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tourdefierceTitle: Dream a Little Dream (Of Me)
Rating: R to NC-17 (REALITY IS A FICKLE THING KIDS)
Summary: Arthur has inner lesbian rage or a fic in which dreams are really fucking with Arthur's delicate repression.
Word Count: 6,450
Warnings: Sex, lots of cursing, violence, casual treatment of stalking/crime, alternating POVs, French decadence and a pretty BAMF!Ariadne. There might be some crack... if you squint.
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thisissirius asked for coming untouched and kissing in the rain and I wrote this based on those prompts. I hope she likes this, even if Eames isn't her favorite character. ♥ Thanks to ravyn_ashling for betaing this for me. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
"Get me a cuppa, yeah?"
Arthur nods, his eyes fixated on the way Eames chews on the end of his pen. He's completely mutilating Arthur's carefully purchased warehouse supplies and for some reason, he doesn't care.
He should care.
Arthur wakes up, sweat rolling down his face as if he's run a few miles somewhere near the equator. He blinks into the darkness of his hotel room. He can hear the soft hum of the air conditioner and a light shines from underneath the door that leads to the sitting room where Dom is watching TV and denying insomnia.
They're in Moscow. Doing a job. Because Mal's dead.
Arthur blinks in the darkness and takes three slow breaths, pulling his gun from underneath his pillow to the safe cradle of his hands. He sits up, reaching into the drawer of the nightstand.
The dice clatters across the top.
One.
Arthur puts his gun back underneath the pillow but doesn't lie down, his head pounds and something like anger sizzles in the pit of his stomach. He breathes deeply, fighting the impulse to reach for his pistol again. There isn't any danger here that isn't strictly internal.
This isn't a dream they can shoot themselves out of.
He opens the door to the sitting room and goes to watch TMZ with Dom blinking owlishly beside him. Later, when Arthur is burning his notes and checking on their flight to meet with Cobol Engineering, he sees the postcard from Mombasa.
It's devoid of a message. The only thing present is Arthur's name and their current location. Arthur can practically feel the heat rolling off the sloppy, practically illegible scrawl of Eames' handwriting.
He tosses it in the burn bag and doesn't give a flying fuck when it all goes up in flames.
<3<3<3
Eames would be lying if he said he took the job for Cobb.
As far as Eames is concerned, Cobb is a cushy bastard that has had all the time in the world to realize that dreamsharing is not a field for intellectuals. Not that he's saying Cobb's wife deserved to take the tumble off the roof of sanity, but he can't say he's surprised. Cobb's always been naïve and Eames has never had any time for their particular brand of bullshit.
But when he hears that Cobb is on the run with Arthur pulling the strings to get him into the despot side of life, he might have bought a canister of tea leaves with a flagged credit card just to let Arthur know that he's watching.
Not that Arthur's pert arse and scathing commentary isn't enough to get Eames onto a job only, because it most certainly is, but rumor is that Cobol is out for blood and Eames has a thing for guns topside. Well, he has a thing for Arthur's guns topside.
Pun completely intended.
--which is why he brings a bagel with a thin slice of salmon to the warehouse on the first day, brushing his hand up against Arthur's Dunhill-clad elbow and inhaling the subtle smell of Arthur in Paris.
It's totally worth it when he's been flipped on his back with a gun pressed into his face and Arthur's passive, murder-snarl is peeking along the sleek slide of the gun barrel.
<3<3<3
"Darling, do you mind passing me the oil?"
Arthur scowls at Eames' blinding leer but passes the oil anyway. There's nothing else going on in the warehouse but the soft murmur of Ariadne's drawing. Dom and Yusuf are discussing sedatives in a different room and has left Arthur with Eames as obvious torture for taking the last cup of coffee.
Eames is cleaning his gun.
It's not Arthur's choice weapon, the Browning High Power 9mm is an older model and tends to jam a bit, but Eames loves it. Arthur recognizes its military model number (L9A1) and would bet a decent amount of money that it's the exact same gun that Eames was issued in his SAS service. If anyone else had brought the gun on, Arthur would have replaced it immediately. But with proper care, the 9mm is a perfectly acceptable firearm—and proper care is exactly what Eames is giving it now. He tilts the bottle, his large hands shiny from the oil on the outside of the container, and lets the slickness dribble over the steel before chasing after the droplets with a cloth.
His lip is caught between his teeth and he’s fucking gnawing on it.
Arthur's so hard in his trousers, he's sure he's leaking a stain into the front of his suit pants. But he can't seem to help himself, as Eames slicks the well oiled gun up and tends to the maintenance with care and pleasure that Arthur can practically feel his own Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver in his hands. (He never brings it on jobs but he loves that gun as much as he loves his mother. He's not afraid to admit that.)
His moan breaks the tentative silence in the room but Eames keeps cleaning his gun, fingers wetslick with gun oil and glistening in the light of the warehouse. Arthur finds himself pressing his hand to the front of his trousers and cupping the hard line of his erection through several layers of fabric. It's hot and he's panting. When Eames looks up, he sucks hard on his swollen bottom lip and Arthur's hips buck just slightly into his palm.
Eames grins, leans forward in his chair and slips two oil slick fingers into Arthur's mouth.
Arthur wakes.
He rolls the dice on the nightstand and shucks off his briefs as the same time. The one of his loaded die glows in the moonlight. The orgasm that rips out of him is catastrophic, his hips fly off the bed and his head snaps back into a moan that wrenches out of his chest without his permission. When he opens his eyes, he drags his fingers through the come on his chest and sees Eames' oil-slick hand clearly in his mind.
He gives himself a moment to chastise himself before he stalks to the shower and scrubs himself pink. He doesn't breathe a single word to Eames the next day and goes to the shooting range instead... for "research".
<3<3<3
Eames watches Arthur shoot at the well-trained military projections and sighs. He really is a lovely sight, trussed up in a leather jacket and looking positively delirious with rage. Eames can't imagine what's going through the man's head but he's sure the dressing down Cobb gave him is nothing compared to his own subconscious.
Eames idly wonders if the Jewish guilt only pertains to Cobb-like issues.
The scowl appears on Arthur's face, all crinkly and Eames can't resist sidling up to him and dreaming up his own lovely grenade-launcher.
Even in dreams, Arthur smells beyond delicious.
<3<3<3
When Arthur wakes up, the first thing he thinks of is Mal.
He thinks of her smile, soft and perfect—how Phillipa has the exact same smile. He thinks of James' face over Skype when Arthur allows himself the pleasure of speaking to Miles, who always lets the children around, even if his wife glowers at Arthur the entire time Phillipa goes on about the taste of crepes.
He blinks open his eyes, making eye contact with everyone and silently counting in his head. He knows it's just seconds here, but down there it's hours and the shiver that runs down his spine is chilling. Everyone avoids Fischer's eyes and Arthur has to force himself from staring at Cobb and willing him to wake up.
When he does wake up, obviously startled and scared shitless, Arthur can't help but notice that the only person not looking from Cobb to Saito is Eames.
Eames is looking directly at him, his eyes crinkled in soft delight and his smile nowhere near discreet.
Arthur buckles his seat belt and tries to calm his breathing as he listens to Saito speak in rushed Japanese over the phone, before switching to English and then back to Japanese. Arthur can't process anything around him but his body sits back into the chair and stares down as LAX appears from below. He thinks about what he'll do if Saito lied; he thinks about the smell of Saito's blood and the panicked look on Cobb's face when Eames almost shot him, he thinks about the softness of Ariadne's lips or the way they all looked as they floated lazily in the hotel room as Arthur's heart panicked while his mind did the math—he thinks about how he's never broken someone out of prison before but he's fairly sure Eames has.
Cobb walks through security and Arthur clutches his totem in the pocket of his pants. He knows these are the dreams he'll never forget, even if he wants to—even if he never wakes up.
He catches a taxi and settles in for the ride to his empty apartment. His phone rings shortly after giving the cabbie his address and Arthur frowns as he pulls it out and answers with a curt, "Arthur."
"You know when I said dream a little bigger, darling, I was hoping you'd make the connection to my cock," a very English and deplorable voice says across the line.
"How did you get this number?" Arthur asks but it's without heat. Eames takes his tone to heart.
"You're very bright, dear heart, but I just wanted to be very clear," Eames continues over the line. "I do want you."
