Inception: You Can't Hide the Sun with Two Fingers (PG-13, Arthur/Eames)
It's been a very, VERY long time since I've written something. We're talking at least since March. In hackthis time that's like a couple of years. So, please bear with me while I work out the kinks of how this goes. Everyone must start somewhere.
In short: it's on like Donkey Kong!
Inception
Arthur/Eames
Rated PG-13
You Can't Hide the Sun with Two Fingers
Eames has a mouth like a porn star.
It's not the most professional thought that Arthur could have upon their initial meeting in the deserted warehouse with three broken windows and an ant problem, but it's certainly the most prominent thought.
This thought is followed shortly by various other assessments of Eames as they shake hands. Eames' ears are pointy, like Spock. His hands are dry, warm. His eyes are bright and his stubble is too rugged not to be natural. His tweed jacket: a fucking travesty of tailoring.
Who wears green tweed? And what's wrong with the seams at the shoulders? They're bunched together as though Eames can't afford anything better. Arthur highly doubts that anybody with Ferragamo loafers is stressed about paying the electricity bill at the end of the month.
And then Eames opens his mouth. "You said he was good, you never said he was gorgeous," Eames scolds Cobb lightly.
Arthur can feel his forehead furrowing together.
Cobb chuckles low and points to the waiting yellow plastic lawn furniture that Arthur's spread out in a semicircle. "Flirt on your own time, Eames."
Arthur looks down because there's pressure on the back of his hand. A thumb rubbing the skin there. Eames is touching him. Still. He never bothered to let go.
Arthur pulls his hand away sharply. "Nice to meet you," he says flatly.
Eames eyes shine with amusement. "Trust me, the pleasure is all mine."
Arthur turns away from Eames and grabs a blue dry erase marker from the white board. He's not even going to dignify that with a response, so there's no reason for the flare of heat in his cheeks or the way he rolls back his shoulders and stands up that much straighter.
The job is simple: a woman is trying to find out if her husband is cheating on her with her sister.
They take the job because since Mal got pregnant with their first kid, Cobb's taken every job they've been offered. He's hoarding money away like a recession is coming.
The mark is easy enough to deal with. He's an average man living an average life.
And Arthur did not quote Rockwell's "Somebody's Watching Me" on purpose.
The husband, Steven Brown, tends to fall asleep on his train home in the evening, because commuters are all the same whether they're from Stamford or Berlin. The minute he begins to snore lightly, Cobb opens the locks on the dream machine and pulls out three connectors.
"Play nicely," Cobb warns as Eames and Arthur get hooked into their mark.
"I'm always nice," Eames says with a wink before he goes under.
Arthur's eyes lock on Eames' striped lavender tie before he pulls his attention away. "Where the hell did you find this guy?" he asks Cobb.
Cobb's smile is small, amused. "He tried to pick me up when I was extracting from the British Prime Minister."
"That's not funny."
Cobb's smile broadens. "That's what I said."
Arthur is being kissed.
Judging by the breasts pressing against his chest, he's going to assume it's by a woman.
The woman, whoever she is, is cupping his face, her thumbs rubbing his cheekbones. Her lips are soft, pliant.
He instinctively wraps his arms around her. Pulls her in. His hands palm her ass.
It's a nice ass. Firm. Round.
There's a tongue sweeping through Arthur's mouth and judging by the way this woman is grinding against his rapidly hardening cock, his body is much faster on the uptake than he is.
And then the woman pulls back, and Arthur opens his eyes and gets slapped so hard his teeth complain. There's a sharp pain in Arthur's lower lip as a blond Amazon with reality-defying curves glowers at him.
"You fucking cheating lying bastard!" the woman rails. "I give you two years of my life and this is how you treat me?"
Arthur stares. And the woman swings again. This time Arthur turns away just in time to get slapped in the ear. Fabulous.
All around him people are staring. Gaping.
Arthur tries to grab at the swinging hands, but this woman is much, much stronger than she looks. "Get away from me," she hisses. "You make me sick."
Arthur knows a losing battle when he hears one, so he turns and leaves the bar.
Which he doesn't remember going to in the first place.
He thought he was supposed to be working.
Things outside the bar aren't much better than they were when he was inside.
People are staring at him. His mouth is tingling. The tips of his fingers come away red with blood. So not only did he just get dumped, but he also got bitch-slapped by someone he doesn't even think he knows.
