fic: Awkward is a state of mind
Title: Awkward is a state of mind
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG/PG-13 (but more like PG)
Word Count: approx. 4,500
Summary: In which Arthur is a grumpy, brilliant scientist and Eames is the greatest husband ever known to mankind.
A/N: written for this prompt at the inception_kink meme like a month ago when I had not yet acquired a livejournal account. like all my fics, this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
It’s not that Arthur’s not brilliant. It’s not that anyone doubts that he has one of the sharpest and most inventive minds of his team of scientists. It’s just that he’s difficult and grumpy and snaps at people if they try to talk to him before he’s had his morning coffee. He never smiles and his gaze is sharp and he has this air of I’m judging you as we speak about him at all times. He has these weird habits, writes with his right hand but his computer predominantly with his left, mutters to himself sometimes when he’s contemplating something very thoroughly, and he’s completely obsessive compulsive about the organization system he has going for his research documents. He’s made quite a few interns cry for getting his files all out of order but he can’t be bothered to care very much. It’s not his fault they can’t take criticism.
There’s also the fact that despite being, without doubt, the most able scientist on the team, he hasn’t made much progress in terms of his research. Oh yes, he has some incredible hypotheses about the finer workings of nerve impulses and neurotransmitters, but it’s not anything useful really. It’s all just very intensive research that isn’t even close to applicable (at least not yet, not for many, many years) and even though he knows this, he just keeps at it, even when his coworkers turn scornful eyes his way.
The team of researchers he works with is constantly changing, people coming and going once they get fed up with Arthur bitching at them over every last thing, but Arthur stays put with his research because he loves what he does and he’s good at it and he works harder than anyone and refuses to give up at anything, which in of itself is part of the problem, because despite whatever great ideas he has, he has yet to have one major breakthrough to make himself widely known within the scientific community.
---
Arthur is the type of person who drives other people away from him. He’s prone to micromanaging, almost cruelly blunt but at least he’s honest, and probably a little bit insane. He gets on everyone’s nerves, and while his fellow scientists do seek his counsel when they stumble upon something that looks promising, Arthur’s quite sure no one on his team is very fond of him, at all. Arthur doesn’t mind, really, as he’s never been one to let what other people think of him get to him. In fact, he actual finds it more amusing than offensive, so he lets his coworkers gossip about him as he goes about his day.
The kinds of things they say about him vary. Sometimes it’s how he hasn’t slept in days and keeps twitching or that he seems to live here at the lab or whether the fact he has no friends (which, by the way is a lie; he has plenty of friends, just not here) is due to the fact that he has no free time or if the fact that he has no free time stems from the fact that he has no friends and he’s just using the work thing as an excuse. By far their favorite topic of discussion, though, is Arthur’s sex life. Arthur is fairly sure they’ve made a pool betting on when he’ll next get laid because surely he’d cheer up a bit if he actually had sex every once in a while, and privately, he thinks it’s really stupid, but outwardly he doesn’t even blink. Whoever betted on November twenty-seventh, the earliest date anyone of the group picked, however, would have won if Arthur let it show because he spent that evening having wild sex on the living room floor and being treated to homemade soufflés.
But see there’s the thing with Arthur; whether he’s had a bad day or not, his expression doesn’t waver from stoic gravity, and no one can tell the difference.
---
There’s an annual gala event that’s a fairly big deal in the science community. All the top scientists come and speak about their new discoveries, and everyone is expected to be there. Arthur goes every year, more because his coworkers annoy him so much about it that it’d make him feel like he’s let them win if he doesn’t go than because he actually wants to go. So he dresses up every year in one of his nice, crisp three-piece suits and goes alone and leaves as soon as he can because he really only goes to hear the speakers, not to socialize.
“Hey,” one of Arthur’s fellow scientists, India, sidles up next to him in the lab one day in the week before the gala.
Arthur arches an eyebrow at her. “Hi,” he says in the tone of someone who’d really rather be anywhere else.
India smirks at him and asks, “Are you going to the gala?”
Arthur turns back to his work, uninterested in where this conversation is going. “I’m considering it,” he says, with a certain note of finality that India purposefully ignores.
“You should bring a date this year,” India says, and her tone is none too kind. It sounds rather like she’s mocking him, but he doesn’t quite care as much as most people would. “I’ve never seen you bring a date before.”
Arthur sighs impatiently, wanting to just finish this conversation and get back to his research. “That’s because I never wanted to bring a date,” he says, an annoyed edge seeping into his tone. “It’s too much of a hassle.”
“Really?” India raises her eyebrows at Arthur and doesn’t sound like she believes him one bit.
“Really,” Arthur says sharply, hoping that she’ll get the hint and leave him alone. “Don’t you have work to do?”
India smirks and chuckles and walks away. Arthur grumbles to himself and resists the impulse to stab something. Arthur really wishes he didn’t work with these people.
---
The thing is, Arthur is a lot more social than he lets on. He has plenty of friends, just not within this little circle of scientists. He tries not to associate with the members of his team more often than he has to because they’re generally not very pleasant people for him to be around, so they never see him with his friends, having fun, laughing, and simply assume that he’s something of a robot.
---
“Welcome home!” a loud voice calls from somewhere in the apartment when Arthur arrives home.
Arthur toes off his shoes by the door and hangs up his coat. He sets his bag down in the living room and wanders into the kitchen because he’s hungry and judging by how the entire apartment smells like food at the moment, dinner should be ready at any moment. Arthur hears humming and ducks his head into the kitchen, allowing himself to indulge in a small smile. It’s Eames, and he’s singing as he cooks dinner.