Arthur snorts, stopping the laughter short. He doesn't find Eames charming; he's just running on adrenaline, Mal's memory and the figures trickling into several of his offshore bank accounts.
"Eames, I don't have time for this."
Eames tuts, his mouth suddenly blooming into Arthur's memory. "Do you have time for a little wooing?"
"You're ridiculous."
"I think you mean fetching, you dapper-son-of-a-bitch," Eames laughs over the line and Arthur hears the clinking of ice in glass.
"Going to get drunk and spill all our secrets?"
"Wouldn't even dream of it," Eames says. "Just waiting for my flight across the pond."
"Back home so soon?"
Arthur frowns at himself when he finds disappointment creeping into his tone.
"America bores me."
There's a pause.
"Americans on the other hand, delight me."
Arthur shakes his head and looks out of the cab. He'll only be in LA for a few days before going back to his real apartment, just until he can sort out if they've caught a tail or if Cobol still plans on killing them—or just to watch Fischer and cross his fingers that for once, for once in Cobb's goddamned life, they were lucky.
"I'm hanging up now," Arthur says into the phone.
"So soon," Eames very nearly purrs across the line. "Enjoy your gift, darling."
Eames has disconnected before Arthur can reply.
Arthur lies in wait, almost expecting Eames to have sold them out for money but four days later he's packing up his things, getting ready to leave his bare LA apartment when a knock comes to the door. Arthur looks at his suitcase, nods and then grabs his gun. No one is supposed to know this address.
The safety is clicked off when the knock comes again.
"Coming," Arthur says casually as he screws on his silencer.
"Delivery!"
Arthur narrows his eyes and opens the door with a false smile. A boy, not over seventeen, is staring back at him with a huge box on a dolly. He looks unimpressed.
Arthur narrows his eyes and tries to keep his gun out of sight. "Yes?"
"Delivery," the boy says dully. "Are you Arthur Darling?"
Arthur points the barrel of his gun directly at the boy. "Excuse me?"
The delivery boy trembles before swearing and taking off in the opposite direction of the elevator, leaving Arthur to decide whether or not to shoot him for interrogation. He doesn't, but when he looks down, the box is still there and it might be a bomb for all he knows.
Eames isn't known for his gifts.
Arthur stares at it for a while before he ties one end of some string to the box, takes the other end and walks to the end of the hall to situate himself behind the stairwell door. He breathes four full breaths before yanking on the string.
Nothing happens.
He yanks again but nothing spectacular happens and so, with much apprehension, Arthur drags the box into the apartment and opens it.
Only to find an entirely disassembled M32 grenade-launcher, serial number filed off and a gigantic red bow tied around its various parts. Despite himself, Arthur laughs and it feels like it's the first time in years.
<3<3<3
Eames smiles when Yusuf appears in his doorway.
"Eames," he says with an excited air of someone who has a secret. Eames loves secrets. "What are you doing?"
"Honestly?"
Yusuf pauses, his cheeks puffing out before he says, "Yes, although I suspect I'm going to regret it."
Eames pushes the enter key on his laptop with a flourish and spins around to face him. "I'm re-programming all of Arthur's security codes in his apartment."
"Again?"
"He deserves to spend the day outside today," Eames says with a grin. "Paris is lovely today and he works far too hard."
"You are a creepy stalker."
"Stalker? Such a harsh term."
"Seriously, if you hadn't already fixated on someone, I might have sedated you for life after first meeting you," Yusuf says seriously, walking in and taking a seat on the couch. "You're perverted."
"Patient in love," Eames replies with a shake of his finger. "Wooing is terribly serious business."
Yusuf laughs, rearranges himself on the coach and then pops his head up to glare at Eames. "Don't you want to know why I'm about?"
Eames raises his eyebrows. Yusuf curses.
"You bloody-"
"Now, darling, don't be mad-"
"You already fucking knew! You always know everything and I don't ever get to have any surprises. Ever."
"But I booked us first class flights," Eames says and jumps over the coach, making kissing noises and waving his hands around placating while Yusuf flails in half-arsed anger.
<3<3<3
Arthur feels fury curl in his gut when he wakes from another dream.
This time, it was just Eames' voice trickling across his ear and folding over his skin like a poker player pocketing cards. It was silky but rough from London smog and the occasional cigarette to appease an oral fixation but the dream felt so close to reality, the way Eames' consonants tripped over his vowels to catch up—a constant game of cat-and-mouse that left Arthur hard upon waking.
"Fuck," he growls when he stares at the clock, before shoving his hand down his briefs and stroking himself with short, angry strokes.
He comes, spilling over his hand in soundless gasps, but he's far from happy about it.
<3<3<3
The job is routine.
It's standard militarization for some French somebody or another, Eames could honestly care less. The dreams are boring and the man's projections are downright tedious in their mediocrity—even Yusuf looks bored and he's been experimenting with explosive chemicals to fit into watch compartments. He's certainly more of the Queen's servant than Eames had previously given him credit.
Eames, however, couldn't care less.
Because it's raining in Paris.
Arthur carries his simple black umbrella (equipped with his own detachable shanking handle) around the city whenever he goes out, his notebook tucked into his breast pocket and a certain air of distain laced with pleasure about his person. It's partly because Arthur fancies Paris quite a lot. Eames knows that he has a flat somewhere in the city because Arthur wears a completely different suit every day, comes in with warm croissants and speaks in soft French that Eames knows he learned from Mrs. Cobb.
The rumor has it that Arthur and Mal were involved in a torrid affair but Eames would bet the house that Arthur lost a best friend, a sister—a mother—over a lover.
Paris holds little delight for Eames, except for the fact that it's raining and it has no plans to stop in the forecast. Which means that Arthur—dear, practical Arthur—has given up slicking his hair back and lets his hair fall freely into his eyes.
It's completely distracting.
Combined with the way Arthur's shoes squeak, enough for him to remove them and pad around in his (always color coded to outfit) argyle socks, his transparently damp clothes and the tender curl of his hair, Eames is thoroughly besotted with this unencumbered Arthur.
"It's nice, isn't it?"
Eames looks up from his perch, where he is stirring milk into his tea and watching Arthur roll up his shirt-sleeves. "What's that, child?"
Ariadne sticks her tongue out. "It's nice to see Arthur so relaxed," she says with a tilt of her head and some fairly expressive movements with her eyebrows. "He looks rather darling, doesn't he."
"Stop trying to imitate my flare of elegance."
"Stop mooning over him like a twelve year old girl," Ariadne spits back. She doesn't look nasty but her bored expression means that his bullshit is not welcome.
She must've spent the morning listening to Cobb's brand of foolishness.
"Well yes," Eames finally sighs out. "He does look like a rather well-constructed wank fantasy, doesn't he?"
Ariadne laughs. "You're a moron."
"I prefer simpleton, pet."
But then something shifts on her face and Eames feels very, very uncomfortable. She shakes her head and says, "No, it's not that... it's just, he's much more than that, eh?"
She's gone before he can make any chance of a reply.
<3<3<3
They're both sodden wet, their clothes clinging to them as they press up against the cold exterior of the building. All Arthur feels is heat, even though he knows the rain is cool on his feverish skin and nothing, nothing could possibly be this warm but Eames' mouth feels as spiking hot as radiation when he latches onto Arthur's neck and sucks.
Arthur gasps, his back arcing and forcing their hips together. There is so much heat between their bodies as rain pours down all around them. It's steady, endless and as Arthur blinks through the pattern it feels wrong against his face. He pants, watching the water run everywhere, and his fingers twist, spindle like, into the sopping fabric of Eames' purple checkered shirt.
"So lovely," Eames says against his neck, and then they're kissing. It's sloppy and nearly as desperate as Arthur feels. Eames' tongue strokes more than it demands, caressing the top of Arthur's mouth with every roll of his hips and licking his teeth with tender flicks of a wicked tongue.
"Eames," he gasps into Eames' rain-wet mouth, their lips slotting and dislocating together in rhythmic passes that make his fingers spasm and clutch their bodies closer with every roll of Eames' hips. Arthur moans, throaty and unreal in its clarity above the rain, when Eames shifts and the wide expanse of his massive thigh thrusts up press up against Arthur's hardened cock. "It's hot," Arthur murmurs incoherently as Eames sucks on his tongue.
