Greater Than Want, Deeper Than Need (Part 4 - END)
Title: Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part 4 of 4)
Authors:: eternalsojourn and countrypixie1
Team: Angst
Prompt(s): Hunger, Sensual and Touch
Word Count: ~3400 (This part)
Rating: NC-17
Beta: this section unbetaed
Warnings: Angst, Torture (Happy ending)
Summary: In a world where touch is as essential to human survival as food and water, Arthur and Eames are forced to face the repercussions of their line of work.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part Four)
Arthur struggles to open his eyes, trapped in the state between sleeping and waking. His mind screams for more rest, but his body is protesting the binge touching he’s indulged in since the escape.
Awareness filters in slowly, his mind too muddled to comprehend much. Arthur groans as he realizes the warmth enveloping him is Eames, still half on top of Arthur, naked, and dozing fitfully. Eames’s touch, so pleasurable and comforting last night, is suddenly painful, much more than Arthur’s body can handle. Arthur pushes Eames away roughly, not caring at all if he disturbs Eames.
Arthur rolls out of bed and nearly collapses on the floor, weak and disoriented, the adrenaline from yesterday long gone. He stumbles towards the adjoining bathroom and manages to reach the toilet before he vomits, nothing but acid emptying from his stomach.
“Arthur?” The light comes on, and Arthur slams his eyes shut, almost whimpers before he catches himself. “Sorry,” Eames says. He sounds like he’s still asleep, voice low and quiet. “You okay?” Eames asks, resting a hand on Arthur’s forehead like he’s trying to feel for a fever. Arthur jerks away violently. “Sorry,” Eames says again.
“You said you had medical supplies?” Arthur asks, almost flinching at his rasping voice.
“Ah, yes,” Eames says, shifting guiltily. “I may have stretched the truth a bit.”
Arthur glares, well aware that the effect is lessened considerably since his head is resting on a toilet seat. “How so?” he asks.
“My supplies run more towards gunshot wounds and broken bones. Can’t say deprivation, starvation, or dehydration have ever been at the top of my list of concerns.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a second, absorbing the coolness of the porcelain. “Who’s nearby? We can call someone in.”
“I’ll sort it.” Eames fills the empty glass on the counter with water. “Drink this and get back to bed. I’ll be right back.” Although Eames doesn't look like he’s in any shape to be moving around, he levers himself off the doorjamb and slowly makes his way out of the room. Arthur hasn’t the heart or the energy to stop him.
When Eames returns to the bedroom, it’s with a sickly sheen of sweat on his brow and a tray in his hands. He sets it down on his bedside table, revealing a mobile phone, two bowls of what looks like canned mixed fruit and two bottles of Gatorade. Arthur shifts up, though his body protests, and takes the proffered food and drink.
“My neighbour Marcus, an old friend of my father’s. He can be trusted to be discreet, and he’ll bring over some supplies, check on us once a day or so. He’s a vet,” Eames looks sheepishly rueful, but Arthur will take a vet over a random civilian should they need medical attention beyond food and rest. And if Eames trusts him, well, that’s enough.
He forces himself to finish the fruit and drink more water, and worries for a moment what he’ll do during all this recovery time, but he’s not even sure he finishes the thought before drifting off to sleep again.
----
After a bleary, sweaty, uncomfortable and fairly unrestful day, taking painkillers every few hours to manage the fever, Arthur finally sleeps a solid five hours and wakes warm but not overheated, hungry but not weak. Eames is still there in the bed asleep, and although he’s on the other end of the queen sized bed, it’s comforting having him there. He’s laying on his back, one hand over his head, the other across his stomach. Arthur reaches across and feels the hairs on Eames’s forearm, not quite gripping hard enough to pull, just gathering tufts lazily.
When Eames draws a deep breath, Arthur stops and sighs, rolling out of bed after a moment and heading to the bathroom to top up both of their waters. He picks up the mobile from the bedside table, careful not to wake Eames.
In the bathroom he phones Sy. It occurs to him after he dials that Sy might be sleeping. He can’t be bothered figuring out what time it is here, much less where Sy is. He lets it ring.
“‘Allo, ‘allo,” Sy says, and it’s odd to be reminded that somewhere else, other people are cheerful.
“Sy, Arthur.”
“Arthur! So you’re not dead then. That’s good news. What can I do for you, mate?”