“What’s for dinner?” Arthur asks, resting his chin on Eames’ shoulder, hands on Eames’ hips.
Eames just grins at Arthur and shrugs, and Arthur peeks at the stove and sees that, like most things Eames tends to make, it’s not necessarily anything in particular, but simply whatever struck Eames’ fancy today when he was looking through the refrigerator and it’s bound to taste delicious because Eames is somehow capable of making ridiculously good food on a whim. Arthur decides he wants wine and goes to pour himself a glass before leaning against the kitchen counter next to the stove, watching Eames cook.
Eames glances over at Arthur and asks, “So how was your day? Life as usual down at the lab?”
Arthur swirls his wine around in the glass. “I suppose,” he says noncommittally. He thinks for a moment before mentioning, “The gala’s coming up.”
“Hmm,” Eames hums. “Is this going to be yet another year when I watch as you get all dressed up in one of those charming suits of yours and then leave me at home for hours on end?”
He sounds like he’s trying to sound accusing and sharp, but his tone is too affectionate for that. Arthur rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his wine.
“I leave you at home because you actually like talking to those people, and I’d have to stay there far longer than I wanted to,” he says, and it’s not quite an apology, but it’s probably about as close as he’ll get. “But that’s not the point.”
“Oh?” Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur. “Well, then please, do enlighten me as to what is.”
“I want you to come with me this year,” Arthur says simply.
Eames now turns entirely away from his cooking, which is sizzling and popping on the stove. Arthur eyes the pan warily, hoping Eames doesn’t forget that he’s cooking and let the food get burnt, because that’s happened before and it was a disaster.
“And may I ask what brings on this sudden change of heart?” Eames asks, more curious than suspicious.
Arthur shrugs and sips at his wine. “Just feel like it.”
---
Something happens when you’re the third out of five children. You’re not the oldest, so your parents don’t worry about not knowing what to do in certain situations or not dealing with things the right way and they certainly don’t worry about sending you off to college, because there’s this air of been there, done that, and they think they know what to expect. And you’re not the youngest either, so your parents aren’t fussing over you because you’re the baby of the family and need extra attention. You’re just stuck right in the middle, lost in the shuffle, and that’s how Arthur grew up.
Arthur spent his childhood being, by and large, overlooked. Either his parents were too busy fussing over getting his eldest sister to finish her college applications on time or they were worrying over whether that fall his youngest brother had taken the other day was a serious enough incident to warrant going to the hospital to get him checked up. His second oldest sister was a genius, so of course her one-hundred-percent tests scores were pinned up on the refrigerator, and his little sister was a ballet dancer, so his mother was constantly shuttling her to and from rehearsals. Standing next to his siblings, Arthur, who didn’t play sports, made mostly passing marks, and had just a small handful of close friends, was, in comparison, very average.
In a way, this upbringing is probably what instilled this insane competitive drive Arthur possesses, this need to prove himself, to work and work and work until he stumbles upon something brilliant. If he went to a psychiatrist, he’d probably be told that he has something of an inferiority complex, but he doesn’t believe in therapy, so he’s never had the opportunity to put a name on whatever this is. In any event, the point is Arthur hates losing. He hates backing down from challenges. He always feels this intense need to fight and come out on top. And sometimes, often actually, it gets him into rather unpleasant situations, but that’s a different story altogether.
---
Eames wanders into the bathroom while Arthur is slicking back his hair for the gala. He’s wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, and Eames finds himself getting distracted for a moment by the taught muscles beneath pale skin before remembering what he came in here for in the first place.
“Darling?” Eames says. “Could you help me with this? You were always better at tying ties than me.”
Arthur smirks at Eames in the mirror. “Give me a sec,” he mumbles and finishes tucking his hair into place.
He then washes the excess gel off his hands and turns to tie Eames’ dove grey tie into a perfect double-Windsor knot. Eames catches Arthur’s hand when he’s finished and presses his lips to the inside of Arthur’s wrist. Eames reaches over to the bathroom counter and picks up a thin gold band that Arthur had taken off before showering.
“Wear this correctly tonight, please?” Eames requests. Arthur typically wears it on a chain around his neck because he works with chemicals all day and he doesn’t want it getting damaged. “If you’re going to show me off to your coworkers today, you ought to at least do it properly.”
Arthur snorts but lets Eames ease the ring onto his finger anyways. The metal is cool against his skin, and Eames’ fingertips linger.
“I need to get dressed,” Arthur says, and brushes by Eames to pick out a suit to wear.
“Wear the charcoal one,” Eames suggests. “It looks lovely on you.”
“You think all of my suits look lovely on me,” Arthur calls from their closet.
Eames chuckles. “I only speak the truth, dear,” he says.
Arthur leans against the doorframe of their walk-in closet, suit in hand. It’s charcoal colored and he’s thinking of wearing it with a deep crimson tie Eames had brought him back from a trip to Italy.
“Liar,” Arthur says, and Eames just laughs.
---
There are really only two times Arthur is particularly difficult to deal with: first thing in the morning when he hasn’t had sufficient coffee to be a functional human being and when anyone messes around with his files without his expressed permission. Remember these two things and you may go through life without ever once invoking his wrath upon you. Forget these two things and you and Arthur will never be friends.