It seems to stretch for days, time lengthening as Eames ruts against him with desperate hitches of his hips, even as their kiss stays languid and intimate, without turning filthy. Arthur pants into Eames' mouth when he can, inhaling sweet rain and Earl Grey tea and some sort of lip balm.
"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," Eames chants and then he's coming, his teeth latching onto Arthur's bottom lip and his hips spasming in thrusts as he comes, spilling in streaks all over Arthur's trousers.
In the haze, Arthur knows that Eames has always had trousers on. He remembers the feel of the drenched wool but now they're nowhere to be found, just the length of his still twitching cock and the patter of the rain as it cascades between them to mix with Eames' come that is drenching Arthur's front.
Eames's hands (where had they been before?) settle on either side of Arthur's face, cupping his cheeks and pressing firmly. His breath shutters between them and the rain slides into Arthur's eyes.
"Arthur," Eames says and he sounds broken.
He wakes with a gasp, rolling over as arousal hits the heat of his belly with a force that almost nauseates him. He falls of the couch gasping, curling in on his body and heavy with breath. It's only when he looks up that he realizes that Ariadne is watching him with wide eyes and a very condescending smile, Cobb looks confused and Yusuf is terrified.
Eames is nowhere to be found.
"Arthur?" Cobb starts forward but Arthur stands up and turns around, marching out of the warehouse...
… and straight into the rain. His body barely resists the impulse to come in his trousers.
<3<3<3
Eames walks into the warehouse the next morning just as Arthur is unloading an entire clip into a PASIV machine, the line of his back more rigid than usual and his jaw set in a rage that Eames rarely gets to see outside of dreamscape. (Partly because people who see that particular face on Arthur end up dead. Sometimes, Arthur brings them back as projections just so he can kill them twice.)
"Fuck you," Arthur says, apparently to all of them or the world or maybe just Eames because he throws him a particularly vicious glare as he walks out of the warehouse with clipped steps, his oxfords clicking sharply against the floor before disappearing into the torrential sound of rain.
Eames looks for any explanation other than the tragic death of Arthur's tailor. But everyone looks a bit stunned and Eames just arches an eyebrow, spreading his arms out and glancing at everyone in the room until someone snorts, everyone dissolving back into whatever they were doing before Arthur threw a bit of a fit with the pistol.
"I see I've arrived just in time."
Cobb just shakes his head, hooking his fingers around Eames' elbow and says, "Arthur is dreaming again."
Well, then.
<3<3<3
Arthur is furious with himself.
He walks three blocks in the rain before hailing a cab to his apartment. He's full of nervous energy, arousal still heightened and begging to be given the chance to explode. He ignores it.
Instead, he goes for a run.
But after three miles, he's still frazzled and frayed—and pissed about it. The shower he allows himself is cold. He spends half the shower glowering at his half-hard cock and the way it leaps when his mind strays to thoughts of Eames.
Afterwards, he bakes.
But after two batches of cupcakes and a ruined tray of soufflés, Arthur gives up.
He spreads out on his bed, closes his eyes and just... gives in. The vivid dreams come forward without prompting; the swell of Eames' arms, the wickedness of his mouth, the heat of his eyes, every curl and strain of his broad shoulders and the seductive crawl of his voice that latches and sinks into Arthur's skin like cigarette smoke.
It doesn't take long.
He takes another shower and vows to try something else in the morning because this was clearly not working.
<3<3<3
Arthur doesn't come into the warehouse the next day.
Nobody blinks.
Eames is confused and he loathes being confused.
"Does nobody care that our Point Man went a bit mad yesterday and hasn't yet shown up?"
"It's not like we don't know where he is," Ariadne says as she wrestles basal wood from Yusuf, who doesn't seem to be putting up much of a fight.
Eames looks to Cobb, who rolls his eyes and says, "He's book shopping."
"What does that mean?"
"Christ, does it matter?" Yusuf shouts when Ariadne steps on his foot.
Eames shrugs.
"Besides," Cobb adds with a slyness that is just wrong on someone that seriously squinty all the time. "I thought you had a tracker on him."
"Ha bloody ha," Eames says, but he's seriously considering the idea—if only to piss Arthur off.
Everyone gets back to work. (Well, Ariadne stabs Yusuf with a box cutter and that causes him to go back to mixing chemicals with a literal gas mask on because he claims it's safer.) Eames tries to get back to studying the forge, picking up his carefully ordered file that Arthur has left on his desk and trying not to think of the complexities that define every bit of Arthur's person.
It's Ariadne who eventually breaks him out of his glass case of emotion.
"He collects first editions."
Eames looks up. "Really?"
"Yes," she says a hint of scathing. "When he gets—"
"Miffed?"
"—upset," she finishes with an aggressive flick to his ear, "Arthur goes out and spends ridiculous amounts of money on smelly old books."
Interesting.
"Not a fan, Ariadne?"
She rolls her eyes. "I'm in college, Eames. Books give me hives."
With that, she stalks away and Eames stares after her—little hurricane that she is. Ariadne's rather beautiful, all compact in her absolute competency and her fierce curiosity that will, eventually, kill her. Eames admires the sureness she has in herself, even while exploring new things and the way she wraps herself up in scarves and sweaters, so much like Arthur, but provides the room with calm and command that comes from somewhere other than her body.
"You're a glorious woman, my love!"
She does even look over her shoulder. "I'm doing the stalking for you, Eames. Get your shit together, for Christ's sake."
"I adore you!"
She flips him off and Eames smiles, turning back to his computer to plot.
<3<3<3
The burn in Arthur's thighs hardly registers. He clings, fingers digging into the muscled girth of Eames shoulders, as he grinds down onto Eames with unfathomable pleasure. He feels too full but desperate for it. Without rhythm, he pants out gritty moans and fucks himself on Eames' cock as if he needs it.
Eames is not idle—never idle.
His hands roam, soft but determined at Arthur's hips; curling behind Arthur's neck to guide them into a kiss that changes their angle to push pleasure in every direction; massaging the burn in his thighs as the pace quickens and fluttering around to trace Arthur's stretched entrance. Never idle but also never near Arthur's leaking cock as it bobs, slapping against his stomach and he bites at whatever he can get a hold of not to beg.
"Christ, Arthur," Eames says when it gets too much and Arthur has to throw his head back and moan. It's loud in the room but it doesn't matter. Not when Eames is dragging his lips down Arthur's neck, open mouthed kisses and deep sucking marks all over his front.
Arthur moans, feeling himself get closer as Eames seems to lose whatever control he had. He snaps his hips up, hands holding Arthur's needy hips steady as he pushes up from the bed.
"Fuck, oh god," Arthur can hear himself speaking but it's distant, as if being said far away in a dream. He clutches at Eames' hair, sweaty and disheveled, and holds his head where it's sucking a hickey onto his ribs.
It seems to drag on, each thrust dizzying in pleasure and soon Eames' moans, soft and small, join Arthur's. It's only a few more thrusts before Eames is coming. His hips jackknife off the bed, causing all the breath to rush out of Arthur's chest in a half-scream as Eames moans into the skin of Arthur's ribs.
Arthur rides through the orgasm, so close to his own.
It isn't until Eames's fucking perfect hands reach back to trace his hole, one finger slipping in and the other hand coming away slick that Arthur realizes that Eames isn't wearing a condom.
"Oh fuck," Arthur says. Eames smiles, blissed out, and drags the come over both of their lips as his other hand replaces his softening cock with three fingers.
Eames smashes their mouths together. Their kiss tastes like come and Arthur rides his fingers hard, shoving them up inside of him until Eames' presses, twisting and never giving way so that Arthur is coming—
Arthur wakes up in the middle of his orgasm.
He jolts awake, his hand coming to clutch at his cock as it jerks in his briefs and soaks them. It's a painful orgasm that rips through his chest and buries in his belly like it wants to punish him. He rides it out, little involuntary twitches of his hips, until he's spent and tired and acutely aware of his own self-loathing.
For the first time in a long time, when Arthur rolls his die and it comes up with a one, he's disappointed in reality.
"Goddammit."
<3<3<3
Eames tails Arthur through the streets of Paris because it's too easy. Arthur's obviously distracted, which is fine because Eames has his back, but if Eames wasn't here then Arthur would be exceedingly vulnerable.
At least, that's what he manufacturers as an excuse in case anyone asks.
Not that Arthur can't take care of himself. He's demonstrated startling hand-to-hand combat for such a scrawny thing.
