Inception - The Eames and Arthur Supervisory Hour (Eames/Arthur, PG-13)
Do y'all know the last time I was so inspired I had stories betad and *waiting* to be posted? NEVER. This story was at beta before Hotter Than Tales of Crack Peddlin' was even posted. That's right. Also? I love this story to no end.
Welcome to life post-Inception.
Inception
Eames/Arthur
PG-13
The Eames and Arthur Supervisory Hour
"That is not what I said." Arthur is adamant. His words are clipped, precise.
He can feel his face flushing in annoyance.
Eames smiles placatingly. "Of course that's what you said. I was there when you said it."
Arthur's fingers curl around the Mylar blueprints he's holding. He leans across a folding table littered with maps, schematics and yet more blueprints. "That is not what I said and you know it."
"You complimented my tie," Eames says as though that explains everything.
"Exactly," Arthur says triumphantly. "I gave you a compliment - I never said," Arthur hesitates and lowers his voice. "I never said I wanted to fuck you."
"But that's what you meant."
"That is not what I meant."
Eames rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows that when you compliment someone else's appearance it's an unequivocal sex invite."
"Eames."
"I understand," Eames says sympathetically. "I know I'm impossible to resist."
"Only if I'm trying to resist strangling you," Arthur says, releasing the crumpled blueprints and fishing his die out of his left trouser pocket. It tumbles between his fingers rapidly.
"This is real, I assure you." Eames is all joviality and an incredibly nice blue-and-cream patterned tie. The tie is understated; muted but classic. He's wearing it with a navy blazer that sets off his eyes and a pair of distressed jeans that might come apart at the seams at any moment.
Eames' ass looks like an engraved invitation to sin.
Not that Arthur's noticed. The tie though. Mentioning the tie should have been totally platonic.
What was he thinking: nothing is platonic with Eames.
"I do not want to fuck you," Arthur retorts again, slightly louder.
"You want to tie me up with my tie," Eames says gleefully. "I had no idea you were into rough trade."
"Oh my god, shut up," Arthur hisses.
"Cobb, did you hear that?" Eames calls across the warehouse. "Arthur has finally given in to his feelings for me and wants to tie me up!"
Cobb glances up from a drafting table where he's reviewing a proposal Arthur's put together for their latest client, the son of a Icelandic diplomat they've been asked to militarize before he starts university in the United States. "That's nice," he says distractedly.
"That is not nice!" Arthur sputters.
"You don't want to play nice either." Eames' eyes widen comically. "Arthur, I had no idea you had it in you."
"You're going to have it in you in a minute," Arthur snaps.
"In front of Cobb? You're an exhibitionist as well? I had no idea today would be so enlightening."
"I'm being sexually harassed!" Arthur complains vociferously.
"Eames, stop harassing Arthur," Cobb calls out.
"But he's the one who said he didn't want to play nice."
"Then maybe you shouldn't play at all," Cobb says.
Eames' lower lip juts out precariously. "You never let me have any fun."
Arthur can see the smirk turning up the corner of Cobb's mouth. "Do I have separate you two?" Cobb warns.
"Please, god, yes," Arthur begs.
"You refer to Cobb as 'god' but you won't even indulge me in a little bondage. I feel deprived." The injured look on Eames' face would be much more convincing if his eyes weren't laughing. "Spoil sport," he says, mock sullen.
"Go. Away." Arthur points his finger in Cobb's direction. "I'm busy."
Eames sighs dramatically. "You are a cruel man," he says, "I don't know why I fancy you so much."
"Neither do I," Arthur says with finality.
Once Eames wanders off, Arthur looks back down at the blueprints in front of him. He only glances up once to look at the way Eames' shoulders are straining the fabric of his blazer.
In some other universe there's probably something better than an attractive man wearing well-tailored clothes, but Arthur doesn't want to go there.
Not even to visit.
Tumbleweeds are blowing through the desert dreamscape that Ariadne's created for Fjalar Jónsson, the only child of Iceland's ambassador to the U.S., Jón Stefánsson.
Ariadne's world is impressive. There are sand dunes and cerulean skies, camels and Bedouins and - "Are those Marines?" Arthur hands the binoculars over to Ariadne and points to a series of men in camouflage in the distance.
Ariadne shrugs her shoulders. "The commercial came on when I was watching the news this morning; I figured why not."
"I like it." Eames adjusts his gold-framed Ray-Ban sunglasses. "I've always fancied a man in uniform."
"That's only because you've never been arrested by the men in uniforms," Arthur counters.
There's a mild breeze and a thin film of dust is quietly settling over Arthur's chocolate-brown suit. This is going to ruin his Bruno Maglis; he just had them polished.
"I've never been arrested." Eames is all delighted disbelief. "Who told you that scurrilous lie?"
"You're saying you have been arrested?"
"Many times. And in many countries. I don't recommend the ones with caning punishments; takes all the fun out of spanking."
Arthur ignores the last part. "And you're proud of having been arrested?"
Eames shrugs. "Everyone must be something, darling."
"I can't believe you're proud of being arrested."
"Are you two really going to argue about going to jail?" Ariadne interrupts.
"Yes," they agree in tandem.
She shakes her head. "You two are ridiculous."
"Jail is ridiculous," Eames says, "but sometimes these things happen."
"Jail just happens," Arthur says incredulously. "I don't think so. Normally you have to do something wrong for them to want to put you in one."
"Nonsense. Guilt is all relative. You don't have to be guilty to be persecuted."
"And you know what it is to be persecuted?"
"A little bit, yes. But I try not to dwell on these things."
"Eames, you couldn't even spell 'dwell.' You're more resilient than the traders on Wall Street."
"Correct spelling is not required in my line of work. And don't compare me to those thieves; it's offensive."
"You're proud of having been to jail, but don't want to be called a thief. Are you listening to what you're saying?"
"Thieving is common; I'm a professional. And I don't have to listen to what I'm saying - that's why I have you."
"You do not have me."
"No, not yet. But I will. And when I do you'll wear fewer clothes."
