[fic] dakota
pairing: arthur/eames
rating: pg-13 for handjobs
words: 1985
Eames was sick. Arthur knew this because of the way he dragged his feet across the carpet, pausing by the doorway to lean against the wall and catch his breath. He had droopy socks on and silk boxer shorts and his face was pale and puffy. He looked like shit.
"Should you be up?" Arthur asked, putting down the morning paper. He was just about to refill the coffee pot.
"I'm fine," Eames assured him, but he didn't move from his position by the wall and instead looked like he was falling asleep on his feet. Arthur waited a beat before pushing back his chair and walking up to him. Arthur wasn't dressed as sparsely because it was already 10 in the morning and he was freshly showered and had just gotten back from his morning jog. He pressed a hand to Eames' forehead and yanked it back quickly, frowning.
"You're pretty warm. You've got a fever."
Eames grunted in response, lifting an eyelid and squinting at him. "Mm," he said.
"You should be in bed."
"Maybe," Eames said.
"Come on," Arthur said and pulled him away from the wall. Eames leaned heavily against him, humming into his neck, one arm curled loosely around his waist, head tucked under Arthur's chin. Eames' breath was unusually warm, ghosting across Arthur's collarbones, his hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. They shambled back into the bedroom, triumphantly missing any misplaced furniture. Arthur shoved Eames back onto the mattress where he lay spread-eagled with a groan, feet dangling from the edges.
"I'm fine," Eames said again.
"Sure you are," Arthur said "You seem like it, too. Scoot back."
Eames snorted before doing as he was told. Arthur threw a blanket over him and then left to get a glass of water and some paracetamol. He wasn't gone very long but when he returned Eames was already asleep, lying on his side and snoring loudly. Arthur woke him up with a gentle shove and Eames snapped his head up, muttering in panic as he flailed his arms.
"It's just me," Arthur said, and then: "Jesus. Relax. Drink this." He watched as Eames drank thirstily, finishing with a muttered moan of approval as he tipped his head back.
"You're being nice," Eames observed, sniffing into his sleeve as Arthur set the glass aside.
"I'm always nice," Arthur said. "When am I ever not nice?"
Eames smiled sleepily.
"Get some rest," Arthur said, rubbing his arm. He didn't realize he was doing it until Eames was asleep, snoring again.
*
Eames shuffled back into the kitchen when Arthur was taking a phone call from Philippa who was just learning how to utilize the phone. She was telling him about the daisychains she made yesterday afternoon and how James was learning how to read when Eames seated himself at the table, tying a miserable knot around an equally pathetic unwashed bathrobe.
Eames lit a cigarette. Arthur said goodbye to Philippa and quickly snatched it from his hands, tamping the lit end onto the table.
"You loved this table," Eames said, lighting another. Arthur flicked it off his mouth and the two of them watched as it tumbled and rolled on the floor before Arthur picked it up and threw it into the garbage disposal.
"You're sick, Eames. Go back to bed."
"I'm fine," Eames sniffed. "Just a little head cold. The sleep helped."
"You slept for a couple of hours," Arthur said then leaned forward to check Eames' temperature. "Your temperature hasn't dropped. Don't let me drag your ass back to bed Eames, because I will if I have to."
"That's my line," Eames chuckled. "When I want to rope you into sex."
Arthur gave him a look. Eames relented after a whole minute, rolling his eyes and scratching his hip as he climbed back to his feet.
"Maybe if you put a dirty film on," Eames said, "I'd be more inclined to stay in bed."
"No," Arthur said firmly. "You're sick. You should be sleeping, not watching porn. Focus on getting better."
"You're no Florence Nightingale, are you?" Eames said with a disbelieving shake of his head.
"Bed," Arthur pressed, and Eames begrudgingly obeyed.
*
Arthur made soup using instructions he read off the internet. He poured the finished product of potato and beef and peas into a bowl, squeezed a couple of oranges to make fresh juice, and then headed to the bedroom where he found Eames jerking off to a terrible porn movie with piranhas.
"Eames," Arthur groaned.
"Help!" Eames said. The sheets were twisted around his ankles and he looked very distressed. "I'm close to orgasm but my vision is starting to swim." He gestured to his lap. "All rapid movement is making me nauseous. I can't do this. I might throw up on myself."