It totally turns Eames on.
Arthur is wandering through a very busy street, appearing aimless and tense but Eames knows his destination is just another two blocks east. Arthur takes his time picking through the street market, tasting fruit and buying things if they please him.
Eames salivates a lot.
"Eames," he says into his phone when it vibrates. He's watching Arthur look at scarves.
"How's the stalking going?"
"Very well, Ariadne. Thanks for phoning to check in."
She snorts across the line. "What's he doing now?"
"Buying you a scarf."
"Ooo! I bet it's hot," she says with excitement. "Arthur has awesome taste."
"What is it with Americans and that word?"
"What word?"
"Awesome," Eames mocks in his best dizzy-blonde, American accent.
"Dude, no one cares what you think."
Eames smiles, watching Arthur pick out a lovely green and gold scarf with an intricate design. It's gorgeous, true, but Eames is more distracted with the way that Arthur holds the scarf to his face, running the material over his hands as if testing if it's soft enough for Ariadne's neck.
"Well, is it an awesome scarf or what?"
Eames laughs. "It's dreadful. It's an eye-sore!"
"You're a liar."
"But a pretty one," Eames says, sliding behind a booth to pay for some aviator sunglasses. They look fetching on him and if he's going to stalk Arthur, he might as well look good doing it. "Did you call for anything important, little girl?"
"Nah, just wanted to harass you and make fun of your big-boy crush."
"I'm offended," he says, deadpan. "Don't make me describe my very adult fascination with our dear Arthur."
"Yeah, yeah, we all know how much you want him to go all OCD on you in the bedroom."
Eames is torn between laughing and defending his honor.
"Don't even try and deny it," she says as he chokes on his tongue with laughter. "You're such a filthy bottom for Arthur's suspenders."
He watches Arthur turn the corner and head into the shop, French scrawling across the awning and a tiny bell jingling over the boom of the street. It's positively enthralling.
"They're called braces, love," he says distractedly.
"You're watching his ass now, aren't you?"
"Arse," Eames corrects. "I'm watching his arse and it's maddeningly arousing."
"Gross. I'm over it," she says. "Don't make Arthur kill you, it would be hell to find a forger halfway through a job and I'm not dealing with a cranky Arthur."
"I'm telling him you said that, love."
"Bite me," she says, hanging up.
Eames pockets his mobile, smile wide, and settles in with his binoculars at the bistro across the street. He can't go inside because Arthur will know, probably by his bloody footsteps that it's him. Instead, he'll just have to spy on the titles while having a bit of brunch.
<3<3<3
Three bookstores later and Arthur needs a fucking drink.
"What do you mean you sold it?"
He's five seconds from leaning across the counter and bashing the old man's head into the marble. This is absolutely ridiculous.
"I sold twenty-minutes ago," the man says, his English choppy but much better than his French. Arthur feels a vein in his head bulge.
"You sold À rebours?"
"Against grain, yes? Against nature?"
"Even after I called and told you I was coming to pick it up?"
The man shrugs his shoulders. "Sorry?"
Arthur walks out before he kills someone.
There's a small cafe just down the street and Arthur rushes in for an espresso because this was supposed to be a relaxing experience. When he heard that someone had been holding a first edition copy of Joris-Karl Huysmans' À rebours, he'd been ecstatic to get his hands on it. But after two false leads and then to find out that that idiot sold it after Arthur had called ahead, offering a ridiculous price—well, it turns out that even his hobby is turning against him.
First his dreams, now his books! It's fucking anarchy.
He settles down into the chair, steaming espresso with its charming chocolate covered espresso bean sitting in the tiny little spoon nestled inside his hand. It's lovely. He inhales deeply, smelling coffee and busy Paris all around him.
It takes all of five minutes of this small happiness before it's yanked away from him.
The smack of the book on the table startles him enough to grab the wrist of the person who's dropped the book. À rebours stares mockingly back up at him.
He digs his fingernails into flesh of Eames' wrist.
"Now, before you kill me, which I'm sure will be very arousing, I'd like to offer a truce."
Arthur doesn't let go because he's still feeling wrathful. Mostly because Eames is looking sensational. His shirt is only slightly irritating but his suspenders are mouthwatering, his trousers slate gray and gorgeous—and he's also wearing aviator sunglasses.
He looks stupidly gorgeous—dashing even—and Arthur wants to kill him.
Or fuck his brains out.
"You stole my book."
Eames, thankfully, doesn't argue.
"I did," he says with a soft smile. "Only because I've been tailing you all day—"
"You fucking creeper!"
"—and when I finally pin-pointed exactly what you were looking for, I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to steal from you, or the chance to see your lovely face."
Arthur considers him.
"What sort of truce?"
"Darling," Eames says, twisting their hands so that Eames can stroke Arthur's wrist in a very distracting way. "If you forgive me, we can sit down for tea and you can bore me with French decadence culture, while I force you into playing footsie."
Arthur takes a deep breath.
"What do I get out of it?"
Eames' face is hard to read, soft smile still playing at the corner's of his mouth. But then a switch is flicked and Arthur's hard embarrassingly quickly, as pure wickedness flickers off Eames' face. He leans down, smelling like cologne and dusty books that should not turn Arthur on but does.
"We'll get rid of those dreams of yours, yeah?"
Arthur inhales harshly.
"How—"
But then Eames is actually nuzzling his face. His forehead presses steady against Arthur's temple, his nose rubbing against the line of his cheek and he inhales, moaning softly and needy against Arthur's skin.
"How about it?" Eames' voice is still silky but stripped bare, almost vulnerable in a way that digs underneath Arthur's skin.
Arthur gives.
"Sit down," he says neutrally, trying to ignore the way Eames lingers and brushes his lips in a barely-there kiss across Arthur's cheek. It sends a shiver down his spine and, god, Arthur has never wanted Eames this badly—never the whole of him before, like this.
"All right then," Eames says, settling himself down in the chair and popping Arthur's espresso bean in his mouth. "Tell me all about decadence."
Eames wiggles his eyebrows, lighting up his entire face with mischief and it takes all of Arthur's will power not to strangle him. Instead, he thumbs the worn edge of Huysman's.
He wonders, abstractly, which one of them is the turtle.
<3<3<3
There isn't much footsie, much to Eames' disappointment and Arthur's delight. There is, however, a great deal of thigh groping and Eames spends most of the afternoon seeing how fresh he can get with Arthur in public before one of two things happen: Arthur wounds him or Arthur manhandles him into a more private place.
They're gone before two, not an hour later, and Eames is limping.
<3<3<3
The next day, Arthur brings in a new PASIV.
It's shiny, which Ariadne likes.
Yusuf appreciates the new tubing.
Cobb is glad no one’s shooting in his damn warehouse anymore.
And Eames is smug, sitting very gingerly in his seat until Ariadne throws him a pink donut pillow, smirks at his discomfort and sticks out her tongue when Arthur brings her coffee, completely bypassing Eames' leer.
"Where's my tea, love?"
Arthur looks up from his moleskin without expression. "Oh, I must have forgot."
"Well, you certain didn't forget last night when—"
"Eames, your dick is obviously forgettable, "Ariadne shoots back. Eames feigns scandal.
"I will end you, little girl."
"Bring it, bitch."
Cobb is panicked, like he might cry at any minute—like his dream is collapsing. Yusuf, predictably, has a look on his face that suggests that this is better than stealing cable.
"Ladies," Arthur says sarcastically, "you're both pretty. Now, get back to work."
Ariadne smiles sharply at Eames over Arthur's shoulder as he goes over her plans. Eames grumbles, rearranging himself on his donut pillow and trying not to admire the long lines of Arthur's spine as he leans over. Sure, let Arthur ignore him off for the teenager.
After lunch, Arthur drags Eames into the bathroom to make it up to him.
… with a blowjob.
When Eames' brain has sufficiently turned to mush and Arthur's licking into his mouth, tasting like come and coffee, there is little left to say. (Well, other than the really inappropriate: if you like my dick so much, put a ring on it.)
"No more dreams, I take it," Eames says into Arthur's mouth.
Arthur rolls his eyes. "You know there aren't," he says with a nip.
Eames can't help but be more than pleased with himself, moving to cup Arthur's cock through his still pristine trousers. Even after spending a quality amount of time on his knees! Eames has no idea how he does it.
"Reality always trumps dreams," Eames says, even though that's Arthur's saying.
