Absence of a Watchtower
Cobb/Eames
summary: guilt.
a drabble, because i can’t seem to write from any perspective other than 'pinhole-camera.' also, dialogue: that is essentially all this is.
(christ, i am just blazing my way through all the pairings ever.)
for...anyone who ships them. there is always that glimmer of possibility, yeah?
btw, rec me moar C/E fics. it’s your solemnmost duty as one who reads rarepairs. (thank you!)
Dom wonders if he isn’t some sort of challenge to Eames.
Some kind of lock to pick, a wall of Jericho to trumpet down.
Still wonders, even after the other grips his chin and says, “I’m not after anything.”
Trust is a rare currency, after all. Untraded among men like them.
+
“I still think about her,” he says, looking at the far corner of the room. As if she’s there, silent, watching with dark eyes. Waiting for him to make his move.
He expects Eames to come back with a laughing reply, something along the lines of I know, you don’t have to tell me.
But the man from England merely quirks a smile.
“As do I.” A sigh, before moving toward the door. “You coming?”
The question is thrown behind him, too casually, but Dom catches it anyway.
Takes one last look, as he braces a hand on the doorknob.
“Yeah.”
+
“We look older than we actually are.”
“If you’re about to launch into a mid-life crisis soliloquy, I’m out of here.”
“I’m not,” he snaps. Then checks himself. “It’s just…I mean, look at us.”
Eames locks eyes with Dom in the mirror.
“I am. What of it?”
“You don’t think we’re too old, too fucked up for this.” Dom brings a hand up to trace the reflection of lines sinking deeper by the day.
Something like anger in his gaze.
“No.” He drops his razor on the counter and steps into the shower. “Let me know when you’re done being indecisive.”
The curtain whips shut, metal rings clacking noisily.
Dom levels a glare at it.
+
“Lift your leg up. C’mon.” A groan, muffled by a sudden bite to the lower lip.
“I’m trying. God-” Stings of pleasure nearly eclipse his ability to speak. “Don’t stop.”
“Control freak.”
“Are you really- fuck, what did you just do,” A hiss. “-analyzing me right now?”
“Just an observation.”
The beginnings of a frown, suddenly erased by a firm touch. A sure hand unravels his body, undoing gordian knots of tension, of memories.
Time runs backwards, as the lingerings and elements of age are stolen away by release.
Failure to intake air, when the heavy weight atop him slumps down gracelessly.
“Shit,” he breathes out, stuttering in the wake of falling apart. Baring himself feels like a betrayal.
Apparently, this comes across a little too obviously.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The sheets are tossed aside, and a curse is bit out as knee meets table corner.
Dom turns away, shutting his eyes against the disappearance of yet another lover.
summary: guilt.
a drabble, because i can’t seem to write from any perspective other than 'pinhole-camera.' also, dialogue: that is essentially all this is.
(christ, i am just blazing my way through all the pairings ever.)
for...anyone who ships them. there is always that glimmer of possibility, yeah?
btw, rec me moar C/E fics. it’s your solemnmost duty as one who reads rarepairs. (thank you!)
Dom wonders if he isn’t some sort of challenge to Eames.
Some kind of lock to pick, a wall of Jericho to trumpet down.
Still wonders, even after the other grips his chin and says, “I’m not after anything.”
Trust is a rare currency, after all. Untraded among men like them.
+
“I still think about her,” he says, looking at the far corner of the room. As if she’s there, silent, watching with dark eyes. Waiting for him to make his move.
He expects Eames to come back with a laughing reply, something along the lines of I know, you don’t have to tell me.
But the man from England merely quirks a smile.
“As do I.” A sigh, before moving toward the door. “You coming?”
The question is thrown behind him, too casually, but Dom catches it anyway.
Takes one last look, as he braces a hand on the doorknob.
“Yeah.”
+
“We look older than we actually are.”
“If you’re about to launch into a mid-life crisis soliloquy, I’m out of here.”
“I’m not,” he snaps. Then checks himself. “It’s just…I mean, look at us.”
Eames locks eyes with Dom in the mirror.
“I am. What of it?”
“You don’t think we’re too old, too fucked up for this.” Dom brings a hand up to trace the reflection of lines sinking deeper by the day.
Something like anger in his gaze.
“No.” He drops his razor on the counter and steps into the shower. “Let me know when you’re done being indecisive.”
The curtain whips shut, metal rings clacking noisily.
Dom levels a glare at it.
+
“Lift your leg up. C’mon.” A groan, muffled by a sudden bite to the lower lip.
“I’m trying. God-” Stings of pleasure nearly eclipse his ability to speak. “Don’t stop.”
“Control freak.”
“Are you really- fuck, what did you just do,” A hiss. “-analyzing me right now?”
“Just an observation.”
The beginnings of a frown, suddenly erased by a firm touch. A sure hand unravels his body, undoing gordian knots of tension, of memories.
Time runs backwards, as the lingerings and elements of age are stolen away by release.
Failure to intake air, when the heavy weight atop him slumps down gracelessly.
“Shit,” he breathes out, stuttering in the wake of falling apart. Baring himself feels like a betrayal.
Apparently, this comes across a little too obviously.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The sheets are tossed aside, and a curse is bit out as knee meets table corner.
Dom turns away, shutting his eyes against the disappearance of yet another lover.