#339 - [FIC] Everything About You (Eames/Fischer), 1/3
Title: Everything About You (1/3)
Word Count: 6,868 (of ~19,000 total)
Pairing: Eames/Fischer
Rating: a softer NC-17
Disclaimer: Neither Fischer nor Eames belong to me. :(
Author's Note: First of all, this is dedicated to the lovely forgerness, who requested some Eames/Fischer from me a while back and is only now having her prayers answered. ;)
Secondly, this is meant to follow the events of Inception, so I’m hesitant to call it an AU, but at the same time, it’s only in my mind that Robert would ever work in a record store, listen to the Smiths, and own a Royal typewriter. I’ve taken the notion that the inception would change everything about him to extremes. Consider yourself warned!
Part I
Robert Fischer rolled out of bed with a yawn, the linoleum cold as he shuffled into his little kitchenette on bare feet. Eyes still bleary with sleep, he set up the Mr. Coffee nestled between the microwave and the toaster and leaned back against the counter to wait for the dark, velvety smell of percolating coffee to drive out the fog in his head. Absently, he worried his lip between his teeth and glanced out the window, unsurprised to find that dawn had only just begun to peel back the edges of night.
He hadn’t been sleeping well, troubled by strange dreams; dreams of a man with misty, green eyes and beautiful hands. They had been going somewhere-together-he remembered, mug held aloft as he lifted the coffee pot to fill his cup. Traveling, maybe? The details were already fading in his mind. There had been a-
“Damn it!” he swore, hot coffee splashing onto his hand.
As he ran it under the cold tap, he realized that his hands were trembling ever so faintly and he swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut and splashing water over his face before turning off the tap.
“Wake up, Robert. Come on,” he muttered aloud. “Just wake up…”
He made an effort to keep his hands steady as tried again to pour himself a cup of coffee. Successful, he followed it with a generous amount of cream and sugar, spoon clinking against the ceramic as he stirred thoughtfully. With all the time and money various governments had poured into dream-sharing, he would have expected someone to come up with a way to suppress dreaming altogether.
God knew he could use it.
In search of a distraction, Robert wandered over to his desk and, setting his mug a safe distance away, settled in front of his typewriter, a vintage Royal he had rescued from an old tenement building. He’d had the keys, all the bells and whistles really, cleaned up at a specialty shop in downtown Los Angeles so everything ran smoothly, but he’d asked them to leave the body alone. He liked the way the red enamel was chipped in some places, rusted in others. It told a story all its own.
“Well, old girl,” he said to himself, “let’s see what we can come up with today.”
Robert cracked his knuckles, slipped in a clean sheet of long-grain mimeo, poised his fingers over the keys and a pot of coffee, three cigarettes, and two hours later he had-
Absolutely nothing.
An hour later, he was still staring at the same blank page and with a groan of frustration he pushed himself away from the desk. If he’d learned anything about writing, it was that trying to force it was the best way to encourage writer’s block to stick around. He stared at the page a moment longer and walked over to the window.
Writing was a recently acquired hobby, courtesy of a sudden urge he’d gotten several months ago after parceling out the last pieces of Fischer-Morrow. He’d never written so much as a term paper, let alone anything remotely creative, but there it was. The desire had been unmistakable. In the hour that followed, he’d penned his first short story.
Since then, he’d had a few short pieces-nothing he was particularly passionate about-published by various, independently owned magazines that paid a penny a word when he was lucky and a free copy of the magazine when he wasn’t. He’d taken a job at a record store there in LA to pay the rent while he went questing for that mythical creature, the Great American Novel.
So far, it wasn’t panning out quite like he’d hoped, but he was learning to take life as it came and enjoy it for what it was, while it lasted.
It was a cool morning as he gazed out the window to the streets below, enjoying the relative quiet in the few hours before it all came to life. As he stood there, breath leaving little clouds on the window, he found his thoughts drifting back to the man with misty green eyes and beautiful hands, the man from his dreams, and Robert wondered where he might be.
- - - - -
The week passed unremarkably until his coffee maker went on the fritz, spewing boiling water and coffee grounds every which way at six on a Tuesday morning. Just his luck, when he had to be at work in two hours and felt like he’d had less for sleep, head filled with images of the man with green eyes every time he closed his own. He weighed his options carefully. There was a Starbucks next to his apartment that he’d only visited once or twice-too much of a luxury on his budget-but cab fare wasn’t any cheaper, and he was in no mood to walk the twenty or so blocks to buy a new coffee maker.
The need for caffeine drove Robert out within the hour.
He ordered an espresso and was on his way out the door, only to collide with someone walking in, his precious caffeinated beverage spilling onto the sidewalk with the last of his patience.
“Watch where you’re-” Robert froze as he came face to face with a man who looked very, very familiar. His eyes widened, chest constricting under some invisible pressure. It was impossible, but he knew those eyes, that face. He glanced down quickly at the man’s hands.
Robert froze on the spot, three words flashing in his head like a distress beacon: No fucking way.
The man scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m terribly sorry about that.” He grinned, sheepishly. “Let me buy you another, yeah?”
“I… I have… uh, laundry,” Robert stammered and walked away as quickly as he could without sprinting, the man shouting something after him that he didn’t quite catch. Coffee forgotten, he called in sick and spent the rest of the morning in bed, half-hoping that whatever strange notion had wormed its way into his brain would have the courtesy to leave. It was nothing, he told himself, and for a while he almost believed it.
But two weeks later, it happened again. Robert saw the man pass him on the sidewalk on his way to work, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a cell phone held to his ear. He looked back over his shoulder after a moment, but by then the crowd had already swallowed the man up.
When he dreamt again, the man asked if he could bum a smoke in tones as rich and smooth as espresso, and Robert couldn’t take his eyes off of his mouth.
- - - - -
“Lexi, I think I may be going crazy.”
“Oh, yeah?” She was unpacking new stock and sounded more than a little distracted.
“Why’s that, Rob?”
“You know those dreams I’ve been having? With that same man?” Lexi hummed noncommittally. “Two weeks ago, I ran into him in a Starbucks. I just saw him again on my way to work this morning.”
Lexi looked up from her clipboard. “You met the man of your dreams in a Starbucks? I thought you had better taste than that, Rob.”
“Out of everything, it’s the choice of venue that strikes you as strange.” Robert threw up his hands. “Why do I even bother telling you these things?”
“Oh, don’t be such a bitch, Rob. What makes you think it was him anyway?”
“I’m telling you,” he said, pacing across the stock room, “it was that same man I’ve been dreaming about. He had the same eyes, the same hands...” Robert trailed off, painfully aware of having said too much. He felt the back of his neck heat up. “Forget about it.”
“Tell me more about the hands, Rob,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.
“Sometimes I really hate you. Do you know that?”
Lexi laughed wickedly. “Oh, come on, Rob! Level with me here. Were you thinking about how his hands’d feel on your c-”
Robert slammed the door of the stockroom behind him and walked back up to the front counter to wait for someone to come in. That Lexi had turned something serious into a big joke was no surprise. At nineteen, she was of all things his manager, a fact she liked to remind him of frequently. He caught her dark hair out of the corner of his eyes as she returned from the stock room. Trying to sneak up on him, probably.
She flopped inelegantly on the chair next to his. “Did you know you have bags under your eyes?”
“I do not.”
“Oh, you most certainly do. Gimme a sec,” she said, rifling around in her purse. She dug out a hand mirror and flipped it open. “Behold.”
Robert’s eyes widened. “Christ, you’re right.”
Lexi nodded sagely. “Wanna borrow my concealer?”
“I don’t wear makeup.”
She shrugged. “Could have fooled me. Those eyelashes make you look like you just walked out of a fucking Covergirl commercial. Anyway,” she said airily, “it’s not like a little concealer’s going to make you any gayer, Rob.”
“Not this again, Lexi. Really, I’m not in the mood. I barely slept last night.”
God, she was a terror. It hadn’t been his intention to divulge his sexuality-not that he was ashamed of it or anything-but it had been easier than making excuse after excuse (“I’m too old for you” had been received like a challenge) to a girl who kept trying to shove her hand down the front of his pants whenever she caught him alone in the stock room.
Grumbling, Lexi slid off her stool and clapped him on the back. “A word of advice, Rob? Sleeping is easier when you don’t spend all night beating off to pixels.”