“I just need an update on Niels and Iliana. I have to know if I need to get the fuck out of dodge,” he says. Ordinarily he’d find the words to ask Sy how he’s doing, make the idle chitchat that keeps his contacts sweet and familiar, but he can’t. He relies on the blatant fatigue in his voice to explain his reasons, and fortunately, Sy seems unperturbed.
“I figured you might, hold on, let me just get back into the system.” There’s a rapid tapping of keys and Arthur settles himself on the closed toilet lid, taking a sip of his water while he waits. “Got it,” Sy says, sounding smug. “Not that this was particularly difficult; it’s been in the papers. But I got access to the police reports anyway. She’s been charged already. The questioning didn’t last long; there were enough bloody witnesses. I checked on the guys she hired as well. Bulgarian boys, the Nikolovich family. As far as gangs go, these boys are all business, in it for the paycheck. No paycheck, no boys as far as I can see. You in a safehouse?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Hey listen, Sy. One last favor?”
“Arthur, mate. If ever there was someone I’d want owing me a favor, it’s you. Name it.”
“Call Cobb, tell him all this and get him to keep an eye on the Nikolovich clan? Just in case. If they make a move into Switzerland, he can contact me.” Arthur makes a mental note to text Cobb with their standard coded message, leaving him the number he can be reached at. “And thanks. Again.”
“Say nothing of it. And Arthur, get yourself healthy, would ya? You sound like shit.”
Arthur laughs and hangs up, rubbing his hand down his face.
When he returns to the room, Eames looks up at him from under his arm which is now thrown across his eyes. “Who was that?”
“Sy. I was just making sure we’re safe here still.”
Eames looks at Arthur for a moment, and then, apparently satisfied that Arthur would let him know if they have to move, covers his eyes again. “Any information on Iliana?”
“In custody and charged with murder. She’s not a problem anymore.” Arthur half expects Eames to ask about the guards, but the question doesn’t come. Either Eames is too exhausted to care or he trusts Arthur that much. Both options unsettle Arthur.
“Eames, have you heard of any other marks having a reaction like Sørensen’s?”
Eames uncovers his eyes, holds his hand out toward Arthur in an unspoken request. Only after Arthur crosses the room and settles next to Eames, interlocking their fingers, does Eames speak. “I hadn’t even heard of Sørensen’s. I don’t make it a habit to expose myself by checking in on past marks, and I know you don’t either.”
“Should we?” Arthur asks. “If this is a frequent occurrence -”
“If it was a frequent occurrence,” Eames interrupts, “we would have heard something.”
“So it doesn’t happen often,” Arthur says, absentmindedly trailing the fingers of his free hand up and down Eames’s arm. “That doesn’t mean it’s an isolated event. The military only tested the effects on willing subjects. The technology was appropriated before its other uses were explored and tested."
Eames doesn’t say anything, just watches Arthur and waits, obviously recognizing that Arthur is thinking aloud rather than looking for a response. The thought that Eames knows him better than his own family flashes across Arthur’s mind, startling him. He pushes it away to deal with later.
“I could start doing more research on marks before jobs. Specifically looking at any history of mental instability.”
“That already shows in your research,” Eames says. “Remember the Kovich job?” Eames swings a leg over between Arthur’s, rubbing their feet together.
Arthur closes his eyes against the sensation of the touch, lost in simple pleasure before he remembers to answer. “Spending three months in a psychiatric ward is one thing. I’m talking about looking for signs in otherwise healthy individuals that could point to the possibility of being pushed over the edge.”
“Anyone can be pushed over the edge. You know that. I’m not saying I disagree,” Eames says when Arthur opens his mouth to argue, “but that’s a lot of extra research for something that you can’t predict.”
“Not necessarily,” Arthur says. “I’m not talking about much. History of mental illness in the family is a must. Maybe spending more time hacking into records of therapy sessions. I usually only do that if I’m looking for something specific.”
Eames sighs. “It’s up to you, Arthur. Our job doesn’t exactly take place on moral high ground to begin with, but I can understand wanting more information to work with.”
“That’s all I’m asking for. I’m not advocating getting out of the business.”
“What would we even do with our time if not this?” Eames smirks. “Go back and join your Mafia family?”
Arthur scoffs. “As if you’d be welcome.”
Eames smiles. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says that he knows Arthur’s lying.
----
They settle into a comfortable routine, keeping themselves occupied as much as possible to stave off their restlessness. Arthur devours Eames’s books and monopolizes the laptop with unspecified research, and as long as he isn’t getting up and moving around too much, Eames doesn’t mind what he does. Eames himself catches up on a lot of movies and a bunch of the books he’d bought but never got around to reading.