Arthur’s colleagues probably could be on good terms with him if they tried, if they paid any attention to the little things that make Arthur tick, the things that he likes or dislikes, the things that excite him or bore him to tears; they just never do. It’s just that somewhere on the way, they hear rumors about Arthur’s crabby attitude and snarky tendencies and they arrive with all sorts of preconceived notions that simply make it impossible for them to see Arthur as anything more than another grouchy, ill-tempered scientist running himself into the ground to no avail. Arthur’s a lot more than that, of course, and he’s not nearly halfway as pathetic as they make him out to be, but they don’t care enough to find out directly and instead jump to all sorts of conclusions about him.
Like, for example, that Arthur lives alone. With five cats. And a dog. And maybe a parakeet. That Arthur lives with his mother. That Arthur lives at the lab. That Arthur has no friends. That Arthur scared his friends away. That Arthur never had any friends. That Arthur is not and will never be married.
---
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Arthur mutters as he straightens out Eames’ tie.
They’re standing in the lobby of the hotel in which the gala is held every year, waiting for the elevator to arrive so they can go up to the ballroom on one of the top floors. Arthur feels Eames’ chuckle as a rumble through his chest.
“It’s a brilliant idea,” Eames grins. “I approve of it greatly.”
Arthur snorts. The elevator dings and the doors open and the two of them step inside. Arthur hits the button for the fifteenth floor. He reaches over and smoothes out imaginary wrinkles from Eames’ suit and Eames takes his wrist lightly in his hand.
“Darling, stop fretting,” he murmurs. “This is supposed to be fun, remember?”
Arthur makes a sort of scoffing sound and steps out of the elevator when it reaches the proper floor. Eames chuckles and follows him to the ballroom where a man in a crisp black suit is checking people in.
“Arthur Levine,” Arthur says, and then he nods towards Eames. “And my guest.”
The man nods and checks Arthur’s name off of the list. He ushers Arthur and Eames into the ballroom and says, “Enjoy your night.”
“We will,” Eames says with a wink and Arthur just sighs and peers casually around the room.
There are plenty of people here already, some faces that Arthur recognizes and others that he doesn’t. Everyone’s dressed beautifully, of course, evening gowns in dark, rich colors, well-pressed suits in a variety of subtle neutrals, the low murmur of conversation and delicate laughter. Arthur frowns.
“Oh stop that,” Eames says, flicking Arthur’s temple lightly. “Your face will stick that way.”
Arthur gives Eames a look that’s not nearly as mean as he intends it to be and he goes to make some sort of biting remark at him, but he’s interrupted before he can even begin.
“Arthur!”
Arthur looks around, already cringing inwardly because he recognizes that voice as one of his coworkers’. Sure enough, they’re standing in a small cluster not too far away, quite nearly all of them, Nora and Lucas and India and Ross and Zane (they’re not a very big group, but they’re annoying as hell). Arthur tries not to grimace as he walks over to where they are. He might not like them very much, but it would be downright rude to just ignore them. Arthur is a lot of things, but he’s certainly not rude, and he plans on ditching them as soon as he can anyways.
---
“Why do you still work at the lab?” Eames had asked Arthur once. “You’re miserable there.”
Arthur had sighed and rolled over so he could tuck his chin into the curve of Eames’ neck. “I like the work I do,” he’d mumbled against Eames’ skin.
“But you hate the people,” Eames had pointed out. “Why don’t you just quit? I’m sure we can find another use for that knack for researching.”
Arthur had shrugged and dropped the subject because he hadn’t known what to say do that, because he hadn’t known how to answer that, and they don’t talk about it much anymore, but every so often, when Arthur’s had a particularly trying day and comes home looking like he wants to shoot something, Eames will sometimes bring it up over dinner and Arthur will just sigh and say no, he can’t quit, not now, not yet.
---
His colleagues are snickering at something when Arthur approaches, and they abruptly stop talking once he’s within earshot.
“Hello,” he says shortly. Eames’ hand is resting on the small of his back, a comforting warmth as he reminds himself constantly not to do anything violent and homicidal to these people.
They all smile politely at him but he’s not fooled, and Nora looks at Eames curiously.
“Who’s this?” she asks, trying for innocent but not entirely succeeding. Arthur doesn’t know why they bother pretending; it’s not like he doesn’t know they can’t stand him.
“Eames,” Arthur answers simply. “My date.”
A meaningful look passes through the group that Arthur chooses to ignore. Next to him, Eames shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“You know Arthur, when I said you should bring a date, I was kind of kidding,” India says. “You didn’t have to go out of your way to hire someone to be your date.”
Eames snorts and Arthur just stares at her. This is one of those moments when he just wants to punch everyone in the face. Eames chuckling at his side isn’t really helping.
“Okay, first of all, I would never hire an escort to accompany me to some science convention when I’m more than capable of finding myself a date the normal way,” Arthur says, keeping his voice calm and level from sheer willpower alone. He still sounds rather sharp, though, but that can’t be helped. “And second, Eames isn’t an escort; he’s my husband.”
The look of shock that passes over his colleagues’ faces is absolutely priceless. A stunned silence falls over them and they look at Arthur as if they don’t even know who he is anymore. It looks like maybe they could believe him, but mostly they’re just caught completely off guard and more than a little doubtful.
Eames leans over and murmurs in Arthur’s ear in a stage-whisper, “Oh darling, I think we broke them.”