He repressed the urge to wrestle her to the ground and strangle her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
- - - - -
The dreams didn’t disappear, but Robert hadn’t seen anyone who looked vaguely like the man from his dreams since the second time and he slept better for it, comforted by the idea that it had all been the result of poor sleep, poor nutrition-some vague combination of factors that had lead him to mistake some random stranger for something more. Everyone had their off days.
He had managed to crank out a couple of new stories that looked as if they would sell relatively soon if everything went as expected. Things usually did, at least as far as his publishing endeavors were concerned. He kept coming back to the novel every few days, hoping to be struck with a sudden epiphany and make some actual headway. But he still had nothing. There was, he’d decided, something especially infuriating about having writer’s block before you’d even begun properly.
Two months passed and he replaced the coffee maker with a slightly more expensive model. A three part piece of his made it into a more prestigious publication and they sent him a check for $300. Feeling that he’d earned it, he took himself out for a moderately priced dinner before using the rest on bills. It was such a change from his previous life, the way things he had always taken for granted now seemed extremely indulgent.
There were times, when the rent was late and he’d eaten nothing but white rice for a week, that he missed the lack of responsibility, the generous allowance, all the markers of wealth and privilege. But then the rent got paid and he managed to buy groceries with another story and he forgot to focus so much on the man he used to be. There was a certain pride to it that he had never experienced, or even deserved. He did his best not to be bothered by the fact that his pride looked an awful lot like an overpriced apartment with lousy pipes.
Robert was cheerful as he walked the fifteen blocks to work with the sun at his back. He’d slept soundly through the night, had no issues with Mr. Coffee, and he was paid out through the end of the month-life at its best.
“Hey, Lexi,” he called as he walked in and set his bag behind the counter. “Anything interesting come in today?”
He heard her excuse herself to someone in the back; a customer, no doubt. He hadn’t seen anyone else on the schedule for today. “Rob, could you help this guy? Someone’s made a mess of the storeroom again.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered. ‘Someone’s made a mess of the storeroom’, he had learned after a very awkward encounter, was her code for ‘get me the fuck out of here before I tear someone’s throat out with my teeth.’ Either she’d had a bad night, or the customer was being a complete ass. However you spun it, it was never good news for him, either.
“Sure,” he called back as Lexi disappeared into the store room. The man’s back was still to him and Robert cleared his throat awkwardly in an attempt to get his attention. “Can I help you with something, sir?”
He turned and Robert felt all the color bleed out of his face, his psychological health setting itself back several weeks as he stared into the misty, green eyes of the man from his dreams. He was wearing a rather loud silk shirt-not that he didn’t cut an incredibly handsome figure even in mustard yellow-but Robert hardly noticed that, focused on the eyes boring into his.
“You never did let me make it up to you after your little spill with the coffee.”
Robert was certain that his face was running through a dozen different emotions, and that the man could see every one of them. “I… you…” he fumbled for the words. “How did you know that I worked here? Are you following me?”
“Following you? God, no,” he laughed. “I saw you in here when I was walking by the other day.” He smiled, and Robert was horrified to find his stomach turning somersaults at the way his teeth overlapped slightly in front. It was ridiculously charming. “I wouldn’t forget a face as lovely as yours.”
Robert mentally reviewed their conversation and came up short. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but what are you hoping to get out of this?”
“Only the pleasure of your company,” he replied easily. “I thought you might fancy a drink later after your hard day at work.” His eyes were bright with unspoken laughter. “What do you say to giving me another chance, love? I won’t muck it up this time, promise.”
He raked a hand through his hair, thinking. The fact that the man remembered his face after one meeting two months ago was, on the one hand, flattering. On the other, though… but he had no reason to say no, no unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he had plenty of reasons to say yes.
“Okay, sure,” he said, and smiled. Why not?
“How about I give you my number, and you can give me a ring when you get off.” He took Robert’s hand and, fishing a pen out of his breast pocket, wrote the number on the soft flesh of his palm, his thumb rubbing idly against Robert’s wrist after he had finished. “So you don’t lose it.”
The man turned to walk out, leaving him speechless. It was only once he had disappeared from sight that Robert realized he hadn’t even asked his name. He shook his head, smiling to himself as he organized the front counter and threw on a Smiths album.
Lexi, who had decided it was safe to come out of hiding, noticed him looking at the seven digits written on his palm and grumbled.
“Shoulda known. You pretty boys have all the luck.”
Robert stuck his tongue out at her.
It didn’t seem right to go out for drinks at four in the afternoon and Robert spent the four hours between then and eight failing miserably at not turning into a nervous wreck.
“Robert,” he told himself, standing in front of the mirror, “just relax. It’s a drink, not a goddamn proposal. And if it turns into more than that, well, that’s okay, too. More than okay, really…Christ, will you listen to yourself? Okay,” he said and took a deep breath. “You are both competent, mature adults. If you happen to invite him back here after drinks, it’s no one’s business but yours. Right? Right,” he assured himself. “You are an adult, Robert.”
As he punched in the numbers still faintly visible on his hand, Robert didn’t think he could remember being this anxious. He checked his watch for the hundredth time-quarter past eight-and smoothed the lapels of the blazer he had layered over a plain t-shirt. Too formal after all? Christ...
The phone picked up after several rings. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me-um, Robert. It’s Robert. From the record store?” He swore under his breath and mentally gave himself a hard, swift kick in the ass.
“Robert, darling!” the man exclaimed happily. “So nice to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m good. I was wondering when you wanted to get together tonight.”
There was a pause on the other end. “We could meet now, if you like. Do you have anywhere particular in mind?”
“Anywhere’s good, really, if you know a place,” he said, trying not to convey how flustered the whole conversation was making him. “I don’t go out very much,” he explained, lamely.
The man laughed, not unkindly. “All right then. If you’re not particular, I’ve got plenty of ideas. Got a pen and paper handy, yeah?”
He started to give Robert the address, and he realized that he passed the bar every day. It was only a couple of blocks from his apartment.
“See you in a bit, Robert,” the man said, and hung up.
Robert looked at himself in the mirror one last time and ran out before he lost the courage.
- - - - -
A slow smile lifted the corners of Robert’s lips when he saw the man waiting outside the front of the bar for him, toe tapping impatiently as he puffed on a cigarette. He looked about as nervous as Robert felt, and the thought was quick to relax him. There was plenty of time for him to take in the man’s red button-up shirt-a definite improvement-paired with a black suit jacket and black slacks. Robert could see suspenders peeking out from his jacket as the man tucked his lighter back into his pocket, and felt a little thrill go through him.
Robert gave a wave as he approached and caught the man’s eye. “Hey. I haven’t kept you waiting, have I?”
“Not at all,” he said, and his smile made Robert’s knees feel like they would collapse at any moment. “Are we all set, then? Follow me, love.”
Almost giddy with anticipation, Robert followed him up to the bar, watching him signal to the bartender. H looked over his shoulder. “What’s your poison?”
“Beer’s fine.”
“Right. Can I get four beers and two shots of vodka?” He yelled over the noise, pressing the cash onto the bar. “Thanks, mate.” It was busy, but it didn’t take long and he handed a couple of beers to Robert, expertly toting the rest himself as they maneuvered their way to a table in the back corner.
It was quieter there, no need to shout at each other, and Robert was grateful to be out of the crush. With a flourish, the man popped the cap off of two of the beers, sliding one across the table to him.
“Cheers, love.”
Robert smiled over the lip of the bottle. It took him a moment to recall what he had forgotten to ask so many times. “Oh, hey-I never caught your name.”
He held out his hand. “Eames.”
His hand was smooth and warm, huge enough to envelop Robert’s, and he felt heat spark low in his belly as Eames’ thumb traced the back of his hand before releasing it as if unable to resist the urge to steal that extra touch.
Not that he minded. “Nice to meet you officially, Mr. Eames.”
Robert thought he saw a shift in the man’s features, but it was so sudden that he couldn’t be sure, overwhelmed by the man’s smile.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he returned.
It was oddly formal, given the situation, but it seemed fitting for a man who showed up to a bar in Oxfords (he’d snuck a peek at Eames’ shoes, once inside) and suspenders. Interesting, at the very least.
“So, do you have a first name, or is it just Eames?”
“Just Eames, if you don’t mind.”