He doesn’t notice how comfortable he’s become in his recovery until he passes Arthur in the sitting room, reading a China Mieville novel Eames had picked up last summer. Seeing him there in Eames’s childhood holiday home, comfortable and relaxed makes Eames simultaneously content and unnerved. Without thinking, Eames reaches out to touch Arthur’s hairline at his nape, only to have Arthur flinch and duck out of the way. Eames purses his lips but lets it go, carrying on his way into the kitchen.
He notices that Arthur makes no attempt to touch him for the rest of the day, and has put on socks, which they’d been going without since they got here. That evening after dinner, they sit on the sofa watching yet another kung fu movie from Eames’s collection, their forearms gently touching. When Eames reaches his other hand across to trail up Arthur’s arm and tease at the rolled up cuff at Arthur’s elbow, Arthur shrugs away.
“All right, enough. What’s this about, then?”
Arthur looks over, frowning. To his credit, he doesn’t pretend not to know what Eames is talking about, nor deny that he’s been backing off.
“We’re almost better now. This... thing. Whatever it is. It’s exactly what my father was talking about. My decisions are compromised.” Arthur’s voice, grown so familiar over the past week, sounds suddenly like the Arthur Eames always knew. Professional, clipped.
“Of course they bloody well are,” Eames says, losing patience. “What did you expect?”
“It’s just best to keep things simple,” Arthur turns back to the TV, as if that’s the end of it.
Eames glares at Arthur’s profile, but Arthur doesn’t turn. “So tell me. How simple is it going to be for you to pretend nothing changed here?”
Arthur opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again. He takes a breath. “Look. Even if it was a good idea for us to... it’s just not wise to base things off a traumatic experience like this.“
“Oh? What would be a good way to start, then? Hm? Meet randomly while walking dogs in the park? Go for coffee, move onto dinner? I hardly think either of us were ever cut out for ‘normal’, Arthur, and I, for one, have never sought it. Neither have you. So don’t give me this shit.”
Arthur stands abruptly and stalks to the door. Eames follows and catches him in the kitchen hand lightly resting on Arthur’s shoulder. He can feel the muscle and bone under the cotton, remembers distinctly what that skin felt like without the barrier. Arthur wheels around, hand placed firmly on Eames’s chest to push him away, but he doesn’t quite. He just rests it there.
“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Getting close to people.” He looks down at his hand where it rests on Eames’s chest.
Eames shakes his head. “It was never like that.” He tries to get Arthur to meet his eyes but Arthur won’t. “I don’t give a toss how this started. But it did, and I’m not obtuse enough to pretend otherwise.”
Arthur’s fingers touch the edges of Eames’s buttons and begin to play around the edges of the material. The press of his hand has eased to the barest whisper of weight. Eames gambles.
He leans in and nudges Arthur’s nose up with his own, brushing lips to lips. Arthur closes his eyes and frowns, then slides his fingers between the buttons to rustle across Eames’s chest hair and gives in, kissing Eames fiercely.
Eames tugs at Arthur’s shirt, half indicating for him to remove it, half nudging them both back towards the sitting room. They kiss as they walk, awkwardly trying not to stumble while undoing their buttons. It’s slow but neither seem willing to let go of the contact.
When they’re in front of the sofa, they strip entirely and Arthur’s erection rests on Eames’s belly, hot, hard and electrifyingly new. When it brushes against Eames’s own cock, he shivers. He sinks his fingers in the flesh of Arthur’s arse and pulls him tight, grinding their cocks together and Arthur sucks in a breath and bites his own lip. He presses Eames down to sitting and straddles him, running his hands all over Eames’s torso, pinching at his nipples, all of his previous reticence abandoned.
Eames lifts Arthur up, urging him to his knees and noses around the head of his jutting red cock, reaching his tongue out gently to lick at it. Arthur supports himself on the back of the sofa and with his other hand guides himself into Eames’s mouth, running a finger over his lip. Eames holds Arthur steady with both hands and sucks on Arthur’s shaft, urging him to press in further. Arthur’s hips pulse and he runs his hand through Eames’s hair, fucking his mouth like he expects Eames can take it, no hesitance or caution, and Eames gets harder at the thought of how far they might be able to push each other.
When he feels the familiar rumble in Arthur’s sac, the tense readiness, he pushes Arthur’s hips back and jacks him quickly. Arthur watches and soon he’s dropping his mouth open, frown creasing his brow as he shoots thick ropes of white come into Eames’s hand, splashing onto his belly and dripping between his fingers. Eames eases his grip, gathers as much of it as he can off Arthur’s cock before reaching around and holding Arthur’s arse open with his other hand. He pauses.