Arthur grinds his erection into Eames' hand, arches an elegant eyebrow and says, "Prove it."
Eames does.
<3<3 The End <3<3
I ♥ you.
Carry on
Rating: R to NC-17 (REALITY IS A FICKLE THING KIDS)
Summary: Arthur has inner lesbian rage or a fic in which dreams are really fucking with Arthur's delicate repression.
Word Count: 6,450
Warnings: Sex, lots of cursing, violence, casual treatment of stalking/crime, alternating POVs, French decadence and a pretty BAMF!Ariadne. There might be some crack... if you squint.
Notes:
thisissirius asked for coming untouched and kissing in the rain and I wrote this based on those prompts. I hope she likes this, even if Eames isn't her favorite character. ♥ Thanks to ravyn_ashling for betaing this for me. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own. "Get me a cuppa, yeah?"
Arthur nods, his eyes fixated on the way Eames chews on the end of his pen. He's completely mutilating Arthur's carefully purchased warehouse supplies and for some reason, he doesn't care.
He should care.
Arthur wakes up, sweat rolling down his face as if he's run a few miles somewhere near the equator. He blinks into the darkness of his hotel room. He can hear the soft hum of the air conditioner and a light shines from underneath the door that leads to the sitting room where Dom is watching TV and denying insomnia.
They're in Moscow. Doing a job. Because Mal's dead.
Arthur blinks in the darkness and takes three slow breaths, pulling his gun from underneath his pillow to the safe cradle of his hands. He sits up, reaching into the drawer of the nightstand.
The dice clatters across the top.
One.
Arthur puts his gun back underneath the pillow but doesn't lie down, his head pounds and something like anger sizzles in the pit of his stomach. He breathes deeply, fighting the impulse to reach for his pistol again. There isn't any danger here that isn't strictly internal.
This isn't a dream they can shoot themselves out of.
He opens the door to the sitting room and goes to watch TMZ with Dom blinking owlishly beside him. Later, when Arthur is burning his notes and checking on their flight to meet with Cobol Engineering, he sees the postcard from Mombasa.
It's devoid of a message. The only thing present is Arthur's name and their current location. Arthur can practically feel the heat rolling off the sloppy, practically illegible scrawl of Eames' handwriting.
He tosses it in the burn bag and doesn't give a flying fuck when it all goes up in flames.
Eames would be lying if he said he took the job for Cobb.
As far as Eames is concerned, Cobb is a cushy bastard that has had all the time in the world to realize that dreamsharing is not a field for intellectuals. Not that he's saying Cobb's wife deserved to take the tumble off the roof of sanity, but he can't say he's surprised. Cobb's always been naïve and Eames has never had any time for their particular brand of bullshit.
But when he hears that Cobb is on the run with Arthur pulling the strings to get him into the despot side of life, he might have bought a canister of tea leaves with a flagged credit card just to let Arthur know that he's watching.
Not that Arthur's pert arse and scathing commentary isn't enough to get Eames onto a job only, because it most certainly is, but rumor is that Cobol is out for blood and Eames has a thing for guns topside. Well, he has a thing for Arthur's guns topside.
Pun completely intended.
--which is why he brings a bagel with a thin slice of salmon to the warehouse on the first day, brushing his hand up against Arthur's Dunhill-clad elbow and inhaling the subtle smell of Arthur in Paris.
It's totally worth it when he's been flipped on his back with a gun pressed into his face and Arthur's passive, murder-snarl is peeking along the sleek slide of the gun barrel.
"Darling, do you mind passing me the oil?"
Arthur scowls at Eames' blinding leer but passes the oil anyway. There's nothing else going on in the warehouse but the soft murmur of Ariadne's drawing. Dom and Yusuf are discussing sedatives in a different room and has left Arthur with Eames as obvious torture for taking the last cup of coffee.
Eames is cleaning his gun.
It's not Arthur's choice weapon, the Browning High Power 9mm is an older model and tends to jam a bit, but Eames loves it. Arthur recognizes its military model number (L9A1) and would bet a decent amount of money that it's the exact same gun that Eames was issued in his SAS service. If anyone else had brought the gun on, Arthur would have replaced it immediately. But with proper care, the 9mm is a perfectly acceptable firearm—and proper care is exactly what Eames is giving it now. He tilts the bottle, his large hands shiny from the oil on the outside of the container, and lets the slickness dribble over the steel before chasing after the droplets with a cloth.
His lip is caught between his teeth and he’s fucking gnawing on it.
Arthur's so hard in his trousers, he's sure he's leaking a stain into the front of his suit pants. But he can't seem to help himself, as Eames slicks the well oiled gun up and tends to the maintenance with care and pleasure that Arthur can practically feel his own Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver in his hands. (He never brings it on jobs but he loves that gun as much as he loves his mother. He's not afraid to admit that.)
His moan breaks the tentative silence in the room but Eames keeps cleaning his gun, fingers wetslick with gun oil and glistening in the light of the warehouse. Arthur finds himself pressing his hand to the front of his trousers and cupping the hard line of his erection through several layers of fabric. It's hot and he's panting. When Eames looks up, he sucks hard on his swollen bottom lip and Arthur's hips buck just slightly into his palm.
Eames grins, leans forward in his chair and slips two oil slick fingers into Arthur's mouth.
Arthur wakes.
He rolls the dice on the nightstand and shucks off his briefs as the same time. The one of his loaded die glows in the moonlight. The orgasm that rips out of him is catastrophic, his hips fly off the bed and his head snaps back into a moan that wrenches out of his chest without his permission. When he opens his eyes, he drags his fingers through the come on his chest and sees Eames' oil-slick hand clearly in his mind.
He gives himself a moment to chastise himself before he stalks to the shower and scrubs himself pink. He doesn't breathe a single word to Eames the next day and goes to the shooting range instead... for "research".
Eames watches Arthur shoot at the well-trained military projections and sighs. He really is a lovely sight, trussed up in a leather jacket and looking positively delirious with rage. Eames can't imagine what's going through the man's head but he's sure the dressing down Cobb gave him is nothing compared to his own subconscious.
Eames idly wonders if the Jewish guilt only pertains to Cobb-like issues.
The scowl appears on Arthur's face, all crinkly and Eames can't resist sidling up to him and dreaming up his own lovely grenade-launcher.
Even in dreams, Arthur smells beyond delicious.
When Arthur wakes up, the first thing he thinks of is Mal.
He thinks of her smile, soft and perfect—how Phillipa has the exact same smile. He thinks of James' face over Skype when Arthur allows himself the pleasure of speaking to Miles, who always lets the children around, even if his wife glowers at Arthur the entire time Phillipa goes on about the taste of crepes.
He blinks open his eyes, making eye contact with everyone and silently counting in his head. He knows it's just seconds here, but down there it's hours and the shiver that runs down his spine is chilling. Everyone avoids Fischer's eyes and Arthur has to force himself from staring at Cobb and willing him to wake up.
When he does wake up, obviously startled and scared shitless, Arthur can't help but notice that the only person not looking from Cobb to Saito is Eames.
Eames is looking directly at him, his eyes crinkled in soft delight and his smile nowhere near discreet.
Arthur buckles his seat belt and tries to calm his breathing as he listens to Saito speak in rushed Japanese over the phone, before switching to English and then back to Japanese. Arthur can't process anything around him but his body sits back into the chair and stares down as LAX appears from below. He thinks about what he'll do if Saito lied; he thinks about the smell of Saito's blood and the panicked look on Cobb's face when Eames almost shot him, he thinks about the softness of Ariadne's lips or the way they all looked as they floated lazily in the hotel room as Arthur's heart panicked while his mind did the math—he thinks about how he's never broken someone out of prison before but he's fairly sure Eames has.
Cobb walks through security and Arthur clutches his totem in the pocket of his pants. He knows these are the dreams he'll never forget, even if he wants to—even if he never wakes up.
He catches a taxi and settles in for the ride to his empty apartment. His phone rings shortly after giving the cabbie his address and Arthur frowns as he pulls it out and answers with a curt, "Arthur."
"You know when I said dream a little bigger, darling, I was hoping you'd make the connection to my cock," a very English and deplorable voice says across the line.
"How did you get this number?" Arthur asks but it's without heat. Eames takes his tone to heart.
"You're very bright, dear heart, but I just wanted to be very clear," Eames continues over the line. "I do want you."
