[Fic] For You the War Is Over (2/3)
For You the War Is Over (2/3)
Author: maybe77
Team: Angst
Prompts: fall, home
Word count: 6400 this part, 14,500 total
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:Physical pain/injury, war themes, barebacking.
Summary: Eames is an RAF pilot shot down in German-occupied France during World War II; Arthur is the French resistance fighter who finds him.
A/N: So this is the part with the smut /o\. Cut text is a quote from Gen. George Patton.
Part One
The next afternoon, Arthur brought a chair by the bed and helped Eames into it. Despite his thin frame he was able to support most of Eames’ weight. When Dom and Mal arrived, Arthur ushered them into the room; Dom wasted no time grilling Eames about the Allies’ plans.
Mal was far more compassionate, asking him how he was feeling, was there anything he needed. Eames ventured a glance at Arthur. “Arthur has been taking excellent care of me,” he said. “I’m lucky that you found me.”
“Sergeant,” Dom began again, “do you know when the Allies will invade across the Channel?”
“My squadron was tasked with destroying the small Panzer division near Angers, but that was a cover for a reconnaissance mission. The information we brought back about the Germans’ locations would help them plan the timetable. The last we were told, early June was most likely.” The resistance would be helping to disrupt German operations on this side of the front as the Allies invaded France and pushed east. Eames told them what he knew, answered their questions as best as he was able. By the time Dom and Mal rose to leave, Eames was drained.
“How are you holding up?” Arthur asked, crouching down next to the chair and handing Eames a fresh cup of water.
“I don’t think basic training was this exhausting,” he said, laughing weakly.
“Give me one minute. I’ll change the bedclothes while you’re up. Then you can get some rest.”
“I wish I could help,” Eames said as he watched Arthur work.
Arthur threw a warm glance over his shoulder. “I know.”
***
A week passed before the doctor was able to see Eames, but it was a week that grew steadily more pleasant. Every day Eames felt a little more strength and a little less pain. Every day Arthur spent a little more time with him. They talked mostly about the war, but now and then Arthur would let slip a story about his home, his family or his plans to become an architect. Eames found himself looking for ways to get Arthur to stay longer, to say more. If Arthur noticed, he did not seem to mind. One rainy afternoon Arthur helped Eames into a chair and they played poker on the table next to the bed. He laughed - the most genuine laugh Eames had ever heard from him - when Eames beat him at almost every hand. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I joined the military,” Eames said, ducking his head and grinning.
“Why am I not surprised?” Arthur said, faced flushed with mirth, and there was a fondness in his voice that stayed with Eames for the rest of the day.
When the doctor came, his assessment was better than Eames had dared hope. He no longer needed to keep the burns bandaged, and they would not scar. In another two to three weeks the doctor would return to assess the fractured leg, but in the meantime Eames could use crutches to get around the house.
Arthur hawked him as he took his first few steps out of bed. He escaped the confines of his bedroom to explore the house’s large main room, with Arthur just a beat behind. It was strange, having been just a few meters from this room for the last two weeks but never seeing it until now. Eames hovered over maps spread out on the table, over paintings and photographs adorning the walls.
That evening Eames sat down to dinner at the dining table. Arthur set two plates down and took the seat across from him.
“This is nice, being able to eat with you at a proper table and all,” Eames said, poking at his meal with his fork. “You don’t realize how much you miss little things like that until they’re gone.”
Arthur smiled softly and did not look up. “No, I suppose you don’t.”
***
Though Arthur let Eames do very little, his limited mobility was liberating nonetheless. Sitting out on the porch and watching Arthur tend the garden left Eames with an unexpected feeling of contentment. It was satisfying to help with dinner, Arthur setting him up at the table with a pile of potatoes to peel or a basket of beans to shell. It was strangely domestic, something Eames had never quite experienced before. Something he thought he’d never really want for himself. But this - he watched Arthur pluck a few of the first ripe strawberries from the vine - he could get used to.
Arthur walked over and rinsed the berries in the bucket of rainwater sitting on the porch step, then handed a few to Eames. Their hands brushed in the exchange, and Eames looked up at him. Arthur’s hands were rough from working the ground, and a few strands of hair clung with sweat to his forehead. His nose and the tops of his cheeks were pink from the sun, and he had a smudge of dirt along the bottom of his jaw. He was beautiful. Eames found it suddenly hard to breathe.
***
Over dinner that evening Eames broached the subject he had been hiding from for quite a while. “How far from here did my plane crash?” The way he’d begun to look at Arthur - that was what he wanted to hide from now.
Arthur studied Eames closely before answering, as though trying to discern the reason he had asked. “Just over six kilometers.”
“Is it still there? The wreckage?”
“As far as I’m aware. There have been no other German units nearby who would have tried to take it. Some locals may have gone looking for anything of value, but I would think the fuselage at least is still intact.” Arthur returned his attention to his meal, as though he considered the conversation over.
“Will you take me there?”
Arthur put down his fork. “I don’t think it’s something you should see.”
“Please, Arthur. I need to go.”
Arthur sighed and picked his fork up again. “We can go tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
The only disruption of silence after that was the small, insignificant sounds of eating. Arthur took a few more bites of his dinner but then suddenly pushed back from the table. He took his plate to the kitchen and disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom. A sickly curiosity gnawed at Eames’ gut. He wanted to go after Arthur, but all the nerve he had on the subject was spent. He rose and, with no little difficulty, managed to get his plate to the sink without dropping it. In his room he lay down, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the pained expression on Arthur’s face, until he fell asleep.
In the morning, Arthur was already outside when Eames emerged from his room. Rather than push the issue, Eames stayed in the house, busying himself with washing and dressing. There were fewer things, at least, that he had to depend on Arthur for.
It was after eleven when Arthur came inside. They quietly ate the small lunch of bread, apples and cheese Eames had put together, and when they were finished Arthur sat back in his chair. “You’re sure you want to do this? It’s not pretty, Eames.”
Eames nodded firmly. He had to do this.
A neighbor a few farms down, a resistance sympathizer, lent Arthur his Simca-Fiat. They drove wordlessly along the beaten-down dirt roads that led out of town. Eames distracted himself by taking in the French countryside. This was the first he had seen of his surroundings, the cluster of houses and shops that marked the town center of Trélazé, the cobblestone bridge that crossed the stream just beyond the town. Past that lay open fields and more farmhouses much like Arthur’s and, in the near distance, croppings of trees that clustered into the beginnings of a larger forest beyond. The road began to dwindle as they passed the first groups of trees, and after a few minutes Arthur pulled the car to a stop in a patch of grass just off the road.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” he said, and though his voice was soft it seemed to echo after so much quiet. “It’s just through that stand of trees.”
He helped Eames get out, then slowly led the way, turning frequently to check that Eames was keeping up. It seemed like at least half a kilometer until Arthur stopped at the edge of a clearing. Eames came up beside Arthur and the air rushed out of him.
It was far worse than he had expected.
Both wings had been shorn off his Mustang and lie strewn across the ground in seared and broken fragments as though discarded by some careless passer-by. The tail section was missing entirely, no trace of it as far as Eames could see. The nose of the plane had crumpled in on itself as though made of nothing more sturdy than paper. The canopy was smashed to bits; it must have been open after Eames ejected and crushed when the plane struck ground. The left side of the fuselage was charred black and paint was peeling everywhere. The roundel markings that defined the plane as an RAF Mustang were blackened over completely on the side that had burned. Eames stood there for several minutes, just staring, trying and failing to swallow down the lump in his throat.
He moved toward the wreckage as though he were being pulled magnetically. He’d flown countless runs in this plane, named her Talulah after the first girl he’d ever kissed. On her right side, under the scar where her wing had been severed, there were holes torn in the aluminum, likely from German machine gun fire. He laid a hand on the fuselage and closed his eyes, recalling the feel of the instrument panel under his fingers, the lurch in his stomach at takeoff, the thrill of owning the sky.
