fic: It's just you and me and the spaces in between (part vi)
Title: It's just you and me and the spaces in between (part vi)
Author: ohmydarlingdear
Team: angst!
Prompt: home
Word count: approx. 1,600 (this part)
Rating: PG-13 (~ish)
Warnings: none.
Summary: Five times Arthur disappears unexpectedly and one time he comes to find Eames.
A/N: FINISHED! finally. woot woot!
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5
+1.
Eames is still riding on the high from the Fischer job when he arrives home in his favorite London flat. He likes this flat best because it’s a loft, wide open and spacey, large windows allowing him to see the city around him, if he should feel so inclined. He’s planning on taking some time off, because surely, he deserves a breather after a job like that. He still can’t quite believe they got away with it, can’t believe they’re all still alive and sane (or at least, as sane as they ever get). Eames thinks that it’s going to be a while before anything else starts seeming exciting again.
Eames is just getting up to have a late brunch one day when the doorbell rings. He doesn’t think he’s made anyone angry enough to come after him recently, but he gets his Beretta out from its hiding place under the sink anyways and flips the safety off. Eames cautiously approaches the front door of his flat, listening for any suspicious sounds. When he hears nothing, he opens the door just a crack, careful to conceal his gun from sight. Eames let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he sees that it’s just Arthur. He opens the door properly and waves Arthur in, plenty happy to have him here even if it’s completely out of the blue.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames as Eames clicks the safety of his Beretta back on and stows it away.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, more amused than concerned. “Were you expecting someone else?”
Eames shrugs and grins. “You never know,” he says, going to the refrigerator to make himself something to eat like he’d meant to when he’d stumbled into the kitchen this morning.
Eames frowns at the contents of his refrigerator. All that’s left is half a loaf of bread, an egg, and some milk. One of these days, Eames is probably going to need to learn how to properly shop for groceries, but not today, because Eames is almost positive he has just enough to make some French toast for the two of them, and that’s sounding pretty good right now.
“So tell me, Arthur,” Eames says, moving about the kitchen to find a clean pan and start making some coffee. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Arthur shrugs, sliding onto one of the stools by the kitchen counter. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood, I guess,” he says, and it sounds too much like a confession.
Something tightens in Eames’ chest. Eames swallows around the lump that’s suddenly set up shop in his throat and forces himself to look as casual as he can.
“Brilliant,” he grins, trying to channel some of the usual carefree cheer he manages to put on when Arthur’s around. “And how long will I be graced with your presence?”
Again, Arthur just shrugs, and this time he doesn’t say anything at all. Eames sets a cup of coffee and a plate of French toast down in front of Arthur before getting the same for himself and sitting across the counter from Arthur. They eat in relative silence, the clink of silverware against china providing the only sound between them. Eames wonders why Arthur is here, wonders what would compel him to show up on Eames’ doorstep unannounced. And for all Eames is a fantastic forger, for all his expertise in psychology and human behavior means he’s the best at noticing the little nuances others might push aside as meaningless, Eames can’t figure it out; he can never figure Arthur out. It doesn’t matter that he’s known Arthur for something like eight years now. It doesn’t matter that he works with Arthur more than almost anyone else. Because Eames doesn’t know anything significant. He doesn’t know if Arthur sings in the shower or what he looks like when he first wakes up. He doesn’t know if Arthur’s a cat person or a dog person, or whether or not he sleeps on the right side of the bed (Eames likes to sleep on the left). Eames is just completely lost when it comes to Arthur. It’s still astounding to him that even to someone who is as well-versed as Eames is in the ways of puzzling people out, Arthur is still a complete mystery. Eames doesn’t know if maybe he should give up.
Arthur offers to help Eames do the dishes when they’ve finished eating, but Eames just shakes his head and says, “Arthur, you’re a guest here. I could hardly ask you to do that.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling anyways, a small, closed-mouthed smile over the rim of his coffee cup. “I barged in without any sort of warning,” he points out. “I’m hardly a guest.”