“Fuck. No condoms here,” he says, realizing what he was about to do.
“I’m clean, you?” Arthur asks tersely, much more desperate sounding than Eames would have expected, having just come. And of course they both have their results, PASIV technology being what it is and necessitating regular testing. Eames nods. “Then do it.”
He smears the come up into Arthur’s hole messily, his whole hand covered and slipping on Arthur’s skin. He pushes one finger up inside and Arthur kisses him, every bit as hungrily as when they started. “More,” he says, and Eames complies.
When he figures Arthur’s as ready as they’re both willing to wait for, he coats his cock with the rest of what’s on his hands and rubs his head against Arthur’s entrance a few times, savouring the moment of anticipation. When he presses upwards, it happens faster than he expects as Arthur sits down on him at the same time, and in one smooth motion, he’s buried to the hilt.
Arthur rides him, rolling his hips down onto Eames and Eames wants to throw his head back and close his eyes but that would mean missing Arthur’s intense look of concentration. And it’s as if both of them have been storing all their energy for the past week as they frantically, feverishly grind themselves together. It’s too short a time before Eames comes with groan, feeling his own come spill back out of Arthur and drip down his cock to his sac. He reaches around to draw a finger through it and to feel where Arthur’s stretched around him. Regretfully, he slips himself out. It’s satisfying that Arthur makes a rueful sound at the loss.
With both of them panting and sweaty, Eames doesn’t quite know what to say. Arthur looks at him, his expression complex and unreadable. He climbs off.
“I’ll take the first shower,” Arthur says, gathering up his clothes. “If you could back this movie up to where we stopped watching, I’d like to see it with you. It’s one of my favourites.”
Eames smiles and nods, reaching across to the side table to grab a tissue to tidy himself a little in the meantime.
When Arthur returns, Eames briefly notes the bare feet before heading to the shower himself.
----
"Arthur, how'd the Niels check go?" Eames says, handing Arthur his extra-large triple shot Americano.
"Clean. No family history, no apparent susceptibility, but keep an eye out while you're tailing," Arthur says, taking a sip and absent-mindedly petting his hand up Eames's waist. Arthur barely seems to notice the move until Eames shivers slightly. Arthur glances at his hand as if he’s surprised at its location.
Eames smiles fondly. “I would suggest a nap, but I know how useless that would be.” His voice softens. “Drink your coffee, love.”
Arthur nods and obeys, his hand tightening around Eames’s waist briefly before he drops it and returns his full attention to work. “There’s some new information for you to look over,” he says, handing over a folder. “Turns out Underwood spent a year in Spain not too long ago. See if there’s anything you can use.”
Eames flips through the pages, ideas already flowing. He sits at his desk a few feet from Arthur’s and turns his chair so that he’s sitting next to him. Eames sets the folder in his lap and grabs one of Arthur’s hands.
Arthur pulls away. “I need both of my hands to work, Eames.”
“Sorry,” Eames says, not sorry in the least. He reaches up and wraps a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, enjoying the feel of Arthur’s cool skin against his own. He leaves his hand there as they both work.
Eames finishes reading. He strokes Arthur’s neck gently for a minute as he thinks about what he’s just learned. He dips his fingers below Arthur’s collar and Arthur twitches immediately.
“Not here, Eames.”
“Everyone knows we’re together. We’re not shocking anyone,” Eames says, sparing a brief glance for the job’s chemist and architect.
Arthur shakes his head. “That’s not the point. We’re at work.”
Eames sighs, smiles, then works his fingers, still under Arthur’s collar, beneath his tie.
“Eames, I’m serious,” Arthur says, leaning out of Eames’s reach.
“I’m sorry,” Eames says, holding up his hands in surrender. “You’re right, not at work.”
“Thank you,” Arthur says. He moves back within reach. Eames sets his hand back on Arthur’s neck, earning a look of warning, but he behaves, limiting his touch to visible skin. If Eames hadn’t been watching, he would have missed the way Arthur’s lips turn up slightly as he allows himself a small smile.
Eames smiles himself as he thinks of the irony that the torture meant to destroy him has led to him being happier than ever. Eames doesn't think often about the torture, but every once in a while, he'll have a sudden flash of a memory: of Arthur, desperate and weak, feverish and fervent, reining himself in with grim determination to get them out. He wonders what he would do in revenge if Arthur were ever damaged beyond repair.