A touch on his shoulder brought him back, and he looked up to find Arthur watching him with an unfamiliar, sad depth in his eyes. Arthur pointed to an open area about 200 meters off. “That’s where we found you,” he said quietly. “You were barely breathing. For days I didn’t think you’d survive.”
A wave of raw emotion rocked through Eames. It hadn’t seemed real, before. Like it had happened to someone else. But now, seeing the wreck in direct, exquisite detail, he knew he should have died. Had 99 other pilots been in his shoes, their mothers would have been sent dog tags.
“We can go now,” he whispered. Arthur nodded and took his arm, guiding him back to the car.
When they arrived back at the house, Eames headed straight for his room. “Eames?” Arthur called after him.
“I think I need to lie down for a while,” Eames said. Arthur let him go.
He lay on his back and clutched a pillow to his chest. Though his eyes were focused on the ceiling, what they saw were bits of blackened, mangled metal and shattered glass. His mind was too frantic to formulate any coherent thoughts, save one: I should be dead.
At some point he fell asleep - the trip was the most physical exertion he’d had since the crash. He woke to a dark room and Arthur sitting over him, saying his name.
“Arthur?” he croaked. He pushed himself up and Arthur handed him some water.
“How are you?” Arthur asked, and brushed his fingers gently along Eames’ arm.
“Alive,” he murmured as he drank. Arthur took the cup and set it aside. When he turned back, the candlelight flickered over his face and Eames could see how harrowed he looked, how worn through with worry. “Arthur, come here,” Eames said, not even thinking, and pulled Arthur into his arms.
The realization of what he was doing hit him a beat later, and he was about to let go, to say he was sorry, when he felt Arthur’s arms come up around him to return the embrace. Arthur buried his face in Eames’ neck, and when he stayed there Eames began to comb his fingers through Arthur’s dark hair. “Eames…” Arthur said, like a distress call.
“I’m right here,” Eames said, and pushed Arthur back so he could look at him. Arthur seemed on the verge of saying something, and there was very clear fear in his eyes. Arthur had never, in the time Eames had been here, shown even a glimpse of trepidation. If Eames had put it there, then he needed to take it away. He lifted his hand, cupped Arthur’s jaw, and kissed him.
Arthur tensed in his arms, but when he tried to pull back Arthur leaned in to keep their lips joined. Eames stroked his thumb over the soft skin of Arthur’s cheek and sighed softly. His chest ached, but it was a very different pain from his injured ribs.
They kissed like that for a long time, tender, almost hesitant kisses and light, cautious touches. But when Eames dragged his fingers roughly down Arthur’s scalp and Arthur moaned in Eames’ mouth, the pleasant warmth that had welled up in Eames’ stomach flared hotter and more insistent. With Arthur’s hands on him and Arthur’s mouth pliant under his, the gentleness of their kisses could not withstand the sharp edge of Eames’ desire.
“Arthur,” Eames groaned against his lips, and lay back, tugging Arthur down on the bed with him.
“Eames, wait,” Arthur said, pulling away abruptly. “We shouldn’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I survived a plane crash, darling,” Eames said, fingers still tangled in Arthur’s shirt. “I think I can endure a little heavy petting.”
Arthur smiled at that, and it only made Eames want to kiss him all the more. “Just… if it hurts, you need to tell me, alright?”
“Of course,” Eames said, though he had no intention of doing so. He needed this, needed Arthur in his arms. Needed Arthur’s heartbeat and steady breathing to remind him that he was alive.
Arthur toed off his shoes and stretched out on his side next to Eames, careful where their bodies touched. Eames slid his arms around him and pulled him close, silencing Arthur’s protests with his mouth. He slid his hands up under Arthur’s cotton shirt, reveling in the contact; his body was hungry for touch. He ran greedy fingers over the firm muscle of Arthur’s back, the soft dip at his waist, the hard ridges of his spine. It was flesh and bone, and under that the heat of blood pulsing through Arthur’s veins, and for the first time since the crash Eames felt like he was truly awake.
He broke the kiss and tugged at Arthur’s shirt. “Please,” he whispered, his voice already rough. “I need to feel you.”
Arthur obliged him, stripping his shirt and then dropping his fingers to the buttons of Eames’. While he worked, Eames could not take his hands off him. He soaked in the feel of Arthur’s shoulders, his arms, the sharp lines of his collarbones. He dragged his fingers down Arthur’s chest, rough over a nipple, and thrilled at the little gasp it drew from him. Arthur pushed Eames’ shirt open wide, skating his fingers tentatively over the bandages around Eames’ ribs. Eames just pulled him tight, bringing their bodies together. “God, Arthur,” he said. He wanted to touch Arthur everywhere, strip them both down and merge every inch of their skin together.
His hand drifted down the smooth skin of Arthur’s back and over the curve of his arse, and tugging Arthur closer he felt the stiffness of Arthur’s erection pressing into his hip. “Eames,” Arthur mouthed against the skin of his neck.
“Shh,” Eames soothed him, lips against Arthur’s sweat-damp forehead. He popped the button on Arthur’s trousers and slid a hand in to wrap around his cock. Arthur shuddered and slid his arm around Eames’ neck, clinging tightly as Eames jerked him off. “You’ve taken such good care of me,” Eames whispered, pressing kisses against Arthur’s hair.
Arthur came with a cry, bucking his hips against Eames’ body and digging his fingernails into Eames’ shoulder as he spilled warm and wet over Eames’ hand. When he lifted his head, his eyes were hazy and almost surprised. Eames opened eagerly when Arthur leaned in to kiss him again. After a moment Arthur pulled back and glanced down at the mess between them, and at Eames’ erection obvious through his thin sleep pants. “I could…” he said, shyly, “if you think it won’t hurt…”
Eames gave a weak smile. “Maybe tomorrow, darling. I’m afraid you’ve worn me out for now.”
Arthur nodded and gingerly pushed himself up and out of bed, though Eames was reluctant to let him go. He grabbed a cloth to clean them both up and then sat down on the bed, dropping a light kiss on Eames’ lips. “Get some rest,” he said quietly.
“You should stay,” Eames said, yawning and running his hand over Arthur’s arm.
“I have some work to do. Besides, the bed is too small for us both, especially with your injuries.” He brushed a thumb over Eames’ lip when he pouted. “My bed is much bigger. Tomorrow we could sleep there, if you’d like.”
The following night found Eames spread out in Arthur’s bed. Arthur was between his naked thighs, taking the head of Eames’ cock in his mouth. Eames tried to arch up into it but Arthur held his hips down firmly, preventing the movement and the pain that would have accompanied it. “Arthur,” he moaned when he came, his heart racing and his fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair.
***
A few days later, the Allies stormed the beach at Normandy and began to establish their foothold on the coast. The farmhouse, which had been so peaceful with just the two of them, became a meeting place for resistance leaders and British military officials. But late at night when the house was empty again, they would weave their bodies together in the darkness, skin and hands and mouths. In the mornings Arthur would kiss Eames’ forehead and get up to make coffee. In the afternoons, as they sat clustered around maps and intelligence reports, Eames would catch Arthur watching him with a faint smile.
One mid-June evening, after Arthur had been in town running errands, he pressed a metal tube into Eames’ hand as they lay together. His eyes glittered in the light thrown by the single candle in the bedroom, and he bit his lip hesitantly before he spoke. “I want… I want your fingers inside me,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “Please.”
Eames kissed him hard, want surging through him with a dizzying ferocity. “Oh, darling,” he murmured against Arthur’s mouth, “you don’t need to ask nicely.”
