last in a series of one night stands
Title: last in a series of one night stands
Author: cmonkatiekatie
Team: romance
Prompt: completion
Word count: 2,061
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
so much thanks to kyasuriin for the speedy beta and more than gracious help.
part 1, part 2, part 3
"I'm in Los Angeles," Eames says, "are you home?"
Arthur doesn't answer because he's too busy laughing so hard that no sound comes out. It takes much longer than it should for Eames to realize why the line is so quiet.
Eames can hear background noise through that silent laughter, familiar background noise. Enough that when he puts two and two together, Eames knows exactly where Arthur is. He’s not some kind of locations expert, there’s nothing specific he can put his finger on, he just knows what home sounds like.
If this is some kind of Gift of the Magi fast one the universe is pulling on him, Eames doesn't want to know.
Eames hangs up.
Arthur doesn't call him back.
Eames wants to touch someone. Eames wants to touch Arthur. He wants to curve a hand around Arthur’s shoulder and push him down on a flat surface and take and take and take.
Eames only breaks into Arthur's house because he was already at the front door. It's convenient. The thought of calling another cab and checking into a hotel is much too much.
He regrets this particular train of thought as soon as he's through the door. Arthur's house is blessedly cool and dark, but it's also the furthest thing from anonymous. There's nothing close to the cool indifference of a hotel suite. Arthur seeps in from every crack and settles over every available surface. He's written all over the the paint on the walls and the tread on the carpet. The sleek, comfortable couch, shoes half tucked underneath it. The short stack of books on the coffee table. Messy towels in the bathroom and a missing toothbrush. A hastily made bed with pillows askew.
It's all Arthur. Clean and imperfect and very far away.
Eames drops his bag in the hall and takes off his shoes at the bedroom door. Then he crawls into Arthur’s bed so he doesn’t have to think about it anymore.
--
When Arthur calls back, which he invariably does, it wakes Eames up.
He answers with, “I broke into your house.”
“I know,” Arthur says. “I’m in Mombasa.”
“I know.”
There’s a beat. “I guess that covers everything then, talk to you later.”
Eames rolls onto his back. “You need better jokes. Why are you in Mombasa? Is there a job?”
“Something like that,” Arthur answers. He sounds distracted. “Hey, listen, I have to. I have to go. Don’t fuck up my house.”
And that’s the closest thing to an outright invitation he’s ever going to get, so Eames rolls over and goes back to sleep.
--
Eames is wallowing. It becomes clear when he wakes up spooning Arthur’s pillows.
He thinks maybe it’s not a bad thing.
He thinks that it’s not an accident that they’re half a world apart. Sure, it’s a heavy-handed metaphor on the part of the cosmos, but Eames always was thick headed.
He thinks maybe this is what he needs. A bit of closure. A bit of a chance to muster up dignity before he lets Arthur breaks his heart irrevocably. All with Eames’ full knowledge and consent, of course.
Yep, thick headed as they come.
On the upside, maybe the only upside, Eames is relatively healthy and well adjusted. His baseline is a little off, what with the people he calls colleagues veering slightly left of completely insane, but. If he’s sad, if he wants more and he’s not going to get it, he should probably get around to addressing it. If he can feel it all from up close, the way he wants and the way he’s disappointed and the way it appears that he’s not going to get over it easily, then maybe he can, at the very least, walk out of Arthur’s house and get the fuck on with it.
Eames squeezes the pillows closer to his chest. It’s better that they don’t actually smell like him, Eames tells himself. Definitely better.
--
The only edible food in Arthur’s kitchen is a packet of stale crackers and some mustard. Eames washes it down with Arthur’s domestic beer and wonders why he even likes him at all.
--
Eames takes the rest of his beer outside and sits in straight backed lawn furniture, nothing like the ones they’ve dreamed in.
His beer leaves a series of small, damp circles on the dusty glass table. As far as marks go, it's the furthest thing from indelible. Eames stops looking at it.
Arthur has a beautiful back garden, very peaceful. Eames can’t begin to imagine Arthur in it no matter how hard he tries. There’s not a whole lot about Arthur that screams peace. Stoic, occasionally. Even still now and then, but peaceful? No. There’s just too much boiling away beneath the surface for peaceful.
It’s nice to think about though.