---End---
Authors:: eternalsojourn and countrypixie1
Team: Angst
Prompt(s): Hunger, Sensual and Touch
Word Count: ~3400 (This part)
Rating: NC-17
Beta: this section unbetaed
Warnings: Angst, Torture (Happy ending)
Summary: In a world where touch is as essential to human survival as food and water, Arthur and Eames are forced to face the repercussions of their line of work.
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part Four)
Arthur struggles to open his eyes, trapped in the state between sleeping and waking. His mind screams for more rest, but his body is protesting the binge touching he’s indulged in since the escape.
Awareness filters in slowly, his mind too muddled to comprehend much. Arthur groans as he realizes the warmth enveloping him is Eames, still half on top of Arthur, naked, and dozing fitfully. Eames’s touch, so pleasurable and comforting last night, is suddenly painful, much more than Arthur’s body can handle. Arthur pushes Eames away roughly, not caring at all if he disturbs Eames.
Arthur rolls out of bed and nearly collapses on the floor, weak and disoriented, the adrenaline from yesterday long gone. He stumbles towards the adjoining bathroom and manages to reach the toilet before he vomits, nothing but acid emptying from his stomach.
“Arthur?” The light comes on, and Arthur slams his eyes shut, almost whimpers before he catches himself. “Sorry,” Eames says. He sounds like he’s still asleep, voice low and quiet. “You okay?” Eames asks, resting a hand on Arthur’s forehead like he’s trying to feel for a fever. Arthur jerks away violently. “Sorry,” Eames says again.
“You said you had medical supplies?” Arthur asks, almost flinching at his rasping voice.
“Ah, yes,” Eames says, shifting guiltily. “I may have stretched the truth a bit.”
Arthur glares, well aware that the effect is lessened considerably since his head is resting on a toilet seat. “How so?” he asks.
“My supplies run more towards gunshot wounds and broken bones. Can’t say deprivation, starvation, or dehydration have ever been at the top of my list of concerns.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a second, absorbing the coolness of the porcelain. “Who’s nearby? We can call someone in.”
“I’ll sort it.” Eames fills the empty glass on the counter with water. “Drink this and get back to bed. I’ll be right back.” Although Eames doesn't look like he’s in any shape to be moving around, he levers himself off the doorjamb and slowly makes his way out of the room. Arthur hasn’t the heart or the energy to stop him.
When Eames returns to the bedroom, it’s with a sickly sheen of sweat on his brow and a tray in his hands. He sets it down on his bedside table, revealing a mobile phone, two bowls of what looks like canned mixed fruit and two bottles of Gatorade. Arthur shifts up, though his body protests, and takes the proffered food and drink.
“My neighbour Marcus, an old friend of my father’s. He can be trusted to be discreet, and he’ll bring over some supplies, check on us once a day or so. He’s a vet,” Eames looks sheepishly rueful, but Arthur will take a vet over a random civilian should they need medical attention beyond food and rest. And if Eames trusts him, well, that’s enough.
He forces himself to finish the fruit and drink more water, and worries for a moment what he’ll do during all this recovery time, but he’s not even sure he finishes the thought before drifting off to sleep again.
----
After a bleary, sweaty, uncomfortable and fairly unrestful day, taking painkillers every few hours to manage the fever, Arthur finally sleeps a solid five hours and wakes warm but not overheated, hungry but not weak. Eames is still there in the bed asleep, and although he’s on the other end of the queen sized bed, it’s comforting having him there. He’s laying on his back, one hand over his head, the other across his stomach. Arthur reaches across and feels the hairs on Eames’s forearm, not quite gripping hard enough to pull, just gathering tufts lazily.
When Eames draws a deep breath, Arthur stops and sighs, rolling out of bed after a moment and heading to the bathroom to top up both of their waters. He picks up the mobile from the bedside table, careful not to wake Eames.
In the bathroom he phones Sy. It occurs to him after he dials that Sy might be sleeping. He can’t be bothered figuring out what time it is here, much less where Sy is. He lets it ring.
“‘Allo, ‘allo,” Sy says, and it’s odd to be reminded that somewhere else, other people are cheerful.
“Sy, Arthur.”
“Arthur! So you’re not dead then. That’s good news. What can I do for you, mate?”
“I just need an update on Niels and Iliana. I have to know if I need to get the fuck out of dodge,” he says. Ordinarily he’d find the words to ask Sy how he’s doing, make the idle chitchat that keeps his contacts sweet and familiar, but he can’t. He relies on the blatant fatigue in his voice to explain his reasons, and fortunately, Sy seems unperturbed.