Arthur rubs his forehead. Ariadne is watching them as they back-and-forth like they're on the court at Wimbledon.
"We are not having this conversation," Arthur says.
"Don't get me wrong," Eames carries on. "You dress exquisitely, but surely putting on a proper suit of armor would take less work than all your braces, waistcoats and jumpers."
Arthur scowls. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to look nice. Not all of us want to look like we've been getting our clothes from the Salvation Army."
Eames frowns. "Now I really am insulted."
Ariadne pats Eames' bicep. "He didn't mean it."
"What do you mean I didn't mean it?" Arthur counters. "Have you seen some of his clothes?" Arthur gestures to the black shirt and gray trousers Eames is wearing. The shirtsleeves are rolled up to Eames' biceps and the trousers fit his hips and thighs perfectly.
Too perfectly.
All this is accentuated by Eames' sunglasses and stubble.
Arthur frowns. "Well, maybe not today," he amends. "But in general..."
"I tried coming in starkers," Eames says, "but someone had a bloody wobbler."
"You were wearing a raincoat, black socks and shoes and nothing else." Arthur's voice pitches precariously.
"Exactly."
"Yes, exactly."
"There's just no pleasing you, is there?"
"No," Ariadne agrees. "There's not."
"You're taking his side?" Arthur can't believe this.
"Arthur, do you need a time out?"
"I do not need a time out," Arthur says hotly. Since when did picking on him become the new team hobby? He wants a recount.
"Poor Arthur," Eames teases. "He's so persecuted."
"Shut up," Arthur warns.
"Make me."
"Make me," Ariadne parrots. "Why don't you just pull his pigtails, Eames?"
"I hadn't thought of -"
Eames never finishes his sentence, because Arthur tackles him onto the sand dune. One minute they're squabbling and the next they're scrapping like two dogs fighting for territory. It's also possible that there may be some groping on someone's part. It may even be by Arthur.
And then they start rolling.
Arthur had no idea the sand dune they were standing on was this high.
There are arms and legs and shoes and sand everywhere.
When they get to the bottom, Eames' spits sand out of his mouth and blinks up at Arthur sprawled across his chest. Eames has lost his sunglasses somewhere along the way and his hair is everywhere. "If you wanted to be on top, why didn't you just say so?"
Arthur's head feels like it's full of mud. He gets to his feet unsteadily. "What did I do to deserve you?"
Eames grabs Arthur's hand and uses it to lever himself to his feet. "Something very good, I have no doubt."
"Next time I'm sending you both to your rooms," Ariadne calls down to them.
Arthur doesn't think he's ever been this exasperated in his life. "You can't just buy me things because you want to," he protests.
Eames blinks at him. "Why not?"
"Because you can't."
Eames shifts in his chair. "'Because' is not a proper answer, and I obviously can, because I did."
Arthur looks down at the red leather jewelry box splayed open on his lap, at the gold filigreed lettering that spells "Cartier" and at the prohibitively expensive platinum cufflinks nestled in black velvet.
"Eames, we -- you -- I can't accept these."
Eames' eyes narrow. "Do you not like them?"
"No, it's not that I don't like them."
"So, you do like them," he crows triumphantly.
Yusuf plops down on the other end of the sofa where Arthur's sitting. Arthur tries to avoid sitting in chairs near Eames. He has a propensity towards tipping Arthur onto the floor.
"Arthur likes what now?" Yusuf asks, extracting several fries from a McDonald's bag that smells like greasy fried heaven.
Eames rolls his chair into the space between Arthur and Yusuf and brazenly steals some fries. "I bought Arthur a present; he's attempting to give it back even though he's admitted it's brilliant."
"That's in very poor taste," Yusuf says thoughtfully. "My mother once gave me a jumper that made me break out in hives, but I kept it because it was a gift."
"Exactly," Eames says, bits of potato flying out of his mouth.
One bit lands on the knee of Arthur's favorite dark gray trousers. Eames dusts it off discreetly and goes back to his argument. "So, if someone gave you antique cufflinks, you'd keep them?"
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. "Antique you say; may I see them?"
Arthur shrugs. "Help yourself."
Yusuf hands Eames his bag of food and rubs his hands on his jeans before he plucks the box from Arthur's hand. "These are very nice," he says, extracting one of the cufflinks carefully. "And you don't want them?"
"He can't just buy me things like that," Arthur insists. "It's not -- I mean we don't --"
"Yes, because it's terrible when people buy us things," Yusuf agrees solemnly. He holds the cufflink up to his eye and squints at it curiously. "Eames, what is this black stone? Onyx?"
"It's a black diamond," Eames says cheerfully unwrapping an apple pie.
Yusuf fumbles the cufflink for a moment.
"You bought me diamonds?" Arthur sputters.
"No, Arthur, he bought you black diamonds. Exceedingly rare." Yusuf puts the cufflink back in its box and closes it. "I would not say no to these if I were you."
Yusuf holds out the box to Arthur in the palm of his hand.
"Eames," Arthur tries again in despair.
Eames' look is all wide eyes and guilelessness. However, there are other things there as well: wariness, curiosity. Hope. But Eames doesn't say anything, choosing instead to chew on his pilfered pie.
Arthur rubs the back of his neck and sighs. And then he reaches out and takes the box from Yusuf's hand.
There's a long moment of silence between them; unfortunately for Arthur he's pretty sure his face is saying plenty. "Thanks," he says, eventually.
Eames' smile is bright enough to blind the sun. Heat floods Arthur's face, among other things.
Yusuf claps once in approval. "Excellent," he says, patting Arthur on the shoulder as he gets to his feet. "And before I forget: Eames, Ariadne would like to go over some of the potential projections Mr. Jónsson will be up against in his training sessions. He seems to have an irrational fear of sand. And bring my food with you, I would like to eat some of it before it's all gone."
Arthur looks down at the cufflinks in his hand as Yusuf leads Eames away.
This is getting serious.
"You are always so serious," Saito says as he investigates the food Arthur's ordered from room service.