Arthur sighed, put down the tray of food and turned the TV off with a click.
"You're incorrigble. One of these days your stupidity is going to kill you." He took Eames' erection in his hand and reflected on the fact that this was his first ever reluctant handjob, but then Eames started thrusting up into his fist and making soft noises of appreciation in his throat and Arthur forgot any thought prior to stroking Eames' cock. That was what it came down to, most of the time. When Eames got so much as half naked, Arthur forgot to breathe.
"If I were as stupid as you say I am," Eames panted, hand circling Arthur's wrist, "then you shouldn't be giving me a handjob. It's competence, dear, that turns you on. That turns us both on."
Eames was right on both accounts but Arthur didn't respond, just watched him come apart as he thumbed the tip of Eames' cock.
When Eames came, Arthur licked it off his stomach and swallowed. He hummed and traced a soft line down Eames' hip, kissing his thigh.
"I made you soup," he added casually, smoothing the front of his shirt with his hands, wiping Eames' stomach with a wet one. "And fresh juice to fight off scurvy."
"How thoughtful of you," Eames said, smiling sleepily. "Scurvy? Really?"
Arthur shrugged. "I like to anticipate the worst at all times."
Eames scooted to make room for him in the bed and they were probably getting soft, probably getting old, because Arthur lifted a spoonful of soup without thinking and began feeding Eames.
Eames said, "You're better than any Florence Nightingale."
And Arthur said, "Of course I am. I can shoot from a distance of six hundred yards.
"She would've made an amazing point man, though," Eames sighed, "Er, point woman. But you'd still be heaps better."
"And why is that?"
"Because you make excellent soup and give the best handjobs."
"Those aren't my only redeeming qualities."
"Yes, well. You make a terrific pillow too."
"You forgot that I'm skilled in hand-to-hand combat," Arthur said.
"Hm," Eames affirmed. "But you're also completely useless when faced with children."
"They've got such tiny hands," Arthur shrugged. "It's ... I don't like kids. I'm glad I'm not one anymore; one is less susceptible to danger as an adult because one becomes capable of defending himself."
"You are so strange," Eames said. Arthur looked down and suddenly had a lapful of Eames' head. He stroked his collarbone.
"I've never heard anyone talk about children that way before," Eames continued, "I think I'm in love."
Arthur sniffed out a laugh, curling a finger around the damp tendrils of Eames' hair. His skin was clammy, still warm. "There are outside threats," he explained, "Child molesters, kidnappers, cults, and I don't know what else, that children are ill-equipped to protect themselves against. This is why some people choose homeschooling."
"I'm sure," Eames said dryly. He yawned and made himself comfortable in Arthur's lap. Up close, his eyelashes seemed unusually long. Eames was heavy, sprawled across Arthur's lap, his chin digging into Arthur's thigh.
Arthur brushed his fingers through Eames' scalp and leaned back against the headboard, figthing off the cramp he could feel was coming. It wasn't long before Eames was asleep, murmuring softly, and pretty soon, Arthur found himself following after him.
*
When Arthur came to, Eames wasn't in bed anymore and in place of his head was a pillow propped on Arthur's lap. Arthur panicked for a second until he heard the shower running in the hall.
He went to check and found Eames standing under hot sprays of water, bracing himself against the wall, still clothed in socks and underwear.
"Eames," Arthur called from the doorway with a long suffering sigh. "What the hell are you doing?"
Eames turned to him slowly, blinking water from his eyes. He turned the shower off and rubbed his face against a towel. "What does it it look like?"
"Like you've lost half your mind? Come here," He yanked Eames forward and Eames nearly banged into him and slipped on the tile. Arthur sat him down on the toilet lid and peeled off his socks, tossing them into the sink where they landed with a wet plop. When Eames started shivering, Arthur stood to his full height and hugged him, kissing the top of his head and rubbing paths of warm down his arms.
"You're like an overgrown child, honestly."
"Is that an insult? I thought you disliked children?"
"I do," Arthur laughed. "But I don't dislike you, not completely." Arthur kissed him on the forehead and squeezed Eames' face into a hideous expression. Then he ran a bath while Eames rubbed his cheek.