Arthur tries not to smile but try as he might, his lips curl up at the ends anyways, and something about actually seeing Arthur smile in their presence must shock his colleagues back to conscious thought again, because they’re soon looking at him with more suspicion than surprise, as if they don’t believe a word he’s said tonight.
“How long have you been married?” India challenges, probably in hopes of finding a gap in Arthur’s story.
“Six years,” they say at the same time.
Eames grins and looks at Arthur and says, “Jinx” at the same time Arthur says a very firm “No,” already anticipating Eames’ comment. Eames chuckles and the hand that’s resting on his waist squeezes his side gently.
“You can buy me a drink later,” Eames offers jovially.
Arthur doesn’t bother pointing out that that’s a stupid thing to say because they’re married and hello, his money is Eames’, but his glare says it for him and Eames just shrugs and smiles and looks entirely too proud of himself. Arthur’s colleagues are all still eyeing him a little skeptically. Of course they would still think he’s making all this up, which Arthur can’t for the life of him figure out, because since when does he ever let just anyone touch him like Eames is right now?
“What do you do, Eames?” Lucas asks.
“I’m an entrepreneur,” Eames says easily, and by entrepreneur he really means professional mind-thief, but they don’t need to know that.
“You mean unemployed?” Lucas prods, and Arthur winces at how incredibly little tact his coworkers possess.
“Oh heavens no,” Eames says dramatically, as if appalled by such a notion. “I’m very employed.” He bumps his hip against Arthur’s and says, gesturing to the beautifully tailored suit Arthur is wearing tonight, “How else would Arthur manage to look so dapper all the time? Looking this lovely isn’t cheap, you know.”
No one really knows what to say to that, so they leave it at that, but Arthur’s colleagues ask a variety of other intrusive questions, still trying to poke holes in his story, and they stare every time Eames says something with sweet words and warm, affectionate eyes that makes Arthur smile a little and they gape in awe at the fact that Arthur does, in fact, have a wedding ring before Arthur’s had enough and drags Eames away on the pretext of getting something to drink. Arthur doesn’t really plan on talking to them for the rest of the night.
---
Eames has suggested before to Arthur that he should just come and join Eames in the dream sharing business. It pays well and there’s plenty of research to be done before every job so Arthur will fit in just fine and Arthur won’t have to deal with all these snotty scientists every day. Arthur says that so long as dream sharing is still tentatively hanging onto its place as a government funded program, he’s not going to even think about plunging into the underground community that’s developed. The government’s bound to know that illegal mind-heists are going on right under their noses, and it’s too dangerous for Arthur to consider.
Once the government’s pulled the plug on the dream sharing program and completely forgotten that the technology even exists, well, that’s a different story.
---
“This is ridiculous,” Arthur mutters as they wait for the bartender to make their drinks. After that conversation with his coworkers, he’s positively bristling with irritation and he’s fighting the urge to hit something. “This was a disaster. I shouldn’t have even come in the first place.”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” Eames soothes, touching Arthur’s cheek lightly. “This is your problem; you’re always so pessimistic about things. Trust me; it’ll take them years to get over the shock of this one.”
Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames. He’s very good at that.
“I’m serious,” Eames says and thanks the bartender when he slides their drinks over to them. Eames gestures over to Arthur’s colleagues. “Just look at them. It seems to me that they’re rather jealous that you’ve got me.”
Arthur hums and sips thoughtfully at his gin and tonic. He spares a glance to his coworkers, who are huddled in a tight circle and looking over at him and Eames every so often and no doubt gossiping lies about him, and then he looks back to Eames.
“I suppose they do have something to be jealous of,” he says.
Eames nods his agreement, smirking a little at Arthur, which makes Arthur narrow his eyes at Eames in a way that reads don’t let it get to your head, even though he knows it’s a little late for that. Eames slides an arm around Arthur’s waist as they drift through the ballroom. Arthur can feel his colleagues’ eyes on him with every step he takes.
“Say,” Eames mumbles in Arthur’s ear. “How much did you say you really wanted to give them something to talk about?”
“I didn’t,” Arthur says, turning to Eames. He smirks. “I’m willing to bet you could talk me into it, though. You seem to be rather good at that.”
“And you’re only just now noticing?” Eames asks, feigning a hurt look that’s a little too bright-eyed to be very affective. “You’d better be careful or I’ll start to think we’ve been married all these years for nothing.”
“Your idea, Eames,” Arthur reminds him. “What is it?”
“Ah, yes, well,” Eames says and then kisses him. Arthur almost laughs against Eames’ lips, and Eames licks his way into Arthur’s mouth and somewhere at the back of Arthur’s mind he knows this is probably not entirely appropriate to be doing in present company, but he doesn’t really care. And if the kiss itself (the slick slide of Eames’ mouth against his and the way he tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and something a little sweet that’s completely Eames, the way it leaves Arthur a little breathless and his head spinning) isn’t good enough already, then the completely shell-shocked looks on his coworkers’ faces definitely is.
Arthur chuckles to himself at their expressions, and Eames gives him a look like he’s having too much fun with this. Eames is full of brilliant ideas, Arthur thinks as he presses his mouth to Eames’ again, but he chooses not to say that to Eames for fear of encouraging Eames’ already over-inflated ego to swell to the size of the sun.
“We’ve given them enough heart attacks for one night, don’t you think, love?” Eames says into Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur hums and nips at Eames’ bottom lip. “Maybe not quite,” he says and kisses Eames just one more time.
Eames laughs softly but doesn’t protest.