Arthur lay on his back, legs bent and spread wide. Eames uncapped the tube and ran a slick finger over his hole. Arthur shuddered, digging his fingers into the mattress as Eames stroked the soft, delicate skin. He waited for the tension in Arthur’s face to ease, then pressed a finger inside, groaning at how tight Arthur felt around him. He nipped at Arthur’s jaw as he worked his finger in, losing himself in the sensation - the hot slickness enveloping his finger, the shallow rasp of Arthur’s breath, the salty sweat on Arthur’s skin. “God, you feel amazing,” he said as he began to thrust gently. “You’d feel so good on my cock.”
Arthur moaned and his legs fell wider apart.
“Would you like that?” Eames asked, moving less gently now. “Would you like my cock inside you?”
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur growled and pulled him down for a sloppy kiss. “Don’t say things like that when we can’t.”
“Of course we can,” Eames said as he scraped his teeth over Arthur’s earlobe.
“Not with your leg broken,” Arthur said, in that firm voice that told Eames it would take some time to change Arthur’s mind. “You’re in a cast for god’s sake.”
“Details, darling,” he chuckled and slid in a second finger, pressing his smile against Arthur’s throat when Arthur gasped.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Arthur managed, his voice shaking.
Eames had every intention of weakening Arthur’s resolve, and his first step was to plant the idea deep. He stroked inside Arthur, angling for that spot that would make Arthur fall apart. He knew he had found it when Arthur cried out and clenched tight around his fingers. “Think how much better this would feel with my cock in you.”
Arthur was panting hard, his mouth open and slack, his eyes squeezed shut. “Touch yourself,” Eames instructed, voice low, right against Arthur’s ear. Arthur made a sound of protest but he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking in time with Eames’ thrusts. “I want to feel you come with my fingers inside you, feel you get so tight around me. I want to see how you’ll feel when I fuck you.”
Eames worked his fingers faster, driving unbridled, incoherent noises out of Arthur. Eames could feel him tense, his whole body going rigid, and then he came, bearing down on Eames’ fingers like he still wanted more. When he relaxed back into the mattress Eames leaned over and kissed him, sliding his fingers out begrudgingly.
Arthur spread lube on his own hand and wrapped it around Eames’ cock, warm and slick and sure. Eames was already so close, and then Arthur leaned in and whispered. “Come for me, Eames, like you will when you’re inside me.”
***
As the Allied forces shored up their foothold on the Normandy coast, the resistance undertook more extensive efforts to sabotage the Germans’ routes and resources. To do this, the resistance needed every ounce of help it could get, and Arthur was not one to shy away when a need arose. But when he was asked to deliver several maps and plans to a small enclave of British officers over 100 kilometers north near Rennes, Eames could see his anxiety over leaving. “I’ll be fine,” Eames assured him quietly, out of earshot of the soldier who had come bearing the request. “You’ll be back by the end of the day tomorrow. Surely you have enough faith in me to survive that long?”
Arthur rolled his eyes, but there was still hesitation in his voice when he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Of course I don’t want you to go, darling,” Eames said, squeezing Arthur’s hand gently. “But I’ll be fine. This is something you have to do.”
An hour later Arthur was ready to depart with a few scant supplies and the maps stowed in a pack. He kissed Eames before he left, lingering longer than he should have. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Arthur said, his voice not betraying the anxiety Eames could see in his eyes. “Take care of yourself.”
Eames kissed him one last time, then nudged him out the door. That night he lay in Arthur’s bed, the bed they had been sharing for nearly three weeks, and told himself over and over that everything would be fine.
It was late the following evening by the time Arthur returned, dirty from the road and exhausted. Eames went to him as soon as he came through the door, and Arthur nearly fell into his arms and held tight. When they climbed into bed that night Arthur seemed almost frantic, kissing Eames hard and fast with fingers trembling against Eames’ face. When he finally fell back, panting, Eames stroked a hand over his cheek and saw the wildness in his eyes. “Arthur, are you alright? Did something happen?”
It took several minutes of soothing before Arthur would speak. “I’m just glad I’m home,” he said evasively, hiding his face against Eames’ shoulder.
“As am I,” Eames said, pulling him close, hoping the contact would calm him. “But something’s got you jumpy, love. What is it?”
Arthur sighed and reached for Eames’ hand. “I was talking to one of the British lieutenants. He said they took heavy casualties at Normandy. Lost a lot of pilots. Hundreds, he said. I just… That could have been you.”
Eames lifted their hands and kissed the back of Arthur’s knuckles. “It wasn’t me. They’re not going to put me back in a plane before the war is over, I’m sure of it. They’ll likely offer me an honorable discharge. I won’t have to fight anymore. I can stay here with you.”
“I just wish it was over. I’m so damn tired of being afraid I'll lose everything again.” The farmer who had owned this house, René, had taken Arthur in when he fled here from Paris. They became lovers, Arthur had told Eames. Arthur loved him and the Germans murdered him.
Eames tried to reassure Arthur, cupped his face and kissed him, but Arthur’s apprehension was an insidious thing. Eames had forced himself not to think too deeply about the possibility of something happening to Arthur while he was gone, but now that he was back those thoughts loomed larger than ever, and suddenly Eames too felt uneasiness gnawing away at him. He kissed Arthur harder and began pulling at his clothes, wanting the reassurance of his warm skin, of his heartbeat, of the little noises he made that told Eames he was here, he was real, he was his.
He had just pressed a second slick finger inside Arthur when Arthur clutched at his arm. “Eames,” he said, his voice breathless and nearly pained, “I want you inside me.”
It took a moment for the words to register, and Eames was so caught off guard that he actually tried to argue at first. “But you said not until my cast was off - ”
“I know what I said,” Arthur bit out, almost harsh. “I’m tired of waiting.”
Eames nodded and worked Arthur open quick and a little rough, but Arthur just pushed down onto Eames’ hand to make the stretch even wider, faster. “I’m ready, come on.” Arthur sounded strung out.
Eames thought to protest, to say there was no rush, they could take their time. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, not once Arthur grabbed the lube and smeared a generous amount up the length of Eames’ cock. He pushed Eames flat on his back and climbed up to straddle him. There was an intensity in Arthur’s eyes that worried Eames a little, and he wondered if Arthur saw the same thing in his.
“Please,” Arthur whispered, voice cracked at the edges.
Eames brushed the back of his hand over Arthur’s cheek, his heart clenching as Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “You don’t have to ask nicely,” Eames managed in a shaking voice.
Arthur lowered himself and it was almost too tight, too much, as the head of Eames’ cock slipped past his entrance. Arthur moved slowly, his fingers twitching against Eames’ chest, his face desperate and tense. He settled himself down until Eames was fully inside him.
Eames looked up at him - Arthur’s mouth was slack, his forehead creased in concentration, his chest stuttering in quick, shallow breaths. “God, you’re gorgeous,” Eames said softly, running his hands gently down Arthur’s sides. He wanted to move, to buck up into Arthur and drive himself deeper, but he fought the urge and remained still, waiting for Arthur to give them both what they needed.
Arthur rolled his hips, just a fraction of movement at first but enough to make them both groan. Eames gripped at his waist, stroking his thumbs over the soft skin of Arthur’s stomach as Arthur moved above him, picking out a rhythm as he began to relax. “Eames,” Arthur murmured, brushing his fingers over Eames’ lower lip. Eames took the tip of one finger in his mouth, sucking at it and pulling Arthur down harder. There was no pain, no fear, no worries over the past or what might still lie ahead. There was only this, the feel of Arthur taking Eames in, the smell of him, the heat of his body and the desperation in his eyes and the way he was all around Eames and right under his skin like a fever.
Arthur pulled his fingers away so he could lean down claim Eames’ mouth with his own, hips still rocking, cock hard and leaking as it dragged along Eames’ stomach. Arthur buried his face in Eames’ neck and rutted, his breath getting faster, the shy hint of a whimper at the end of each exhalation. Eames stroked his hair, the smooth skin of his back, whispering Arthur’s name over and over. He held on by a thread, everything so close and tight and enveloping, as the pulse of Arthur’s hips started to falter. Eames slipped his hand between them and wrapped it around Arthur’s cock, nearly losing himself when Arthur hissed and jerked at the contact.