"You really should learn how to duck," a male voice says sagely.
"I'll be sure to do that next time," Arthur snaps, turning on his heel with a glower on his face.
The glower dies off when he sees his new friend.
"Here," Steven Brown says, pulling a striped lavender-colored handkerchief from his suit pocket. The fabric pattern seems strangely familiar to Arthur.
"Thanks."
"So, uh, it looks like you got dumped."
Arthur blots his lip. "Great powers of observation."
"How about I buy you a drink and you tell me all about it?"
Brown's smile is awkward; Arthur's mind races.
Steven Brown is hitting on him. In all his maleness.
Arthur's going to see how this plays out, but he would bet that whomever Steven Brown is cheating with, it's not Mrs. Brown's sister.
Cobb's leaning over Arthur when he wakes up.
Arthur raises an eyebrow; Cobb points to the still slumbering Steven Brown and holds a finger to his own lips for quiet.
Apart from Cobb, Brown and Arthur, their train compartment is empty.
No Eames.
Arthur can feel an alarming mix of irritation and concern creeping across his consciousness, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he extracts his lead from his wrist, watches Cobb close up the dream machine and follows Cobb out of their compartment and into another car.
A door slides back and Eames greets them with a wide grin. "Miss me?"
Arthur scowls. What the hell was he even worried for?
"So?" Cobb asks once they're again situated on the 7:43 to Stamford, Connecticut.
"It's not Mrs. Brown's sister," Arthur says, rubbing at the back of his neck and trying not to think about Steven Brown's middle-aged paunch and stubby fingers groping him at the gay bar they wound up at.
Eames stretches his arms over his head. The buttons of his checked oxford strain with the pull of fabric. "No, it's definitely not her."
"Where the hell were you?" Arthur says. "I'm in Brown's subconscious getting beat up by Amazons and you were --"
Arthur stops talking because Cobb is laughing.
"What's so funny?"
Cobb turns towards Eames. "You went into Brown's subconscious to beat up Arthur? I thought we stopped kicking people in kindergarten."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Eames says. "I was doing my job: drawing out the mark. Giving him what he wanted. How was I to know he preferred skinny men in suits to blondes in strappy red dresses?"
"That was you?" Arthur sputters. "But you were -- were --"
"I was what I was paid to be," Eames says, standing up and collecting the nylon messenger bag at his feet. "It wouldn't have worked if you knew what was coming."
"You could have fucking told me!" Arthur says, grabbing Eames before he disappears. Again.
Eames looks down at Arthur's hand on his wrist before he looks back up at Arthur. Arthur can feel the tendons in his wrist flex. "I could've told you, but my way is much more entertaining."
Arthur frowns. "I'm not here to be entertained."
Eames leans in close. Too close. Arthur can feel the warm air when Eames speaks. "That's part of your problem, darling. But don't worry, I'll fix that."
Eames disappears after the Brown job. Much to Arthur's relief.
Or it should be much to Arthur's relief, but instead of feeling better, Arthur just feels off.
Sharing a dream with someone is more personal than fucking. Arthur firmly believes this.
You can fuck anybody. Take them home, make them scream. Make them sweat and writhe and beg for more. And then it's over. You take a shower, put on your clothes and off you go.
But dream sharing. That's personal.
Your subconscious opens up. Random projections appear out of nowhere without warning. It's so easy to take advantage of someone in their dreams.
In fact, inception is one of Arthur's biggest fears. The idea of someone else controlling his thoughts is fucking terrifying.
But since Arthur met Eames he doesn't know if that niggling itch under his skin is from Eames or that blond Amazon who split his lip or the idea that they're one and the same. Arthur doesn't need another brilliant person coming along and fucking up his perception of reality; he can barely deal with Cobb.
What on earth would Arthur do with someone that could be anyone they want to be at any given time?
Why would they want him?
And now that the job is over, why does Arthur keep trying to correct his memory of the dream so that when they jump into the Brown subconscious it's Eames he's kissing instead of the blond bombshell that everyone is supposed to want?
Eames turns up three months later in Chicago.
It's raining and it's a Wednesday. Not that those two things are related in any way; it was raining on Tuesday as well. And on Monday.
Arthur can't believe they're working under these conditions. He can't believe he flew in from Marbella to work under these conditions. The rain is so torrential it's like someone is peeing on the house; Arthur keeps expecting the ceiling to leak all over the papers he's spread out on Mal and Dom's kitchen table.
