Once More, With Feeling
Title: Once More, With Feeling
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: Until I acquire enough filthy lucre to buy the rights, these characters are not mine.
Summary: Eames teaches Arthur to drink like a man.
Author's Note: Written for a prompt on inception_kink
"No, that won't do at all."
"What?" Arthur stops mid-motion, the glass halfway to his lips. Eames leans back in his chair, admonishing him with a lazy wave of his finger.
"You drink like a woman," Eames scolds. "What's in there. Pineapple?"
"It's just orange." Arthur shrugs. He has always diluted his vodka; the taste of it neat repels him. It is hardly a new development.
"Just orange." There is an unmistakeable hint of derision in Eames' voice. He reaches over for the vodka bottle and pours himself a liberal measure, far more than the standard shot. "There's barely any point in drinking vodka if you're going to spoil the taste with fruit juice."
"Vodka tastes like paint stripper," Arthur protests.
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Precisely. Now be a man and sink this."
They exchange glasses; Eames places the orange concoction on the table. Arthur eyes the vodka dubiously, as if it might bite him. The smell is sharp and acerbic and his eyes sting at the mere thought of drinking it.
"Must I?"
Eames nods sagely. Arthur hesitates for a second. Then he opens his mouth and tips the glass back. The liquid burns as it slips down his throat. He splutters, spraying vodka across the room like a fountain. Eames bursts out in low, appreciative laughter, clapping his hands together like a child enthralled by a magic trick.
He has barely recovered when Eames waves another glass beneath his nose. "Again," he says. "This time with feeling."
**********
Two hours later and the two of them recline lazily in the lawn chairs, sipping vodka from the bottle. Arthur has quickly developed what Eames calls 'an iron gullet' and has progressed from vodka to cigarettes. The smoke spills from his lips like a swathe of bitter grey silk.
"...and that's why I favour waistcoats," Arthur tells him. It is increasingly difficult to form sentences now that the vodka has numbed his lips; each word seems to blend into the next.
Eames takes the cigarette from Arthur and holds it delicately between a thumb and forefinger. "I still think they're restrictive," he replies. He has yet to reach the slurring stage, but Arthur can tell he is drunk; his eyes are hooded, his cheeks flushed a light pink. Every movement is slow and deliberate. He places the cigarette between his lips and inhales deeply.
"Orange." He speaks on the exhale; the smoke dissipates around the word. He leans his head towards Arthur, who has been grinning semi-permanently since the third glass. His mouth is a thin, stern line.
"Banana." Arthur agrees, puzzled.
"No." Eames leans forward, propping his upper body with a wobbly arm. He waves his hand at Arthur in an accusatory manner. "You're cheating. This cigarette tastes of orange."
"Don't be stupid, Eames." Arthur waves dismissively. "You threw the orange juice away."
"The cigarette doesn't lie." Eames holds the cigarette aloft, as if it might speak. His green eyes glitter mischievously beneath heavy lids. "Are you accusing the cigarette?"
Arthur lets out a snort. It takes both of them by surprise; they degenerate into laughter. Eames clutches his abdomen as if it might burst. Arthur feels the tears stream down the side of his face, but can't remember what it was that was funny in the first place.
"Where are you hiding it?" Eames swipes lazily at the floor between them, knocking over an empty bottle of vodka; it tinkles as it hits the floor, but doesn't break.
"I'm telling you. There's no orange left." Arthur watches as Eames gets to his feet, nudging empty glasses with the toe of his shoe. There is, of course, no orange; the fruit flavour on the cigarette must have been a product of his imagination.
He is about to say as much when he feels Eames' fingers brush the side of his neck, lifting his head ever so slightly up and off the headrest. Before he can protest, Eames kisses him. His lips are surprisingly soft and press gently against his mouth. He parts Arthur's lips with a rough thumb, easing them apart. His tongue follows, silk smooth, caressing his own. He tastes of cigarettes and warmth, and the pressure of Eames' teeth against his lips sends a pleasant shiver down the back of his neck.
Eames pulls away, licking his lips like a predator.