When Eames goes back inside for another beer, he scoops the small stack of books off the coffee table and carries them outside with him.
He spends the afternoon sifting through them instead of his feelings, but it’s fine. Rome wasn’t built in a day and all.
--
It’s well after dark when Eames goes back inside for good. He’s struck anew with the presence of Arthur. All Arthur, no trace of Eames. Which, if he’s honest, is what Arthur’s been maintaining with ease all this time.
He pulls open a drawer in the kitchen and fishes around until he comes up with what is likely one of many emergency credit cards. It’s really very kind of Arthur to buy him dinner.
He kicks the abandoned shoes out from under the couch and orders a pizza.
He’ll give himself one more night to hole up around Arthur, and then it ends.
--
In the middle of the night, the bed dips and Eames flails awake. His fist connects with something hard before he registers lashing out.
There’s shocked silence, then Eames fumbles for the light. He’d like to see who exactly has come to kill him in the night. He has a sinking feeling he’ll recognize his assailant; he has a sneaking suspicion the actual killing part may be a late addition to the plan.
“You asshole,” Arthur says, gingerly touching his cheek with the back of his hand, “it’s my bed.”
"How long was I asleep?" Eames asks helpfully.
"How the fuck should I know?" Arthur answers, then dips in to kiss him, and oh, oh, it's so obvious that Eames has dreamed him up. This is why the mourning process is important, Eames thinks, otherwise the madness creeps in.
Arthur settles in next to him, solid and warm. He fits a hand over Eames’ hip and the touch is light, but it feels very real.
“You’re in Mombasa,” Eames says, and follows it up with, “Your pillows don’t smell like you.” It can’t be helped, Eames doesn’t currently have the wherewithal to keep his mouth in check.
Arthur breathes out over Eames’ mouth. “I’m right here.” His kisses are soft and slow, tired. “And I like clean sheets.”
Eames kisses back. He always kisses back, dream or no.
The logistics aren’t right. Even if Arthur were coming home, it would take at least two days, a day and a half, to get from Kenya to California. Eames hasn’t been asleep that long.
Eames pulls away, twisting to look at the clock. “You can’t be here.”
“I live here,” Arthur says. He winds an arm around Eames and pulls him back down. Eames resists, but it’s a momentary thing. He should’ve known. He should’ve known that no matter how prepared for heartbreak he was, he’d never actually walk away of his own accord.
“You are being deliberately obtuse. It’s unattractive.” Eames is a liar.
“You’re a slob,” Arthur says. “There’s a half eaten pizza on my couch. That’s not very attractive either.”
“You’re lazy and incapable of keeping edible things in your kitchen. How are you here?”
Arthur takes an audible breath and curves his hand around Eames’ cheek. He runs his thumb over Eames’ mouth and looks at him. “I chartered a jet,” he says plainly.
Eames closes his eyes. It’s still all wrong. Arthur’s thumb migrates north to trace over his eyelid. Eames may need Arthur to stop touching him so he can think. “It was a magic jet, then?”
“Close?” Arthur says, curling in, likely more than aware of the particular pull he has on Eames. Arthur always was willing to use an advantage. “More hyper sonic than magic, but, yes, close.”
Eames goes very, very still. “Arthur,” he says, “Arthur, that’s hardly practical.” His choice of words is not accidental. “That’s hardly possible.”
“I know a guy.” Arthur says, somewhat dismissively. “Can we- Can you kiss me again?”
There is nothing in the world Eames would like more, but he feels one step behind and there’s a new thread of something like hope that Eames wants to pull at first. He’d like to know how quickly it unravels.
“No,” Eames says. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think-”
Arthur puts his fingers over Eames’ mouth and goes up on an elbow. “I- Okay,” Arthur starts. “I know that I am slow on the uptake. And I know that I’m stubborn and avoidant and not worth the trouble, but I just spent exorbitant amounts of cash and called in like four favors so I could come home to you as fast as humanly possible by way of a jet that doesn’t technically exist even on paper, but if you need me to say it, I can say it.”
“I need you to say it,” Eames says. Arthur opens his mouth and Eames kisses away whatever it was he was going to say.
Arthur breathes into it and settles his weight over Eames. When Arthur breaks the kiss, he drags his teeth over Eames bottom lip and looks down at him. Eames’ heart beats wildly in his chest.