It's three in the afternoon and Arthur's working here, alone, because the weather didn't stop Mal and Dom from going shopping for yet more baby clothes.
He can't wait until they finally move to Los Angeles.
The job du jour is basic corporate espionage. Company A has something that Company B wants. Company B knows that Company A wants it, but doesn't know that Company C wants it, too.
Dom and Arthur have been hired by Company C.
The issue isn't getting the information, the issue is who they're going to get the information from.
The CEO, the CFO and the COO have all been militarized, which rules them out.
However, according to the dossier, the very married COO has been sleeping with one of his subordinates, Maria Suarez.
Ms. Suarez, paradoxically enough, also happens to be a stringent Roman Catholic. She goes to confession religiously every Wednesday at 7:30 p.m. to cleanse her soul of her rather salacious exploits of the week before.
"Hello, gorgeous," an all too familiar voice breathes against the exposed nape of Arthur's neck.
Every part of Arthur's body tenses up, his cock leading the charge.
Arthur closes his eyes tightly and counts to five. He doesn't start speaking until he opens his eyes. "Eames, there's this thing called knocking. You should try it before you break into other people's homes."
Eames' grin is blinding, and he drops into the chair beside Arthur with ease. "You've missed me, haven't you?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Like another hole in my head."
"Oh, don't do that," Eames says. "I quite like your head the way it is."
Arthur inhales deeply and all he smells is tea, sandalwood soap and leather. Eames is wearing a gray leather jacket and a blue sweater that matches his eyes.
Arthur is not going to rise to this. Except his brain didn't send that message to his dick.
"Do you want to flirt with me or do you want to talk about this job?" Arthur says.
"I don't see why we can't do both. Have you never heard of multitasking?"
"I know your version of multitasking."
"Your condescension wounds me deeply, Arthur."
"I'll bet it does."
"And here I was thinking you were utterly lacking in a sense of humor. Clearly you just need me to draw it out of you."
Arthur has to laugh at this. Eames moves a little closer, his wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand and stares at Arthur as though he's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"Cobb summoned me and here I am. Therefore, it's not technically a break-in. And as much as I'd like to think I'm here because you yearned for my presence, I'm not quite that narcissistic."
"Yes, you are."
Eames sits up. "You're right," he says solemnly. "I am."
When Arthur laughs he can feel it stretching the corners of his mouth. Eames' eyes spark brightly. "It's terrible the way you insult me when Cobb's not around to supervise," he says. "You did miss me, didn't you?"
Arthur clears his throat. "So, look, this job."
Eames' bottom lip pokes out in disappointment. It's utterly devastating. It makes Arthur think of Amazons and porn stars. "Yes, right, always thinking with your big head."
Arthur chokes down a laugh. "Eames, be serious."
"I am being serious. I am being terribly, terribly serious. This is my serious face."
Arthur rubs his jaw. That is not a serious face, that is an invitation for Arthur to find out if Eames kisses like an Amazon face. "Seriously," Arthur begins again, "how's your Roman Catholic priest impersonation?"
Eames' eyebrows climb upward rapidly. "Would you like to get to your knees and find out?"
Eames is terrible with personal space.
No, Arthur stands corrected.
Eames is terrible with personal space when it comes to Arthur.
They are in the pulpit at St. Mary's waiting for Maria Suarez, Marketing Manager at Company C and mistress to the COO of the same company, to stop reciting the rosary and head for the confessional.
In this particular scenario Eames is manifesting as Father Jorge Ruiz and Arthur... is his altar boy.
Arthur is thirty-two, he is way too old to be an altar boy. And the way Eames keeps eyeballing Arthur is really not going to do anything for the church's reputation.
In fact, when Eames pats Arthur's ass en route to extract the information he needs from Maria, Arthur's pretty sure the seventy-something grandmother kneeling in the third row has a coronary.
Mal has the baby five weeks after Maria Suarez gives up the goods to Father Ruiz.
Even in Arthur's brain that sounds much more salacious than it actually is.
The point is that with Mal and Cobb otherwise occupied with Phillipa, Arthur is at a loss for things to do. Marbella seems a bit boring and Arthur has no business in Chicago.
He has no idea why he goes to London.
For some reason the idea just pops into his head.
At least this is what he tells himself when he gets off the Northern Line at Chalk Farm and walks north up Haverstock Hill.