They're in a penthouse of The Standard Hotel Downtown in Los Angeles. Tomorrow morning, Cobb will arrive with Fjalar Jónsson, and the militarization of the subconscious of a seventeen-year-old boy will begin.
Arthur thinks if he had a child he would have started this training much sooner.
He thinks Cobb might already be prepping Phillipa, and she's just turned five.
Tonight, however, the only thing Arthur is prepping is the hotel suite.
"I'm not always like this," Arthur says, checking the battery on the spare PASIV device.
Saito gives him a dubious look.
"Just most of the time," Arthur amends.
"You need a vacation," Saito says decisively. "Cobb has his children; you must have something, too."
"I have my work," Arthur says with some finality.
"Work is not everything, Arthur. Do you like Hawaii? There is a very nice resort on Kauai - I own it. Perhaps you would like to stay for a few weeks."
Arthur has to marvel for a minute. "It must be nice to buy anything you want."
"You can never buy everything you want," Saito says. "There are some things that simply do not have a price tag." He pokes at the steak Arthur's ordered. "Is this Wagyu beef?"
"It's your hotel, you tell me."
Saito purses his lips. "This does not look like Wagyu to me. And the portion is too small. I will get you a new one."
Arthur watches as Saito crosses the room and picks up the house phone.
It pays to be the man in charge.
Or to know the man in charge and use his facilities for free.
There's a knock at the door followed by the sound of a key card unlocking the tumblers.
Various members of the team have been coming in and out all day in preparation for the job. For the next eight days they will rotate on a schedule Dom's made. At any given time at least two team members will be under with Jónsson and one person will keep sentry.
"Darling, I'm home." Eames' tone is all merriment as he enters the suite.
Arthur closes the lid on the silver case and locks the latches before he looks up.
His brain sputters for a moment at the sight of Eames in a perfectly tailored black pinstripe suit. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, displaying a generous sliver of skin and a fine smattering of pale brown chest hair. The starkness of his clothes only serves to enhance his full red mouth and spiky brown hair.
"Well, hello to you too, darling," Saito mocks, hanging up the phone.
Eames' head swivels to the right and he gives Saito an enormous grin. "I love what you've done with the place," he says, waving at the high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows and monochromatic color scheme.
"I'm glad you approve," Saito says as they shake hands.
Arthur ignores them both and goes back to the cart room service left behind. The steak may not be to Saito's liking, but it's hard to complain about a cold Heineken.
Arthur pops the top and takes a long swallow.
It takes him a moment to realize that Saito and Eames are staring at him. He coughs as the beer goes down the wrong way. "What?" he manages after several seconds.
"Saito was offering us the use of one of his planes so we could go on holiday after this is done. He thinks you look a bit knackered. What do you think?" Eames asks.
Arthur opens and closes his mouth but nothing comes out. "Us?" he finally croaks.
"You would not be going together?" Saito seems confused.
"No, we--"
"Yes, we would," Eames cuts him off. "He's just being difficult."
"I am not being difficult," Arthur says.
"Yes, you are," Eames says, crossing the room towards him. "But that's okay."
Arthur takes a step back, the hairs on his arms standing up; he feels like a zebra that just smelled a lion nearby. He eyes Eames warily as Eames slides into his personal space, pulls his beer away and takes Arthur's hand.
Arthur tenses up so badly, his toes cramp in his shoes. "You're touching me."
Eames' smile is small, soothing. "I'm not going to bite," he says softly. "Not unless you ask nicely."
"What are you doing?"
"Well, since you're wearing the cufflinks I bought you, I thought I'd see how they look," a beat. "If that's all right with you?"
Arthur sucks on his lower lip. Eames' mouth quirks at the right corner.
"Yeah," Arthur says. "I mean, yes, that. I don't mind."
Eames turns Arthur's wrist over and studies the platinum overlay against Arthur's striped shirt.
He looks back up after several seconds. "You like them?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "I thought we went over this already?"
Eames' thumb is rubbing circles on the back of Arthur's hand. "I find I can't be too certain with you."
"I do," Arthur says and then jumps at least an inch when there's a sharp rap at the door.
"That would be your new steak," Saito says behind them.
Arthur forgot he was even there.
Saito opens the door and ushers the bellman in. "If this is not the best steak you have ever had, let me know and I will have some picked up from Japan next week," he says, watching as the bellman deposits two plates, two champagne flutes, a bucket of ice and a magnum of Dom Perignon on the white tiled table.
Saito smiles in satisfaction. "And now I must leave you," he says, preparing to follow the bellman out. "But I hope you will consider my offer. I think it would be very good for you." A pause. "Both of you."
"We accept," Eames says.
"You didn't even ask me," Arthur protests.
Eames squeezes his hand firmly.
Arthur swallows. "We accept," he agrees.
Ten hours in someone else's subconscious are about nine hours too many. Jónsson is much stronger mentally than Arthur had anticipated. Of course he only had school reports and the say so of Jónsson's father, who clearly underestimates his son, to go by.
This is probably why Eames and Arthur nearly got blown up by several mortar rounds planted around a garden that turned out to be the grave of a much beloved childhood pet on their first day.
On their second day there was the booby-trapped Eiffel Tower which obliterated half of a city that looked a lot like the bastard love child of Washington, D.C. and Glasgow.
This morning it was fighter jets.
This may not take eight days after all.
They're sitting under a weeping willow tree in the middle of a field of bright blue grass and orange flowers. Jónsson and Eames are eating fish and chips; Arthur's eating peanut butter and jelly. He likes peanut butter.
Strains of Sigur Ros' "Starálfur" waft down from a pale green sky and Arthur swallows down the last of his bread. "Ready?" he says, getting to his feet.
Jónsson nods and wipes his hands clean. He's a nice kid. At 6'2" he's tall and gangly, but he scrabbles to his feet quickly. He pulls a standard issue 9mm from his waistband and releases the safety.
He points it at Arthur's head just like they've trained him to.