"Orange," he says, smiling triumphantly.
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: Until I acquire enough filthy lucre to buy the rights, these characters are not mine.
Summary: Eames teaches Arthur to drink like a man.
Author's Note: Written for a prompt on inception_kink
"No, that won't do at all."
"What?" Arthur stops mid-motion, the glass halfway to his lips. Eames leans back in his chair, admonishing him with a lazy wave of his finger.
"You drink like a woman," Eames scolds. "What's in there. Pineapple?"
"It's just orange." Arthur shrugs. He has always diluted his vodka; the taste of it neat repels him. It is hardly a new development.
"Just orange." There is an unmistakeable hint of derision in Eames' voice. He reaches over for the vodka bottle and pours himself a liberal measure, far more than the standard shot. "There's barely any point in drinking vodka if you're going to spoil the taste with fruit juice."
"Vodka tastes like paint stripper," Arthur protests.
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Precisely. Now be a man and sink this."
They exchange glasses; Eames places the orange concoction on the table. Arthur eyes the vodka dubiously, as if it might bite him. The smell is sharp and acerbic and his eyes sting at the mere thought of drinking it.
"Must I?"
Eames nods sagely. Arthur hesitates for a second. Then he opens his mouth and tips the glass back. The liquid burns as it slips down his throat. He splutters, spraying vodka across the room like a fountain. Eames bursts out in low, appreciative laughter, clapping his hands together like a child enthralled by a magic trick.
He has barely recovered when Eames waves another glass beneath his nose. "Again," he says. "This time with feeling."
**********
Two hours later and the two of them recline lazily in the lawn chairs, sipping vodka from the bottle. Arthur has quickly developed what Eames calls 'an iron gullet' and has progressed from vodka to cigarettes. The smoke spills from his lips like a swathe of bitter grey silk.
"...and that's why I favour waistcoats," Arthur tells him. It is increasingly difficult to form sentences now that the vodka has numbed his lips; each word seems to blend into the next.
Eames takes the cigarette from Arthur and holds it delicately between a thumb and forefinger. "I still think they're restrictive," he replies. He has yet to reach the slurring stage, but Arthur can tell he is drunk; his eyes are hooded, his cheeks flushed a light pink. Every movement is slow and deliberate. He places the cigarette between his lips and inhales deeply.
"Orange." He speaks on the exhale; the smoke dissipates around the word. He leans his head towards Arthur, who has been grinning semi-permanently since the third glass. His mouth is a thin, stern line.
"Banana." Arthur agrees, puzzled.
"No." Eames leans forward, propping his upper body with a wobbly arm. He waves his hand at Arthur in an accusatory manner. "You're cheating. This cigarette tastes of orange."
"Don't be stupid, Eames." Arthur waves dismissively. "You threw the orange juice away."
"The cigarette doesn't lie." Eames holds the cigarette aloft, as if it might speak. His green eyes glitter mischievously beneath heavy lids. "Are you accusing the cigarette?"
Arthur lets out a snort. It takes both of them by surprise; they degenerate into laughter. Eames clutches his abdomen as if it might burst. Arthur feels the tears stream down the side of his face, but can't remember what it was that was funny in the first place.
"Where are you hiding it?" Eames swipes lazily at the floor between them, knocking over an empty bottle of vodka; it tinkles as it hits the floor, but doesn't break.
"I'm telling you. There's no orange left." Arthur watches as Eames gets to his feet, nudging empty glasses with the toe of his shoe. There is, of course, no orange; the fruit flavour on the cigarette must have been a product of his imagination.
He is about to say as much when he feels Eames' fingers brush the side of his neck, lifting his head ever so slightly up and off the headrest. Before he can protest, Eames kisses him. His lips are surprisingly soft and press gently against his mouth. He parts Arthur's lips with a rough thumb, easing them apart. His tongue follows, silk smooth, caressing his own. He tastes of cigarettes and warmth, and the pressure of Eames' teeth against his lips sends a pleasant shiver down the back of his neck.
Eames pulls away, licking his lips like a predator.
"Orange," he says, smiling triumphantly.