Of course, the white postcard with a map of the London Underground on one side and a series of capital lettered, black Sharpie directions to 16 Provost Road on the back would lead one to believe that this idea clearly wasn't his own.
However, it's suggestion not inception that's led him here.
A very blatant suggestion.
Eton Road is tree-lined. There are brown brick walls and family sedans. Arthur makes a left turn on Provost Road and wonders if he should've called first.
Then again that would've required a phone number.
The houses on Provost Road are pastel-colored with white trim. The trees are well kept and there are tiny squares of grass that might be called yards. Arthur doesn't know where he thought Eames would live; perhaps someplace flashier, louder, but this place seems very pedestrian.
Calming.
The kind of place you want to come home to.
There's a red Audi in the driveway of number sixteen, and Arthur smiles to himself. Perhaps not quite so pedestrian after all. He knocks on the door and then thinks better of it and rings the bell.
"I'm fucking coming!" Arthur hears an all too familiar voice shout.
Arthur takes a step back when the door is yanked open. "I've about had enough of you Jehovah's Witnesses. I told you -" Eames stops talking abruptly.
Arthur licks his lips and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The leather satchel in his hand suddenly feels very heavy. Arthur's sure it has nothing to do with the white undershirt Eames is wearing or all the tattoos peeking out from the sleeves.
But it could have something to do with the faded jeans and bare feet.
And the messy hair.
Apparently Arthur's a sucker for Eames with messy hair.
"Um, hey," Arthur says rather brilliantly.
Eames' blinks at him. "I was just in the kitchen making a curry. And before that I did the washing. Before that I watched 'The F Word'."
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Okay."
"I remember where I was," Eames says. "I'm not dreaming because I know how I got here."
"I never said you were dreaming."
"Yeah, but you're here, so I reckon somewhere along the line," Eames pauses. "Are you actually here? If you're here for extraction all you're going to find is Thom Yorke's phone number and a lot of filthy porn, a fair amount of it starring you."
"You have Thom Yorke's phone number?"
"Long story." Eames takes a step onto the porch and looks past Arthur up and down the street. "No rain of purple toads. No orange sky," he says thoughtfully. "If this is a dream it can't be mine, because -"
Arthur thinks now's an excellent time to kiss Eames; he's talking far too much.
Eames mouth is giving, warm. His lips soft. Arthur curls a hand around the back of Eames' neck and holds him still, licks at the seam of his mouth until Eames lets him in, their tongues brushing together lazily. Eames tastes of curry. Lots and lots of curry.
It's all Eames and no Amazon.
And then there's a strong forearm wrapped around Arthur's back, a greedy hand on his ass and a firm erection pressing against his thigh. Dry humping on the porch was not quite how Arthur thought - actually, no. That's how he hoped it might go. How he dreamed it might go, but dreams aren't reality.
Arthur has a loaded red die to attest to that.
When Arthur pulls away, Eames nips at his lower lip.
Arthur takes a deep, shuddering breath. It's hard to think with Eames groping him. "Are you going to let me in your house or are you going to maul me in front of your neighbors?"
"Maul you in front of the neighbors," Eames says, mouthing at Arthur's neck.
"Eames."
"Arthur."
"I'm not calling you Eames in bed. I know you have a first name."
Eames lifts his head, blue eyes sharp. "You're calling my name in bed?"
"That was the plan."
"There's a plan? I'm delighted you gave me so much thought."
"Actually, there's no plan." Arthur admits. "I just thought we'd see how it goes... Rupert."
"Rupert." Eames grins broadly. "And here I was thinking you lacked imagination."
"Tim?"
"No."
"Bill?"
"Do I look like a Bill to you?"
"George?"
"I've actually got an Uncle George, but no."
"Jeeves?"
"My god, Arthur, it is the twenty-first Century."
"You're right. Rumpelstiltskin."
Arthur can feel the vibrations passing between them as Eames laughs.
"Do you really want to know what my first name is?" Eames asks.
"What do you think?"
Eames leans in and whispers his first name in Arthur's ear, his lips brushing against the shell.
Arthur pulls back, studies Eames intently and then nods. "Yeah, that suits you."
Eames cheeks flush slightly. "I'm glad you like it."
Arthur shrugs. "I like a lot of things."
"So I've gathered. You're not boring are you?"
"No."
"Good. I hate to be bored."
Arthur laughs. "I couldn't tell."