Robert smiled, the alcohol already taking off his nervous edge. “Are you a spy or something?”
Eames laughed, deep and loud. “Something like that,” he agreed, eyes sparkling. “What about you? Seems a bit odd, a man your age working in a record store.”
“Tell me about it. That place is such a zoo sometimes. But it’s just to pay the bills, you know,” he said with a shrug. “I write on the side.”
“Anything I might’ve read?”
“Depends. How’s your experience with trashy sci-fi magazines?”
Eames grinned. “Not good, I’m afraid.”
Robert knocked back one of the vodka shots and chased it with a swallow of beer before continuing. “What do you do? When you’re not spying, that is.”
“There’s more to it than you think, you know. It’s not just sitting on my arse all day. There’s the subterfuge, the betrayal…” he ticked off points on his fingers and grinned. “But, in all seriousness, I’m just a humble thespian.”
“A thespian,” Robert repeated. “Anything I would have seen?”
“Not unless you’re enamored of low-budget, off-off Broadway rubbish,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. He set his elbows up on the table and spread his hands. “Other than that, I’m a man of leisure.”
Robert nodded, caught up again in the man’s eyes. He couldn’t help the smile that seemed to have affixed itself to his face permanently. “You know it was like two months ago that I ran into you and dropped my coffee, right?”
“Sounds about right, yeah.”
“So what about me interested you so much that you had to talk to me again? Most men wouldn’t bother after so long.”
Eames tongue flicked out to wet his lips before speaking. “I’m not most men,” he said, and even through the light fog of alcohol Robert could hear something like a secret in his voice. “Besides, it was incredibly charming to see you run off at the sight of me. Had to find out what I did to deserve that, didn’t I?”
Robert felt his face heat up with residual embarrassment. “Sorry about that.” Mercifully, Eames didn’t press him for further explanation. They’d finished their first round of drinks and Robert’s throat burned as he did his second shot of vodka, following it with a generous swig of beer.
They chatted idly as the night wore on, keeping the conversation in the polite realm of getting-to-know-you appropriate topics as they drank and laughed. Eames touched his hand across the table periodically, each brush of his fingers sparking like dry heat on Robert’s skin, every one hotter than the last. He’d lost track of how much he’d had to drink, but he was willing to bet, however drunkenly, that it had been more than he planned on. Not enough to turn him into a sobbing wreck, but plenty to leave him feeling pleasantly hazy and more than a little excited.
“So,” Eames said at last, “how would you like to end this lovely evening, Robert?”
The words had been in the back of his mind all night, and they rolled off his tongue with an ease that only alcohol could provide.
“My apartment’s just down the street. Do you want to come up for a while?”
Eames’ smile was softer this time. “All right, then.”
- - - - -
Robert had never brought anyone back to the apartment and the blood was thrumming in his veins as he unlocked the door and let Eames in, flipping on the lights out of habit and standing somewhat awkwardly at the door, unsure of how to proceed.
“Do you want something to drink?”
Even before the words had left his mouth, Robert wanted to take them back.
Eames turned and stepped toward him. “You didn’t ask me up for a drink, Robert. Besides,” he said with a laugh, “I think you’ve had plenty.” He was only a handful of centimeters away now, their chests almost touching, and Robert could feel the heat coming off of him in waves.
Robert felt almost trapped there with his back to the door, Eames’ hands effectively pinning him where they were braced on either side of him. His voice was low and intimate, so close Robert could taste the alcohol and cigarette smoke.
“Go on,” Eames murmured. His lips were warm and dry against Robert’s throat and he shivered visibly at the light scrape of the man’s teeth over his sweat-slick skin. “I promise I won’t bite…”
Those lips were trailing over his jaw now and Robert turned his head into the kiss, finding the man’s mouth with his own and tugging him forward by his suspenders. He could feel the man huff a laugh against his mouth before his lips parted, so inviting it was almost certainly a tease, and his big, hot hands clutched roughly at Robert’s back with the most delicious pressure, slipping under his shirt to caress bare skin. They stumbled back into the kitchen, the window sill digging into Robert’s back as they kissed. He couldn’t resist letting his tongue run over the ridge where Eames’ teeth overlapped so charmingly, the kiss broken as he smiled guiltily, hiding it against Eames’ cheek and feeling the stubble there like fine sandpaper.
His hands slipped under the front of Robert’s jacket, sliding it from his shoulders. He kicked it aside, losing his balance in the process and tipping forward. But Eames caught him, instinctively wrapping his arms around Robert’s back to keep him on his feet.
“Careful there, love,” he chided gently. Then Eames was kissing him again and Robert was fumbling with the man’s suspenders, groaning as they came undone under his hands, which then slipped under the band of Eames’ slacks to untuck that infuriatingly perfect shirt; bare skin at last. As he had thought might be the case, Eames was a bit soft around the middle and Robert couldn’t help giving him a good squeeze.
Eames gave a sort of surprised yelp and smacked his hand away. It snuck back of its own accord, giving him another pinch, and he pulled back from the kiss, looking decidedly annoyed. “Honestly. Must you?”
Robert tried to keep a straight face, but it was difficult. “You have love-handles.”
“I bloody do not,” Eames huffed, turning his head stubbornly as Robert leaned in to kiss him. “I do not have… love-handles,” he said, his mouth forming awkwardly around the word.
“Yes, you do,” he insisted, a grin breaking out on his face. Eames’ mouth was turned down in a pout now and Robert laughed as he kissed him, squeezing his sides affectionately. “They’re quite nice, actually.”
Eames grumbled something about what a bloody child he was, but finally gave up the fight, helping Robert divest him of his red shirt, which he tossed somewhere in the vicinity of the desk. Clothes came off piece by piece, strewn throughout the apartment, but at last they managed to steer their way into the bedroom, Robert leaning heavily against one very compliant Eames who lowered him to the bed with the utmost care. There was only a thin layer of fabric between them now and he could feel Eames strain against his thigh, his own erection similarly nestled against the other man.
Once the last of their clothes had come off, Eames seemed to hesitate, his eyes shadowed. Robert reached a hand up to cup his cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over the careful line of the man’s lips.
“Everything okay?”
Eames shook his head and his soft smile returned. “Just got a little caught up in how lovely you are is all,” he said. “Still all right, then?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Where do you keep things?”
The combination of alcohol and arousal made it difficult for Robert to wrap his mind around the question, and it took him an embarrassingly long time before he had the sense to direct Eames to the top drawer of his dresser.
“Brand new,” Eames commented, settling back on the bed with a bottle of lubricant and a foil-wrapped condom. His eyes were smiling, even if his face was carefully neutral. “Been a while, has it, love?”
He mumbled something vague and hid his face in the sheets.
“Robert,” Eames said softly, “it’s all right, yeah? Honestly, love, it’s been ages for me too. Come on,” he pleaded, “I take it back.”
Aside from the fact that mocking his chastity did not count as foreplay by any definition, Robert still had some lingering doubts-it wasn’t like him to sleep with someone after such a short period; and after he’d had so much to drink, too. But clouding it all was the knowledge that, if he didn’t take advantage of the moment, regardless of how they might feel about it in the morning, he might wake up alone for the last time, the moment gone and Eames vanished, returned to the shelf of whatever dusty little corner of Robert’s mind had produced him.
He had enough regrets from his previous life and he wasn’t going to let it define him now.
Wordlessly, he dragged Eames down for a kiss, feeling the taut muscles in his back relax with something Robert thought might be relief. Eames’ hand coaxed his knees apart and Robert moaned as the man opened him up with thick, oiled fingers that massaged his prostate to the slow caress of his tongue against Robert’s. Tremors cascaded down his thighs, his body clenching around Eames’ fingers, every nerve lit up with a desperate hunger, and he raked his nails over Eames’ back, mouth falling open in something halfway between a groan and a sob.
Eames gently withdrew and kissed his forehead. He motioned for Robert to turn over.
Only too happy to comply, Robert rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself unsteadily to his hands and knees, acutely aware of his body and how ridiculous he must look in this position-no wonder he hadn’t had sex in so long. Robert could hear Eames tearing open the little foil square behind him, but he peeked over his shoulder anyway to make sure he was actually rolling on the condom. Eames looked up and Robert straightened, but Eames had already seen him by then and he could feel the back of his neck heat up.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Just checking.”