Arthur snorts, stopping the laughter short. He doesn't find Eames charming; he's just running on adrenaline, Mal's memory and the figures trickling into several of his offshore bank accounts.
"Eames, I don't have time for this."
Eames tuts, his mouth suddenly blooming into Arthur's memory. "Do you have time for a little wooing?"
"You're ridiculous."
"I think you mean fetching, you dapper-son-of-a-bitch," Eames laughs over the line and Arthur hears the clinking of ice in glass.
"Going to get drunk and spill all our secrets?"
"Wouldn't even dream of it," Eames says. "Just waiting for my flight across the pond."
"Back home so soon?"
Arthur frowns at himself when he finds disappointment creeping into his tone.
"America bores me."
There's a pause.
"Americans on the other hand, delight me."
Arthur shakes his head and looks out of the cab. He'll only be in LA for a few days before going back to his real apartment, just until he can sort out if they've caught a tail or if Cobol still plans on killing them—or just to watch Fischer and cross his fingers that for once, for once in Cobb's goddamned life, they were lucky.
"I'm hanging up now," Arthur says into the phone.
"So soon," Eames very nearly purrs across the line. "Enjoy your gift, darling."
Eames has disconnected before Arthur can reply.
Arthur lies in wait, almost expecting Eames to have sold them out for money but four days later he's packing up his things, getting ready to leave his bare LA apartment when a knock comes to the door. Arthur looks at his suitcase, nods and then grabs his gun. No one is supposed to know this address.
The safety is clicked off when the knock comes again.
"Coming," Arthur says casually as he screws on his silencer.
"Delivery!"
Arthur narrows his eyes and opens the door with a false smile. A boy, not over seventeen, is staring back at him with a huge box on a dolly. He looks unimpressed.
Arthur narrows his eyes and tries to keep his gun out of sight. "Yes?"
"Delivery," the boy says dully. "Are you Arthur Darling?"
Arthur points the barrel of his gun directly at the boy. "Excuse me?"
The delivery boy trembles before swearing and taking off in the opposite direction of the elevator, leaving Arthur to decide whether or not to shoot him for interrogation. He doesn't, but when he looks down, the box is still there and it might be a bomb for all he knows.
Eames isn't known for his gifts.
Arthur stares at it for a while before he ties one end of some string to the box, takes the other end and walks to the end of the hall to situate himself behind the stairwell door. He breathes four full breaths before yanking on the string.
Nothing happens.
He yanks again but nothing spectacular happens and so, with much apprehension, Arthur drags the box into the apartment and opens it.
Only to find an entirely disassembled M32 grenade-launcher, serial number filed off and a gigantic red bow tied around its various parts. Despite himself, Arthur laughs and it feels like it's the first time in years.
Eames smiles when Yusuf appears in his doorway.
"Eames," he says with an excited air of someone who has a secret. Eames loves secrets. "What are you doing?"
"Honestly?"
Yusuf pauses, his cheeks puffing out before he says, "Yes, although I suspect I'm going to regret it."
Eames pushes the enter key on his laptop with a flourish and spins around to face him. "I'm re-programming all of Arthur's security codes in his apartment."
"Again?"
"He deserves to spend the day outside today," Eames says with a grin. "Paris is lovely today and he works far too hard."
"You are a creepy stalker."
"Stalker? Such a harsh term."
"Seriously, if you hadn't already fixated on someone, I might have sedated you for life after first meeting you," Yusuf says seriously, walking in and taking a seat on the couch. "You're perverted."
"Patient in love," Eames replies with a shake of his finger. "Wooing is terribly serious business."
Yusuf laughs, rearranges himself on the coach and then pops his head up to glare at Eames. "Don't you want to know why I'm about?"
Eames raises his eyebrows. Yusuf curses.
"You bloody-"
"Now, darling, don't be mad-"
"You already fucking knew! You always know everything and I don't ever get to have any surprises. Ever."
"But I booked us first class flights," Eames says and jumps over the coach, making kissing noises and waving his hands around placating while Yusuf flails in half-arsed anger.
Arthur feels fury curl in his gut when he wakes from another dream.
This time, it was just Eames' voice trickling across his ear and folding over his skin like a poker player pocketing cards. It was silky but rough from London smog and the occasional cigarette to appease an oral fixation but the dream felt so close to reality, the way Eames' consonants tripped over his vowels to catch up—a constant game of cat-and-mouse that left Arthur hard upon waking.
"Fuck," he growls when he stares at the clock, before shoving his hand down his briefs and stroking himself with short, angry strokes.
He comes, spilling over his hand in soundless gasps, but he's far from happy about it.
The job is routine.
It's standard militarization for some French somebody or another, Eames could honestly care less. The dreams are boring and the man's projections are downright tedious in their mediocrity—even Yusuf looks bored and he's been experimenting with explosive chemicals to fit into watch compartments. He's certainly more of the Queen's servant than Eames had previously given him credit.
Eames, however, couldn't care less.
Because it's raining in Paris.
Arthur carries his simple black umbrella (equipped with his own detachable shanking handle) around the city whenever he goes out, his notebook tucked into his breast pocket and a certain air of distain laced with pleasure about his person. It's partly because Arthur fancies Paris quite a lot. Eames knows that he has a flat somewhere in the city because Arthur wears a completely different suit every day, comes in with warm croissants and speaks in soft French that Eames knows he learned from Mrs. Cobb.
The rumor has it that Arthur and Mal were involved in a torrid affair but Eames would bet the house that Arthur lost a best friend, a sister—a mother—over a lover.
Paris holds little delight for Eames, except for the fact that it's raining and it has no plans to stop in the forecast. Which means that Arthur—dear, practical Arthur—has given up slicking his hair back and lets his hair fall freely into his eyes.
It's completely distracting.
Combined with the way Arthur's shoes squeak, enough for him to remove them and pad around in his (always color coded to outfit) argyle socks, his transparently damp clothes and the tender curl of his hair, Eames is thoroughly besotted with this unencumbered Arthur.
"It's nice, isn't it?"
Eames looks up from his perch, where he is stirring milk into his tea and watching Arthur roll up his shirt-sleeves. "What's that, child?"
Ariadne sticks her tongue out. "It's nice to see Arthur so relaxed," she says with a tilt of her head and some fairly expressive movements with her eyebrows. "He looks rather darling, doesn't he."
"Stop trying to imitate my flare of elegance."
"Stop mooning over him like a twelve year old girl," Ariadne spits back. She doesn't look nasty but her bored expression means that his bullshit is not welcome.
She must've spent the morning listening to Cobb's brand of foolishness.
"Well yes," Eames finally sighs out. "He does look like a rather well-constructed wank fantasy, doesn't he?"
Ariadne laughs. "You're a moron."
"I prefer simpleton, pet."
But then something shifts on her face and Eames feels very, very uncomfortable. She shakes her head and says, "No, it's not that... it's just, he's much more than that, eh?"
She's gone before he can make any chance of a reply.
They're both sodden wet, their clothes clinging to them as they press up against the cold exterior of the building. All Arthur feels is heat, even though he knows the rain is cool on his feverish skin and nothing, nothing could possibly be this warm but Eames' mouth feels as spiking hot as radiation when he latches onto Arthur's neck and sucks.
Arthur gasps, his back arcing and forcing their hips together. There is so much heat between their bodies as rain pours down all around them. It's steady, endless and as Arthur blinks through the pattern it feels wrong against his face. He pants, watching the water run everywhere, and his fingers twist, spindle like, into the sopping fabric of Eames' purple checkered shirt.
"So lovely," Eames says against his neck, and then they're kissing. It's sloppy and nearly as desperate as Arthur feels. Eames' tongue strokes more than it demands, caressing the top of Arthur's mouth with every roll of his hips and licking his teeth with tender flicks of a wicked tongue.
"Eames," he gasps into Eames' rain-wet mouth, their lips slotting and dislocating together in rhythmic passes that make his fingers spasm and clutch their bodies closer with every roll of Eames' hips. Arthur moans, throaty and unreal in its clarity above the rain, when Eames shifts and the wide expanse of his massive thigh thrusts up press up against Arthur's hardened cock. "It's hot," Arthur murmurs incoherently as Eames sucks on his tongue.