“I figured you might, hold on, let me just get back into the system.” There’s a rapid tapping of keys and Arthur settles himself on the closed toilet lid, taking a sip of his water while he waits. “Got it,” Sy says, sounding smug. “Not that this was particularly difficult; it’s been in the papers. But I got access to the police reports anyway. She’s been charged already. The questioning didn’t last long; there were enough bloody witnesses. I checked on the guys she hired as well. Bulgarian boys, the Nikolovich family. As far as gangs go, these boys are all business, in it for the paycheck. No paycheck, no boys as far as I can see. You in a safehouse?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Hey listen, Sy. One last favor?”
“Arthur, mate. If ever there was someone I’d want owing me a favor, it’s you. Name it.”
“Call Cobb, tell him all this and get him to keep an eye on the Nikolovich clan? Just in case. If they make a move into Switzerland, he can contact me.” Arthur makes a mental note to text Cobb with their standard coded message, leaving him the number he can be reached at. “And thanks. Again.”
“Say nothing of it. And Arthur, get yourself healthy, would ya? You sound like shit.”
Arthur laughs and hangs up, rubbing his hand down his face.
When he returns to the room, Eames looks up at him from under his arm which is now thrown across his eyes. “Who was that?”
“Sy. I was just making sure we’re safe here still.”
Eames looks at Arthur for a moment, and then, apparently satisfied that Arthur would let him know if they have to move, covers his eyes again. “Any information on Iliana?”
“In custody and charged with murder. She’s not a problem anymore.” Arthur half expects Eames to ask about the guards, but the question doesn’t come. Either Eames is too exhausted to care or he trusts Arthur that much. Both options unsettle Arthur.
“Eames, have you heard of any other marks having a reaction like Sørensen’s?”
Eames uncovers his eyes, holds his hand out toward Arthur in an unspoken request. Only after Arthur crosses the room and settles next to Eames, interlocking their fingers, does Eames speak. “I hadn’t even heard of Sørensen’s. I don’t make it a habit to expose myself by checking in on past marks, and I know you don’t either.”
“Should we?” Arthur asks. “If this is a frequent occurrence -”
“If it was a frequent occurrence,” Eames interrupts, “we would have heard something.”
“So it doesn’t happen often,” Arthur says, absentmindedly trailing the fingers of his free hand up and down Eames’s arm. “That doesn’t mean it’s an isolated event. The military only tested the effects on willing subjects. The technology was appropriated before its other uses were explored and tested."
Eames doesn’t say anything, just watches Arthur and waits, obviously recognizing that Arthur is thinking aloud rather than looking for a response. The thought that Eames knows him better than his own family flashes across Arthur’s mind, startling him. He pushes it away to deal with later.
“I could start doing more research on marks before jobs. Specifically looking at any history of mental instability.”
“That already shows in your research,” Eames says. “Remember the Kovich job?” Eames swings a leg over between Arthur’s, rubbing their feet together.
Arthur closes his eyes against the sensation of the touch, lost in simple pleasure before he remembers to answer. “Spending three months in a psychiatric ward is one thing. I’m talking about looking for signs in otherwise healthy individuals that could point to the possibility of being pushed over the edge.”
“Anyone can be pushed over the edge. You know that. I’m not saying I disagree,” Eames says when Arthur opens his mouth to argue, “but that’s a lot of extra research for something that you can’t predict.”
“Not necessarily,” Arthur says. “I’m not talking about much. History of mental illness in the family is a must. Maybe spending more time hacking into records of therapy sessions. I usually only do that if I’m looking for something specific.”
Eames sighs. “It’s up to you, Arthur. Our job doesn’t exactly take place on moral high ground to begin with, but I can understand wanting more information to work with.”
“That’s all I’m asking for. I’m not advocating getting out of the business.”
“What would we even do with our time if not this?” Eames smirks. “Go back and join your Mafia family?”
Arthur scoffs. “As if you’d be welcome.”
Eames smiles. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says that he knows Arthur’s lying.
----
They settle into a comfortable routine, keeping themselves occupied as much as possible to stave off their restlessness. Arthur devours Eames’s books and monopolizes the laptop with unspecified research, and as long as he isn’t getting up and moving around too much, Eames doesn’t mind what he does. Eames himself catches up on a lot of movies and a bunch of the books he’d bought but never got around to reading.