"Sorry," Eames says, kicking Arthur's legs out from underneath him. "You getting shot would ruin my chips," he says as Arthur falls backward.
Arthur wakes up on the king-sized bed in the Standard's penthouse sputtering.
Ariadne and Yusuf are sitting on the bed on either side of him. "Is it true that Eames is taking you to Canada so that you two can get married legally?" Yusuf asks while Arthur is still getting his bearings.
Arthur struggles to sit up. "What?"
"I told you the cufflinks weren't an engagement ring," Ariadne scolds Yusuf.
"Nobody's engaged," Arthur says indignantly, extracting his insert from his wrist.
Beside him, Eames stirs. "This is your fault," Arthur fumes as Eames gazes up at him.
"I don't care whose fault it is," Cobb says from the doorway, "or where you're registered for wedding gifts, but if somebody doesn't get down there with Jónsson all of you are fired."
Arthur grabs Eames' wrist and yanks out his insert as well. "Ow!" Eames protests as Arthur leans across him and pushes the yellow injection activation trigger. A second later Ariadne and Yusuf fall asleep.
"That's what you get for telling people we're getting married," Arthur snaps, getting up from the bed so he can arrange Yusuf and Ariadne's slumbering forms side-by-side.
Eames sucks on his wrist. "That hurt."
"Good."
"You wouldn't be this mean to me if you didn't fancy me," Eames says, getting up to help.
Arthur smirks at him. "Probably not."
The flight from Los Angeles to Kauai takes six hours.
Arthur spends most of these six hours with Eames curled up asleep next to him, drooling on his shoulder. It should not be nearly as endearing as it is.
Arthur flips through back issues of Architectural Digest and British GQ and re-reads the first 200 pages of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.
He's not very good at the relaxing portion of vacationing.
Eames wakes up just as they're landing. He wipes his mouth and rubs at his eyes. It's dreadful to refer to a thirty-two-year-old man as adorable, but it is Arthur's first thought. "What?" Eames yawns, stretching before collapsing back against Arthur's shoulder.
"Nothing," Arthur says dismissively.
"Nothing?" Eames mocks. "Are you having second thoughts now that there's no one around to supervise us? You do realize that once we are properly alone there will be no one to thwart my attempts to defile you."
Arthur looks down his nose at Eames. "Since when have other people thwarted your attempts?"
Eames nips Arthur's shoulder through his shirt.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Are you being kinky or are you hungry?"
"Why do I have to choose?"
Arthur just chuckles.
Eames sits up suddenly "Are you humoring me?" he asks. He sounds suspicious. And slightly astonished.
"I could be."
Eames gazes at Arthur for a long moment. "Oh," is all he says, but his tone speaks volumes.
Eames licks his lips and Arthur shifts in his seat; his pants seem to have grown rather small in the groin area.
From the airport they're chauffeured in a Town Car to the Outrigger Waipouli Beach Resort. The back seat is wide enough for five, and yet they end up sprawled together in the middle, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder, watching the island pass by through rolled-down windows while 80s pop filters through the speakers.
The condominium waiting for them is utterly obscene. There's a Jacuzzi, a full kitchen, a bed large enough for the entire team and a bathroom that's pristine enough to please even Arthur.
There's also a bottle of champagne waiting on the dining room table along with a duly obsequious note from the manager.
While Eames is wandering from room to room, Arthur opens the champagne and takes a swig before heading for the French doors that lead to the balcony.
Once outside, Arthur shucks his shoes and socks and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. The sun is bright in the sky and the ocean smells salty and crisp. As far as the eye can see everything is blue. The breeze from the water cools the back of his neck and he leans against the railing and takes another tart, fizzy mouthful from the bottle he's holding.
Sometimes reality exceeds the dream.
He's not startled when Eames comes up behind him. He's expecting it. Hoping for it.
Eames kisses the back of his neck before scooting to his left and stealing the champagne. "Not bad for a first date, is it?" he says after taking a long swallow.
"I suppose," Arthur says reluctantly.
Eames laughs. "You suppose," he mocks
Arthur tugs the champagne bottle toward his own mouth and lets Eames pour until he's had enough. He swallows and swallows. "I'm just curious as to how you plan to maintain this," Arthur says. "You've already given me diamonds and taken me around the world and we haven't even kissed yet--"
"I can fix that," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's shirt front and hauling him in.
Eames doesn't kiss, he devours. His tongue licks at the seam of Arthur's lips, teasing, coaxing, and when Arthur opens up for him it's not the fireworks and electricity people always speak of -- it's more like a nuclear bomb. All of Arthur's higher functions are wiped out.
Eames licks and sucks and Arthur makes shameless noises, trying to get more. Trying to taste Eames under the champagne. Eames pushes him away, gasping for air.
"Problem?" Arthur says, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck.
"Fuck no," Eames says. "Who needs to breathe?" There's a thud and something cold rushing over Arthur's feet. He knows it's the champagne but he's distracted by Eames' hands cupping his jaw, curling around his hip and tugging him back in.
These kisses are less frantic. Eames' fingers stroke his skin as Arthur's hands map the broad expanse of his back. Their bodies slide together lazily as though they have all the time in the world. They almost do. Arthur is loathe to let Eames move away, and eventually Eames pulls back again, laughing.
"What?" Arthur says as Eames nuzzles his neck.
Eames looks him in the eye. "I thought we might pop over to Vancouver after this: see the sights, have a meal, maybe get married. Do you fancy it?"
"That's not funny," Arthur says flatly.
Eames' left eyebrow lifts. "Who said I was joking?"
Arthur can feel his face going red. "Eames." He steels his voice, hoping it doesn't crack.
"You're right," Eames concedes. "It's too much, too soon."
"Thank you; I knew you could be rational if you had to be."
"I can be rational," Eames says amiably. "We'll save the wedding for our second date."
-end-
Improv: skills, dust, resist
Much adoration and thanks to maurheti for improv words, beta and cheerleading and being an awesome point man, god knows I'd be stuck on the shores of my subconscious without her. Y'all wish you had one of her.
sparky77, Look! Sandwich!Fic. The sandwich is metaphorical dude, hush up.