-end-
maurheti did the beta. The remaining mistakes are mine. I am very grateful that I'm back in the same boat as my peeps. I am so grateful that I am in a fandom with these pieces of HOT.ASS (Images from casiophone)
In short: it's on like Donkey Kong!
Inception
Arthur/Eames
Rated PG-13
You Can't Hide the Sun with Two Fingers
Eames has a mouth like a porn star.
It's not the most professional thought that Arthur could have upon their initial meeting in the deserted warehouse with three broken windows and an ant problem, but it's certainly the most prominent thought.
This thought is followed shortly by various other assessments of Eames as they shake hands. Eames' ears are pointy, like Spock. His hands are dry, warm. His eyes are bright and his stubble is too rugged not to be natural. His tweed jacket: a fucking travesty of tailoring.
Who wears green tweed? And what's wrong with the seams at the shoulders? They're bunched together as though Eames can't afford anything better. Arthur highly doubts that anybody with Ferragamo loafers is stressed about paying the electricity bill at the end of the month.
And then Eames opens his mouth. "You said he was good, you never said he was gorgeous," Eames scolds Cobb lightly.
Arthur can feel his forehead furrowing together.
Cobb chuckles low and points to the waiting yellow plastic lawn furniture that Arthur's spread out in a semicircle. "Flirt on your own time, Eames."
Arthur looks down because there's pressure on the back of his hand. A thumb rubbing the skin there. Eames is touching him. Still. He never bothered to let go.
Arthur pulls his hand away sharply. "Nice to meet you," he says flatly.
Eames eyes shine with amusement. "Trust me, the pleasure is all mine."
Arthur turns away from Eames and grabs a blue dry erase marker from the white board. He's not even going to dignify that with a response, so there's no reason for the flare of heat in his cheeks or the way he rolls back his shoulders and stands up that much straighter.
The job is simple: a woman is trying to find out if her husband is cheating on her with her sister.
They take the job because since Mal got pregnant with their first kid, Cobb's taken every job they've been offered. He's hoarding money away like a recession is coming.
The mark is easy enough to deal with. He's an average man living an average life.
And Arthur did not quote Rockwell's "Somebody's Watching Me" on purpose.
The husband, Steven Brown, tends to fall asleep on his train home in the evening, because commuters are all the same whether they're from Stamford or Berlin. The minute he begins to snore lightly, Cobb opens the locks on the dream machine and pulls out three connectors.
"Play nicely," Cobb warns as Eames and Arthur get hooked into their mark.
"I'm always nice," Eames says with a wink before he goes under.
Arthur's eyes lock on Eames' striped lavender tie before he pulls his attention away. "Where the hell did you find this guy?" he asks Cobb.
Cobb's smile is small, amused. "He tried to pick me up when I was extracting from the British Prime Minister."
"That's not funny."
Cobb's smile broadens. "That's what I said."
Arthur is being kissed.
Judging by the breasts pressing against his chest, he's going to assume it's by a woman.
The woman, whoever she is, is cupping his face, her thumbs rubbing his cheekbones. Her lips are soft, pliant.
He instinctively wraps his arms around her. Pulls her in. His hands palm her ass.
It's a nice ass. Firm. Round.
There's a tongue sweeping through Arthur's mouth and judging by the way this woman is grinding against his rapidly hardening cock, his body is much faster on the uptake than he is.
And then the woman pulls back, and Arthur opens his eyes and gets slapped so hard his teeth complain. There's a sharp pain in Arthur's lower lip as a blond Amazon with reality-defying curves glowers at him.
"You fucking cheating lying bastard!" the woman rails. "I give you two years of my life and this is how you treat me?"
Arthur stares. And the woman swings again. This time Arthur turns away just in time to get slapped in the ear. Fabulous.
All around him people are staring. Gaping.
Arthur tries to grab at the swinging hands, but this woman is much, much stronger than she looks. "Get away from me," she hisses. "You make me sick."
Arthur knows a losing battle when he hears one, so he turns and leaves the bar.
Which he doesn't remember going to in the first place.
He thought he was supposed to be working.
Things outside the bar aren't much better than they were when he was inside.
People are staring at him. His mouth is tingling. The tips of his fingers come away red with blood. So not only did he just get dumped, but he also got bitch-slapped by someone he doesn't even think he knows.
"You really should learn how to duck," a male voice says sagely.
"I'll be sure to do that next time," Arthur snaps, turning on his heel with a glower on his face.
The glower dies off when he sees his new friend.