It seems to stretch for days, time lengthening as Eames ruts against him with desperate hitches of his hips, even as their kiss stays languid and intimate, without turning filthy. Arthur pants into Eames' mouth when he can, inhaling sweet rain and Earl Grey tea and some sort of lip balm.
"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," Eames chants and then he's coming, his teeth latching onto Arthur's bottom lip and his hips spasming in thrusts as he comes, spilling in streaks all over Arthur's trousers.
In the haze, Arthur knows that Eames has always had trousers on. He remembers the feel of the drenched wool but now they're nowhere to be found, just the length of his still twitching cock and the patter of the rain as it cascades between them to mix with Eames' come that is drenching Arthur's front.
Eames's hands (where had they been before?) settle on either side of Arthur's face, cupping his cheeks and pressing firmly. His breath shutters between them and the rain slides into Arthur's eyes.
"Arthur," Eames says and he sounds broken.
He wakes with a gasp, rolling over as arousal hits the heat of his belly with a force that almost nauseates him. He falls of the couch gasping, curling in on his body and heavy with breath. It's only when he looks up that he realizes that Ariadne is watching him with wide eyes and a very condescending smile, Cobb looks confused and Yusuf is terrified.
Eames is nowhere to be found.
"Arthur?" Cobb starts forward but Arthur stands up and turns around, marching out of the warehouse...
… and straight into the rain. His body barely resists the impulse to come in his trousers.
Eames walks into the warehouse the next morning just as Arthur is unloading an entire clip into a PASIV machine, the line of his back more rigid than usual and his jaw set in a rage that Eames rarely gets to see outside of dreamscape. (Partly because people who see that particular face on Arthur end up dead. Sometimes, Arthur brings them back as projections just so he can kill them twice.)
"Fuck you," Arthur says, apparently to all of them or the world or maybe just Eames because he throws him a particularly vicious glare as he walks out of the warehouse with clipped steps, his oxfords clicking sharply against the floor before disappearing into the torrential sound of rain.
Eames looks for any explanation other than the tragic death of Arthur's tailor. But everyone looks a bit stunned and Eames just arches an eyebrow, spreading his arms out and glancing at everyone in the room until someone snorts, everyone dissolving back into whatever they were doing before Arthur threw a bit of a fit with the pistol.
"I see I've arrived just in time."
Cobb just shakes his head, hooking his fingers around Eames' elbow and says, "Arthur is dreaming again."
Well, then.
Arthur is furious with himself.
He walks three blocks in the rain before hailing a cab to his apartment. He's full of nervous energy, arousal still heightened and begging to be given the chance to explode. He ignores it.
Instead, he goes for a run.
But after three miles, he's still frazzled and frayed—and pissed about it. The shower he allows himself is cold. He spends half the shower glowering at his half-hard cock and the way it leaps when his mind strays to thoughts of Eames.
Afterwards, he bakes.
But after two batches of cupcakes and a ruined tray of soufflés, Arthur gives up.
He spreads out on his bed, closes his eyes and just... gives in. The vivid dreams come forward without prompting; the swell of Eames' arms, the wickedness of his mouth, the heat of his eyes, every curl and strain of his broad shoulders and the seductive crawl of his voice that latches and sinks into Arthur's skin like cigarette smoke.
It doesn't take long.
He takes another shower and vows to try something else in the morning because this was clearly not working.
Arthur doesn't come into the warehouse the next day.
Nobody blinks.
Eames is confused and he loathes being confused.
"Does nobody care that our Point Man went a bit mad yesterday and hasn't yet shown up?"
"It's not like we don't know where he is," Ariadne says as she wrestles basal wood from Yusuf, who doesn't seem to be putting up much of a fight.
Eames looks to Cobb, who rolls his eyes and says, "He's book shopping."
"What does that mean?"
"Christ, does it matter?" Yusuf shouts when Ariadne steps on his foot.
Eames shrugs.
"Besides," Cobb adds with a slyness that is just wrong on someone that seriously squinty all the time. "I thought you had a tracker on him."
"Ha bloody ha," Eames says, but he's seriously considering the idea—if only to piss Arthur off.
Everyone gets back to work. (Well, Ariadne stabs Yusuf with a box cutter and that causes him to go back to mixing chemicals with a literal gas mask on because he claims it's safer.) Eames tries to get back to studying the forge, picking up his carefully ordered file that Arthur has left on his desk and trying not to think of the complexities that define every bit of Arthur's person.
It's Ariadne who eventually breaks him out of his glass case of emotion.
"He collects first editions."
Eames looks up. "Really?"
"Yes," she says a hint of scathing. "When he gets—"
"Miffed?"
"—upset," she finishes with an aggressive flick to his ear, "Arthur goes out and spends ridiculous amounts of money on smelly old books."
Interesting.
"Not a fan, Ariadne?"
She rolls her eyes. "I'm in college, Eames. Books give me hives."
With that, she stalks away and Eames stares after her—little hurricane that she is. Ariadne's rather beautiful, all compact in her absolute competency and her fierce curiosity that will, eventually, kill her. Eames admires the sureness she has in herself, even while exploring new things and the way she wraps herself up in scarves and sweaters, so much like Arthur, but provides the room with calm and command that comes from somewhere other than her body.
"You're a glorious woman, my love!"
She does even look over her shoulder. "I'm doing the stalking for you, Eames. Get your shit together, for Christ's sake."
"I adore you!"
She flips him off and Eames smiles, turning back to his computer to plot.
The burn in Arthur's thighs hardly registers. He clings, fingers digging into the muscled girth of Eames shoulders, as he grinds down onto Eames with unfathomable pleasure. He feels too full but desperate for it. Without rhythm, he pants out gritty moans and fucks himself on Eames' cock as if he needs it.
Eames is not idle—never idle.
His hands roam, soft but determined at Arthur's hips; curling behind Arthur's neck to guide them into a kiss that changes their angle to push pleasure in every direction; massaging the burn in his thighs as the pace quickens and fluttering around to trace Arthur's stretched entrance. Never idle but also never near Arthur's leaking cock as it bobs, slapping against his stomach and he bites at whatever he can get a hold of not to beg.
"Christ, Arthur," Eames says when it gets too much and Arthur has to throw his head back and moan. It's loud in the room but it doesn't matter. Not when Eames is dragging his lips down Arthur's neck, open mouthed kisses and deep sucking marks all over his front.
Arthur moans, feeling himself get closer as Eames seems to lose whatever control he had. He snaps his hips up, hands holding Arthur's needy hips steady as he pushes up from the bed.
"Fuck, oh god," Arthur can hear himself speaking but it's distant, as if being said far away in a dream. He clutches at Eames' hair, sweaty and disheveled, and holds his head where it's sucking a hickey onto his ribs.
It seems to drag on, each thrust dizzying in pleasure and soon Eames' moans, soft and small, join Arthur's. It's only a few more thrusts before Eames is coming. His hips jackknife off the bed, causing all the breath to rush out of Arthur's chest in a half-scream as Eames moans into the skin of Arthur's ribs.
Arthur rides through the orgasm, so close to his own.
It isn't until Eames's fucking perfect hands reach back to trace his hole, one finger slipping in and the other hand coming away slick that Arthur realizes that Eames isn't wearing a condom.
"Oh fuck," Arthur says. Eames smiles, blissed out, and drags the come over both of their lips as his other hand replaces his softening cock with three fingers.
Eames smashes their mouths together. Their kiss tastes like come and Arthur rides his fingers hard, shoving them up inside of him until Eames' presses, twisting and never giving way so that Arthur is coming—
Arthur wakes up in the middle of his orgasm.
He jolts awake, his hand coming to clutch at his cock as it jerks in his briefs and soaks them. It's a painful orgasm that rips through his chest and buries in his belly like it wants to punish him. He rides it out, little involuntary twitches of his hips, until he's spent and tired and acutely aware of his own self-loathing.
For the first time in a long time, when Arthur rolls his die and it comes up with a one, he's disappointed in reality.
"Goddammit."
Eames tails Arthur through the streets of Paris because it's too easy. Arthur's obviously distracted, which is fine because Eames has his back, but if Eames wasn't here then Arthur would be exceedingly vulnerable.
At least, that's what he manufacturers as an excuse in case anyone asks.
Not that Arthur can't take care of himself. He's demonstrated startling hand-to-hand combat for such a scrawny thing.
It totally turns Eames on.