Eames waves him off. “Nonsense,” he says, bustling about, cleaning up the dirty dishes. “So long as you’re staying at my place, you are a guest, and guests here are not made to do any sort of work.”
Arthur snorts, but continues sipping at his coffee easily enough. Eames finishes up washing and drying the dishes, looking up to ask Arthur if he’s finished with his coffee or if he’d like some more, and that’s when he notices that Arthur’s been quietly watching him this whole time. Not only watching, but observing, with a gaze that’s heavy and contemplative and just a hair shy of being too intense.
“Arthur-?”
And Eames means to ask Arthur if he’s feeling alright, or something equally as mundane and preposterous, but then suddenly, Arthur’s gotten up from his stool and is crowding into Eames’ space, and Eames momentarily forgets how to think. Arthur’s got his body pressed up against Eames’ and he’s so, so close to kissing Eames, just out of reach. Eames can feel Arthur’s warm breath skipping over his skin, the heat and solid muscle of Arthur’s body pressing against his. Eames blinks, half-expecting this to be a dream, to wake up in his bed like he usually does, aching with want and terribly, terribly desperate, but then Arthur pushes a little closer, fingertips ghosting along Eames’ arms, tracing the dark, inky swirls marking Eames’ skin and Eames doesn’t even care anymore if this isn’t real; he just wants.
“Do you have plans today?” Arthur asks quietly, his voice sounding, for the first time that Eames can remember, less than one hundred percent certain. He’s still very much Arthur, though, with his careful, calculating gaze, his soft, subtle confidence that’s sometimes mistaken for condescension, and so, so fucking beautiful that Eames doesn’t even know what to do. But this is Arthur now, taking apart that wall he puts up around himself piece by piece, this is Arthur letting Eames in. This is Arthur, nervous for the first time in Eames’ memory, and this is when Eames realizes that maybe, maybe he’s not the only one who’s a little bit lost all this time. Maybe Arthur’s felt it too.
“No more than usual, love,” Eames says, his voice lower and shakier than he means for it to come out. He tries a slight smirk. “Were you going to make plans for me?”
Arthur’s fingers sneak below the hem of Eames’ shirt, smile a little wider now, a little more suggestive. “I could,” Arthur says.
And then he kisses Eames, and Eames can’t help melting entirely into Arthur, can’t help the way he bends to Arthur’s every touch, can’t help the way he shudders as Arthur’s hands glide over his stomach and chest. And god knows how many times Eames has imagined what this might be like, kissing Arthur, but none of his fantasies ever came close, because this, the slick slide of Arthur’s mouth against Eames, the heat Eames can feel radiating off of Arthur in waves, the soft groan Arthur makes at the back of his throat when Eames bites his bottom lip, this is so, so much better than Eames ever could have imagined.
“I hope you know you’re stuck with me,” Eames says, breathing harsh and ragged. He knows he probably looks a mess, all disheveled, small spots of pink high on his cheeks, but he finds that he doesn’t even care, because here Arthur is, looking at him like he’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.
Arthur smiles, soft and sweet like he never lets anyone see. Eames lifts his hand to press his thumb to the dimple that’s made one of its rare appearances on Arthur’s cheek.
“I know,” Arthur murmurs, quiet, for Eames and Eames alone. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t okay with that.”
Arthur kisses Eames again, slower this time, less frantic, and Eames can feel it in the way Arthur explores Eames’ mouth almost reverently, the way he smoothes his hands carefully over the planes of Eames’ body, can feel how Arthur, who’s now twenty-eight and still young, Arthur, who’s always slipped away like smoke from anyone who’s ever gone looking for him, Arthur wants something to anchor him, something solid and warm and trustworthy, not like meaningless, mundane lab research when he was twenty-three or Dom’s mad journey to buy back his freedom from these past two years.
“Arthur,” Eames breathes, and he means it like a promise. “Arthur.”
Arthur smiles like he knows what Eames is trying and failing to find the words for, smiles like it’s the most wonderful thing in the world, and Eames thinks that maybe luck has been on his side all along. It just took a little while to get here.