"Here," Steven Brown says, pulling a striped lavender-colored handkerchief from his suit pocket. The fabric pattern seems strangely familiar to Arthur.
"Thanks."
"So, uh, it looks like you got dumped."
Arthur blots his lip. "Great powers of observation."
"How about I buy you a drink and you tell me all about it?"
Brown's smile is awkward; Arthur's mind races.
Steven Brown is hitting on him. In all his maleness.
Arthur's going to see how this plays out, but he would bet that whomever Steven Brown is cheating with, it's not Mrs. Brown's sister.
Cobb's leaning over Arthur when he wakes up.
Arthur raises an eyebrow; Cobb points to the still slumbering Steven Brown and holds a finger to his own lips for quiet.
Apart from Cobb, Brown and Arthur, their train compartment is empty.
No Eames.
Arthur can feel an alarming mix of irritation and concern creeping across his consciousness, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he extracts his lead from his wrist, watches Cobb close up the dream machine and follows Cobb out of their compartment and into another car.
A door slides back and Eames greets them with a wide grin. "Miss me?"
Arthur scowls. What the hell was he even worried for?
"So?" Cobb asks once they're again situated on the 7:43 to Stamford, Connecticut.
"It's not Mrs. Brown's sister," Arthur says, rubbing at the back of his neck and trying not to think about Steven Brown's middle-aged paunch and stubby fingers groping him at the gay bar they wound up at.
Eames stretches his arms over his head. The buttons of his checked oxford strain with the pull of fabric. "No, it's definitely not her."
"Where the hell were you?" Arthur says. "I'm in Brown's subconscious getting beat up by Amazons and you were --"
Arthur stops talking because Cobb is laughing.
"What's so funny?"
Cobb turns towards Eames. "You went into Brown's subconscious to beat up Arthur? I thought we stopped kicking people in kindergarten."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Eames says. "I was doing my job: drawing out the mark. Giving him what he wanted. How was I to know he preferred skinny men in suits to blondes in strappy red dresses?"
"That was you?" Arthur sputters. "But you were -- were --"
"I was what I was paid to be," Eames says, standing up and collecting the nylon messenger bag at his feet. "It wouldn't have worked if you knew what was coming."
"You could have fucking told me!" Arthur says, grabbing Eames before he disappears. Again.
Eames looks down at Arthur's hand on his wrist before he looks back up at Arthur. Arthur can feel the tendons in his wrist flex. "I could've told you, but my way is much more entertaining."
Arthur frowns. "I'm not here to be entertained."
Eames leans in close. Too close. Arthur can feel the warm air when Eames speaks. "That's part of your problem, darling. But don't worry, I'll fix that."
Eames disappears after the Brown job. Much to Arthur's relief.
Or it should be much to Arthur's relief, but instead of feeling better, Arthur just feels off.
Sharing a dream with someone is more personal than fucking. Arthur firmly believes this.
You can fuck anybody. Take them home, make them scream. Make them sweat and writhe and beg for more. And then it's over. You take a shower, put on your clothes and off you go.
But dream sharing. That's personal.
Your subconscious opens up. Random projections appear out of nowhere without warning. It's so easy to take advantage of someone in their dreams.
In fact, inception is one of Arthur's biggest fears. The idea of someone else controlling his thoughts is fucking terrifying.
But since Arthur met Eames he doesn't know if that niggling itch under his skin is from Eames or that blond Amazon who split his lip or the idea that they're one and the same. Arthur doesn't need another brilliant person coming along and fucking up his perception of reality; he can barely deal with Cobb.
What on earth would Arthur do with someone that could be anyone they want to be at any given time?
Why would they want him?
And now that the job is over, why does Arthur keep trying to correct his memory of the dream so that when they jump into the Brown subconscious it's Eames he's kissing instead of the blond bombshell that everyone is supposed to want?
Eames turns up three months later in Chicago.
It's raining and it's a Wednesday. Not that those two things are related in any way; it was raining on Tuesday as well. And on Monday.
Arthur can't believe they're working under these conditions. He can't believe he flew in from Marbella to work under these conditions. The rain is so torrential it's like someone is peeing on the house; Arthur keeps expecting the ceiling to leak all over the papers he's spread out on Mal and Dom's kitchen table.
It's three in the afternoon and Arthur's working here, alone, because the weather didn't stop Mal and Dom from going shopping for yet more baby clothes.