The mattress dipped under him as Eames resettled. “All right, love. Just relax now.”
It had been a long time for him, sure, but that alone couldn’t explain the way his chest went tight and his whole body trembled violently as Eames guided himself inside, painstakingly slow. His fingers flexed roughly on Robert’s hip, the rest of him held very still as if he might not be able to control himself otherwise. It was incredibly exciting. If Eames were to finish right then, he thought, it would be worth it just for that. The thought made him laugh, as hard as he tried not to.
“You know,” Eames said, a bit breathlessly, “I’ve quite enjoyed the banter thus far, but it wounds me now that I’m inside you that your first instinct is to laugh. It’s hardly encouraging, love.”
Robert did his best to rein in his laughter before speaking.
“Are you quite finished?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
They fared much better after that, Eames’ warm weight settling over his back as he moved. Given the many disruptions of the evening, his rhythm was surprisingly patient, careful and slow-nothing like he had anticipated. Having slept around a bit in his early twenties had trained him to expect quick and dirty, however sweet someone seemed initially. It was a way of guarding yourself, of masking the awkwardness that arose as a natural consequence of sex with someone who was practically a stranger, and he’d expected to feel that here as well.
But Eames, with one hand curled almost protectively around Robert’s chest, felt nothing if not familiar, each movement comfortable and unhurried as if they had made love a thousand times. There was none of that urgency that came with anonymity, only a kind of quiet intimacy that left Robert feeling pleasantly vulnerable as Eames learned his body from the inside out. His lips were warm on the back of Robert’s neck, and he could hear Eames pant and groan softly under his breath with every languid plunge of his hips. Robert rocked back into him, Eames keeping him steady with one hand on his thigh, and moaned low in his throat.
It seemed to go on forever and yet it was over all too soon, Eames’ hand still slick with lubricant as it curled around him, stroking Robert in time to the back and forth of his hips. Eames peppered his neck and shoulders with little kisses between the pants and groans that were growing louder, more frequent now, and with a shudder that sent him arching hard into Eames, Robert spilled himself over the man’s hand, moaning his climax into the disheveled sheets beneath them. Riding out the last waves of pleasure, he rocked back to meet Eames, who had sped up briefly and was now slowing, rocking to a stop inside him.
They stayed like that for a moment, Eames breathing raggedly against the back of his neck, and then Robert felt him slip out and pat his thigh affectionately. He rolled onto his back and watched as Eames tied off the condom and dropped it in the wastebasket by his dresser, admiring his strong, smooth lines and muscular thighs. Eames flicked off the light before coming back to lie beside him, curving warmly around his back, hand resting on Robert’s abdomen. Robert smiled tiredly and laced their fingers together.
But as much as he wanted to fall asleep like that, content and comfortable in the other man’s arms, something still didn’t feel quite right.
“Eames, are you awake?”
He mumbled indistinctly.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
“If it’s that you’re married with children, it can wait till morning,” he said, dry despite the fatigue in his voice. “And if you’re planning to tell me this was your first time, just keep it to yourself, yeah?”
“I’m serious. I have to tell you about these dreams I’ve been having.”
This time, he sounded wide awake. “Dreams?”
“I know this is going to sound strange, but I don’t know you from somewhere else, do I? I mean, in Starbucks, that was the first time you’d seen me, right?”
“Right.”
“When I ran into you, I thought I was going crazy. I’d been… goddamn it,” he groaned. “You’re going to think I’m out of my mind.”
“It’s okay, love. Just tell me.”
“I’d been having dreams about you. For months,” he admitted. “That’s why I ran that morning.”
“And you’re certain it wasn’t someone else, are you?”
Robert rolled over to face him. “I’m sure.”
Eames regarded him silently for a long time, brow knit like he was trying to work something out in his head. It would have been charming, how pensive he looked, if not for the subject at hand.
“Perhaps,” he said, carefully, “you had seen me somewhere, in a crowd or something, and forgot. Consciously,” he clarified. “But unconsciously, those things stick. We see hundreds of faces every day, and they’re all kept up here,” he said, indicating his head, “getting shuffled through our subconscious. Are you with me?”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes,” Eames continued, in that same slow lecturing tone, “people, places, whatever rubbish we seem to have forgotten, get recycled in the form of dreams. Who’s to say what the mechanism is, but what shows up and when? That’s the luck of the draw, nothing but coincidence.”
“So you’re saying it’s meaningless.”
Eames worried his lip between his teeth a moment before speaking. “You and I, people in general, we’re very well equipped for pattern recognition. So well equipped, in fact, that we see patterns were there aren’t any. Random events, and this is just as a rule, tend to segregate non-randomly. So, maybe, you flip a coin twenty times and every time it turns up heads. But,” he said, “it doesn’t mean a damn thing, because each flip is independent from the last. It could turn up heads a hundred, a thousand times, though the odds are against it, but it would still be true that it was only a fifty-fifty chance, you see. Do you get what I’m driving at?”
Robert hesitated, but nodded. “I think so. Yeah.”
“You don’t look happy. Have I lost you somewhere?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s not that. It just… people aren’t coins, you know?” He laughed, and the corner of Eames’ mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile. “I don’t know if I want to accept that it’s all random and meaningless. Can you live like that? Maybe we’re better off believing that it’s fate.”
Eames smiled softly and kissed him. “Maybe.”
- - - - -
On Friday, Robert’s cell rang in the middle of proofing a draft. He’d kept it on his person-something he never did anymore-every day since they’d made love and he had it to his ear before it could ring twice.
“Hello?”
“Morning, Robert,” Eames’ voice came smooth and warm over the phone. “I didn’t catch you at work, did I?”
“No, I’m at home.”
“I tried to wait a whole week, honest. But I wanted to hear your voice, and I just couldn’t.”
Robert smiled at that. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
“When can I see you again?”
“Tonight would be good,” he said, “as long as you don’t mind staying in. I think we had a little too much fun last time,” he laughed.
Eames chuckled on his end. “What do you say to dinner, then? I’ll cook.”
“That’d be nice.”
“Brilliant. One more thing,” Eames said. “Have you seen my braces?”
“Braces,” he repeated blankly. “Eames, you don’t wear braces.”
“Come on, you know what I’m talking about. Braces,” he insisted, “for my trousers, yeah?”
It took him a minute, but Robert put it together. “You mean suspenders?”
Eames snorted. “Is that what you yanks call them?”
“Yes,” Robert answered primly. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said breezily. Robert got the distinct impression he was holding in laughter. “I’ll drop in ‘round six, love. Cheers.”
He hung up before Robert could get a real answer out of him, leaving him standing barefoot and confused in the middle of the living room.
- - - - -
Eames showed up shortly after six, a paper bag in his arms.
“Evening, darling,” he said, planting a swift kiss on Robert’s cheek on his way to the kitchen. Robert leaned against the door with a smile and watched as Eames rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and unpacked a bottle of wine, followed by the makings of chicken fettuccini. He looked over his shoulder at Robert. “Pour us a glass of wine, would you, love?”
“Sure.” He brushed past Eames, touching his back briefly, and pulled a couple of glasses out of the cupboard. “So, I googled ‘suspenders,’” he said conversationally as he uncorked the wine bottle and poured each of them a glass, handing one to Eames. “I guess you wouldn’t be wearing those.”
Eames laughed over the rim of his glass. “I reckon not. Unless you’re into that sort of thing?”
Robert choked on a mouthful of wine. “No.”
“I don’t have the legs for it anyway,” Eames said, wistful as he set aside his glass and began grating a hunk of parmesan. “How’s the wine? Not too sweet, is it?”
“No, it’s excellent,” Robert assured him, taking another sip to confirm before setting his glass on the counter. He wrapped his arms around Eames and buried his face in the man’s shirt, pale lavender with darker pinstripes, smelling the light musk of sweat and something sweeter and heavier.
“Are you wearing cologne?”
“Sandalwood, yeah,” he said.
Robert inhaled deeply and sighed. “You smell incredible.”
“I am trying to cook,” Eames reminded him. “Under other circumstances, I would be more than happy to take you to bed without dinner, but I thought you might appreciate the extra effort.”
Reluctantly, he let go of Eames. He could find something to occupy his time for a while.
“On second thought,” Eames said, catching him by the arm and flashing that charming grin of his, “I always did like to start with dessert.”
