can anyone wear anything so gaudy?
He hands it back without much fanfare and shows Eames out the door. He can see now how the mixup might have occurred. After their brief but satisfying exchange (of seminal fluid, a voice in his head adds in an accent suspiciously resembling Eames') he'd waded through a pile of haphazardly discarded clothes, of which he was sure there was an excess; there was an extra sock thrown in along with a wifebeater Arthur could not recall ever seeing on either of them, and what appeared to be a shoulder holster with Eames' name embroidered on the shoulder harness in cornflower blue thread. Still, it baffles Arthur that he's failed recognize the jacket as Eames' and even mistook it for one of his own. It says a lot about his state of mind lately, which he finds often peppered with fleeting thoughts of Eames and his full, wet mouth.
“There's a stain in the corner.” Eames tells him, sounding far more put-out than he should be. He takes an experimental sniff of the sleeve and Arthur raises both his eyebrows.
“It's soy sauce.” Eames says.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Arthur says, which is a lie because he totally does. He wore the jacket ducking out of the hotel in Providence, flagging down a cab, horrifically embarrassed after the events of the previous evening and the subsequent morning. There'd been singing and there'd been sex, which should neither be mixed nor mutually exclusive and Arthur had gone and broken the golden rule and might as well call his entire existence a lie.
He snuck out while Eames was in the shower, berating himself for the brief moment he'd been tempted to join him. He flew to New York wearing the jacket, falling asleep in it and eating Chinese takeout in it, spilling soy sauce on the sleeve after accidentally knocking the container over with his elbow.
Arthur dismisses it with a hand. “Send me the bill,” he tells Eames who folds the jacket over one arm and leans against the doorway, eyebrows raised and waiting.
“What is it?” Arthur says.
Eames shrugs and says, “This isn’t really why I came all the way from Cambodia and we both know it.”
“Cambodia.” Arthur repeats.
“Yes.” Eames nods. “I was scoping the periphery. I was there yesterday.”
Arthur has his doubts but then again this is Eames, whose bestman speech made Miles cry at his daughter’s reception (leaving everyone utterly bewildered and decidedly uncomfortable) and whose hands are tainted with the blood of those he’s killed whether by choice or necessity, which is more than horrifically arousing.
After a prolonged moment of awkward silence during which Arthur pops the crick in his neck and Eames scuffs his shoe against his ankle, Eames finally throws his hands in the air in a gesture of exasperation.
“Oh for the love of god, Arthur! Just tell me you want me to stay so we could have ridiculous amounts of sex and exchange an equally ridiculous amount of body fluids.”
“What?” Arthur says. He blinks and makes his mouth move but all that comes out is a horrified laugh. Is he having a nervous breakdown? Possibly. He’s heard of people losing control of their mental faculties after prolonged exposure to Somnacin.
When Arthur regains his senses, which is half a beat later after Eames has crowded him against the wall and nudged the door closed with his foot, the corners of his lips twitch into something not quite resembling a smile but is almost halfway there, a pseudo-smile.
“So you flew all the way from Cambodia to have sex with me?” Arthur asks, just to make sure they’re on the same page.
“Essentially, yes.” He blinks. “Are you perturbed or otherwise disgusted?”
“No.” Arthur says, startling himself with his own candor. He slides out of Eames’ grasp and makes a show of stretching in the hall, moving his neck from side to side and twisting an arm around his head.
He pauses in the hallway, one hand on the door, the other fingering the hem of his shirt. “Eames, are you coming or what?”
Eames screws his mouth shut with an audible click, tosses the jacket over his shoulder and follows him into the next room.