---
Needless to say, Arthur’s colleagues don’t bother him about his love life anymore.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG/PG-13 (but more like PG)
Word Count: approx. 4,500
Summary: In which Arthur is a grumpy, brilliant scientist and Eames is the greatest husband ever known to mankind.
A/N: written for this prompt at the inception_kink meme like a month ago when I had not yet acquired a livejournal account. like all my fics, this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
It’s not that Arthur’s not brilliant. It’s not that anyone doubts that he has one of the sharpest and most inventive minds of his team of scientists. It’s just that he’s difficult and grumpy and snaps at people if they try to talk to him before he’s had his morning coffee. He never smiles and his gaze is sharp and he has this air of I’m judging you as we speak about him at all times. He has these weird habits, writes with his right hand but his computer predominantly with his left, mutters to himself sometimes when he’s contemplating something very thoroughly, and he’s completely obsessive compulsive about the organization system he has going for his research documents. He’s made quite a few interns cry for getting his files all out of order but he can’t be bothered to care very much. It’s not his fault they can’t take criticism.
There’s also the fact that despite being, without doubt, the most able scientist on the team, he hasn’t made much progress in terms of his research. Oh yes, he has some incredible hypotheses about the finer workings of nerve impulses and neurotransmitters, but it’s not anything useful really. It’s all just very intensive research that isn’t even close to applicable (at least not yet, not for many, many years) and even though he knows this, he just keeps at it, even when his coworkers turn scornful eyes his way.
The team of researchers he works with is constantly changing, people coming and going once they get fed up with Arthur bitching at them over every last thing, but Arthur stays put with his research because he loves what he does and he’s good at it and he works harder than anyone and refuses to give up at anything, which in of itself is part of the problem, because despite whatever great ideas he has, he has yet to have one major breakthrough to make himself widely known within the scientific community.
---
Arthur is the type of person who drives other people away from him. He’s prone to micromanaging, almost cruelly blunt but at least he’s honest, and probably a little bit insane. He gets on everyone’s nerves, and while his fellow scientists do seek his counsel when they stumble upon something that looks promising, Arthur’s quite sure no one on his team is very fond of him, at all. Arthur doesn’t mind, really, as he’s never been one to let what other people think of him get to him. In fact, he actual finds it more amusing than offensive, so he lets his coworkers gossip about him as he goes about his day.
The kinds of things they say about him vary. Sometimes it’s how he hasn’t slept in days and keeps twitching or that he seems to live here at the lab or whether the fact he has no friends (which, by the way is a lie; he has plenty of friends, just not here) is due to the fact that he has no free time or if the fact that he has no free time stems from the fact that he has no friends and he’s just using the work thing as an excuse. By far their favorite topic of discussion, though, is Arthur’s sex life. Arthur is fairly sure they’ve made a pool betting on when he’ll next get laid because surely he’d cheer up a bit if he actually had sex every once in a while, and privately, he thinks it’s really stupid, but outwardly he doesn’t even blink. Whoever betted on November twenty-seventh, the earliest date anyone of the group picked, however, would have won if Arthur let it show because he spent that evening having wild sex on the living room floor and being treated to homemade soufflés.
But see there’s the thing with Arthur; whether he’s had a bad day or not, his expression doesn’t waver from stoic gravity, and no one can tell the difference.
---
There’s an annual gala event that’s a fairly big deal in the science community. All the top scientists come and speak about their new discoveries, and everyone is expected to be there. Arthur goes every year, more because his coworkers annoy him so much about it that it’d make him feel like he’s let them win if he doesn’t go than because he actually wants to go. So he dresses up every year in one of his nice, crisp three-piece suits and goes alone and leaves as soon as he can because he really only goes to hear the speakers, not to socialize.
“Hey,” one of Arthur’s fellow scientists, India, sidles up next to him in the lab one day in the week before the gala.
Arthur arches an eyebrow at her. “Hi,” he says in the tone of someone who’d really rather be anywhere else.
India smirks at him and asks, “Are you going to the gala?”
Arthur turns back to his work, uninterested in where this conversation is going. “I’m considering it,” he says, with a certain note of finality that India purposefully ignores.
“You should bring a date this year,” India says, and her tone is none too kind. It sounds rather like she’s mocking him, but he doesn’t quite care as much as most people would. “I’ve never seen you bring a date before.”
Arthur sighs impatiently, wanting to just finish this conversation and get back to his research. “That’s because I never wanted to bring a date,” he says, an annoyed edge seeping into his tone. “It’s too much of a hassle.”
“Really?” India raises her eyebrows at Arthur and doesn’t sound like she believes him one bit.
“Really,” Arthur says sharply, hoping that she’ll get the hint and leave him alone. “Don’t you have work to do?”
India smirks and chuckles and walks away. Arthur grumbles to himself and resists the impulse to stab something. Arthur really wishes he didn’t work with these people.
---
The thing is, Arthur is a lot more social than he lets on. He has plenty of friends, just not within this little circle of scientists. He tries not to associate with the members of his team more often than he has to because they’re generally not very pleasant people for him to be around, so they never see him with his friends, having fun, laughing, and simply assume that he’s something of a robot.
---
“Welcome home!” a loud voice calls from somewhere in the apartment when Arthur arrives home.
Arthur toes off his shoes by the door and hangs up his coat. He sets his bag down in the living room and wanders into the kitchen because he’s hungry and judging by how the entire apartment smells like food at the moment, dinner should be ready at any moment. Arthur hears humming and ducks his head into the kitchen, allowing himself to indulge in a small smile. It’s Eames, and he’s singing as he cooks dinner.