He can't wait until they finally move to Los Angeles.
The job du jour is basic corporate espionage. Company A has something that Company B wants. Company B knows that Company A wants it, but doesn't know that Company C wants it, too.
Dom and Arthur have been hired by Company C.
The issue isn't getting the information, the issue is who they're going to get the information from.
The CEO, the CFO and the COO have all been militarized, which rules them out.
However, according to the dossier, the very married COO has been sleeping with one of his subordinates, Maria Suarez.
Ms. Suarez, paradoxically enough, also happens to be a stringent Roman Catholic. She goes to confession religiously every Wednesday at 7:30 p.m. to cleanse her soul of her rather salacious exploits of the week before.
"Hello, gorgeous," an all too familiar voice breathes against the exposed nape of Arthur's neck.
Every part of Arthur's body tenses up, his cock leading the charge.
Arthur closes his eyes tightly and counts to five. He doesn't start speaking until he opens his eyes. "Eames, there's this thing called knocking. You should try it before you break into other people's homes."
Eames' grin is blinding, and he drops into the chair beside Arthur with ease. "You've missed me, haven't you?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Like another hole in my head."
"Oh, don't do that," Eames says. "I quite like your head the way it is."
Arthur inhales deeply and all he smells is tea, sandalwood soap and leather. Eames is wearing a gray leather jacket and a blue sweater that matches his eyes.
Arthur is not going to rise to this. Except his brain didn't send that message to his dick.
"Do you want to flirt with me or do you want to talk about this job?" Arthur says.
"I don't see why we can't do both. Have you never heard of multitasking?"
"I know your version of multitasking."
"Your condescension wounds me deeply, Arthur."
"I'll bet it does."
"And here I was thinking you were utterly lacking in a sense of humor. Clearly you just need me to draw it out of you."
Arthur has to laugh at this. Eames moves a little closer, his wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand and stares at Arthur as though he's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
"Cobb summoned me and here I am. Therefore, it's not technically a break-in. And as much as I'd like to think I'm here because you yearned for my presence, I'm not quite that narcissistic."
"Yes, you are."
Eames sits up. "You're right," he says solemnly. "I am."
When Arthur laughs he can feel it stretching the corners of his mouth. Eames' eyes spark brightly. "It's terrible the way you insult me when Cobb's not around to supervise," he says. "You did miss me, didn't you?"
Arthur clears his throat. "So, look, this job."
Eames' bottom lip pokes out in disappointment. It's utterly devastating. It makes Arthur think of Amazons and porn stars. "Yes, right, always thinking with your big head."
Arthur chokes down a laugh. "Eames, be serious."
"I am being serious. I am being terribly, terribly serious. This is my serious face."
Arthur rubs his jaw. That is not a serious face, that is an invitation for Arthur to find out if Eames kisses like an Amazon face. "Seriously," Arthur begins again, "how's your Roman Catholic priest impersonation?"
Eames' eyebrows climb upward rapidly. "Would you like to get to your knees and find out?"
Eames is terrible with personal space.
No, Arthur stands corrected.
Eames is terrible with personal space when it comes to Arthur.
They are in the pulpit at St. Mary's waiting for Maria Suarez, Marketing Manager at Company C and mistress to the COO of the same company, to stop reciting the rosary and head for the confessional.
In this particular scenario Eames is manifesting as Father Jorge Ruiz and Arthur... is his altar boy.
Arthur is thirty-two, he is way too old to be an altar boy. And the way Eames keeps eyeballing Arthur is really not going to do anything for the church's reputation.
In fact, when Eames pats Arthur's ass en route to extract the information he needs from Maria, Arthur's pretty sure the seventy-something grandmother kneeling in the third row has a coronary.
Mal has the baby five weeks after Maria Suarez gives up the goods to Father Ruiz.
Even in Arthur's brain that sounds much more salacious than it actually is.
The point is that with Mal and Cobb otherwise occupied with Phillipa, Arthur is at a loss for things to do. Marbella seems a bit boring and Arthur has no business in Chicago.
He has no idea why he goes to London.
For some reason the idea just pops into his head.
At least this is what he tells himself when he gets off the Northern Line at Chalk Farm and walks north up Haverstock Hill.
Of course, the white postcard with a map of the London Underground on one side and a series of capital lettered, black Sharpie directions to 16 Provost Road on the back would lead one to believe that this idea clearly wasn't his own.