Arthur is wandering through a very busy street, appearing aimless and tense but Eames knows his destination is just another two blocks east. Arthur takes his time picking through the street market, tasting fruit and buying things if they please him.
Eames salivates a lot.
"Eames," he says into his phone when it vibrates. He's watching Arthur look at scarves.
"How's the stalking going?"
"Very well, Ariadne. Thanks for phoning to check in."
She snorts across the line. "What's he doing now?"
"Buying you a scarf."
"Ooo! I bet it's hot," she says with excitement. "Arthur has awesome taste."
"What is it with Americans and that word?"
"What word?"
"Awesome," Eames mocks in his best dizzy-blonde, American accent.
"Dude, no one cares what you think."
Eames smiles, watching Arthur pick out a lovely green and gold scarf with an intricate design. It's gorgeous, true, but Eames is more distracted with the way that Arthur holds the scarf to his face, running the material over his hands as if testing if it's soft enough for Ariadne's neck.
"Well, is it an awesome scarf or what?"
Eames laughs. "It's dreadful. It's an eye-sore!"
"You're a liar."
"But a pretty one," Eames says, sliding behind a booth to pay for some aviator sunglasses. They look fetching on him and if he's going to stalk Arthur, he might as well look good doing it. "Did you call for anything important, little girl?"
"Nah, just wanted to harass you and make fun of your big-boy crush."
"I'm offended," he says, deadpan. "Don't make me describe my very adult fascination with our dear Arthur."
"Yeah, yeah, we all know how much you want him to go all OCD on you in the bedroom."
Eames is torn between laughing and defending his honor.
"Don't even try and deny it," she says as he chokes on his tongue with laughter. "You're such a filthy bottom for Arthur's suspenders."
He watches Arthur turn the corner and head into the shop, French scrawling across the awning and a tiny bell jingling over the boom of the street. It's positively enthralling.
"They're called braces, love," he says distractedly.
"You're watching his ass now, aren't you?"
"Arse," Eames corrects. "I'm watching his arse and it's maddeningly arousing."
"Gross. I'm over it," she says. "Don't make Arthur kill you, it would be hell to find a forger halfway through a job and I'm not dealing with a cranky Arthur."
"I'm telling him you said that, love."
"Bite me," she says, hanging up.
Eames pockets his mobile, smile wide, and settles in with his binoculars at the bistro across the street. He can't go inside because Arthur will know, probably by his bloody footsteps that it's him. Instead, he'll just have to spy on the titles while having a bit of brunch.
Three bookstores later and Arthur needs a fucking drink.
"What do you mean you sold it?"
He's five seconds from leaning across the counter and bashing the old man's head into the marble. This is absolutely ridiculous.
"I sold twenty-minutes ago," the man says, his English choppy but much better than his French. Arthur feels a vein in his head bulge.
"You sold À rebours?"
"Against grain, yes? Against nature?"
"Even after I called and told you I was coming to pick it up?"
The man shrugs his shoulders. "Sorry?"
Arthur walks out before he kills someone.
There's a small cafe just down the street and Arthur rushes in for an espresso because this was supposed to be a relaxing experience. When he heard that someone had been holding a first edition copy of Joris-Karl Huysmans' À rebours, he'd been ecstatic to get his hands on it. But after two false leads and then to find out that that idiot sold it after Arthur had called ahead, offering a ridiculous price—well, it turns out that even his hobby is turning against him.
First his dreams, now his books! It's fucking anarchy.
He settles down into the chair, steaming espresso with its charming chocolate covered espresso bean sitting in the tiny little spoon nestled inside his hand. It's lovely. He inhales deeply, smelling coffee and busy Paris all around him.
It takes all of five minutes of this small happiness before it's yanked away from him.
The smack of the book on the table startles him enough to grab the wrist of the person who's dropped the book. À rebours stares mockingly back up at him.
He digs his fingernails into flesh of Eames' wrist.
"Now, before you kill me, which I'm sure will be very arousing, I'd like to offer a truce."
Arthur doesn't let go because he's still feeling wrathful. Mostly because Eames is looking sensational. His shirt is only slightly irritating but his suspenders are mouthwatering, his trousers slate gray and gorgeous—and he's also wearing aviator sunglasses.
He looks stupidly gorgeous—dashing even—and Arthur wants to kill him.
Or fuck his brains out.
"You stole my book."
Eames, thankfully, doesn't argue.
"I did," he says with a soft smile. "Only because I've been tailing you all day—"
"You fucking creeper!"
"—and when I finally pin-pointed exactly what you were looking for, I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to steal from you, or the chance to see your lovely face."
Arthur considers him.
"What sort of truce?"
"Darling," Eames says, twisting their hands so that Eames can stroke Arthur's wrist in a very distracting way. "If you forgive me, we can sit down for tea and you can bore me with French decadence culture, while I force you into playing footsie."
Arthur takes a deep breath.
"What do I get out of it?"
Eames' face is hard to read, soft smile still playing at the corner's of his mouth. But then a switch is flicked and Arthur's hard embarrassingly quickly, as pure wickedness flickers off Eames' face. He leans down, smelling like cologne and dusty books that should not turn Arthur on but does.
"We'll get rid of those dreams of yours, yeah?"
Arthur inhales harshly.
"How—"
But then Eames is actually nuzzling his face. His forehead presses steady against Arthur's temple, his nose rubbing against the line of his cheek and he inhales, moaning softly and needy against Arthur's skin.
"How about it?" Eames' voice is still silky but stripped bare, almost vulnerable in a way that digs underneath Arthur's skin.
Arthur gives.
"Sit down," he says neutrally, trying to ignore the way Eames lingers and brushes his lips in a barely-there kiss across Arthur's cheek. It sends a shiver down his spine and, god, Arthur has never wanted Eames this badly—never the whole of him before, like this.
"All right then," Eames says, settling himself down in the chair and popping Arthur's espresso bean in his mouth. "Tell me all about decadence."
Eames wiggles his eyebrows, lighting up his entire face with mischief and it takes all of Arthur's will power not to strangle him. Instead, he thumbs the worn edge of Huysman's.
He wonders, abstractly, which one of them is the turtle.
There isn't much footsie, much to Eames' disappointment and Arthur's delight. There is, however, a great deal of thigh groping and Eames spends most of the afternoon seeing how fresh he can get with Arthur in public before one of two things happen: Arthur wounds him or Arthur manhandles him into a more private place.
They're gone before two, not an hour later, and Eames is limping.
The next day, Arthur brings in a new PASIV.
It's shiny, which Ariadne likes.
Yusuf appreciates the new tubing.
Cobb is glad no one’s shooting in his damn warehouse anymore.
And Eames is smug, sitting very gingerly in his seat until Ariadne throws him a pink donut pillow, smirks at his discomfort and sticks out her tongue when Arthur brings her coffee, completely bypassing Eames' leer.
"Where's my tea, love?"
Arthur looks up from his moleskin without expression. "Oh, I must have forgot."
"Well, you certain didn't forget last night when—"
"Eames, your dick is obviously forgettable, "Ariadne shoots back. Eames feigns scandal.
"I will end you, little girl."
"Bring it, bitch."
Cobb is panicked, like he might cry at any minute—like his dream is collapsing. Yusuf, predictably, has a look on his face that suggests that this is better than stealing cable.
"Ladies," Arthur says sarcastically, "you're both pretty. Now, get back to work."
Ariadne smiles sharply at Eames over Arthur's shoulder as he goes over her plans. Eames grumbles, rearranging himself on his donut pillow and trying not to admire the long lines of Arthur's spine as he leans over. Sure, let Arthur ignore him off for the teenager.
After lunch, Arthur drags Eames into the bathroom to make it up to him.
… with a blowjob.
When Eames' brain has sufficiently turned to mush and Arthur's licking into his mouth, tasting like come and coffee, there is little left to say. (Well, other than the really inappropriate: if you like my dick so much, put a ring on it.)
"No more dreams, I take it," Eames says into Arthur's mouth.
Arthur rolls his eyes. "You know there aren't," he says with a nip.
Eames can't help but be more than pleased with himself, moving to cup Arthur's cock through his still pristine trousers. Even after spending a quality amount of time on his knees! Eames has no idea how he does it.
"Reality always trumps dreams," Eames says, even though that's Arthur's saying.
Arthur grinds his erection into Eames' hand, arches an elegant eyebrow and says, "Prove it."
Eames does.
Carry on