“What’s for dinner?” Arthur asks, resting his chin on Eames’ shoulder, hands on Eames’ hips.
Eames just grins at Arthur and shrugs, and Arthur peeks at the stove and sees that, like most things Eames tends to make, it’s not necessarily anything in particular, but simply whatever struck Eames’ fancy today when he was looking through the refrigerator and it’s bound to taste delicious because Eames is somehow capable of making ridiculously good food on a whim. Arthur decides he wants wine and goes to pour himself a glass before leaning against the kitchen counter next to the stove, watching Eames cook.
Eames glances over at Arthur and asks, “So how was your day? Life as usual down at the lab?”
Arthur swirls his wine around in the glass. “I suppose,” he says noncommittally. He thinks for a moment before mentioning, “The gala’s coming up.”
“Hmm,” Eames hums. “Is this going to be yet another year when I watch as you get all dressed up in one of those charming suits of yours and then leave me at home for hours on end?”
He sounds like he’s trying to sound accusing and sharp, but his tone is too affectionate for that. Arthur rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his wine.
“I leave you at home because you actually like talking to those people, and I’d have to stay there far longer than I wanted to,” he says, and it’s not quite an apology, but it’s probably about as close as he’ll get. “But that’s not the point.”
“Oh?” Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur. “Well, then please, do enlighten me as to what is.”
“I want you to come with me this year,” Arthur says simply.
Eames now turns entirely away from his cooking, which is sizzling and popping on the stove. Arthur eyes the pan warily, hoping Eames doesn’t forget that he’s cooking and let the food get burnt, because that’s happened before and it was a disaster.
“And may I ask what brings on this sudden change of heart?” Eames asks, more curious than suspicious.
Arthur shrugs and sips at his wine. “Just feel like it.”
---
Something happens when you’re the third out of five children. You’re not the oldest, so your parents don’t worry about not knowing what to do in certain situations or not dealing with things the right way and they certainly don’t worry about sending you off to college, because there’s this air of been there, done that, and they think they know what to expect. And you’re not the youngest either, so your parents aren’t fussing over you because you’re the baby of the family and need extra attention. You’re just stuck right in the middle, lost in the shuffle, and that’s how Arthur grew up.
Arthur spent his childhood being, by and large, overlooked. Either his parents were too busy fussing over getting his eldest sister to finish her college applications on time or they were worrying over whether that fall his youngest brother had taken the other day was a serious enough incident to warrant going to the hospital to get him checked up. His second oldest sister was a genius, so of course her one-hundred-percent tests scores were pinned up on the refrigerator, and his little sister was a ballet dancer, so his mother was constantly shuttling her to and from rehearsals. Standing next to his siblings, Arthur, who didn’t play sports, made mostly passing marks, and had just a small handful of close friends, was, in comparison, very average.
In a way, this upbringing is probably what instilled this insane competitive drive Arthur possesses, this need to prove himself, to work and work and work until he stumbles upon something brilliant. If he went to a psychiatrist, he’d probably be told that he has something of an inferiority complex, but he doesn’t believe in therapy, so he’s never had the opportunity to put a name on whatever this is. In any event, the point is Arthur hates losing. He hates backing down from challenges. He always feels this intense need to fight and come out on top. And sometimes, often actually, it gets him into rather unpleasant situations, but that’s a different story altogether.
---
Eames wanders into the bathroom while Arthur is slicking back his hair for the gala. He’s wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, and Eames finds himself getting distracted for a moment by the taught muscles beneath pale skin before remembering what he came in here for in the first place.
“Darling?” Eames says. “Could you help me with this? You were always better at tying ties than me.”
Arthur smirks at Eames in the mirror. “Give me a sec,” he mumbles and finishes tucking his hair into place.
He then washes the excess gel off his hands and turns to tie Eames’ dove grey tie into a perfect double-Windsor knot. Eames catches Arthur’s hand when he’s finished and presses his lips to the inside of Arthur’s wrist. Eames reaches over to the bathroom counter and picks up a thin gold band that Arthur had taken off before showering.
“Wear this correctly tonight, please?” Eames requests. Arthur typically wears it on a chain around his neck because he works with chemicals all day and he doesn’t want it getting damaged. “If you’re going to show me off to your coworkers today, you ought to at least do it properly.”
Arthur snorts but lets Eames ease the ring onto his finger anyways. The metal is cool against his skin, and Eames’ fingertips linger.
“I need to get dressed,” Arthur says, and brushes by Eames to pick out a suit to wear.
“Wear the charcoal one,” Eames suggests. “It looks lovely on you.”
“You think all of my suits look lovely on me,” Arthur calls from their closet.
Eames chuckles. “I only speak the truth, dear,” he says.
Arthur leans against the doorframe of their walk-in closet, suit in hand. It’s charcoal colored and he’s thinking of wearing it with a deep crimson tie Eames had brought him back from a trip to Italy.
“Liar,” Arthur says, and Eames just laughs.
---
There are really only two times Arthur is particularly difficult to deal with: first thing in the morning when he hasn’t had sufficient coffee to be a functional human being and when anyone messes around with his files without his expressed permission. Remember these two things and you may go through life without ever once invoking his wrath upon you. Forget these two things and you and Arthur will never be friends.