“Eames,” he said, “come for me, come inside me.”
Eames jerked Arthur faster, making Arthur writhe on his cock until it overwhelmed him and he came, hips stuttering with a snap of pain that seared alongside his pleasure and left him breathless. His ears were ringing with it but he kept stroking Arthur until he could feel the warm pulse of Arthur’s come over his hand, and he wrapped his arms around Arthur and held him close until they both could breathe again.
***
In the morning Eames woke to Arthur pressed against his chest, his cock hard against Arthur’s arse. He slid his hand over Arthur’s hip and gently took his cock, fondling more than stroking, listening to the subtle hitches in Arthur’s breathing. In a few minutes Arthur was hard and Eames couldn’t hold back from kissing his shoulder, the side of his neck. When Arthur stirred he groaned softly and pushed forward into Eames’ hand. “Good morning,” Eames whispered, kissing his shoulder again.
“Eames, what are you doing? What time is it?” Arthur’s voice was sleep-rough. He batted Eames’ hand away.
Eames withdrew, only to caress gently up the back of Arthur’s thigh and along the cleft of his arse. “It’s early, maybe six?”
“Why are you waking me up?” Arthur sounded like he was trying to be stern, but his voice broke over the last words as Eames ran a finger over his hole, then pushed inside.
“You’re still so wet from last night,” Eames said, not keeping the desire from his tone.
Arthur shuddered as Eames stroked inside him. He didn’t protest anymore, but moaned softly and arched his back. Eames pressed in a second finger. “Look how you open up for me.”
Arthur leaned up and grabbed the lube from the night table and handed it back to Eames. “You better let me go back to sleep after this,” Arthur said, shifting his leg to give Eames better access.
Eames chuckled as he pulled his fingers out and slicked up his cock. “I’ll let you do whatever you want, darling.”
He pushed in easily and buried himself deep inside Arthur, pausing just to soak in the feel of it, Arthur tight around him, Arthur’s body radiating warmth all along his own. He fucked Arthur with slow, languid thrusts and whispered promises of protection, of permanence - assurances he very much intended to keep. He splayed his hand low on Arthur’s stomach, just above his cock, and Arthur slid his hand over Eames’ and rocked into it. They took their time, the only sound in the room their heavy breath and quiet vocalizations of pleasure.
Arthur’s moans grew louder and he pressed Eames’ hand down harder on his stomach. “Eames, god.”
Eames snapped his hips a little harder, shivering at the change in friction. “I know, love,” he said roughly.
Arthur wrapped his hand around his cock, rolling his hips back onto Eames and then forward into his fist. Eames kept the pressure on his belly, using it as leverage to drive into Arthur deeper. “Eames, Eames…” Arthur pleaded over and over, his voice getting thinner until he cried out and spilled over his hand. Eames followed soon after, groaning his release as he filled Arthur and felt the wetness envelop him.
Arthur was still panting when Eames pulled out. Eames sat up and hoisted himself out of bed, grabbing his crutch and hobbling toward the bathroom. He returned with a damp cloth and cleaned Arthur up, then pulled on some trousers. He kissed Arthur’s temple before going to make coffee. “Sleep as long as you like.” Arthur didn’t stir, his breath already slow and even.
***
The next time Arthur had to leave, he didn’t come back.
Dom and Mal had been at the farmhouse, staying for a few days until the next assignment came through. They were talking over the latest details of the Allied advance when a knock came at the door. Arthur opened it to find a bedraggled resistance fighter with wild eyes and blood soaking through the shoulder of his jersey.
He had been spying on the nearby German command camp and overheard their plan to ambush the Allied division that was marching east from Rennes. It was imperative that the Allies be warned immediately, but he’d been shot in the arm as he made his escape. The poor man had already been running for hours and had lost a dangerous volume of blood; there was no way he’d make it.
In minutes Dom and Arthur were ready to leave. Eames pulled Arthur tight and begged him to be safe. “Come back to me in one piece, yeah?” Eames said, hoping his smile concealed even a little of the fear he felt in his gut.
Arthur kissed him. “I love you, Eames.”
Eames pressed their foreheads together, hands trembling on Arthur’s shoulders. “Love doesn’t seem an adequate word for how I feel about you, darling. I’ll think of one while you’re gone.”
That night, Mal kissed Eames on the cheek before she left. “Don’t worry, cher, by this time tomorrow Arthur will be back in your arms.”
***
The look on Mal’s face told Eames everything when he answered the door the following afternoon. “Eames,” she said, sounding like she’d been crying. “Eames, I’m so sorry.”
All the air left his lungs. It felt like every drop of blood drained out of him, leaving him cold and still. “Is he…” He couldn’t finish the question. He didn’t want to hear the answer. The answer would mean it was real, and this couldn’t be real.
Mal grabbed his arm, and it was once she steadied him that he realized he had been swaying. “He was alive when Dom saw him last.”
He shuddered, and he would have gone down if she hadn’t been holding him up. She led him inside to the table and sat him down. Eames stared at its smooth wooden surface, eyes fixated on the glare from the sun streaming in the east windows. Mal pulled a chair next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Her touch felt distant. Everything felt distant.
“They got the message through to the British,” she said softly. “But the Nazis had scouts watching the British camp. When Dom and Arthur set out to come home, the scouts ambushed them. Dom took a bullet in the arm. He found cover, and when he looked back they had Arthur. Dom doesn’t think he was shot. Most likely they’ll take him to one of the POW camps on the German border.”
Eames pushed back in his chair and made to stand but Mal kept her hand steady on him. “Eames, no. Don’t be rash.”
He turned to look at her then, and made no attempt to hide his despair. “Mal, I have to go find him.”
“You’re in no condition,” she said firmly. “Even if you were, you’d likely end up caught, or dead. Let me talk to some of the resistance soldiers, they may know where the Germans have been taking prisoners. But the odds of finding him won’t be good. The war is almost over, Eames. We’ll get him back sooner or later.”
Later was not an option Eames could accept. Every day that passed meant time for them to starve Arthur, torture him, kill him. Eames could not allow any of those things. He had promised. He squeezed his eyes tight against the sting prickling there. “Eames,” Mal tried again, but Eames shoved back hard from the table, knocking his chair to the ground.
“Fuck,” he cursed as he limped to the window, pressing his forehead to the warm glass, looking out at the garden. Arthur should be out there now, pulling weeds and tying back the tomato plants. Arthur belonged here, with Eames. Otherwise Eames didn’t belong here either.
He heard Mal get up and move toward him, but she kept her distance. When he finally turned to her, there were tears streaking down his face. “What am I supposed to do, Mal?” Even while he lay in bed, his body broken and barely able to move, he had not felt this helpless.
He stayed at the farmhouse for another two weeks, until the Allies had set the Germans on the run out of France and until Arthur’s smell started fading from the bedclothes. Until the doctor came and removed Eames’ cast, told him he could walk unaided again. Until he couldn’t torture himself any longer, waiting here and hoping Arthur might walk through the door. He did what he could for the resistance but he couldn’t stand the stasis. He wanted to scour the country, find every place the Germans had ever held prisoners and ferret out any clue he could to find Arthur.
The leader of a British platoon canvassing the town instead convinced Eames to report to the British command post near Normandy. He knew he couldn’t stay away forever; he was still an RAF pilot and had commanding officers to answer to, even if the lingering hitch in his gait made it obvious he couldn’t fly again anytime soon.
In late July he finally headed north, paying a quick visit to Mal and Dom and leaving a hopeful note for Arthur on the dining table before he pulled the farmhouse door closed behind him for what he feared might be the last time.