Author: ohmydarlingdear
Team: angst!
Prompt: home
Word count: approx. 1,600 (this part)
Rating: PG-13 (~ish)
Warnings: none.
Summary: Five times Arthur disappears unexpectedly and one time he comes to find Eames.
A/N: FINISHED! finally. woot woot!
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5
+1.
Eames is still riding on the high from the Fischer job when he arrives home in his favorite London flat. He likes this flat best because it’s a loft, wide open and spacey, large windows allowing him to see the city around him, if he should feel so inclined. He’s planning on taking some time off, because surely, he deserves a breather after a job like that. He still can’t quite believe they got away with it, can’t believe they’re all still alive and sane (or at least, as sane as they ever get). Eames thinks that it’s going to be a while before anything else starts seeming exciting again.
Eames is just getting up to have a late brunch one day when the doorbell rings. He doesn’t think he’s made anyone angry enough to come after him recently, but he gets his Beretta out from its hiding place under the sink anyways and flips the safety off. Eames cautiously approaches the front door of his flat, listening for any suspicious sounds. When he hears nothing, he opens the door just a crack, careful to conceal his gun from sight. Eames let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he sees that it’s just Arthur. He opens the door properly and waves Arthur in, plenty happy to have him here even if it’s completely out of the blue.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames as Eames clicks the safety of his Beretta back on and stows it away.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, more amused than concerned. “Were you expecting someone else?”
Eames shrugs and grins. “You never know,” he says, going to the refrigerator to make himself something to eat like he’d meant to when he’d stumbled into the kitchen this morning.
Eames frowns at the contents of his refrigerator. All that’s left is half a loaf of bread, an egg, and some milk. One of these days, Eames is probably going to need to learn how to properly shop for groceries, but not today, because Eames is almost positive he has just enough to make some French toast for the two of them, and that’s sounding pretty good right now.
“So tell me, Arthur,” Eames says, moving about the kitchen to find a clean pan and start making some coffee. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Arthur shrugs, sliding onto one of the stools by the kitchen counter. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood, I guess,” he says, and it sounds too much like a confession.
Something tightens in Eames’ chest. Eames swallows around the lump that’s suddenly set up shop in his throat and forces himself to look as casual as he can.
“Brilliant,” he grins, trying to channel some of the usual carefree cheer he manages to put on when Arthur’s around. “And how long will I be graced with your presence?”
Again, Arthur just shrugs, and this time he doesn’t say anything at all. Eames sets a cup of coffee and a plate of French toast down in front of Arthur before getting the same for himself and sitting across the counter from Arthur. They eat in relative silence, the clink of silverware against china providing the only sound between them. Eames wonders why Arthur is here, wonders what would compel him to show up on Eames’ doorstep unannounced. And for all Eames is a fantastic forger, for all his expertise in psychology and human behavior means he’s the best at noticing the little nuances others might push aside as meaningless, Eames can’t figure it out; he can never figure Arthur out. It doesn’t matter that he’s known Arthur for something like eight years now. It doesn’t matter that he works with Arthur more than almost anyone else. Because Eames doesn’t know anything significant. He doesn’t know if Arthur sings in the shower or what he looks like when he first wakes up. He doesn’t know if Arthur’s a cat person or a dog person, or whether or not he sleeps on the right side of the bed (Eames likes to sleep on the left). Eames is just completely lost when it comes to Arthur. It’s still astounding to him that even to someone who is as well-versed as Eames is in the ways of puzzling people out, Arthur is still a complete mystery. Eames doesn’t know if maybe he should give up.
Arthur offers to help Eames do the dishes when they’ve finished eating, but Eames just shakes his head and says, “Arthur, you’re a guest here. I could hardly ask you to do that.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling anyways, a small, closed-mouthed smile over the rim of his coffee cup. “I barged in without any sort of warning,” he points out. “I’m hardly a guest.”