However, it's suggestion not inception that's led him here.
A very blatant suggestion.
Eton Road is tree-lined. There are brown brick walls and family sedans. Arthur makes a left turn on Provost Road and wonders if he should've called first.
Then again that would've required a phone number.
The houses on Provost Road are pastel-colored with white trim. The trees are well kept and there are tiny squares of grass that might be called yards. Arthur doesn't know where he thought Eames would live; perhaps someplace flashier, louder, but this place seems very pedestrian.
Calming.
The kind of place you want to come home to.
There's a red Audi in the driveway of number sixteen, and Arthur smiles to himself. Perhaps not quite so pedestrian after all. He knocks on the door and then thinks better of it and rings the bell.
"I'm fucking coming!" Arthur hears an all too familiar voice shout.
Arthur takes a step back when the door is yanked open. "I've about had enough of you Jehovah's Witnesses. I told you -" Eames stops talking abruptly.
Arthur licks his lips and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The leather satchel in his hand suddenly feels very heavy. Arthur's sure it has nothing to do with the white undershirt Eames is wearing or all the tattoos peeking out from the sleeves.
But it could have something to do with the faded jeans and bare feet.
And the messy hair.
Apparently Arthur's a sucker for Eames with messy hair.
"Um, hey," Arthur says rather brilliantly.
Eames' blinks at him. "I was just in the kitchen making a curry. And before that I did the washing. Before that I watched 'The F Word'."
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Okay."
"I remember where I was," Eames says. "I'm not dreaming because I know how I got here."
"I never said you were dreaming."
"Yeah, but you're here, so I reckon somewhere along the line," Eames pauses. "Are you actually here? If you're here for extraction all you're going to find is Thom Yorke's phone number and a lot of filthy porn, a fair amount of it starring you."
"You have Thom Yorke's phone number?"
"Long story." Eames takes a step onto the porch and looks past Arthur up and down the street. "No rain of purple toads. No orange sky," he says thoughtfully. "If this is a dream it can't be mine, because -"
Arthur thinks now's an excellent time to kiss Eames; he's talking far too much.
Eames mouth is giving, warm. His lips soft. Arthur curls a hand around the back of Eames' neck and holds him still, licks at the seam of his mouth until Eames lets him in, their tongues brushing together lazily. Eames tastes of curry. Lots and lots of curry.
It's all Eames and no Amazon.
And then there's a strong forearm wrapped around Arthur's back, a greedy hand on his ass and a firm erection pressing against his thigh. Dry humping on the porch was not quite how Arthur thought - actually, no. That's how he hoped it might go. How he dreamed it might go, but dreams aren't reality.
Arthur has a loaded red die to attest to that.
When Arthur pulls away, Eames nips at his lower lip.
Arthur takes a deep, shuddering breath. It's hard to think with Eames groping him. "Are you going to let me in your house or are you going to maul me in front of your neighbors?"
"Maul you in front of the neighbors," Eames says, mouthing at Arthur's neck.
"Eames."
"Arthur."
"I'm not calling you Eames in bed. I know you have a first name."
Eames lifts his head, blue eyes sharp. "You're calling my name in bed?"
"That was the plan."
"There's a plan? I'm delighted you gave me so much thought."
"Actually, there's no plan." Arthur admits. "I just thought we'd see how it goes... Rupert."
"Rupert." Eames grins broadly. "And here I was thinking you lacked imagination."
"Tim?"
"No."
"Bill?"
"Do I look like a Bill to you?"
"George?"
"I've actually got an Uncle George, but no."
"Jeeves?"
"My god, Arthur, it is the twenty-first Century."
"You're right. Rumpelstiltskin."
Arthur can feel the vibrations passing between them as Eames laughs.
"Do you really want to know what my first name is?" Eames asks.
"What do you think?"
Eames leans in and whispers his first name in Arthur's ear, his lips brushing against the shell.
Arthur pulls back, studies Eames intently and then nods. "Yeah, that suits you."
Eames cheeks flush slightly. "I'm glad you like it."
Arthur shrugs. "I like a lot of things."
"So I've gathered. You're not boring are you?"
"No."
"Good. I hate to be bored."
Arthur laughs. "I couldn't tell."
-end-
maurheti did the beta. The remaining mistakes are mine. I am very grateful that I'm back in the same boat as my peeps. I am so grateful that I am in a fandom with these pieces of HOT.ASS (Images from casiophone)