Part Three
Author: maybe77
Team: Angst
Prompts: fall, home
Word count: 6400 this part, 14,500 total
Rating: NC-17
Warnings:Physical pain/injury, war themes, barebacking.
Summary: Eames is an RAF pilot shot down in German-occupied France during World War II; Arthur is the French resistance fighter who finds him.
A/N: So this is the part with the smut /o\. Cut text is a quote from Gen. George Patton.
Part One
The next afternoon, Arthur brought a chair by the bed and helped Eames into it. Despite his thin frame he was able to support most of Eames’ weight. When Dom and Mal arrived, Arthur ushered them into the room; Dom wasted no time grilling Eames about the Allies’ plans.
Mal was far more compassionate, asking him how he was feeling, was there anything he needed. Eames ventured a glance at Arthur. “Arthur has been taking excellent care of me,” he said. “I’m lucky that you found me.”
“Sergeant,” Dom began again, “do you know when the Allies will invade across the Channel?”
“My squadron was tasked with destroying the small Panzer division near Angers, but that was a cover for a reconnaissance mission. The information we brought back about the Germans’ locations would help them plan the timetable. The last we were told, early June was most likely.” The resistance would be helping to disrupt German operations on this side of the front as the Allies invaded France and pushed east. Eames told them what he knew, answered their questions as best as he was able. By the time Dom and Mal rose to leave, Eames was drained.
“How are you holding up?” Arthur asked, crouching down next to the chair and handing Eames a fresh cup of water.
“I don’t think basic training was this exhausting,” he said, laughing weakly.
“Give me one minute. I’ll change the bedclothes while you’re up. Then you can get some rest.”
“I wish I could help,” Eames said as he watched Arthur work.
Arthur threw a warm glance over his shoulder. “I know.”
***
A week passed before the doctor was able to see Eames, but it was a week that grew steadily more pleasant. Every day Eames felt a little more strength and a little less pain. Every day Arthur spent a little more time with him. They talked mostly about the war, but now and then Arthur would let slip a story about his home, his family or his plans to become an architect. Eames found himself looking for ways to get Arthur to stay longer, to say more. If Arthur noticed, he did not seem to mind. One rainy afternoon Arthur helped Eames into a chair and they played poker on the table next to the bed. He laughed - the most genuine laugh Eames had ever heard from him - when Eames beat him at almost every hand. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I joined the military,” Eames said, ducking his head and grinning.
“Why am I not surprised?” Arthur said, faced flushed with mirth, and there was a fondness in his voice that stayed with Eames for the rest of the day.
When the doctor came, his assessment was better than Eames had dared hope. He no longer needed to keep the burns bandaged, and they would not scar. In another two to three weeks the doctor would return to assess the fractured leg, but in the meantime Eames could use crutches to get around the house.
Arthur hawked him as he took his first few steps out of bed. He escaped the confines of his bedroom to explore the house’s large main room, with Arthur just a beat behind. It was strange, having been just a few meters from this room for the last two weeks but never seeing it until now. Eames hovered over maps spread out on the table, over paintings and photographs adorning the walls.
That evening Eames sat down to dinner at the dining table. Arthur set two plates down and took the seat across from him.
“This is nice, being able to eat with you at a proper table and all,” Eames said, poking at his meal with his fork. “You don’t realize how much you miss little things like that until they’re gone.”
Arthur smiled softly and did not look up. “No, I suppose you don’t.”
***
Though Arthur let Eames do very little, his limited mobility was liberating nonetheless. Sitting out on the porch and watching Arthur tend the garden left Eames with an unexpected feeling of contentment. It was satisfying to help with dinner, Arthur setting him up at the table with a pile of potatoes to peel or a basket of beans to shell. It was strangely domestic, something Eames had never quite experienced before. Something he thought he’d never really want for himself. But this - he watched Arthur pluck a few of the first ripe strawberries from the vine - he could get used to.
Arthur walked over and rinsed the berries in the bucket of rainwater sitting on the porch step, then handed a few to Eames. Their hands brushed in the exchange, and Eames looked up at him. Arthur’s hands were rough from working the ground, and a few strands of hair clung with sweat to his forehead. His nose and the tops of his cheeks were pink from the sun, and he had a smudge of dirt along the bottom of his jaw. He was beautiful. Eames found it suddenly hard to breathe.
***
Over dinner that evening Eames broached the subject he had been hiding from for quite a while. “How far from here did my plane crash?” The way he’d begun to look at Arthur - that was what he wanted to hide from now.
Arthur studied Eames closely before answering, as though trying to discern the reason he had asked. “Just over six kilometers.”
“Is it still there? The wreckage?”
“As far as I’m aware. There have been no other German units nearby who would have tried to take it. Some locals may have gone looking for anything of value, but I would think the fuselage at least is still intact.” Arthur returned his attention to his meal, as though he considered the conversation over.
“Will you take me there?”
Arthur put down his fork. “I don’t think it’s something you should see.”
“Please, Arthur. I need to go.”
Arthur sighed and picked his fork up again. “We can go tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
The only disruption of silence after that was the small, insignificant sounds of eating. Arthur took a few more bites of his dinner but then suddenly pushed back from the table. He took his plate to the kitchen and disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom. A sickly curiosity gnawed at Eames’ gut. He wanted to go after Arthur, but all the nerve he had on the subject was spent. He rose and, with no little difficulty, managed to get his plate to the sink without dropping it. In his room he lay down, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the pained expression on Arthur’s face, until he fell asleep.
In the morning, Arthur was already outside when Eames emerged from his room. Rather than push the issue, Eames stayed in the house, busying himself with washing and dressing. There were fewer things, at least, that he had to depend on Arthur for.
It was after eleven when Arthur came inside. They quietly ate the small lunch of bread, apples and cheese Eames had put together, and when they were finished Arthur sat back in his chair. “You’re sure you want to do this? It’s not pretty, Eames.”
Eames nodded firmly. He had to do this.
A neighbor a few farms down, a resistance sympathizer, lent Arthur his Simca-Fiat. They drove wordlessly along the beaten-down dirt roads that led out of town. Eames distracted himself by taking in the French countryside. This was the first he had seen of his surroundings, the cluster of houses and shops that marked the town center of Trélazé, the cobblestone bridge that crossed the stream just beyond the town. Past that lay open fields and more farmhouses much like Arthur’s and, in the near distance, croppings of trees that clustered into the beginnings of a larger forest beyond. The road began to dwindle as they passed the first groups of trees, and after a few minutes Arthur pulled the car to a stop in a patch of grass just off the road.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” he said, and though his voice was soft it seemed to echo after so much quiet. “It’s just through that stand of trees.”
He helped Eames get out, then slowly led the way, turning frequently to check that Eames was keeping up. It seemed like at least half a kilometer until Arthur stopped at the edge of a clearing. Eames came up beside Arthur and the air rushed out of him.
It was far worse than he had expected.
Both wings had been shorn off his Mustang and lie strewn across the ground in seared and broken fragments as though discarded by some careless passer-by. The tail section was missing entirely, no trace of it as far as Eames could see. The nose of the plane had crumpled in on itself as though made of nothing more sturdy than paper. The canopy was smashed to bits; it must have been open after Eames ejected and crushed when the plane struck ground. The left side of the fuselage was charred black and paint was peeling everywhere. The roundel markings that defined the plane as an RAF Mustang were blackened over completely on the side that had burned. Eames stood there for several minutes, just staring, trying and failing to swallow down the lump in his throat.
He moved toward the wreckage as though he were being pulled magnetically. He’d flown countless runs in this plane, named her Talulah after the first girl he’d ever kissed. On her right side, under the scar where her wing had been severed, there were holes torn in the aluminum, likely from German machine gun fire. He laid a hand on the fuselage and closed his eyes, recalling the feel of the instrument panel under his fingers, the lurch in his stomach at takeoff, the thrill of owning the sky.