He doesn’t notice how comfortable he’s become in his recovery until he passes Arthur in the sitting room, reading a China Mieville novel Eames had picked up last summer. Seeing him there in Eames’s childhood holiday home, comfortable and relaxed makes Eames simultaneously content and unnerved. Without thinking, Eames reaches out to touch Arthur’s hairline at his nape, only to have Arthur flinch and duck out of the way. Eames purses his lips but lets it go, carrying on his way into the kitchen.
He notices that Arthur makes no attempt to touch him for the rest of the day, and has put on socks, which they’d been going without since they got here. That evening after dinner, they sit on the sofa watching yet another kung fu movie from Eames’s collection, their forearms gently touching. When Eames reaches his other hand across to trail up Arthur’s arm and tease at the rolled up cuff at Arthur’s elbow, Arthur shrugs away.
“All right, enough. What’s this about, then?”
Arthur looks over, frowning. To his credit, he doesn’t pretend not to know what Eames is talking about, nor deny that he’s been backing off.
“We’re almost better now. This... thing. Whatever it is. It’s exactly what my father was talking about. My decisions are compromised.” Arthur’s voice, grown so familiar over the past week, sounds suddenly like the Arthur Eames always knew. Professional, clipped.
“Of course they bloody well are,” Eames says, losing patience. “What did you expect?”
“It’s just best to keep things simple,” Arthur turns back to the TV, as if that’s the end of it.
Eames glares at Arthur’s profile, but Arthur doesn’t turn. “So tell me. How simple is it going to be for you to pretend nothing changed here?”
Arthur opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again. He takes a breath. “Look. Even if it was a good idea for us to... it’s just not wise to base things off a traumatic experience like this.“
“Oh? What would be a good way to start, then? Hm? Meet randomly while walking dogs in the park? Go for coffee, move onto dinner? I hardly think either of us were ever cut out for ‘normal’, Arthur, and I, for one, have never sought it. Neither have you. So don’t give me this shit.”
Arthur stands abruptly and stalks to the door. Eames follows and catches him in the kitchen hand lightly resting on Arthur’s shoulder. He can feel the muscle and bone under the cotton, remembers distinctly what that skin felt like without the barrier. Arthur wheels around, hand placed firmly on Eames’s chest to push him away, but he doesn’t quite. He just rests it there.
“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Getting close to people.” He looks down at his hand where it rests on Eames’s chest.
Eames shakes his head. “It was never like that.” He tries to get Arthur to meet his eyes but Arthur won’t. “I don’t give a toss how this started. But it did, and I’m not obtuse enough to pretend otherwise.”
Arthur’s fingers touch the edges of Eames’s buttons and begin to play around the edges of the material. The press of his hand has eased to the barest whisper of weight. Eames gambles.
He leans in and nudges Arthur’s nose up with his own, brushing lips to lips. Arthur closes his eyes and frowns, then slides his fingers between the buttons to rustle across Eames’s chest hair and gives in, kissing Eames fiercely.
Eames tugs at Arthur’s shirt, half indicating for him to remove it, half nudging them both back towards the sitting room. They kiss as they walk, awkwardly trying not to stumble while undoing their buttons. It’s slow but neither seem willing to let go of the contact.
When they’re in front of the sofa, they strip entirely and Arthur’s erection rests on Eames’s belly, hot, hard and electrifyingly new. When it brushes against Eames’s own cock, he shivers. He sinks his fingers in the flesh of Arthur’s arse and pulls him tight, grinding their cocks together and Arthur sucks in a breath and bites his own lip. He presses Eames down to sitting and straddles him, running his hands all over Eames’s torso, pinching at his nipples, all of his previous reticence abandoned.
Eames lifts Arthur up, urging him to his knees and noses around the head of his jutting red cock, reaching his tongue out gently to lick at it. Arthur supports himself on the back of the sofa and with his other hand guides himself into Eames’s mouth, running a finger over his lip. Eames holds Arthur steady with both hands and sucks on Arthur’s shaft, urging him to press in further. Arthur’s hips pulse and he runs his hand through Eames’s hair, fucking his mouth like he expects Eames can take it, no hesitance or caution, and Eames gets harder at the thought of how far they might be able to push each other.
When he feels the familiar rumble in Arthur’s sac, the tense readiness, he pushes Arthur’s hips back and jacks him quickly. Arthur watches and soon he’s dropping his mouth open, frown creasing his brow as he shoots thick ropes of white come into Eames’s hand, splashing onto his belly and dripping between his fingers. Eames eases his grip, gathers as much of it as he can off Arthur’s cock before reaching around and holding Arthur’s arse open with his other hand. He pauses.