"You should wash me," Eames suggested. "I'm weak and therefore incapable of doing the easiest things."
"You managed to masturbate," Arthur said. "That wasn't easy."
"But you had to finish me off!"
"True," Arthur agreed. He picked up a sponge and ran it across Eames' back. Eames sighed. His muscles rippled when he moved, and Arthur traced the neat lines of his tattoos. He knew the stories behind all of them, the date and reason for each one.
"You should get in," Eames softly, splashing soapy water at him.
"I'm not even sure what you're trying to achieve. You're sick and I don't want to catch a cold."
"You ate my come," Eames said reasonably. "That's worse than sharing a bath with me."
"Can you catch a cold from eating a sick person's come?"
"We can ask Cobb," Eames said.
"No," Arthur laughed. "Shut up."
They finished quickly in the bathroom and Arthur dried him with a bristly towel. Arthur changed the bedsheets while Eames dressed and tossed a heavy blanket at Eames who pretended to swoon.
"Sleep," Arthur told him firmly. "You look like shit."
"I just need a cigarette."
"No, you need sleep."
Eames shrugged. Arthur grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back, shoving him forward with one hand flat against his chest. He straddled Eames' hips easily, still keeping pressure on his chest. Eames looked tired, sleepy, crust in the corners of his eyes. His hair stood every which way and Arthur was overcome with the desire to kiss him, which, he realized, was somethng he had yet to do today.
"This is sexy," Eames smiled, palming Arthur's hips and knees.
"Maybe to you," Arthur agreed, "But you look disgusting right now."
"Do I?" Eames almost sounded hurt, his lower lip fattened to an exagerrated pout. Arthur slid to the side and pulled the blankets over his chest. He ruffled Eames' hair. Eames' skin was still warm, still splotchy and his eyes looked unfocussed.
Eames turned to kiss him but Arthur cupped a hand over his mouth and firmly kept it there.
"I'll kiss when you're better," he promised before releasing him. "Until then, be a good boy and sleep."
Eames smiled under the covers. "Yes sir," he said, pulling Arthur down with him under the sheets where Arthur's next laugh was smothered by the top of Eames' head.
rating: pg-13 for handjobs
words: 1985
Eames was sick. Arthur knew this because of the way he dragged his feet across the carpet, pausing by the doorway to lean against the wall and catch his breath. He had droopy socks on and silk boxer shorts and his face was pale and puffy. He looked like shit.
"Should you be up?" Arthur asked, putting down the morning paper. He was just about to refill the coffee pot.
"I'm fine," Eames assured him, but he didn't move from his position by the wall and instead looked like he was falling asleep on his feet. Arthur waited a beat before pushing back his chair and walking up to him. Arthur wasn't dressed as sparsely because it was already 10 in the morning and he was freshly showered and had just gotten back from his morning jog. He pressed a hand to Eames' forehead and yanked it back quickly, frowning.
"You're pretty warm. You've got a fever."
Eames grunted in response, lifting an eyelid and squinting at him. "Mm," he said.
"You should be in bed."
"Maybe," Eames said.
"Come on," Arthur said and pulled him away from the wall. Eames leaned heavily against him, humming into his neck, one arm curled loosely around his waist, head tucked under Arthur's chin. Eames' breath was unusually warm, ghosting across Arthur's collarbones, his hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. They shambled back into the bedroom, triumphantly missing any misplaced furniture. Arthur shoved Eames back onto the mattress where he lay spread-eagled with a groan, feet dangling from the edges.
"I'm fine," Eames said again.
"Sure you are," Arthur said "You seem like it, too. Scoot back."
Eames snorted before doing as he was told. Arthur threw a blanket over him and then left to get a glass of water and some paracetamol. He wasn't gone very long but when he returned Eames was already asleep, lying on his side and snoring loudly. Arthur woke him up with a gentle shove and Eames snapped his head up, muttering in panic as he flailed his arms.
"It's just me," Arthur said, and then: "Jesus. Relax. Drink this." He watched as Eames drank thirstily, finishing with a muttered moan of approval as he tipped his head back.
"You're being nice," Eames observed, sniffing into his sleeve as Arthur set the glass aside.
"I'm always nice," Arthur said. "When am I ever not nice?"