A touch on his shoulder brought him back, and he looked up to find Arthur watching him with an unfamiliar, sad depth in his eyes. Arthur pointed to an open area about 200 meters off. “That’s where we found you,” he said quietly. “You were barely breathing. For days I didn’t think you’d survive.”
A wave of raw emotion rocked through Eames. It hadn’t seemed real, before. Like it had happened to someone else. But now, seeing the wreck in direct, exquisite detail, he knew he should have died. Had 99 other pilots been in his shoes, their mothers would have been sent dog tags.
“We can go now,” he whispered. Arthur nodded and took his arm, guiding him back to the car.
When they arrived back at the house, Eames headed straight for his room. “Eames?” Arthur called after him.
“I think I need to lie down for a while,” Eames said. Arthur let him go.
He lay on his back and clutched a pillow to his chest. Though his eyes were focused on the ceiling, what they saw were bits of blackened, mangled metal and shattered glass. His mind was too frantic to formulate any coherent thoughts, save one: I should be dead.
At some point he fell asleep - the trip was the most physical exertion he’d had since the crash. He woke to a dark room and Arthur sitting over him, saying his name.
“Arthur?” he croaked. He pushed himself up and Arthur handed him some water.
“How are you?” Arthur asked, and brushed his fingers gently along Eames’ arm.
“Alive,” he murmured as he drank. Arthur took the cup and set it aside. When he turned back, the candlelight flickered over his face and Eames could see how harrowed he looked, how worn through with worry. “Arthur, come here,” Eames said, not even thinking, and pulled Arthur into his arms.
The realization of what he was doing hit him a beat later, and he was about to let go, to say he was sorry, when he felt Arthur’s arms come up around him to return the embrace. Arthur buried his face in Eames’ neck, and when he stayed there Eames began to comb his fingers through Arthur’s dark hair. “Eames…” Arthur said, like a distress call.
“I’m right here,” Eames said, and pushed Arthur back so he could look at him. Arthur seemed on the verge of saying something, and there was very clear fear in his eyes. Arthur had never, in the time Eames had been here, shown even a glimpse of trepidation. If Eames had put it there, then he needed to take it away. He lifted his hand, cupped Arthur’s jaw, and kissed him.
Arthur tensed in his arms, but when he tried to pull back Arthur leaned in to keep their lips joined. Eames stroked his thumb over the soft skin of Arthur’s cheek and sighed softly. His chest ached, but it was a very different pain from his injured ribs.
They kissed like that for a long time, tender, almost hesitant kisses and light, cautious touches. But when Eames dragged his fingers roughly down Arthur’s scalp and Arthur moaned in Eames’ mouth, the pleasant warmth that had welled up in Eames’ stomach flared hotter and more insistent. With Arthur’s hands on him and Arthur’s mouth pliant under his, the gentleness of their kisses could not withstand the sharp edge of Eames’ desire.
“Arthur,” Eames groaned against his lips, and lay back, tugging Arthur down on the bed with him.
“Eames, wait,” Arthur said, pulling away abruptly. “We shouldn’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I survived a plane crash, darling,” Eames said, fingers still tangled in Arthur’s shirt. “I think I can endure a little heavy petting.”
Arthur smiled at that, and it only made Eames want to kiss him all the more. “Just… if it hurts, you need to tell me, alright?”
“Of course,” Eames said, though he had no intention of doing so. He needed this, needed Arthur in his arms. Needed Arthur’s heartbeat and steady breathing to remind him that he was alive.
Arthur toed off his shoes and stretched out on his side next to Eames, careful where their bodies touched. Eames slid his arms around him and pulled him close, silencing Arthur’s protests with his mouth. He slid his hands up under Arthur’s cotton shirt, reveling in the contact; his body was hungry for touch. He ran greedy fingers over the firm muscle of Arthur’s back, the soft dip at his waist, the hard ridges of his spine. It was flesh and bone, and under that the heat of blood pulsing through Arthur’s veins, and for the first time since the crash Eames felt like he was truly awake.
He broke the kiss and tugged at Arthur’s shirt. “Please,” he whispered, his voice already rough. “I need to feel you.”
Arthur obliged him, stripping his shirt and then dropping his fingers to the buttons of Eames’. While he worked, Eames could not take his hands off him. He soaked in the feel of Arthur’s shoulders, his arms, the sharp lines of his collarbones. He dragged his fingers down Arthur’s chest, rough over a nipple, and thrilled at the little gasp it drew from him. Arthur pushed Eames’ shirt open wide, skating his fingers tentatively over the bandages around Eames’ ribs. Eames just pulled him tight, bringing their bodies together. “God, Arthur,” he said. He wanted to touch Arthur everywhere, strip them both down and merge every inch of their skin together.
His hand drifted down the smooth skin of Arthur’s back and over the curve of his arse, and tugging Arthur closer he felt the stiffness of Arthur’s erection pressing into his hip. “Eames,” Arthur mouthed against the skin of his neck.
“Shh,” Eames soothed him, lips against Arthur’s sweat-damp forehead. He popped the button on Arthur’s trousers and slid a hand in to wrap around his cock. Arthur shuddered and slid his arm around Eames’ neck, clinging tightly as Eames jerked him off. “You’ve taken such good care of me,” Eames whispered, pressing kisses against Arthur’s hair.
Arthur came with a cry, bucking his hips against Eames’ body and digging his fingernails into Eames’ shoulder as he spilled warm and wet over Eames’ hand. When he lifted his head, his eyes were hazy and almost surprised. Eames opened eagerly when Arthur leaned in to kiss him again. After a moment Arthur pulled back and glanced down at the mess between them, and at Eames’ erection obvious through his thin sleep pants. “I could…” he said, shyly, “if you think it won’t hurt…”
Eames gave a weak smile. “Maybe tomorrow, darling. I’m afraid you’ve worn me out for now.”
Arthur nodded and gingerly pushed himself up and out of bed, though Eames was reluctant to let him go. He grabbed a cloth to clean them both up and then sat down on the bed, dropping a light kiss on Eames’ lips. “Get some rest,” he said quietly.
“You should stay,” Eames said, yawning and running his hand over Arthur’s arm.
“I have some work to do. Besides, the bed is too small for us both, especially with your injuries.” He brushed a thumb over Eames’ lip when he pouted. “My bed is much bigger. Tomorrow we could sleep there, if you’d like.”
The following night found Eames spread out in Arthur’s bed. Arthur was between his naked thighs, taking the head of Eames’ cock in his mouth. Eames tried to arch up into it but Arthur held his hips down firmly, preventing the movement and the pain that would have accompanied it. “Arthur,” he moaned when he came, his heart racing and his fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair.
***
A few days later, the Allies stormed the beach at Normandy and began to establish their foothold on the coast. The farmhouse, which had been so peaceful with just the two of them, became a meeting place for resistance leaders and British military officials. But late at night when the house was empty again, they would weave their bodies together in the darkness, skin and hands and mouths. In the mornings Arthur would kiss Eames’ forehead and get up to make coffee. In the afternoons, as they sat clustered around maps and intelligence reports, Eames would catch Arthur watching him with a faint smile.
One mid-June evening, after Arthur had been in town running errands, he pressed a metal tube into Eames’ hand as they lay together. His eyes glittered in the light thrown by the single candle in the bedroom, and he bit his lip hesitantly before he spoke. “I want… I want your fingers inside me,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “Please.”
Eames kissed him hard, want surging through him with a dizzying ferocity. “Oh, darling,” he murmured against Arthur’s mouth, “you don’t need to ask nicely.”