“I’ve reconsidered my position on practicality,” Arthur says.
Eames stares at him. “That’s it? That’s your big declaration?”
Arthur grins. “You punched me in the face. I’ve amended it some.”
Eames touches the red spot on Arthur’s cheek. Occasionally Eames has to remind himself that Arthur does not have a monopoly on behaving like a bastard. “I’d forgotten,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Arthur says, “It’s not like I didn’t know you were needlessly violent.”
“I’m not-” Eames stops. Eames stops because Arthur is laughing at him. Or as close to laughing as Arthur gets when he’s this tired. “I’ll get you some ice. If you have any, of course.”
Arthur tightens his grip. “If you get out of this bed I won’t let you back in.”
“Yes you will,” Eames says, still touching Arthur’s cheek, “you’ve reconsidered your position on practicality.”
Arthur doesn’t answer, but Eames doesn’t move. Arthur noses at the hair on Eames’ chest and kisses a spot on his breast bone. Eames runs his hand down Arthur’s side and then does it again. Their breath gets slow and even.
“Hey,” Eames says, “hey. Don’t fall asleep on me just yet.”
Arthur bites against Eames skin. It’s an agreeable, awake sort of bite.
“Why now, Arthur. Why not back- Why not before?”
It’s so like Arthur to leave things until the last possible second, to avoid disaster with barely a moment to spare.
Arthur sighs. “It just got hard to stay away,” he says. “I started to forget the reason I was doing it in the first place.”
Eames would be lying if he said he couldn’t identify. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” Eames says. He goes back to touching Arthur, closes his eyes and breathes him in. Arthur seems all right with that.
“There was no job,” Arthur says, finally.
“I know,” Eames says, because he does now.
“I went to Mombasa to find you.” Eames knows that too. There’s a subtle swooping in his gut.
“You know the best part of this?” Arthur asks.
“Hmm?” Eames asks.
Arthur doesn’t answer. Eames tilts up the smallest of fractions to see Arthur passed out on his chest, mouth parted. Eames lets his head fall back on the pillow. It’s fine. Eames will ask when him he wakes up.
Author: cmonkatiekatie
Team: romance
Prompt: completion
Word count: 2,061
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
so much thanks to kyasuriin for the speedy beta and more than gracious help.
part 1, part 2, part 3
"I'm in Los Angeles," Eames says, "are you home?"
Arthur doesn't answer because he's too busy laughing so hard that no sound comes out. It takes much longer than it should for Eames to realize why the line is so quiet.
Eames can hear background noise through that silent laughter, familiar background noise. Enough that when he puts two and two together, Eames knows exactly where Arthur is. He’s not some kind of locations expert, there’s nothing specific he can put his finger on, he just knows what home sounds like.
If this is some kind of Gift of the Magi fast one the universe is pulling on him, Eames doesn't want to know.
Eames hangs up.
Arthur doesn't call him back.
Eames wants to touch someone. Eames wants to touch Arthur. He wants to curve a hand around Arthur’s shoulder and push him down on a flat surface and take and take and take.
Eames only breaks into Arthur's house because he was already at the front door. It's convenient. The thought of calling another cab and checking into a hotel is much too much.
He regrets this particular train of thought as soon as he's through the door. Arthur's house is blessedly cool and dark, but it's also the furthest thing from anonymous. There's nothing close to the cool indifference of a hotel suite. Arthur seeps in from every crack and settles over every available surface. He's written all over the the paint on the walls and the tread on the carpet. The sleek, comfortable couch, shoes half tucked underneath it. The short stack of books on the coffee table. Messy towels in the bathroom and a missing toothbrush. A hastily made bed with pillows askew.
It's all Arthur. Clean and imperfect and very far away.
Eames drops his bag in the hall and takes off his shoes at the bedroom door. Then he crawls into Arthur’s bed so he doesn’t have to think about it anymore.
--
When Arthur calls back, which he invariably does, it wakes Eames up.
He answers with, “I broke into your house.”
“I know,” Arthur says. “I’m in Mombasa.”
“I know.”
There’s a beat. “I guess that covers everything then, talk to you later.”
Eames rolls onto his back. “You need better jokes. Why are you in Mombasa? Is there a job?”