Welcome to life post-Inception.
Inception
Eames/Arthur
PG-13
The Eames and Arthur Supervisory Hour
"That is not what I said." Arthur is adamant. His words are clipped, precise.
He can feel his face flushing in annoyance.
Eames smiles placatingly. "Of course that's what you said. I was there when you said it."
Arthur's fingers curl around the Mylar blueprints he's holding. He leans across a folding table littered with maps, schematics and yet more blueprints. "That is not what I said and you know it."
"You complimented my tie," Eames says as though that explains everything.
"Exactly," Arthur says triumphantly. "I gave you a compliment - I never said," Arthur hesitates and lowers his voice. "I never said I wanted to fuck you."
"But that's what you meant."
"That is not what I meant."
Eames rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows that when you compliment someone else's appearance it's an unequivocal sex invite."
"Eames."
"I understand," Eames says sympathetically. "I know I'm impossible to resist."
"Only if I'm trying to resist strangling you," Arthur says, releasing the crumpled blueprints and fishing his die out of his left trouser pocket. It tumbles between his fingers rapidly.
"This is real, I assure you." Eames is all joviality and an incredibly nice blue-and-cream patterned tie. The tie is understated; muted but classic. He's wearing it with a navy blazer that sets off his eyes and a pair of distressed jeans that might come apart at the seams at any moment.
Eames' ass looks like an engraved invitation to sin.
Not that Arthur's noticed. The tie though. Mentioning the tie should have been totally platonic.
What was he thinking: nothing is platonic with Eames.
"I do not want to fuck you," Arthur retorts again, slightly louder.
"You want to tie me up with my tie," Eames says gleefully. "I had no idea you were into rough trade."
"Oh my god, shut up," Arthur hisses.
"Cobb, did you hear that?" Eames calls across the warehouse. "Arthur has finally given in to his feelings for me and wants to tie me up!"
Cobb glances up from a drafting table where he's reviewing a proposal Arthur's put together for their latest client, the son of a Icelandic diplomat they've been asked to militarize before he starts university in the United States. "That's nice," he says distractedly.
"That is not nice!" Arthur sputters.
"You don't want to play nice either." Eames' eyes widen comically. "Arthur, I had no idea you had it in you."
"You're going to have it in you in a minute," Arthur snaps.
"In front of Cobb? You're an exhibitionist as well? I had no idea today would be so enlightening."
"I'm being sexually harassed!" Arthur complains vociferously.
"Eames, stop harassing Arthur," Cobb calls out.
"But he's the one who said he didn't want to play nice."
"Then maybe you shouldn't play at all," Cobb says.
Eames' lower lip juts out precariously. "You never let me have any fun."
Arthur can see the smirk turning up the corner of Cobb's mouth. "Do I have separate you two?" Cobb warns.
"Please, god, yes," Arthur begs.
"You refer to Cobb as 'god' but you won't even indulge me in a little bondage. I feel deprived." The injured look on Eames' face would be much more convincing if his eyes weren't laughing. "Spoil sport," he says, mock sullen.
"Go. Away." Arthur points his finger in Cobb's direction. "I'm busy."
Eames sighs dramatically. "You are a cruel man," he says, "I don't know why I fancy you so much."
"Neither do I," Arthur says with finality.
Once Eames wanders off, Arthur looks back down at the blueprints in front of him. He only glances up once to look at the way Eames' shoulders are straining the fabric of his blazer.
In some other universe there's probably something better than an attractive man wearing well-tailored clothes, but Arthur doesn't want to go there.
Not even to visit.
Tumbleweeds are blowing through the desert dreamscape that Ariadne's created for Fjalar Jónsson, the only child of Iceland's ambassador to the U.S., Jón Stefánsson.
Ariadne's world is impressive. There are sand dunes and cerulean skies, camels and Bedouins and - "Are those Marines?" Arthur hands the binoculars over to Ariadne and points to a series of men in camouflage in the distance.
Ariadne shrugs her shoulders. "The commercial came on when I was watching the news this morning; I figured why not."
"I like it." Eames adjusts his gold-framed Ray-Ban sunglasses. "I've always fancied a man in uniform."
"That's only because you've never been arrested by the men in uniforms," Arthur counters.
There's a mild breeze and a thin film of dust is quietly settling over Arthur's chocolate-brown suit. This is going to ruin his Bruno Maglis; he just had them polished.
"I've never been arrested." Eames is all delighted disbelief. "Who told you that scurrilous lie?"
"You're saying you have been arrested?"
"Many times. And in many countries. I don't recommend the ones with caning punishments; takes all the fun out of spanking."
Arthur ignores the last part. "And you're proud of having been arrested?"
Eames shrugs. "Everyone must be something, darling."
"I can't believe you're proud of being arrested."
"Are you two really going to argue about going to jail?" Ariadne interrupts.
"Yes," they agree in tandem.
She shakes her head. "You two are ridiculous."
"Jail is ridiculous," Eames says, "but sometimes these things happen."
"Jail just happens," Arthur says incredulously. "I don't think so. Normally you have to do something wrong for them to want to put you in one."
"Nonsense. Guilt is all relative. You don't have to be guilty to be persecuted."
"And you know what it is to be persecuted?"
"A little bit, yes. But I try not to dwell on these things."
"Eames, you couldn't even spell 'dwell.' You're more resilient than the traders on Wall Street."
"Correct spelling is not required in my line of work. And don't compare me to those thieves; it's offensive."
"You're proud of having been to jail, but don't want to be called a thief. Are you listening to what you're saying?"
"Thieving is common; I'm a professional. And I don't have to listen to what I'm saying - that's why I have you."
"You do not have me."
"No, not yet. But I will. And when I do you'll wear fewer clothes."
Arthur rubs his forehead. Ariadne is watching them as they back-and-forth like they're on the court at Wimbledon.
"We are not having this conversation," Arthur says.