Part 2
Word Count: 6,868 (of ~19,000 total)
Pairing: Eames/Fischer
Rating: a softer NC-17
Disclaimer: Neither Fischer nor Eames belong to me. :(
Author's Note: First of all, this is dedicated to the lovely forgerness, who requested some Eames/Fischer from me a while back and is only now having her prayers answered. ;)
Secondly, this is meant to follow the events of Inception, so I’m hesitant to call it an AU, but at the same time, it’s only in my mind that Robert would ever work in a record store, listen to the Smiths, and own a Royal typewriter. I’ve taken the notion that the inception would change everything about him to extremes. Consider yourself warned!
Part I
Robert Fischer rolled out of bed with a yawn, the linoleum cold as he shuffled into his little kitchenette on bare feet. Eyes still bleary with sleep, he set up the Mr. Coffee nestled between the microwave and the toaster and leaned back against the counter to wait for the dark, velvety smell of percolating coffee to drive out the fog in his head. Absently, he worried his lip between his teeth and glanced out the window, unsurprised to find that dawn had only just begun to peel back the edges of night.
He hadn’t been sleeping well, troubled by strange dreams; dreams of a man with misty, green eyes and beautiful hands. They had been going somewhere-together-he remembered, mug held aloft as he lifted the coffee pot to fill his cup. Traveling, maybe? The details were already fading in his mind. There had been a-
“Damn it!” he swore, hot coffee splashing onto his hand.
As he ran it under the cold tap, he realized that his hands were trembling ever so faintly and he swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut and splashing water over his face before turning off the tap.
“Wake up, Robert. Come on,” he muttered aloud. “Just wake up…”
He made an effort to keep his hands steady as tried again to pour himself a cup of coffee. Successful, he followed it with a generous amount of cream and sugar, spoon clinking against the ceramic as he stirred thoughtfully. With all the time and money various governments had poured into dream-sharing, he would have expected someone to come up with a way to suppress dreaming altogether.
God knew he could use it.
In search of a distraction, Robert wandered over to his desk and, setting his mug a safe distance away, settled in front of his typewriter, a vintage Royal he had rescued from an old tenement building. He’d had the keys, all the bells and whistles really, cleaned up at a specialty shop in downtown Los Angeles so everything ran smoothly, but he’d asked them to leave the body alone. He liked the way the red enamel was chipped in some places, rusted in others. It told a story all its own.
“Well, old girl,” he said to himself, “let’s see what we can come up with today.”
Robert cracked his knuckles, slipped in a clean sheet of long-grain mimeo, poised his fingers over the keys and a pot of coffee, three cigarettes, and two hours later he had-
Absolutely nothing.
An hour later, he was still staring at the same blank page and with a groan of frustration he pushed himself away from the desk. If he’d learned anything about writing, it was that trying to force it was the best way to encourage writer’s block to stick around. He stared at the page a moment longer and walked over to the window.
Writing was a recently acquired hobby, courtesy of a sudden urge he’d gotten several months ago after parceling out the last pieces of Fischer-Morrow. He’d never written so much as a term paper, let alone anything remotely creative, but there it was. The desire had been unmistakable. In the hour that followed, he’d penned his first short story.
Since then, he’d had a few short pieces-nothing he was particularly passionate about-published by various, independently owned magazines that paid a penny a word when he was lucky and a free copy of the magazine when he wasn’t. He’d taken a job at a record store there in LA to pay the rent while he went questing for that mythical creature, the Great American Novel.
So far, it wasn’t panning out quite like he’d hoped, but he was learning to take life as it came and enjoy it for what it was, while it lasted.
It was a cool morning as he gazed out the window to the streets below, enjoying the relative quiet in the few hours before it all came to life. As he stood there, breath leaving little clouds on the window, he found his thoughts drifting back to the man with misty green eyes and beautiful hands, the man from his dreams, and Robert wondered where he might be.
- - - - -
The week passed unremarkably until his coffee maker went on the fritz, spewing boiling water and coffee grounds every which way at six on a Tuesday morning. Just his luck, when he had to be at work in two hours and felt like he’d had less for sleep, head filled with images of the man with green eyes every time he closed his own. He weighed his options carefully. There was a Starbucks next to his apartment that he’d only visited once or twice-too much of a luxury on his budget-but cab fare wasn’t any cheaper, and he was in no mood to walk the twenty or so blocks to buy a new coffee maker.
The need for caffeine drove Robert out within the hour.
He ordered an espresso and was on his way out the door, only to collide with someone walking in, his precious caffeinated beverage spilling onto the sidewalk with the last of his patience.
“Watch where you’re-” Robert froze as he came face to face with a man who looked very, very familiar. His eyes widened, chest constricting under some invisible pressure. It was impossible, but he knew those eyes, that face. He glanced down quickly at the man’s hands.
Robert froze on the spot, three words flashing in his head like a distress beacon: No fucking way.
The man scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m terribly sorry about that.” He grinned, sheepishly. “Let me buy you another, yeah?”
“I… I have… uh, laundry,” Robert stammered and walked away as quickly as he could without sprinting, the man shouting something after him that he didn’t quite catch. Coffee forgotten, he called in sick and spent the rest of the morning in bed, half-hoping that whatever strange notion had wormed its way into his brain would have the courtesy to leave. It was nothing, he told himself, and for a while he almost believed it.
But two weeks later, it happened again. Robert saw the man pass him on the sidewalk on his way to work, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a cell phone held to his ear. He looked back over his shoulder after a moment, but by then the crowd had already swallowed the man up.
When he dreamt again, the man asked if he could bum a smoke in tones as rich and smooth as espresso, and Robert couldn’t take his eyes off of his mouth.
- - - - -
“Lexi, I think I may be going crazy.”
“Oh, yeah?” She was unpacking new stock and sounded more than a little distracted.
“Why’s that, Rob?”
“You know those dreams I’ve been having? With that same man?” Lexi hummed noncommittally. “Two weeks ago, I ran into him in a Starbucks. I just saw him again on my way to work this morning.”
Lexi looked up from her clipboard. “You met the man of your dreams in a Starbucks? I thought you had better taste than that, Rob.”
“Out of everything, it’s the choice of venue that strikes you as strange.” Robert threw up his hands. “Why do I even bother telling you these things?”
“Oh, don’t be such a bitch, Rob. What makes you think it was him anyway?”
“I’m telling you,” he said, pacing across the stock room, “it was that same man I’ve been dreaming about. He had the same eyes, the same hands...” Robert trailed off, painfully aware of having said too much. He felt the back of his neck heat up. “Forget about it.”
“Tell me more about the hands, Rob,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.
“Sometimes I really hate you. Do you know that?”
Lexi laughed wickedly. “Oh, come on, Rob! Level with me here. Were you thinking about how his hands’d feel on your c-”
Robert slammed the door of the stockroom behind him and walked back up to the front counter to wait for someone to come in. That Lexi had turned something serious into a big joke was no surprise. At nineteen, she was of all things his manager, a fact she liked to remind him of frequently. He caught her dark hair out of the corner of his eyes as she returned from the stock room. Trying to sneak up on him, probably.
She flopped inelegantly on the chair next to his. “Did you know you have bags under your eyes?”
“I do not.”
“Oh, you most certainly do. Gimme a sec,” she said, rifling around in her purse. She dug out a hand mirror and flipped it open. “Behold.”
Robert’s eyes widened. “Christ, you’re right.”
Lexi nodded sagely. “Wanna borrow my concealer?”
“I don’t wear makeup.”
She shrugged. “Could have fooled me. Those eyelashes make you look like you just walked out of a fucking Covergirl commercial. Anyway,” she said airily, “it’s not like a little concealer’s going to make you any gayer, Rob.”
“Not this again, Lexi. Really, I’m not in the mood. I barely slept last night.”
God, she was a terror. It hadn’t been his intention to divulge his sexuality-not that he was ashamed of it or anything-but it had been easier than making excuse after excuse (“I’m too old for you” had been received like a challenge) to a girl who kept trying to shove her hand down the front of his pants whenever she caught him alone in the stock room.
Grumbling, Lexi slid off her stool and clapped him on the back. “A word of advice, Rob? Sleeping is easier when you don’t spend all night beating off to pixels.”