Arthur’s colleagues probably could be on good terms with him if they tried, if they paid any attention to the little things that make Arthur tick, the things that he likes or dislikes, the things that excite him or bore him to tears; they just never do. It’s just that somewhere on the way, they hear rumors about Arthur’s crabby attitude and snarky tendencies and they arrive with all sorts of preconceived notions that simply make it impossible for them to see Arthur as anything more than another grouchy, ill-tempered scientist running himself into the ground to no avail. Arthur’s a lot more than that, of course, and he’s not nearly halfway as pathetic as they make him out to be, but they don’t care enough to find out directly and instead jump to all sorts of conclusions about him.
Like, for example, that Arthur lives alone. With five cats. And a dog. And maybe a parakeet. That Arthur lives with his mother. That Arthur lives at the lab. That Arthur has no friends. That Arthur scared his friends away. That Arthur never had any friends. That Arthur is not and will never be married.
---
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Arthur mutters as he straightens out Eames’ tie.
They’re standing in the lobby of the hotel in which the gala is held every year, waiting for the elevator to arrive so they can go up to the ballroom on one of the top floors. Arthur feels Eames’ chuckle as a rumble through his chest.
“It’s a brilliant idea,” Eames grins. “I approve of it greatly.”
Arthur snorts. The elevator dings and the doors open and the two of them step inside. Arthur hits the button for the fifteenth floor. He reaches over and smoothes out imaginary wrinkles from Eames’ suit and Eames takes his wrist lightly in his hand.
“Darling, stop fretting,” he murmurs. “This is supposed to be fun, remember?”
Arthur makes a sort of scoffing sound and steps out of the elevator when it reaches the proper floor. Eames chuckles and follows him to the ballroom where a man in a crisp black suit is checking people in.
“Arthur Levine,” Arthur says, and then he nods towards Eames. “And my guest.”
The man nods and checks Arthur’s name off of the list. He ushers Arthur and Eames into the ballroom and says, “Enjoy your night.”
“We will,” Eames says with a wink and Arthur just sighs and peers casually around the room.
There are plenty of people here already, some faces that Arthur recognizes and others that he doesn’t. Everyone’s dressed beautifully, of course, evening gowns in dark, rich colors, well-pressed suits in a variety of subtle neutrals, the low murmur of conversation and delicate laughter. Arthur frowns.
“Oh stop that,” Eames says, flicking Arthur’s temple lightly. “Your face will stick that way.”
Arthur gives Eames a look that’s not nearly as mean as he intends it to be and he goes to make some sort of biting remark at him, but he’s interrupted before he can even begin.
“Arthur!”
Arthur looks around, already cringing inwardly because he recognizes that voice as one of his coworkers’. Sure enough, they’re standing in a small cluster not too far away, quite nearly all of them, Nora and Lucas and India and Ross and Zane (they’re not a very big group, but they’re annoying as hell). Arthur tries not to grimace as he walks over to where they are. He might not like them very much, but it would be downright rude to just ignore them. Arthur is a lot of things, but he’s certainly not rude, and he plans on ditching them as soon as he can anyways.
---
“Why do you still work at the lab?” Eames had asked Arthur once. “You’re miserable there.”
Arthur had sighed and rolled over so he could tuck his chin into the curve of Eames’ neck. “I like the work I do,” he’d mumbled against Eames’ skin.
“But you hate the people,” Eames had pointed out. “Why don’t you just quit? I’m sure we can find another use for that knack for researching.”
Arthur had shrugged and dropped the subject because he hadn’t known what to say do that, because he hadn’t known how to answer that, and they don’t talk about it much anymore, but every so often, when Arthur’s had a particularly trying day and comes home looking like he wants to shoot something, Eames will sometimes bring it up over dinner and Arthur will just sigh and say no, he can’t quit, not now, not yet.
---
His colleagues are snickering at something when Arthur approaches, and they abruptly stop talking once he’s within earshot.
“Hello,” he says shortly. Eames’ hand is resting on the small of his back, a comforting warmth as he reminds himself constantly not to do anything violent and homicidal to these people.
They all smile politely at him but he’s not fooled, and Nora looks at Eames curiously.
“Who’s this?” she asks, trying for innocent but not entirely succeeding. Arthur doesn’t know why they bother pretending; it’s not like he doesn’t know they can’t stand him.
“Eames,” Arthur answers simply. “My date.”
A meaningful look passes through the group that Arthur chooses to ignore. Next to him, Eames shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“You know Arthur, when I said you should bring a date, I was kind of kidding,” India says. “You didn’t have to go out of your way to hire someone to be your date.”
Eames snorts and Arthur just stares at her. This is one of those moments when he just wants to punch everyone in the face. Eames chuckling at his side isn’t really helping.
“Okay, first of all, I would never hire an escort to accompany me to some science convention when I’m more than capable of finding myself a date the normal way,” Arthur says, keeping his voice calm and level from sheer willpower alone. He still sounds rather sharp, though, but that can’t be helped. “And second, Eames isn’t an escort; he’s my husband.”
The look of shock that passes over his colleagues’ faces is absolutely priceless. A stunned silence falls over them and they look at Arthur as if they don’t even know who he is anymore. It looks like maybe they could believe him, but mostly they’re just caught completely off guard and more than a little doubtful.
Eames leans over and murmurs in Arthur’s ear in a stage-whisper, “Oh darling, I think we broke them.”
Arthur tries not to smile but try as he might, his lips curl up at the ends anyways, and something about actually seeing Arthur smile in their presence must shock his colleagues back to conscious thought again, because they’re soon looking at him with more suspicion than surprise, as if they don’t believe a word he’s said tonight.