"Don't get me wrong," Eames carries on. "You dress exquisitely, but surely putting on a proper suit of armor would take less work than all your braces, waistcoats and jumpers."
Arthur scowls. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to look nice. Not all of us want to look like we've been getting our clothes from the Salvation Army."
Eames frowns. "Now I really am insulted."
Ariadne pats Eames' bicep. "He didn't mean it."
"What do you mean I didn't mean it?" Arthur counters. "Have you seen some of his clothes?" Arthur gestures to the black shirt and gray trousers Eames is wearing. The shirtsleeves are rolled up to Eames' biceps and the trousers fit his hips and thighs perfectly.
Too perfectly.
All this is accentuated by Eames' sunglasses and stubble.
Arthur frowns. "Well, maybe not today," he amends. "But in general..."
"I tried coming in starkers," Eames says, "but someone had a bloody wobbler."
"You were wearing a raincoat, black socks and shoes and nothing else." Arthur's voice pitches precariously.
"Exactly."
"Yes, exactly."
"There's just no pleasing you, is there?"
"No," Ariadne agrees. "There's not."
"You're taking his side?" Arthur can't believe this.
"Arthur, do you need a time out?"
"I do not need a time out," Arthur says hotly. Since when did picking on him become the new team hobby? He wants a recount.
"Poor Arthur," Eames teases. "He's so persecuted."
"Shut up," Arthur warns.
"Make me."
"Make me," Ariadne parrots. "Why don't you just pull his pigtails, Eames?"
"I hadn't thought of -"
Eames never finishes his sentence, because Arthur tackles him onto the sand dune. One minute they're squabbling and the next they're scrapping like two dogs fighting for territory. It's also possible that there may be some groping on someone's part. It may even be by Arthur.
And then they start rolling.
Arthur had no idea the sand dune they were standing on was this high.
There are arms and legs and shoes and sand everywhere.
When they get to the bottom, Eames' spits sand out of his mouth and blinks up at Arthur sprawled across his chest. Eames has lost his sunglasses somewhere along the way and his hair is everywhere. "If you wanted to be on top, why didn't you just say so?"
Arthur's head feels like it's full of mud. He gets to his feet unsteadily. "What did I do to deserve you?"
Eames grabs Arthur's hand and uses it to lever himself to his feet. "Something very good, I have no doubt."
"Next time I'm sending you both to your rooms," Ariadne calls down to them.
Arthur doesn't think he's ever been this exasperated in his life. "You can't just buy me things because you want to," he protests.
Eames blinks at him. "Why not?"
"Because you can't."
Eames shifts in his chair. "'Because' is not a proper answer, and I obviously can, because I did."
Arthur looks down at the red leather jewelry box splayed open on his lap, at the gold filigreed lettering that spells "Cartier" and at the prohibitively expensive platinum cufflinks nestled in black velvet.
"Eames, we -- you -- I can't accept these."
Eames' eyes narrow. "Do you not like them?"
"No, it's not that I don't like them."
"So, you do like them," he crows triumphantly.
Yusuf plops down on the other end of the sofa where Arthur's sitting. Arthur tries to avoid sitting in chairs near Eames. He has a propensity towards tipping Arthur onto the floor.
"Arthur likes what now?" Yusuf asks, extracting several fries from a McDonald's bag that smells like greasy fried heaven.
Eames rolls his chair into the space between Arthur and Yusuf and brazenly steals some fries. "I bought Arthur a present; he's attempting to give it back even though he's admitted it's brilliant."
"That's in very poor taste," Yusuf says thoughtfully. "My mother once gave me a jumper that made me break out in hives, but I kept it because it was a gift."
"Exactly," Eames says, bits of potato flying out of his mouth.
One bit lands on the knee of Arthur's favorite dark gray trousers. Eames dusts it off discreetly and goes back to his argument. "So, if someone gave you antique cufflinks, you'd keep them?"
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. "Antique you say; may I see them?"
Arthur shrugs. "Help yourself."
Yusuf hands Eames his bag of food and rubs his hands on his jeans before he plucks the box from Arthur's hand. "These are very nice," he says, extracting one of the cufflinks carefully. "And you don't want them?"
"He can't just buy me things like that," Arthur insists. "It's not -- I mean we don't --"
"Yes, because it's terrible when people buy us things," Yusuf agrees solemnly. He holds the cufflink up to his eye and squints at it curiously. "Eames, what is this black stone? Onyx?"
"It's a black diamond," Eames says cheerfully unwrapping an apple pie.
Yusuf fumbles the cufflink for a moment.
"You bought me diamonds?" Arthur sputters.
"No, Arthur, he bought you black diamonds. Exceedingly rare." Yusuf puts the cufflink back in its box and closes it. "I would not say no to these if I were you."
Yusuf holds out the box to Arthur in the palm of his hand.
"Eames," Arthur tries again in despair.
Eames' look is all wide eyes and guilelessness. However, there are other things there as well: wariness, curiosity. Hope. But Eames doesn't say anything, choosing instead to chew on his pilfered pie.
Arthur rubs the back of his neck and sighs. And then he reaches out and takes the box from Yusuf's hand.
There's a long moment of silence between them; unfortunately for Arthur he's pretty sure his face is saying plenty. "Thanks," he says, eventually.
Eames' smile is bright enough to blind the sun. Heat floods Arthur's face, among other things.
Yusuf claps once in approval. "Excellent," he says, patting Arthur on the shoulder as he gets to his feet. "And before I forget: Eames, Ariadne would like to go over some of the potential projections Mr. Jónsson will be up against in his training sessions. He seems to have an irrational fear of sand. And bring my food with you, I would like to eat some of it before it's all gone."
Arthur looks down at the cufflinks in his hand as Yusuf leads Eames away.
This is getting serious.
"You are always so serious," Saito says as he investigates the food Arthur's ordered from room service.
They're in a penthouse of The Standard Hotel Downtown in Los Angeles. Tomorrow morning, Cobb will arrive with Fjalar Jónsson, and the militarization of the subconscious of a seventeen-year-old boy will begin.