He repressed the urge to wrestle her to the ground and strangle her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
- - - - -
The dreams didn’t disappear, but Robert hadn’t seen anyone who looked vaguely like the man from his dreams since the second time and he slept better for it, comforted by the idea that it had all been the result of poor sleep, poor nutrition-some vague combination of factors that had lead him to mistake some random stranger for something more. Everyone had their off days.
He had managed to crank out a couple of new stories that looked as if they would sell relatively soon if everything went as expected. Things usually did, at least as far as his publishing endeavors were concerned. He kept coming back to the novel every few days, hoping to be struck with a sudden epiphany and make some actual headway. But he still had nothing. There was, he’d decided, something especially infuriating about having writer’s block before you’d even begun properly.
Two months passed and he replaced the coffee maker with a slightly more expensive model. A three part piece of his made it into a more prestigious publication and they sent him a check for $300. Feeling that he’d earned it, he took himself out for a moderately priced dinner before using the rest on bills. It was such a change from his previous life, the way things he had always taken for granted now seemed extremely indulgent.
There were times, when the rent was late and he’d eaten nothing but white rice for a week, that he missed the lack of responsibility, the generous allowance, all the markers of wealth and privilege. But then the rent got paid and he managed to buy groceries with another story and he forgot to focus so much on the man he used to be. There was a certain pride to it that he had never experienced, or even deserved. He did his best not to be bothered by the fact that his pride looked an awful lot like an overpriced apartment with lousy pipes.
Robert was cheerful as he walked the fifteen blocks to work with the sun at his back. He’d slept soundly through the night, had no issues with Mr. Coffee, and he was paid out through the end of the month-life at its best.
“Hey, Lexi,” he called as he walked in and set his bag behind the counter. “Anything interesting come in today?”
He heard her excuse herself to someone in the back; a customer, no doubt. He hadn’t seen anyone else on the schedule for today. “Rob, could you help this guy? Someone’s made a mess of the storeroom again.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered. ‘Someone’s made a mess of the storeroom’, he had learned after a very awkward encounter, was her code for ‘get me the fuck out of here before I tear someone’s throat out with my teeth.’ Either she’d had a bad night, or the customer was being a complete ass. However you spun it, it was never good news for him, either.
“Sure,” he called back as Lexi disappeared into the store room. The man’s back was still to him and Robert cleared his throat awkwardly in an attempt to get his attention. “Can I help you with something, sir?”
He turned and Robert felt all the color bleed out of his face, his psychological health setting itself back several weeks as he stared into the misty, green eyes of the man from his dreams. He was wearing a rather loud silk shirt-not that he didn’t cut an incredibly handsome figure even in mustard yellow-but Robert hardly noticed that, focused on the eyes boring into his.
“You never did let me make it up to you after your little spill with the coffee.”
Robert was certain that his face was running through a dozen different emotions, and that the man could see every one of them. “I… you…” he fumbled for the words. “How did you know that I worked here? Are you following me?”
“Following you? God, no,” he laughed. “I saw you in here when I was walking by the other day.” He smiled, and Robert was horrified to find his stomach turning somersaults at the way his teeth overlapped slightly in front. It was ridiculously charming. “I wouldn’t forget a face as lovely as yours.”
Robert mentally reviewed their conversation and came up short. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but what are you hoping to get out of this?”
“Only the pleasure of your company,” he replied easily. “I thought you might fancy a drink later after your hard day at work.” His eyes were bright with unspoken laughter. “What do you say to giving me another chance, love? I won’t muck it up this time, promise.”
He raked a hand through his hair, thinking. The fact that the man remembered his face after one meeting two months ago was, on the one hand, flattering. On the other, though… but he had no reason to say no, no unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he had plenty of reasons to say yes.
“Okay, sure,” he said, and smiled. Why not?
“How about I give you my number, and you can give me a ring when you get off.” He took Robert’s hand and, fishing a pen out of his breast pocket, wrote the number on the soft flesh of his palm, his thumb rubbing idly against Robert’s wrist after he had finished. “So you don’t lose it.”
The man turned to walk out, leaving him speechless. It was only once he had disappeared from sight that Robert realized he hadn’t even asked his name. He shook his head, smiling to himself as he organized the front counter and threw on a Smiths album.
Lexi, who had decided it was safe to come out of hiding, noticed him looking at the seven digits written on his palm and grumbled.
“Shoulda known. You pretty boys have all the luck.”
Robert stuck his tongue out at her.
It didn’t seem right to go out for drinks at four in the afternoon and Robert spent the four hours between then and eight failing miserably at not turning into a nervous wreck.
“Robert,” he told himself, standing in front of the mirror, “just relax. It’s a drink, not a goddamn proposal. And if it turns into more than that, well, that’s okay, too. More than okay, really…Christ, will you listen to yourself? Okay,” he said and took a deep breath. “You are both competent, mature adults. If you happen to invite him back here after drinks, it’s no one’s business but yours. Right? Right,” he assured himself. “You are an adult, Robert.”
As he punched in the numbers still faintly visible on his hand, Robert didn’t think he could remember being this anxious. He checked his watch for the hundredth time-quarter past eight-and smoothed the lapels of the blazer he had layered over a plain t-shirt. Too formal after all? Christ...
The phone picked up after several rings. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me-um, Robert. It’s Robert. From the record store?” He swore under his breath and mentally gave himself a hard, swift kick in the ass.
“Robert, darling!” the man exclaimed happily. “So nice to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m good. I was wondering when you wanted to get together tonight.”
There was a pause on the other end. “We could meet now, if you like. Do you have anywhere particular in mind?”
“Anywhere’s good, really, if you know a place,” he said, trying not to convey how flustered the whole conversation was making him. “I don’t go out very much,” he explained, lamely.
The man laughed, not unkindly. “All right then. If you’re not particular, I’ve got plenty of ideas. Got a pen and paper handy, yeah?”
He started to give Robert the address, and he realized that he passed the bar every day. It was only a couple of blocks from his apartment.
“See you in a bit, Robert,” the man said, and hung up.
Robert looked at himself in the mirror one last time and ran out before he lost the courage.
- - - - -
A slow smile lifted the corners of Robert’s lips when he saw the man waiting outside the front of the bar for him, toe tapping impatiently as he puffed on a cigarette. He looked about as nervous as Robert felt, and the thought was quick to relax him. There was plenty of time for him to take in the man’s red button-up shirt-a definite improvement-paired with a black suit jacket and black slacks. Robert could see suspenders peeking out from his jacket as the man tucked his lighter back into his pocket, and felt a little thrill go through him.
Robert gave a wave as he approached and caught the man’s eye. “Hey. I haven’t kept you waiting, have I?”
“Not at all,” he said, and his smile made Robert’s knees feel like they would collapse at any moment. “Are we all set, then? Follow me, love.”
Almost giddy with anticipation, Robert followed him up to the bar, watching him signal to the bartender. H looked over his shoulder. “What’s your poison?”
“Beer’s fine.”
“Right. Can I get four beers and two shots of vodka?” He yelled over the noise, pressing the cash onto the bar. “Thanks, mate.” It was busy, but it didn’t take long and he handed a couple of beers to Robert, expertly toting the rest himself as they maneuvered their way to a table in the back corner.
It was quieter there, no need to shout at each other, and Robert was grateful to be out of the crush. With a flourish, the man popped the cap off of two of the beers, sliding one across the table to him.
“Cheers, love.”
Robert smiled over the lip of the bottle. It took him a moment to recall what he had forgotten to ask so many times. “Oh, hey-I never caught your name.”
He held out his hand. “Eames.”
His hand was smooth and warm, huge enough to envelop Robert’s, and he felt heat spark low in his belly as Eames’ thumb traced the back of his hand before releasing it as if unable to resist the urge to steal that extra touch.
Not that he minded. “Nice to meet you officially, Mr. Eames.”
Robert thought he saw a shift in the man’s features, but it was so sudden that he couldn’t be sure, overwhelmed by the man’s smile.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he returned.
It was oddly formal, given the situation, but it seemed fitting for a man who showed up to a bar in Oxfords (he’d snuck a peek at Eames’ shoes, once inside) and suspenders. Interesting, at the very least.
“So, do you have a first name, or is it just Eames?”
“Just Eames, if you don’t mind.”