Arthur lay on his back, legs bent and spread wide. Eames uncapped the tube and ran a slick finger over his hole. Arthur shuddered, digging his fingers into the mattress as Eames stroked the soft, delicate skin. He waited for the tension in Arthur’s face to ease, then pressed a finger inside, groaning at how tight Arthur felt around him. He nipped at Arthur’s jaw as he worked his finger in, losing himself in the sensation - the hot slickness enveloping his finger, the shallow rasp of Arthur’s breath, the salty sweat on Arthur’s skin. “God, you feel amazing,” he said as he began to thrust gently. “You’d feel so good on my cock.”
Arthur moaned and his legs fell wider apart.
“Would you like that?” Eames asked, moving less gently now. “Would you like my cock inside you?”
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur growled and pulled him down for a sloppy kiss. “Don’t say things like that when we can’t.”
“Of course we can,” Eames said as he scraped his teeth over Arthur’s earlobe.
“Not with your leg broken,” Arthur said, in that firm voice that told Eames it would take some time to change Arthur’s mind. “You’re in a cast for god’s sake.”
“Details, darling,” he chuckled and slid in a second finger, pressing his smile against Arthur’s throat when Arthur gasped.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Arthur managed, his voice shaking.
Eames had every intention of weakening Arthur’s resolve, and his first step was to plant the idea deep. He stroked inside Arthur, angling for that spot that would make Arthur fall apart. He knew he had found it when Arthur cried out and clenched tight around his fingers. “Think how much better this would feel with my cock in you.”
Arthur was panting hard, his mouth open and slack, his eyes squeezed shut. “Touch yourself,” Eames instructed, voice low, right against Arthur’s ear. Arthur made a sound of protest but he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking in time with Eames’ thrusts. “I want to feel you come with my fingers inside you, feel you get so tight around me. I want to see how you’ll feel when I fuck you.”
Eames worked his fingers faster, driving unbridled, incoherent noises out of Arthur. Eames could feel him tense, his whole body going rigid, and then he came, bearing down on Eames’ fingers like he still wanted more. When he relaxed back into the mattress Eames leaned over and kissed him, sliding his fingers out begrudgingly.
Arthur spread lube on his own hand and wrapped it around Eames’ cock, warm and slick and sure. Eames was already so close, and then Arthur leaned in and whispered. “Come for me, Eames, like you will when you’re inside me.”
***
As the Allied forces shored up their foothold on the Normandy coast, the resistance undertook more extensive efforts to sabotage the Germans’ routes and resources. To do this, the resistance needed every ounce of help it could get, and Arthur was not one to shy away when a need arose. But when he was asked to deliver several maps and plans to a small enclave of British officers over 100 kilometers north near Rennes, Eames could see his anxiety over leaving. “I’ll be fine,” Eames assured him quietly, out of earshot of the soldier who had come bearing the request. “You’ll be back by the end of the day tomorrow. Surely you have enough faith in me to survive that long?”
Arthur rolled his eyes, but there was still hesitation in his voice when he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Of course I don’t want you to go, darling,” Eames said, squeezing Arthur’s hand gently. “But I’ll be fine. This is something you have to do.”
An hour later Arthur was ready to depart with a few scant supplies and the maps stowed in a pack. He kissed Eames before he left, lingering longer than he should have. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Arthur said, his voice not betraying the anxiety Eames could see in his eyes. “Take care of yourself.”
Eames kissed him one last time, then nudged him out the door. That night he lay in Arthur’s bed, the bed they had been sharing for nearly three weeks, and told himself over and over that everything would be fine.
It was late the following evening by the time Arthur returned, dirty from the road and exhausted. Eames went to him as soon as he came through the door, and Arthur nearly fell into his arms and held tight. When they climbed into bed that night Arthur seemed almost frantic, kissing Eames hard and fast with fingers trembling against Eames’ face. When he finally fell back, panting, Eames stroked a hand over his cheek and saw the wildness in his eyes. “Arthur, are you alright? Did something happen?”
It took several minutes of soothing before Arthur would speak. “I’m just glad I’m home,” he said evasively, hiding his face against Eames’ shoulder.
“As am I,” Eames said, pulling him close, hoping the contact would calm him. “But something’s got you jumpy, love. What is it?”
Arthur sighed and reached for Eames’ hand. “I was talking to one of the British lieutenants. He said they took heavy casualties at Normandy. Lost a lot of pilots. Hundreds, he said. I just… That could have been you.”
Eames lifted their hands and kissed the back of Arthur’s knuckles. “It wasn’t me. They’re not going to put me back in a plane before the war is over, I’m sure of it. They’ll likely offer me an honorable discharge. I won’t have to fight anymore. I can stay here with you.”
“I just wish it was over. I’m so damn tired of being afraid I'll lose everything again.” The farmer who had owned this house, René, had taken Arthur in when he fled here from Paris. They became lovers, Arthur had told Eames. Arthur loved him and the Germans murdered him.
Eames tried to reassure Arthur, cupped his face and kissed him, but Arthur’s apprehension was an insidious thing. Eames had forced himself not to think too deeply about the possibility of something happening to Arthur while he was gone, but now that he was back those thoughts loomed larger than ever, and suddenly Eames too felt uneasiness gnawing away at him. He kissed Arthur harder and began pulling at his clothes, wanting the reassurance of his warm skin, of his heartbeat, of the little noises he made that told Eames he was here, he was real, he was his.
He had just pressed a second slick finger inside Arthur when Arthur clutched at his arm. “Eames,” he said, his voice breathless and nearly pained, “I want you inside me.”
It took a moment for the words to register, and Eames was so caught off guard that he actually tried to argue at first. “But you said not until my cast was off - ”
“I know what I said,” Arthur bit out, almost harsh. “I’m tired of waiting.”
Eames nodded and worked Arthur open quick and a little rough, but Arthur just pushed down onto Eames’ hand to make the stretch even wider, faster. “I’m ready, come on.” Arthur sounded strung out.
Eames thought to protest, to say there was no rush, they could take their time. But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, not once Arthur grabbed the lube and smeared a generous amount up the length of Eames’ cock. He pushed Eames flat on his back and climbed up to straddle him. There was an intensity in Arthur’s eyes that worried Eames a little, and he wondered if Arthur saw the same thing in his.
“Please,” Arthur whispered, voice cracked at the edges.
Eames brushed the back of his hand over Arthur’s cheek, his heart clenching as Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “You don’t have to ask nicely,” Eames managed in a shaking voice.
Arthur lowered himself and it was almost too tight, too much, as the head of Eames’ cock slipped past his entrance. Arthur moved slowly, his fingers twitching against Eames’ chest, his face desperate and tense. He settled himself down until Eames was fully inside him.
Eames looked up at him - Arthur’s mouth was slack, his forehead creased in concentration, his chest stuttering in quick, shallow breaths. “God, you’re gorgeous,” Eames said softly, running his hands gently down Arthur’s sides. He wanted to move, to buck up into Arthur and drive himself deeper, but he fought the urge and remained still, waiting for Arthur to give them both what they needed.
Arthur rolled his hips, just a fraction of movement at first but enough to make them both groan. Eames gripped at his waist, stroking his thumbs over the soft skin of Arthur’s stomach as Arthur moved above him, picking out a rhythm as he began to relax. “Eames,” Arthur murmured, brushing his fingers over Eames’ lower lip. Eames took the tip of one finger in his mouth, sucking at it and pulling Arthur down harder. There was no pain, no fear, no worries over the past or what might still lie ahead. There was only this, the feel of Arthur taking Eames in, the smell of him, the heat of his body and the desperation in his eyes and the way he was all around Eames and right under his skin like a fever.
Arthur pulled his fingers away so he could lean down claim Eames’ mouth with his own, hips still rocking, cock hard and leaking as it dragged along Eames’ stomach. Arthur buried his face in Eames’ neck and rutted, his breath getting faster, the shy hint of a whimper at the end of each exhalation. Eames stroked his hair, the smooth skin of his back, whispering Arthur’s name over and over. He held on by a thread, everything so close and tight and enveloping, as the pulse of Arthur’s hips started to falter. Eames slipped his hand between them and wrapped it around Arthur’s cock, nearly losing himself when Arthur hissed and jerked at the contact.