Arthur thinks if he had a child he would have started this training much sooner.
He thinks Cobb might already be prepping Phillipa, and she's just turned five.
Tonight, however, the only thing Arthur is prepping is the hotel suite.
"I'm not always like this," Arthur says, checking the battery on the spare PASIV device.
Saito gives him a dubious look.
"Just most of the time," Arthur amends.
"You need a vacation," Saito says decisively. "Cobb has his children; you must have something, too."
"I have my work," Arthur says with some finality.
"Work is not everything, Arthur. Do you like Hawaii? There is a very nice resort on Kauai - I own it. Perhaps you would like to stay for a few weeks."
Arthur has to marvel for a minute. "It must be nice to buy anything you want."
"You can never buy everything you want," Saito says. "There are some things that simply do not have a price tag." He pokes at the steak Arthur's ordered. "Is this Wagyu beef?"
"It's your hotel, you tell me."
Saito purses his lips. "This does not look like Wagyu to me. And the portion is too small. I will get you a new one."
Arthur watches as Saito crosses the room and picks up the house phone.
It pays to be the man in charge.
Or to know the man in charge and use his facilities for free.
There's a knock at the door followed by the sound of a key card unlocking the tumblers.
Various members of the team have been coming in and out all day in preparation for the job. For the next eight days they will rotate on a schedule Dom's made. At any given time at least two team members will be under with Jónsson and one person will keep sentry.
"Darling, I'm home." Eames' tone is all merriment as he enters the suite.
Arthur closes the lid on the silver case and locks the latches before he looks up.
His brain sputters for a moment at the sight of Eames in a perfectly tailored black pinstripe suit. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, displaying a generous sliver of skin and a fine smattering of pale brown chest hair. The starkness of his clothes only serves to enhance his full red mouth and spiky brown hair.
"Well, hello to you too, darling," Saito mocks, hanging up the phone.
Eames' head swivels to the right and he gives Saito an enormous grin. "I love what you've done with the place," he says, waving at the high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows and monochromatic color scheme.
"I'm glad you approve," Saito says as they shake hands.
Arthur ignores them both and goes back to the cart room service left behind. The steak may not be to Saito's liking, but it's hard to complain about a cold Heineken.
Arthur pops the top and takes a long swallow.
It takes him a moment to realize that Saito and Eames are staring at him. He coughs as the beer goes down the wrong way. "What?" he manages after several seconds.
"Saito was offering us the use of one of his planes so we could go on holiday after this is done. He thinks you look a bit knackered. What do you think?" Eames asks.
Arthur opens and closes his mouth but nothing comes out. "Us?" he finally croaks.
"You would not be going together?" Saito seems confused.
"No, we--"
"Yes, we would," Eames cuts him off. "He's just being difficult."
"I am not being difficult," Arthur says.
"Yes, you are," Eames says, crossing the room towards him. "But that's okay."
Arthur takes a step back, the hairs on his arms standing up; he feels like a zebra that just smelled a lion nearby. He eyes Eames warily as Eames slides into his personal space, pulls his beer away and takes Arthur's hand.
Arthur tenses up so badly, his toes cramp in his shoes. "You're touching me."
Eames' smile is small, soothing. "I'm not going to bite," he says softly. "Not unless you ask nicely."
"What are you doing?"
"Well, since you're wearing the cufflinks I bought you, I thought I'd see how they look," a beat. "If that's all right with you?"
Arthur sucks on his lower lip. Eames' mouth quirks at the right corner.
"Yeah," Arthur says. "I mean, yes, that. I don't mind."
Eames turns Arthur's wrist over and studies the platinum overlay against Arthur's striped shirt.
He looks back up after several seconds. "You like them?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "I thought we went over this already?"
Eames' thumb is rubbing circles on the back of Arthur's hand. "I find I can't be too certain with you."
"I do," Arthur says and then jumps at least an inch when there's a sharp rap at the door.
"That would be your new steak," Saito says behind them.
Arthur forgot he was even there.
Saito opens the door and ushers the bellman in. "If this is not the best steak you have ever had, let me know and I will have some picked up from Japan next week," he says, watching as the bellman deposits two plates, two champagne flutes, a bucket of ice and a magnum of Dom Perignon on the white tiled table.
Saito smiles in satisfaction. "And now I must leave you," he says, preparing to follow the bellman out. "But I hope you will consider my offer. I think it would be very good for you." A pause. "Both of you."
"We accept," Eames says.
"You didn't even ask me," Arthur protests.
Eames squeezes his hand firmly.
Arthur swallows. "We accept," he agrees.
Ten hours in someone else's subconscious are about nine hours too many. Jónsson is much stronger mentally than Arthur had anticipated. Of course he only had school reports and the say so of Jónsson's father, who clearly underestimates his son, to go by.
This is probably why Eames and Arthur nearly got blown up by several mortar rounds planted around a garden that turned out to be the grave of a much beloved childhood pet on their first day.
On their second day there was the booby-trapped Eiffel Tower which obliterated half of a city that looked a lot like the bastard love child of Washington, D.C. and Glasgow.
This morning it was fighter jets.
This may not take eight days after all.
They're sitting under a weeping willow tree in the middle of a field of bright blue grass and orange flowers. Jónsson and Eames are eating fish and chips; Arthur's eating peanut butter and jelly. He likes peanut butter.
Strains of Sigur Ros' "Starálfur" waft down from a pale green sky and Arthur swallows down the last of his bread. "Ready?" he says, getting to his feet.
Jónsson nods and wipes his hands clean. He's a nice kid. At 6'2" he's tall and gangly, but he scrabbles to his feet quickly. He pulls a standard issue 9mm from his waistband and releases the safety.
He points it at Arthur's head just like they've trained him to.
"Sorry," Eames says, kicking Arthur's legs out from underneath him. "You getting shot would ruin my chips," he says as Arthur falls backward.
Arthur wakes up on the king-sized bed in the Standard's penthouse sputtering.