Robert smiled, the alcohol already taking off his nervous edge. “Are you a spy or something?”
Eames laughed, deep and loud. “Something like that,” he agreed, eyes sparkling. “What about you? Seems a bit odd, a man your age working in a record store.”
“Tell me about it. That place is such a zoo sometimes. But it’s just to pay the bills, you know,” he said with a shrug. “I write on the side.”
“Anything I might’ve read?”
“Depends. How’s your experience with trashy sci-fi magazines?”
Eames grinned. “Not good, I’m afraid.”
Robert knocked back one of the vodka shots and chased it with a swallow of beer before continuing. “What do you do? When you’re not spying, that is.”
“There’s more to it than you think, you know. It’s not just sitting on my arse all day. There’s the subterfuge, the betrayal…” he ticked off points on his fingers and grinned. “But, in all seriousness, I’m just a humble thespian.”
“A thespian,” Robert repeated. “Anything I would have seen?”
“Not unless you’re enamored of low-budget, off-off Broadway rubbish,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. He set his elbows up on the table and spread his hands. “Other than that, I’m a man of leisure.”
Robert nodded, caught up again in the man’s eyes. He couldn’t help the smile that seemed to have affixed itself to his face permanently. “You know it was like two months ago that I ran into you and dropped my coffee, right?”
“Sounds about right, yeah.”
“So what about me interested you so much that you had to talk to me again? Most men wouldn’t bother after so long.”
Eames tongue flicked out to wet his lips before speaking. “I’m not most men,” he said, and even through the light fog of alcohol Robert could hear something like a secret in his voice. “Besides, it was incredibly charming to see you run off at the sight of me. Had to find out what I did to deserve that, didn’t I?”
Robert felt his face heat up with residual embarrassment. “Sorry about that.” Mercifully, Eames didn’t press him for further explanation. They’d finished their first round of drinks and Robert’s throat burned as he did his second shot of vodka, following it with a generous swig of beer.
They chatted idly as the night wore on, keeping the conversation in the polite realm of getting-to-know-you appropriate topics as they drank and laughed. Eames touched his hand across the table periodically, each brush of his fingers sparking like dry heat on Robert’s skin, every one hotter than the last. He’d lost track of how much he’d had to drink, but he was willing to bet, however drunkenly, that it had been more than he planned on. Not enough to turn him into a sobbing wreck, but plenty to leave him feeling pleasantly hazy and more than a little excited.
“So,” Eames said at last, “how would you like to end this lovely evening, Robert?”
The words had been in the back of his mind all night, and they rolled off his tongue with an ease that only alcohol could provide.
“My apartment’s just down the street. Do you want to come up for a while?”
Eames’ smile was softer this time. “All right, then.”
- - - - -
Robert had never brought anyone back to the apartment and the blood was thrumming in his veins as he unlocked the door and let Eames in, flipping on the lights out of habit and standing somewhat awkwardly at the door, unsure of how to proceed.
“Do you want something to drink?”
Even before the words had left his mouth, Robert wanted to take them back.
Eames turned and stepped toward him. “You didn’t ask me up for a drink, Robert. Besides,” he said with a laugh, “I think you’ve had plenty.” He was only a handful of centimeters away now, their chests almost touching, and Robert could feel the heat coming off of him in waves.
Robert felt almost trapped there with his back to the door, Eames’ hands effectively pinning him where they were braced on either side of him. His voice was low and intimate, so close Robert could taste the alcohol and cigarette smoke.
“Go on,” Eames murmured. His lips were warm and dry against Robert’s throat and he shivered visibly at the light scrape of the man’s teeth over his sweat-slick skin. “I promise I won’t bite…”
Those lips were trailing over his jaw now and Robert turned his head into the kiss, finding the man’s mouth with his own and tugging him forward by his suspenders. He could feel the man huff a laugh against his mouth before his lips parted, so inviting it was almost certainly a tease, and his big, hot hands clutched roughly at Robert’s back with the most delicious pressure, slipping under his shirt to caress bare skin. They stumbled back into the kitchen, the window sill digging into Robert’s back as they kissed. He couldn’t resist letting his tongue run over the ridge where Eames’ teeth overlapped so charmingly, the kiss broken as he smiled guiltily, hiding it against Eames’ cheek and feeling the stubble there like fine sandpaper.
His hands slipped under the front of Robert’s jacket, sliding it from his shoulders. He kicked it aside, losing his balance in the process and tipping forward. But Eames caught him, instinctively wrapping his arms around Robert’s back to keep him on his feet.
“Careful there, love,” he chided gently. Then Eames was kissing him again and Robert was fumbling with the man’s suspenders, groaning as they came undone under his hands, which then slipped under the band of Eames’ slacks to untuck that infuriatingly perfect shirt; bare skin at last. As he had thought might be the case, Eames was a bit soft around the middle and Robert couldn’t help giving him a good squeeze.
Eames gave a sort of surprised yelp and smacked his hand away. It snuck back of its own accord, giving him another pinch, and he pulled back from the kiss, looking decidedly annoyed. “Honestly. Must you?”
Robert tried to keep a straight face, but it was difficult. “You have love-handles.”
“I bloody do not,” Eames huffed, turning his head stubbornly as Robert leaned in to kiss him. “I do not have… love-handles,” he said, his mouth forming awkwardly around the word.
“Yes, you do,” he insisted, a grin breaking out on his face. Eames’ mouth was turned down in a pout now and Robert laughed as he kissed him, squeezing his sides affectionately. “They’re quite nice, actually.”
Eames grumbled something about what a bloody child he was, but finally gave up the fight, helping Robert divest him of his red shirt, which he tossed somewhere in the vicinity of the desk. Clothes came off piece by piece, strewn throughout the apartment, but at last they managed to steer their way into the bedroom, Robert leaning heavily against one very compliant Eames who lowered him to the bed with the utmost care. There was only a thin layer of fabric between them now and he could feel Eames strain against his thigh, his own erection similarly nestled against the other man.
Once the last of their clothes had come off, Eames seemed to hesitate, his eyes shadowed. Robert reached a hand up to cup his cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over the careful line of the man’s lips.
“Everything okay?”
Eames shook his head and his soft smile returned. “Just got a little caught up in how lovely you are is all,” he said. “Still all right, then?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Where do you keep things?”
The combination of alcohol and arousal made it difficult for Robert to wrap his mind around the question, and it took him an embarrassingly long time before he had the sense to direct Eames to the top drawer of his dresser.
“Brand new,” Eames commented, settling back on the bed with a bottle of lubricant and a foil-wrapped condom. His eyes were smiling, even if his face was carefully neutral. “Been a while, has it, love?”
He mumbled something vague and hid his face in the sheets.
“Robert,” Eames said softly, “it’s all right, yeah? Honestly, love, it’s been ages for me too. Come on,” he pleaded, “I take it back.”
Aside from the fact that mocking his chastity did not count as foreplay by any definition, Robert still had some lingering doubts-it wasn’t like him to sleep with someone after such a short period; and after he’d had so much to drink, too. But clouding it all was the knowledge that, if he didn’t take advantage of the moment, regardless of how they might feel about it in the morning, he might wake up alone for the last time, the moment gone and Eames vanished, returned to the shelf of whatever dusty little corner of Robert’s mind had produced him.
He had enough regrets from his previous life and he wasn’t going to let it define him now.
Wordlessly, he dragged Eames down for a kiss, feeling the taut muscles in his back relax with something Robert thought might be relief. Eames’ hand coaxed his knees apart and Robert moaned as the man opened him up with thick, oiled fingers that massaged his prostate to the slow caress of his tongue against Robert’s. Tremors cascaded down his thighs, his body clenching around Eames’ fingers, every nerve lit up with a desperate hunger, and he raked his nails over Eames’ back, mouth falling open in something halfway between a groan and a sob.
Eames gently withdrew and kissed his forehead. He motioned for Robert to turn over.
Only too happy to comply, Robert rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself unsteadily to his hands and knees, acutely aware of his body and how ridiculous he must look in this position-no wonder he hadn’t had sex in so long. Robert could hear Eames tearing open the little foil square behind him, but he peeked over his shoulder anyway to make sure he was actually rolling on the condom. Eames looked up and Robert straightened, but Eames had already seen him by then and he could feel the back of his neck heat up.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Just checking.”