“Something like that,” Arthur answers. He sounds distracted. “Hey, listen, I have to. I have to go. Don’t fuck up my house.”
And that’s the closest thing to an outright invitation he’s ever going to get, so Eames rolls over and goes back to sleep.
--
Eames is wallowing. It becomes clear when he wakes up spooning Arthur’s pillows.
He thinks maybe it’s not a bad thing.
He thinks that it’s not an accident that they’re half a world apart. Sure, it’s a heavy-handed metaphor on the part of the cosmos, but Eames always was thick headed.
He thinks maybe this is what he needs. A bit of closure. A bit of a chance to muster up dignity before he lets Arthur breaks his heart irrevocably. All with Eames’ full knowledge and consent, of course.
Yep, thick headed as they come.
On the upside, maybe the only upside, Eames is relatively healthy and well adjusted. His baseline is a little off, what with the people he calls colleagues veering slightly left of completely insane, but. If he’s sad, if he wants more and he’s not going to get it, he should probably get around to addressing it. If he can feel it all from up close, the way he wants and the way he’s disappointed and the way it appears that he’s not going to get over it easily, then maybe he can, at the very least, walk out of Arthur’s house and get the fuck on with it.
Eames squeezes the pillows closer to his chest. It’s better that they don’t actually smell like him, Eames tells himself. Definitely better.
--
The only edible food in Arthur’s kitchen is a packet of stale crackers and some mustard. Eames washes it down with Arthur’s domestic beer and wonders why he even likes him at all.
--
Eames takes the rest of his beer outside and sits in straight backed lawn furniture, nothing like the ones they’ve dreamed in.
His beer leaves a series of small, damp circles on the dusty glass table. As far as marks go, it's the furthest thing from indelible. Eames stops looking at it.
Arthur has a beautiful back garden, very peaceful. Eames can’t begin to imagine Arthur in it no matter how hard he tries. There’s not a whole lot about Arthur that screams peace. Stoic, occasionally. Even still now and then, but peaceful? No. There’s just too much boiling away beneath the surface for peaceful.
It’s nice to think about though.
When Eames goes back inside for another beer, he scoops the small stack of books off the coffee table and carries them outside with him.
He spends the afternoon sifting through them instead of his feelings, but it’s fine. Rome wasn’t built in a day and all.
--
It’s well after dark when Eames goes back inside for good. He’s struck anew with the presence of Arthur. All Arthur, no trace of Eames. Which, if he’s honest, is what Arthur’s been maintaining with ease all this time.
He pulls open a drawer in the kitchen and fishes around until he comes up with what is likely one of many emergency credit cards. It’s really very kind of Arthur to buy him dinner.
He kicks the abandoned shoes out from under the couch and orders a pizza.
He’ll give himself one more night to hole up around Arthur, and then it ends.
--
In the middle of the night, the bed dips and Eames flails awake. His fist connects with something hard before he registers lashing out.
There’s shocked silence, then Eames fumbles for the light. He’d like to see who exactly has come to kill him in the night. He has a sinking feeling he’ll recognize his assailant; he has a sneaking suspicion the actual killing part may be a late addition to the plan.
“You asshole,” Arthur says, gingerly touching his cheek with the back of his hand, “it’s my bed.”
"How long was I asleep?" Eames asks helpfully.
"How the fuck should I know?" Arthur answers, then dips in to kiss him, and oh, oh, it's so obvious that Eames has dreamed him up. This is why the mourning process is important, Eames thinks, otherwise the madness creeps in.
Arthur settles in next to him, solid and warm. He fits a hand over Eames’ hip and the touch is light, but it feels very real.
“You’re in Mombasa,” Eames says, and follows it up with, “Your pillows don’t smell like you.” It can’t be helped, Eames doesn’t currently have the wherewithal to keep his mouth in check.
Arthur breathes out over Eames’ mouth. “I’m right here.” His kisses are soft and slow, tired. “And I like clean sheets.”
Eames kisses back. He always kisses back, dream or no.
The logistics aren’t right. Even if Arthur were coming home, it would take at least two days, a day and a half, to get from Kenya to California. Eames hasn’t been asleep that long.
Eames pulls away, twisting to look at the clock. “You can’t be here.”