Eames smiled sleepily.
"Get some rest," Arthur said, rubbing his arm. He didn't realize he was doing it until Eames was asleep, snoring again.
*
Eames shuffled back into the kitchen when Arthur was taking a phone call from Philippa who was just learning how to utilize the phone. She was telling him about the daisychains she made yesterday afternoon and how James was learning how to read when Eames seated himself at the table, tying a miserable knot around an equally pathetic unwashed bathrobe.
Eames lit a cigarette. Arthur said goodbye to Philippa and quickly snatched it from his hands, tamping the lit end onto the table.
"You loved this table," Eames said, lighting another. Arthur flicked it off his mouth and the two of them watched as it tumbled and rolled on the floor before Arthur picked it up and threw it into the garbage disposal.
"You're sick, Eames. Go back to bed."
"I'm fine," Eames sniffed. "Just a little head cold. The sleep helped."
"You slept for a couple of hours," Arthur said then leaned forward to check Eames' temperature. "Your temperature hasn't dropped. Don't let me drag your ass back to bed Eames, because I will if I have to."
"That's my line," Eames chuckled. "When I want to rope you into sex."
Arthur gave him a look. Eames relented after a whole minute, rolling his eyes and scratching his hip as he climbed back to his feet.
"Maybe if you put a dirty film on," Eames said, "I'd be more inclined to stay in bed."
"No," Arthur said firmly. "You're sick. You should be sleeping, not watching porn. Focus on getting better."
"You're no Florence Nightingale, are you?" Eames said with a disbelieving shake of his head.
"Bed," Arthur pressed, and Eames begrudgingly obeyed.
*
Arthur made soup using instructions he read off the internet. He poured the finished product of potato and beef and peas into a bowl, squeezed a couple of oranges to make fresh juice, and then headed to the bedroom where he found Eames jerking off to a terrible porn movie with piranhas.
"Eames," Arthur groaned.
"Help!" Eames said. The sheets were twisted around his ankles and he looked very distressed. "I'm close to orgasm but my vision is starting to swim." He gestured to his lap. "All rapid movement is making me nauseous. I can't do this. I might throw up on myself."
Arthur sighed, put down the tray of food and turned the TV off with a click.
"You're incorrigble. One of these days your stupidity is going to kill you." He took Eames' erection in his hand and reflected on the fact that this was his first ever reluctant handjob, but then Eames started thrusting up into his fist and making soft noises of appreciation in his throat and Arthur forgot any thought prior to stroking Eames' cock. That was what it came down to, most of the time. When Eames got so much as half naked, Arthur forgot to breathe.
"If I were as stupid as you say I am," Eames panted, hand circling Arthur's wrist, "then you shouldn't be giving me a handjob. It's competence, dear, that turns you on. That turns us both on."
Eames was right on both accounts but Arthur didn't respond, just watched him come apart as he thumbed the tip of Eames' cock.
When Eames came, Arthur licked it off his stomach and swallowed. He hummed and traced a soft line down Eames' hip, kissing his thigh.
"I made you soup," he added casually, smoothing the front of his shirt with his hands, wiping Eames' stomach with a wet one. "And fresh juice to fight off scurvy."
"How thoughtful of you," Eames said, smiling sleepily. "Scurvy? Really?"
Arthur shrugged. "I like to anticipate the worst at all times."
Eames scooted to make room for him in the bed and they were probably getting soft, probably getting old, because Arthur lifted a spoonful of soup without thinking and began feeding Eames.
Eames said, "You're better than any Florence Nightingale."
And Arthur said, "Of course I am. I can shoot from a distance of six hundred yards.
"She would've made an amazing point man, though," Eames sighed, "Er, point woman. But you'd still be heaps better."
"And why is that?"
"Because you make excellent soup and give the best handjobs."
"Those aren't my only redeeming qualities."
"Yes, well. You make a terrific pillow too."
"You forgot that I'm skilled in hand-to-hand combat," Arthur said.
"Hm," Eames affirmed. "But you're also completely useless when faced with children."
"They've got such tiny hands," Arthur shrugged. "It's ... I don't like kids. I'm glad I'm not one anymore; one is less susceptible to danger as an adult because one becomes capable of defending himself."