Eames waves him off. “Nonsense,” he says, bustling about, cleaning up the dirty dishes. “So long as you’re staying at my place, you are a guest, and guests here are not made to do any sort of work.”
Arthur snorts, but continues sipping at his coffee easily enough. Eames finishes up washing and drying the dishes, looking up to ask Arthur if he’s finished with his coffee or if he’d like some more, and that’s when he notices that Arthur’s been quietly watching him this whole time. Not only watching, but observing, with a gaze that’s heavy and contemplative and just a hair shy of being too intense.
“Arthur-?”
And Eames means to ask Arthur if he’s feeling alright, or something equally as mundane and preposterous, but then suddenly, Arthur’s gotten up from his stool and is crowding into Eames’ space, and Eames momentarily forgets how to think. Arthur’s got his body pressed up against Eames’ and he’s so, so close to kissing Eames, just out of reach. Eames can feel Arthur’s warm breath skipping over his skin, the heat and solid muscle of Arthur’s body pressing against his. Eames blinks, half-expecting this to be a dream, to wake up in his bed like he usually does, aching with want and terribly, terribly desperate, but then Arthur pushes a little closer, fingertips ghosting along Eames’ arms, tracing the dark, inky swirls marking Eames’ skin and Eames doesn’t even care anymore if this isn’t real; he just wants.
“Do you have plans today?” Arthur asks quietly, his voice sounding, for the first time that Eames can remember, less than one hundred percent certain. He’s still very much Arthur, though, with his careful, calculating gaze, his soft, subtle confidence that’s sometimes mistaken for condescension, and so, so fucking beautiful that Eames doesn’t even know what to do. But this is Arthur now, taking apart that wall he puts up around himself piece by piece, this is Arthur letting Eames in. This is Arthur, nervous for the first time in Eames’ memory, and this is when Eames realizes that maybe, maybe he’s not the only one who’s a little bit lost all this time. Maybe Arthur’s felt it too.
“No more than usual, love,” Eames says, his voice lower and shakier than he means for it to come out. He tries a slight smirk. “Were you going to make plans for me?”
Arthur’s fingers sneak below the hem of Eames’ shirt, smile a little wider now, a little more suggestive. “I could,” Arthur says.
And then he kisses Eames, and Eames can’t help melting entirely into Arthur, can’t help the way he bends to Arthur’s every touch, can’t help the way he shudders as Arthur’s hands glide over his stomach and chest. And god knows how many times Eames has imagined what this might be like, kissing Arthur, but none of his fantasies ever came close, because this, the slick slide of Arthur’s mouth against Eames, the heat Eames can feel radiating off of Arthur in waves, the soft groan Arthur makes at the back of his throat when Eames bites his bottom lip, this is so, so much better than Eames ever could have imagined.
“I hope you know you’re stuck with me,” Eames says, breathing harsh and ragged. He knows he probably looks a mess, all disheveled, small spots of pink high on his cheeks, but he finds that he doesn’t even care, because here Arthur is, looking at him like he’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.
Arthur smiles, soft and sweet like he never lets anyone see. Eames lifts his hand to press his thumb to the dimple that’s made one of its rare appearances on Arthur’s cheek.
“I know,” Arthur murmurs, quiet, for Eames and Eames alone. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t okay with that.”
Arthur kisses Eames again, slower this time, less frantic, and Eames can feel it in the way Arthur explores Eames’ mouth almost reverently, the way he smoothes his hands carefully over the planes of Eames’ body, can feel how Arthur, who’s now twenty-eight and still young, Arthur, who’s always slipped away like smoke from anyone who’s ever gone looking for him, Arthur wants something to anchor him, something solid and warm and trustworthy, not like meaningless, mundane lab research when he was twenty-three or Dom’s mad journey to buy back his freedom from these past two years.
“Arthur,” Eames breathes, and he means it like a promise. “Arthur.”
Arthur smiles like he knows what Eames is trying and failing to find the words for, smiles like it’s the most wonderful thing in the world, and Eames thinks that maybe luck has been on his side all along. It just took a little while to get here.