“How long have you been married?” India challenges, probably in hopes of finding a gap in Arthur’s story.
“Six years,” they say at the same time.
Eames grins and looks at Arthur and says, “Jinx” at the same time Arthur says a very firm “No,” already anticipating Eames’ comment. Eames chuckles and the hand that’s resting on his waist squeezes his side gently.
“You can buy me a drink later,” Eames offers jovially.
Arthur doesn’t bother pointing out that that’s a stupid thing to say because they’re married and hello, his money is Eames’, but his glare says it for him and Eames just shrugs and smiles and looks entirely too proud of himself. Arthur’s colleagues are all still eyeing him a little skeptically. Of course they would still think he’s making all this up, which Arthur can’t for the life of him figure out, because since when does he ever let just anyone touch him like Eames is right now?
“What do you do, Eames?” Lucas asks.
“I’m an entrepreneur,” Eames says easily, and by entrepreneur he really means professional mind-thief, but they don’t need to know that.
“You mean unemployed?” Lucas prods, and Arthur winces at how incredibly little tact his coworkers possess.
“Oh heavens no,” Eames says dramatically, as if appalled by such a notion. “I’m very employed.” He bumps his hip against Arthur’s and says, gesturing to the beautifully tailored suit Arthur is wearing tonight, “How else would Arthur manage to look so dapper all the time? Looking this lovely isn’t cheap, you know.”
No one really knows what to say to that, so they leave it at that, but Arthur’s colleagues ask a variety of other intrusive questions, still trying to poke holes in his story, and they stare every time Eames says something with sweet words and warm, affectionate eyes that makes Arthur smile a little and they gape in awe at the fact that Arthur does, in fact, have a wedding ring before Arthur’s had enough and drags Eames away on the pretext of getting something to drink. Arthur doesn’t really plan on talking to them for the rest of the night.
---
Eames has suggested before to Arthur that he should just come and join Eames in the dream sharing business. It pays well and there’s plenty of research to be done before every job so Arthur will fit in just fine and Arthur won’t have to deal with all these snotty scientists every day. Arthur says that so long as dream sharing is still tentatively hanging onto its place as a government funded program, he’s not going to even think about plunging into the underground community that’s developed. The government’s bound to know that illegal mind-heists are going on right under their noses, and it’s too dangerous for Arthur to consider.
Once the government’s pulled the plug on the dream sharing program and completely forgotten that the technology even exists, well, that’s a different story.
---
“This is ridiculous,” Arthur mutters as they wait for the bartender to make their drinks. After that conversation with his coworkers, he’s positively bristling with irritation and he’s fighting the urge to hit something. “This was a disaster. I shouldn’t have even come in the first place.”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” Eames soothes, touching Arthur’s cheek lightly. “This is your problem; you’re always so pessimistic about things. Trust me; it’ll take them years to get over the shock of this one.”
Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames. He’s very good at that.
“I’m serious,” Eames says and thanks the bartender when he slides their drinks over to them. Eames gestures over to Arthur’s colleagues. “Just look at them. It seems to me that they’re rather jealous that you’ve got me.”
Arthur hums and sips thoughtfully at his gin and tonic. He spares a glance to his coworkers, who are huddled in a tight circle and looking over at him and Eames every so often and no doubt gossiping lies about him, and then he looks back to Eames.
“I suppose they do have something to be jealous of,” he says.
Eames nods his agreement, smirking a little at Arthur, which makes Arthur narrow his eyes at Eames in a way that reads don’t let it get to your head, even though he knows it’s a little late for that. Eames slides an arm around Arthur’s waist as they drift through the ballroom. Arthur can feel his colleagues’ eyes on him with every step he takes.
“Say,” Eames mumbles in Arthur’s ear. “How much did you say you really wanted to give them something to talk about?”
“I didn’t,” Arthur says, turning to Eames. He smirks. “I’m willing to bet you could talk me into it, though. You seem to be rather good at that.”
“And you’re only just now noticing?” Eames asks, feigning a hurt look that’s a little too bright-eyed to be very affective. “You’d better be careful or I’ll start to think we’ve been married all these years for nothing.”
“Your idea, Eames,” Arthur reminds him. “What is it?”
“Ah, yes, well,” Eames says and then kisses him. Arthur almost laughs against Eames’ lips, and Eames licks his way into Arthur’s mouth and somewhere at the back of Arthur’s mind he knows this is probably not entirely appropriate to be doing in present company, but he doesn’t really care. And if the kiss itself (the slick slide of Eames’ mouth against his and the way he tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and something a little sweet that’s completely Eames, the way it leaves Arthur a little breathless and his head spinning) isn’t good enough already, then the completely shell-shocked looks on his coworkers’ faces definitely is.
Arthur chuckles to himself at their expressions, and Eames gives him a look like he’s having too much fun with this. Eames is full of brilliant ideas, Arthur thinks as he presses his mouth to Eames’ again, but he chooses not to say that to Eames for fear of encouraging Eames’ already over-inflated ego to swell to the size of the sun.
“We’ve given them enough heart attacks for one night, don’t you think, love?” Eames says into Arthur’s mouth.
Arthur hums and nips at Eames’ bottom lip. “Maybe not quite,” he says and kisses Eames just one more time.
Eames laughs softly but doesn’t protest.
---
Needless to say, Arthur’s colleagues don’t bother him about his love life anymore.