The mattress dipped under him as Eames resettled. “All right, love. Just relax now.”
It had been a long time for him, sure, but that alone couldn’t explain the way his chest went tight and his whole body trembled violently as Eames guided himself inside, painstakingly slow. His fingers flexed roughly on Robert’s hip, the rest of him held very still as if he might not be able to control himself otherwise. It was incredibly exciting. If Eames were to finish right then, he thought, it would be worth it just for that. The thought made him laugh, as hard as he tried not to.
“You know,” Eames said, a bit breathlessly, “I’ve quite enjoyed the banter thus far, but it wounds me now that I’m inside you that your first instinct is to laugh. It’s hardly encouraging, love.”
Robert did his best to rein in his laughter before speaking.
“Are you quite finished?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
They fared much better after that, Eames’ warm weight settling over his back as he moved. Given the many disruptions of the evening, his rhythm was surprisingly patient, careful and slow-nothing like he had anticipated. Having slept around a bit in his early twenties had trained him to expect quick and dirty, however sweet someone seemed initially. It was a way of guarding yourself, of masking the awkwardness that arose as a natural consequence of sex with someone who was practically a stranger, and he’d expected to feel that here as well.
But Eames, with one hand curled almost protectively around Robert’s chest, felt nothing if not familiar, each movement comfortable and unhurried as if they had made love a thousand times. There was none of that urgency that came with anonymity, only a kind of quiet intimacy that left Robert feeling pleasantly vulnerable as Eames learned his body from the inside out. His lips were warm on the back of Robert’s neck, and he could hear Eames pant and groan softly under his breath with every languid plunge of his hips. Robert rocked back into him, Eames keeping him steady with one hand on his thigh, and moaned low in his throat.
It seemed to go on forever and yet it was over all too soon, Eames’ hand still slick with lubricant as it curled around him, stroking Robert in time to the back and forth of his hips. Eames peppered his neck and shoulders with little kisses between the pants and groans that were growing louder, more frequent now, and with a shudder that sent him arching hard into Eames, Robert spilled himself over the man’s hand, moaning his climax into the disheveled sheets beneath them. Riding out the last waves of pleasure, he rocked back to meet Eames, who had sped up briefly and was now slowing, rocking to a stop inside him.
They stayed like that for a moment, Eames breathing raggedly against the back of his neck, and then Robert felt him slip out and pat his thigh affectionately. He rolled onto his back and watched as Eames tied off the condom and dropped it in the wastebasket by his dresser, admiring his strong, smooth lines and muscular thighs. Eames flicked off the light before coming back to lie beside him, curving warmly around his back, hand resting on Robert’s abdomen. Robert smiled tiredly and laced their fingers together.
But as much as he wanted to fall asleep like that, content and comfortable in the other man’s arms, something still didn’t feel quite right.
“Eames, are you awake?”
He mumbled indistinctly.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
“If it’s that you’re married with children, it can wait till morning,” he said, dry despite the fatigue in his voice. “And if you’re planning to tell me this was your first time, just keep it to yourself, yeah?”
“I’m serious. I have to tell you about these dreams I’ve been having.”
This time, he sounded wide awake. “Dreams?”
“I know this is going to sound strange, but I don’t know you from somewhere else, do I? I mean, in Starbucks, that was the first time you’d seen me, right?”
“Right.”
“When I ran into you, I thought I was going crazy. I’d been… goddamn it,” he groaned. “You’re going to think I’m out of my mind.”
“It’s okay, love. Just tell me.”
“I’d been having dreams about you. For months,” he admitted. “That’s why I ran that morning.”
“And you’re certain it wasn’t someone else, are you?”
Robert rolled over to face him. “I’m sure.”
Eames regarded him silently for a long time, brow knit like he was trying to work something out in his head. It would have been charming, how pensive he looked, if not for the subject at hand.
“Perhaps,” he said, carefully, “you had seen me somewhere, in a crowd or something, and forgot. Consciously,” he clarified. “But unconsciously, those things stick. We see hundreds of faces every day, and they’re all kept up here,” he said, indicating his head, “getting shuffled through our subconscious. Are you with me?”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes,” Eames continued, in that same slow lecturing tone, “people, places, whatever rubbish we seem to have forgotten, get recycled in the form of dreams. Who’s to say what the mechanism is, but what shows up and when? That’s the luck of the draw, nothing but coincidence.”
“So you’re saying it’s meaningless.”
Eames worried his lip between his teeth a moment before speaking. “You and I, people in general, we’re very well equipped for pattern recognition. So well equipped, in fact, that we see patterns were there aren’t any. Random events, and this is just as a rule, tend to segregate non-randomly. So, maybe, you flip a coin twenty times and every time it turns up heads. But,” he said, “it doesn’t mean a damn thing, because each flip is independent from the last. It could turn up heads a hundred, a thousand times, though the odds are against it, but it would still be true that it was only a fifty-fifty chance, you see. Do you get what I’m driving at?”
Robert hesitated, but nodded. “I think so. Yeah.”
“You don’t look happy. Have I lost you somewhere?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s not that. It just… people aren’t coins, you know?” He laughed, and the corner of Eames’ mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile. “I don’t know if I want to accept that it’s all random and meaningless. Can you live like that? Maybe we’re better off believing that it’s fate.”
Eames smiled softly and kissed him. “Maybe.”
- - - - -
On Friday, Robert’s cell rang in the middle of proofing a draft. He’d kept it on his person-something he never did anymore-every day since they’d made love and he had it to his ear before it could ring twice.
“Hello?”
“Morning, Robert,” Eames’ voice came smooth and warm over the phone. “I didn’t catch you at work, did I?”
“No, I’m at home.”
“I tried to wait a whole week, honest. But I wanted to hear your voice, and I just couldn’t.”
Robert smiled at that. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
“When can I see you again?”
“Tonight would be good,” he said, “as long as you don’t mind staying in. I think we had a little too much fun last time,” he laughed.
Eames chuckled on his end. “What do you say to dinner, then? I’ll cook.”
“That’d be nice.”
“Brilliant. One more thing,” Eames said. “Have you seen my braces?”
“Braces,” he repeated blankly. “Eames, you don’t wear braces.”
“Come on, you know what I’m talking about. Braces,” he insisted, “for my trousers, yeah?”
It took him a minute, but Robert put it together. “You mean suspenders?”
Eames snorted. “Is that what you yanks call them?”
“Yes,” Robert answered primly. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said breezily. Robert got the distinct impression he was holding in laughter. “I’ll drop in ‘round six, love. Cheers.”
He hung up before Robert could get a real answer out of him, leaving him standing barefoot and confused in the middle of the living room.
- - - - -
Eames showed up shortly after six, a paper bag in his arms.
“Evening, darling,” he said, planting a swift kiss on Robert’s cheek on his way to the kitchen. Robert leaned against the door with a smile and watched as Eames rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and unpacked a bottle of wine, followed by the makings of chicken fettuccini. He looked over his shoulder at Robert. “Pour us a glass of wine, would you, love?”
“Sure.” He brushed past Eames, touching his back briefly, and pulled a couple of glasses out of the cupboard. “So, I googled ‘suspenders,’” he said conversationally as he uncorked the wine bottle and poured each of them a glass, handing one to Eames. “I guess you wouldn’t be wearing those.”
Eames laughed over the rim of his glass. “I reckon not. Unless you’re into that sort of thing?”
Robert choked on a mouthful of wine. “No.”
“I don’t have the legs for it anyway,” Eames said, wistful as he set aside his glass and began grating a hunk of parmesan. “How’s the wine? Not too sweet, is it?”
“No, it’s excellent,” Robert assured him, taking another sip to confirm before setting his glass on the counter. He wrapped his arms around Eames and buried his face in the man’s shirt, pale lavender with darker pinstripes, smelling the light musk of sweat and something sweeter and heavier.
“Are you wearing cologne?”
“Sandalwood, yeah,” he said.
Robert inhaled deeply and sighed. “You smell incredible.”
“I am trying to cook,” Eames reminded him. “Under other circumstances, I would be more than happy to take you to bed without dinner, but I thought you might appreciate the extra effort.”
Reluctantly, he let go of Eames. He could find something to occupy his time for a while.
“On second thought,” Eames said, catching him by the arm and flashing that charming grin of his, “I always did like to start with dessert.”
Part 2