“I live here,” Arthur says. He winds an arm around Eames and pulls him back down. Eames resists, but it’s a momentary thing. He should’ve known. He should’ve known that no matter how prepared for heartbreak he was, he’d never actually walk away of his own accord.
“You are being deliberately obtuse. It’s unattractive.” Eames is a liar.
“You’re a slob,” Arthur says. “There’s a half eaten pizza on my couch. That’s not very attractive either.”
“You’re lazy and incapable of keeping edible things in your kitchen. How are you here?”
Arthur takes an audible breath and curves his hand around Eames’ cheek. He runs his thumb over Eames’ mouth and looks at him. “I chartered a jet,” he says plainly.
Eames closes his eyes. It’s still all wrong. Arthur’s thumb migrates north to trace over his eyelid. Eames may need Arthur to stop touching him so he can think. “It was a magic jet, then?”
“Close?” Arthur says, curling in, likely more than aware of the particular pull he has on Eames. Arthur always was willing to use an advantage. “More hyper sonic than magic, but, yes, close.”
Eames goes very, very still. “Arthur,” he says, “Arthur, that’s hardly practical.” His choice of words is not accidental. “That’s hardly possible.”
“I know a guy.” Arthur says, somewhat dismissively. “Can we- Can you kiss me again?”
There is nothing in the world Eames would like more, but he feels one step behind and there’s a new thread of something like hope that Eames wants to pull at first. He’d like to know how quickly it unravels.
“No,” Eames says. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I think-”
Arthur puts his fingers over Eames’ mouth and goes up on an elbow. “I- Okay,” Arthur starts. “I know that I am slow on the uptake. And I know that I’m stubborn and avoidant and not worth the trouble, but I just spent exorbitant amounts of cash and called in like four favors so I could come home to you as fast as humanly possible by way of a jet that doesn’t technically exist even on paper, but if you need me to say it, I can say it.”
“I need you to say it,” Eames says. Arthur opens his mouth and Eames kisses away whatever it was he was going to say.
Arthur breathes into it and settles his weight over Eames. When Arthur breaks the kiss, he drags his teeth over Eames bottom lip and looks down at him. Eames’ heart beats wildly in his chest.
“I’ve reconsidered my position on practicality,” Arthur says.
Eames stares at him. “That’s it? That’s your big declaration?”
Arthur grins. “You punched me in the face. I’ve amended it some.”
Eames touches the red spot on Arthur’s cheek. Occasionally Eames has to remind himself that Arthur does not have a monopoly on behaving like a bastard. “I’d forgotten,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Arthur says, “It’s not like I didn’t know you were needlessly violent.”
“I’m not-” Eames stops. Eames stops because Arthur is laughing at him. Or as close to laughing as Arthur gets when he’s this tired. “I’ll get you some ice. If you have any, of course.”
Arthur tightens his grip. “If you get out of this bed I won’t let you back in.”
“Yes you will,” Eames says, still touching Arthur’s cheek, “you’ve reconsidered your position on practicality.”
Arthur doesn’t answer, but Eames doesn’t move. Arthur noses at the hair on Eames’ chest and kisses a spot on his breast bone. Eames runs his hand down Arthur’s side and then does it again. Their breath gets slow and even.
“Hey,” Eames says, “hey. Don’t fall asleep on me just yet.”
Arthur bites against Eames skin. It’s an agreeable, awake sort of bite.
“Why now, Arthur. Why not back- Why not before?”
It’s so like Arthur to leave things until the last possible second, to avoid disaster with barely a moment to spare.
Arthur sighs. “It just got hard to stay away,” he says. “I started to forget the reason I was doing it in the first place.”
Eames would be lying if he said he couldn’t identify. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” Eames says. He goes back to touching Arthur, closes his eyes and breathes him in. Arthur seems all right with that.
“There was no job,” Arthur says, finally.
“I know,” Eames says, because he does now.
“I went to Mombasa to find you.” Eames knows that too. There’s a subtle swooping in his gut.
“You know the best part of this?” Arthur asks.
“Hmm?” Eames asks.
Arthur doesn’t answer. Eames tilts up the smallest of fractions to see Arthur passed out on his chest, mouth parted. Eames lets his head fall back on the pillow. It’s fine. Eames will ask when him he wakes up.