"You are so strange," Eames said. Arthur looked down and suddenly had a lapful of Eames' head. He stroked his collarbone.
"I've never heard anyone talk about children that way before," Eames continued, "I think I'm in love."
Arthur sniffed out a laugh, curling a finger around the damp tendrils of Eames' hair. His skin was clammy, still warm. "There are outside threats," he explained, "Child molesters, kidnappers, cults, and I don't know what else, that children are ill-equipped to protect themselves against. This is why some people choose homeschooling."
"I'm sure," Eames said dryly. He yawned and made himself comfortable in Arthur's lap. Up close, his eyelashes seemed unusually long. Eames was heavy, sprawled across Arthur's lap, his chin digging into Arthur's thigh.
Arthur brushed his fingers through Eames' scalp and leaned back against the headboard, figthing off the cramp he could feel was coming. It wasn't long before Eames was asleep, murmuring softly, and pretty soon, Arthur found himself following after him.
*
When Arthur came to, Eames wasn't in bed anymore and in place of his head was a pillow propped on Arthur's lap. Arthur panicked for a second until he heard the shower running in the hall.
He went to check and found Eames standing under hot sprays of water, bracing himself against the wall, still clothed in socks and underwear.
"Eames," Arthur called from the doorway with a long suffering sigh. "What the hell are you doing?"
Eames turned to him slowly, blinking water from his eyes. He turned the shower off and rubbed his face against a towel. "What does it it look like?"
"Like you've lost half your mind? Come here," He yanked Eames forward and Eames nearly banged into him and slipped on the tile. Arthur sat him down on the toilet lid and peeled off his socks, tossing them into the sink where they landed with a wet plop. When Eames started shivering, Arthur stood to his full height and hugged him, kissing the top of his head and rubbing paths of warm down his arms.
"You're like an overgrown child, honestly."
"Is that an insult? I thought you disliked children?"
"I do," Arthur laughed. "But I don't dislike you, not completely." Arthur kissed him on the forehead and squeezed Eames' face into a hideous expression. Then he ran a bath while Eames rubbed his cheek.
"You should wash me," Eames suggested. "I'm weak and therefore incapable of doing the easiest things."
"You managed to masturbate," Arthur said. "That wasn't easy."
"But you had to finish me off!"
"True," Arthur agreed. He picked up a sponge and ran it across Eames' back. Eames sighed. His muscles rippled when he moved, and Arthur traced the neat lines of his tattoos. He knew the stories behind all of them, the date and reason for each one.
"You should get in," Eames softly, splashing soapy water at him.
"I'm not even sure what you're trying to achieve. You're sick and I don't want to catch a cold."
"You ate my come," Eames said reasonably. "That's worse than sharing a bath with me."
"Can you catch a cold from eating a sick person's come?"
"We can ask Cobb," Eames said.
"No," Arthur laughed. "Shut up."
They finished quickly in the bathroom and Arthur dried him with a bristly towel. Arthur changed the bedsheets while Eames dressed and tossed a heavy blanket at Eames who pretended to swoon.
"Sleep," Arthur told him firmly. "You look like shit."
"I just need a cigarette."
"No, you need sleep."
Eames shrugged. Arthur grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back, shoving him forward with one hand flat against his chest. He straddled Eames' hips easily, still keeping pressure on his chest. Eames looked tired, sleepy, crust in the corners of his eyes. His hair stood every which way and Arthur was overcome with the desire to kiss him, which, he realized, was somethng he had yet to do today.
"This is sexy," Eames smiled, palming Arthur's hips and knees.
"Maybe to you," Arthur agreed, "But you look disgusting right now."
"Do I?" Eames almost sounded hurt, his lower lip fattened to an exagerrated pout. Arthur slid to the side and pulled the blankets over his chest. He ruffled Eames' hair. Eames' skin was still warm, still splotchy and his eyes looked unfocussed.
Eames turned to kiss him but Arthur cupped a hand over his mouth and firmly kept it there.
"I'll kiss when you're better," he promised before releasing him. "Until then, be a good boy and sleep."
Eames smiled under the covers. "Yes sir," he said, pulling Arthur down with him under the sheets where Arthur's next laugh was smothered by the top of Eames' head.