“Eames,” he said, “come for me, come inside me.”
Eames jerked Arthur faster, making Arthur writhe on his cock until it overwhelmed him and he came, hips stuttering with a snap of pain that seared alongside his pleasure and left him breathless. His ears were ringing with it but he kept stroking Arthur until he could feel the warm pulse of Arthur’s come over his hand, and he wrapped his arms around Arthur and held him close until they both could breathe again.
***
In the morning Eames woke to Arthur pressed against his chest, his cock hard against Arthur’s arse. He slid his hand over Arthur’s hip and gently took his cock, fondling more than stroking, listening to the subtle hitches in Arthur’s breathing. In a few minutes Arthur was hard and Eames couldn’t hold back from kissing his shoulder, the side of his neck. When Arthur stirred he groaned softly and pushed forward into Eames’ hand. “Good morning,” Eames whispered, kissing his shoulder again.
“Eames, what are you doing? What time is it?” Arthur’s voice was sleep-rough. He batted Eames’ hand away.
Eames withdrew, only to caress gently up the back of Arthur’s thigh and along the cleft of his arse. “It’s early, maybe six?”
“Why are you waking me up?” Arthur sounded like he was trying to be stern, but his voice broke over the last words as Eames ran a finger over his hole, then pushed inside.
“You’re still so wet from last night,” Eames said, not keeping the desire from his tone.
Arthur shuddered as Eames stroked inside him. He didn’t protest anymore, but moaned softly and arched his back. Eames pressed in a second finger. “Look how you open up for me.”
Arthur leaned up and grabbed the lube from the night table and handed it back to Eames. “You better let me go back to sleep after this,” Arthur said, shifting his leg to give Eames better access.
Eames chuckled as he pulled his fingers out and slicked up his cock. “I’ll let you do whatever you want, darling.”
He pushed in easily and buried himself deep inside Arthur, pausing just to soak in the feel of it, Arthur tight around him, Arthur’s body radiating warmth all along his own. He fucked Arthur with slow, languid thrusts and whispered promises of protection, of permanence - assurances he very much intended to keep. He splayed his hand low on Arthur’s stomach, just above his cock, and Arthur slid his hand over Eames’ and rocked into it. They took their time, the only sound in the room their heavy breath and quiet vocalizations of pleasure.
Arthur’s moans grew louder and he pressed Eames’ hand down harder on his stomach. “Eames, god.”
Eames snapped his hips a little harder, shivering at the change in friction. “I know, love,” he said roughly.
Arthur wrapped his hand around his cock, rolling his hips back onto Eames and then forward into his fist. Eames kept the pressure on his belly, using it as leverage to drive into Arthur deeper. “Eames, Eames…” Arthur pleaded over and over, his voice getting thinner until he cried out and spilled over his hand. Eames followed soon after, groaning his release as he filled Arthur and felt the wetness envelop him.
Arthur was still panting when Eames pulled out. Eames sat up and hoisted himself out of bed, grabbing his crutch and hobbling toward the bathroom. He returned with a damp cloth and cleaned Arthur up, then pulled on some trousers. He kissed Arthur’s temple before going to make coffee. “Sleep as long as you like.” Arthur didn’t stir, his breath already slow and even.
***
The next time Arthur had to leave, he didn’t come back.
Dom and Mal had been at the farmhouse, staying for a few days until the next assignment came through. They were talking over the latest details of the Allied advance when a knock came at the door. Arthur opened it to find a bedraggled resistance fighter with wild eyes and blood soaking through the shoulder of his jersey.
He had been spying on the nearby German command camp and overheard their plan to ambush the Allied division that was marching east from Rennes. It was imperative that the Allies be warned immediately, but he’d been shot in the arm as he made his escape. The poor man had already been running for hours and had lost a dangerous volume of blood; there was no way he’d make it.
In minutes Dom and Arthur were ready to leave. Eames pulled Arthur tight and begged him to be safe. “Come back to me in one piece, yeah?” Eames said, hoping his smile concealed even a little of the fear he felt in his gut.
Arthur kissed him. “I love you, Eames.”
Eames pressed their foreheads together, hands trembling on Arthur’s shoulders. “Love doesn’t seem an adequate word for how I feel about you, darling. I’ll think of one while you’re gone.”
That night, Mal kissed Eames on the cheek before she left. “Don’t worry, cher, by this time tomorrow Arthur will be back in your arms.”
***
The look on Mal’s face told Eames everything when he answered the door the following afternoon. “Eames,” she said, sounding like she’d been crying. “Eames, I’m so sorry.”
All the air left his lungs. It felt like every drop of blood drained out of him, leaving him cold and still. “Is he…” He couldn’t finish the question. He didn’t want to hear the answer. The answer would mean it was real, and this couldn’t be real.
Mal grabbed his arm, and it was once she steadied him that he realized he had been swaying. “He was alive when Dom saw him last.”
He shuddered, and he would have gone down if she hadn’t been holding him up. She led him inside to the table and sat him down. Eames stared at its smooth wooden surface, eyes fixated on the glare from the sun streaming in the east windows. Mal pulled a chair next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Her touch felt distant. Everything felt distant.
“They got the message through to the British,” she said softly. “But the Nazis had scouts watching the British camp. When Dom and Arthur set out to come home, the scouts ambushed them. Dom took a bullet in the arm. He found cover, and when he looked back they had Arthur. Dom doesn’t think he was shot. Most likely they’ll take him to one of the POW camps on the German border.”
Eames pushed back in his chair and made to stand but Mal kept her hand steady on him. “Eames, no. Don’t be rash.”
He turned to look at her then, and made no attempt to hide his despair. “Mal, I have to go find him.”
“You’re in no condition,” she said firmly. “Even if you were, you’d likely end up caught, or dead. Let me talk to some of the resistance soldiers, they may know where the Germans have been taking prisoners. But the odds of finding him won’t be good. The war is almost over, Eames. We’ll get him back sooner or later.”
Later was not an option Eames could accept. Every day that passed meant time for them to starve Arthur, torture him, kill him. Eames could not allow any of those things. He had promised. He squeezed his eyes tight against the sting prickling there. “Eames,” Mal tried again, but Eames shoved back hard from the table, knocking his chair to the ground.
“Fuck,” he cursed as he limped to the window, pressing his forehead to the warm glass, looking out at the garden. Arthur should be out there now, pulling weeds and tying back the tomato plants. Arthur belonged here, with Eames. Otherwise Eames didn’t belong here either.
He heard Mal get up and move toward him, but she kept her distance. When he finally turned to her, there were tears streaking down his face. “What am I supposed to do, Mal?” Even while he lay in bed, his body broken and barely able to move, he had not felt this helpless.
He stayed at the farmhouse for another two weeks, until the Allies had set the Germans on the run out of France and until Arthur’s smell started fading from the bedclothes. Until the doctor came and removed Eames’ cast, told him he could walk unaided again. Until he couldn’t torture himself any longer, waiting here and hoping Arthur might walk through the door. He did what he could for the resistance but he couldn’t stand the stasis. He wanted to scour the country, find every place the Germans had ever held prisoners and ferret out any clue he could to find Arthur.
The leader of a British platoon canvassing the town instead convinced Eames to report to the British command post near Normandy. He knew he couldn’t stay away forever; he was still an RAF pilot and had commanding officers to answer to, even if the lingering hitch in his gait made it obvious he couldn’t fly again anytime soon.
In late July he finally headed north, paying a quick visit to Mal and Dom and leaving a hopeful note for Arthur on the dining table before he pulled the farmhouse door closed behind him for what he feared might be the last time.
Part Three