Ariadne and Yusuf are sitting on the bed on either side of him. "Is it true that Eames is taking you to Canada so that you two can get married legally?" Yusuf asks while Arthur is still getting his bearings.
Arthur struggles to sit up. "What?"
"I told you the cufflinks weren't an engagement ring," Ariadne scolds Yusuf.
"Nobody's engaged," Arthur says indignantly, extracting his insert from his wrist.
Beside him, Eames stirs. "This is your fault," Arthur fumes as Eames gazes up at him.
"I don't care whose fault it is," Cobb says from the doorway, "or where you're registered for wedding gifts, but if somebody doesn't get down there with Jónsson all of you are fired."
Arthur grabs Eames' wrist and yanks out his insert as well. "Ow!" Eames protests as Arthur leans across him and pushes the yellow injection activation trigger. A second later Ariadne and Yusuf fall asleep.
"That's what you get for telling people we're getting married," Arthur snaps, getting up from the bed so he can arrange Yusuf and Ariadne's slumbering forms side-by-side.
Eames sucks on his wrist. "That hurt."
"Good."
"You wouldn't be this mean to me if you didn't fancy me," Eames says, getting up to help.
Arthur smirks at him. "Probably not."
The flight from Los Angeles to Kauai takes six hours.
Arthur spends most of these six hours with Eames curled up asleep next to him, drooling on his shoulder. It should not be nearly as endearing as it is.
Arthur flips through back issues of Architectural Digest and British GQ and re-reads the first 200 pages of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.
He's not very good at the relaxing portion of vacationing.
Eames wakes up just as they're landing. He wipes his mouth and rubs at his eyes. It's dreadful to refer to a thirty-two-year-old man as adorable, but it is Arthur's first thought. "What?" Eames yawns, stretching before collapsing back against Arthur's shoulder.
"Nothing," Arthur says dismissively.
"Nothing?" Eames mocks. "Are you having second thoughts now that there's no one around to supervise us? You do realize that once we are properly alone there will be no one to thwart my attempts to defile you."
Arthur looks down his nose at Eames. "Since when have other people thwarted your attempts?"
Eames nips Arthur's shoulder through his shirt.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Are you being kinky or are you hungry?"
"Why do I have to choose?"
Arthur just chuckles.
Eames sits up suddenly "Are you humoring me?" he asks. He sounds suspicious. And slightly astonished.
"I could be."
Eames gazes at Arthur for a long moment. "Oh," is all he says, but his tone speaks volumes.
Eames licks his lips and Arthur shifts in his seat; his pants seem to have grown rather small in the groin area.
From the airport they're chauffeured in a Town Car to the Outrigger Waipouli Beach Resort. The back seat is wide enough for five, and yet they end up sprawled together in the middle, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder, watching the island pass by through rolled-down windows while 80s pop filters through the speakers.
The condominium waiting for them is utterly obscene. There's a Jacuzzi, a full kitchen, a bed large enough for the entire team and a bathroom that's pristine enough to please even Arthur.
There's also a bottle of champagne waiting on the dining room table along with a duly obsequious note from the manager.
While Eames is wandering from room to room, Arthur opens the champagne and takes a swig before heading for the French doors that lead to the balcony.
Once outside, Arthur shucks his shoes and socks and rolls up his sleeves to his elbows. The sun is bright in the sky and the ocean smells salty and crisp. As far as the eye can see everything is blue. The breeze from the water cools the back of his neck and he leans against the railing and takes another tart, fizzy mouthful from the bottle he's holding.
Sometimes reality exceeds the dream.
He's not startled when Eames comes up behind him. He's expecting it. Hoping for it.
Eames kisses the back of his neck before scooting to his left and stealing the champagne. "Not bad for a first date, is it?" he says after taking a long swallow.
"I suppose," Arthur says reluctantly.
Eames laughs. "You suppose," he mocks
Arthur tugs the champagne bottle toward his own mouth and lets Eames pour until he's had enough. He swallows and swallows. "I'm just curious as to how you plan to maintain this," Arthur says. "You've already given me diamonds and taken me around the world and we haven't even kissed yet--"
"I can fix that," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's shirt front and hauling him in.
Eames doesn't kiss, he devours. His tongue licks at the seam of Arthur's lips, teasing, coaxing, and when Arthur opens up for him it's not the fireworks and electricity people always speak of -- it's more like a nuclear bomb. All of Arthur's higher functions are wiped out.
Eames licks and sucks and Arthur makes shameless noises, trying to get more. Trying to taste Eames under the champagne. Eames pushes him away, gasping for air.
"Problem?" Arthur says, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck.
"Fuck no," Eames says. "Who needs to breathe?" There's a thud and something cold rushing over Arthur's feet. He knows it's the champagne but he's distracted by Eames' hands cupping his jaw, curling around his hip and tugging him back in.
These kisses are less frantic. Eames' fingers stroke his skin as Arthur's hands map the broad expanse of his back. Their bodies slide together lazily as though they have all the time in the world. They almost do. Arthur is loathe to let Eames move away, and eventually Eames pulls back again, laughing.
"What?" Arthur says as Eames nuzzles his neck.
Eames looks him in the eye. "I thought we might pop over to Vancouver after this: see the sights, have a meal, maybe get married. Do you fancy it?"
"That's not funny," Arthur says flatly.
Eames' left eyebrow lifts. "Who said I was joking?"
Arthur can feel his face going red. "Eames." He steels his voice, hoping it doesn't crack.
"You're right," Eames concedes. "It's too much, too soon."
"Thank you; I knew you could be rational if you had to be."
"I can be rational," Eames says amiably. "We'll save the wedding for our second date."
-end-
Improv: skills, dust, resist
Much adoration and thanks to maurheti for improv words, beta and cheerleading and being an awesome point man, god knows I'd be stuck on the shores of my subconscious without her. Y'all wish you had one of her.
sparky77, Look! Sandwich!Fic. The sandwich is metaphorical dude, hush up.