“Fuck. No condoms here,” he says, realizing what he was about to do.
“I’m clean, you?” Arthur asks tersely, much more desperate sounding than Eames would have expected, having just come. And of course they both have their results, PASIV technology being what it is and necessitating regular testing. Eames nods. “Then do it.”
He smears the come up into Arthur’s hole messily, his whole hand covered and slipping on Arthur’s skin. He pushes one finger up inside and Arthur kisses him, every bit as hungrily as when they started. “More,” he says, and Eames complies.
When he figures Arthur’s as ready as they’re both willing to wait for, he coats his cock with the rest of what’s on his hands and rubs his head against Arthur’s entrance a few times, savouring the moment of anticipation. When he presses upwards, it happens faster than he expects as Arthur sits down on him at the same time, and in one smooth motion, he’s buried to the hilt.
Arthur rides him, rolling his hips down onto Eames and Eames wants to throw his head back and close his eyes but that would mean missing Arthur’s intense look of concentration. And it’s as if both of them have been storing all their energy for the past week as they frantically, feverishly grind themselves together. It’s too short a time before Eames comes with groan, feeling his own come spill back out of Arthur and drip down his cock to his sac. He reaches around to draw a finger through it and to feel where Arthur’s stretched around him. Regretfully, he slips himself out. It’s satisfying that Arthur makes a rueful sound at the loss.
With both of them panting and sweaty, Eames doesn’t quite know what to say. Arthur looks at him, his expression complex and unreadable. He climbs off.
“I’ll take the first shower,” Arthur says, gathering up his clothes. “If you could back this movie up to where we stopped watching, I’d like to see it with you. It’s one of my favourites.”
Eames smiles and nods, reaching across to the side table to grab a tissue to tidy himself a little in the meantime.
When Arthur returns, Eames briefly notes the bare feet before heading to the shower himself.
----
"Arthur, how'd the Niels check go?" Eames says, handing Arthur his extra-large triple shot Americano.
"Clean. No family history, no apparent susceptibility, but keep an eye out while you're tailing," Arthur says, taking a sip and absent-mindedly petting his hand up Eames's waist. Arthur barely seems to notice the move until Eames shivers slightly. Arthur glances at his hand as if he’s surprised at its location.
Eames smiles fondly. “I would suggest a nap, but I know how useless that would be.” His voice softens. “Drink your coffee, love.”
Arthur nods and obeys, his hand tightening around Eames’s waist briefly before he drops it and returns his full attention to work. “There’s some new information for you to look over,” he says, handing over a folder. “Turns out Underwood spent a year in Spain not too long ago. See if there’s anything you can use.”
Eames flips through the pages, ideas already flowing. He sits at his desk a few feet from Arthur’s and turns his chair so that he’s sitting next to him. Eames sets the folder in his lap and grabs one of Arthur’s hands.
Arthur pulls away. “I need both of my hands to work, Eames.”
“Sorry,” Eames says, not sorry in the least. He reaches up and wraps a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, enjoying the feel of Arthur’s cool skin against his own. He leaves his hand there as they both work.
Eames finishes reading. He strokes Arthur’s neck gently for a minute as he thinks about what he’s just learned. He dips his fingers below Arthur’s collar and Arthur twitches immediately.
“Not here, Eames.”
“Everyone knows we’re together. We’re not shocking anyone,” Eames says, sparing a brief glance for the job’s chemist and architect.
Arthur shakes his head. “That’s not the point. We’re at work.”
Eames sighs, smiles, then works his fingers, still under Arthur’s collar, beneath his tie.
“Eames, I’m serious,” Arthur says, leaning out of Eames’s reach.
“I’m sorry,” Eames says, holding up his hands in surrender. “You’re right, not at work.”
“Thank you,” Arthur says. He moves back within reach. Eames sets his hand back on Arthur’s neck, earning a look of warning, but he behaves, limiting his touch to visible skin. If Eames hadn’t been watching, he would have missed the way Arthur’s lips turn up slightly as he allows himself a small smile.
Eames smiles himself as he thinks of the irony that the torture meant to destroy him has led to him being happier than ever. Eames doesn't think often about the torture, but every once in a while, he'll have a sudden flash of a memory: of Arthur, desperate and weak, feverish and fervent, reining himself in with grim determination to get them out. He wonders what he would do in revenge if Arthur were ever damaged beyond repair.
---End---