Sometimes I'm Crazy For You - Arthur/Eames - PG - Inception
Look! I wrote fic! It's a miracle! I don't even know what this is.
Sometimes I'm Crazy For You
Arthur/Eames - PG - Inception - 1,129 words of excessive schmoop. Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
He’s become familiar with airports, the click-clack of stewardesses toting their bags over gleaming tiles, bodies pressing together like sardines on a crazy Saturday afternoon, waiting in a snaking line for half-burnt Starbucks coffee, thirty minutes till boarding.
This time, he’s not waiting for his flight or waiting for coffee. He barely has the stomach to swallow his own spit. His mouth is too dry, and he hasn’t had anything for breakfast. Beyond the large glass windows, the sky is bright and sharp blue. His pulse is a steady thread of thump-thumps.
No delays. Fifteen minutes till arrival.
Arthur gazes at the tarmac and takes a seat to wait. It’s been one year and twenty-two days, not that anyone was counting.
* * *
“You’re terrible at this game,” Arthur said. His face felt loose and his tongue was numb. A bottle of champagne sat recently opened at his elbow and the sharp bite of alcohol stung the air, prickled his nose. Somewhere below the table was an empty bottle of red wine.
Maybe he was a tad drunk. The thought had crossed his mind to stop.
“At this point,” Eames gestured with his hands at the almost empty table before him, all the chips having migrated to Arthur’s side over the course of the evening. “I can’t say I really give a damn.”
Of course, Eames should have known better than to play poker with Arthur. Arthur has absolutely no tells, and Eames should have know from experience that he became a stone cold fox, face unreadable.
Arthur took inventory of Eames’ rumpled, hideous Hawaiian shirt (they were in Miami, it was damn hot, and Eames insisted it was only fair that he could dress comfortably), and the air-conditioning was on full blast but only doing half its job because Eames had thrown the windows open first thing. It was probably time to call it in.
“You’re lucky we’re not playing for keeps,” Arthur mumbled and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. He saw Eames follow the movement with his eyes and couldn’t help but smirk.
“Go to bed, Mr Eames.”
Eames’ tired expression brightened, a sharp grin curving his lips. “Is that an invitation, darling?”
It could have been because of the wine, or perhaps the champagne was what did him in, or maybe it was the late hour and the drag of Arthur’s eyelids, the lure of sleep and a comfortable bed. Whatever it was, in his hazy stumble to the bedroom, Arthur failed to tell Eames no.
Eames tumbled into bed after him a minute later, when Arthur had already drifted under a dreamless sleep.
It happened the next morning, and if Arthur believed in such things as inevitability, he probably wouldn’t have protested as much, or given Eames a split lip. He kissed it better seconds after his fist made contact, regretting it. He remembered the stunned look on Eames’ face, the taste of copper and stale breath, and how warm his mouth was. During the night, the heat had stuck their clothes to their skin. Arthur could recall in perfect detail how he peeled that hideous shirt off of Eames’ broad shoulders.
* * *
Now arriving, flight - Arthur’s eyes snap up to see the passengers of flight 907 filing out. He sits and watches until too many bodies obstruct his view, then he stands to peer over their heads.
Arthur sees him almost immediately, that unmistakable quirk of an eyebrow, the warm smile.
“Arthur, dear Arthur,” Eames is happy to see him. Arthur’s fingers itch to grab him, but he extends his hand for a more appropriate greeting.
Eames clasps his hand, yanks, and has him in a hug before he can protest. Eames holds him for a long time, an arm around his shoulders. His jaw feels fantastic, rough and newly shaven. He smells good even after six hours on a plane. Mint and aftershave. Arthur closes his eyes, briefly, to breathe it in.
Eames invites himself to Arthur’s apartment, cajoles him with a wink and a smile and the words I’ve missed you skate across his cheek.
Arthur doesn’t put up much of a fight.
* * *
What I’ll remember the most, Arthur thinks, is the way he drinks wine straight from the bottle. Such class. Eames cooks with it, pouring ridiculous amounts into the canned-vegetable stew.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me drunk.”
“Can’t help it,” Eames says and stirs cheerily. “Not when you haven’t got a spice rack and seasoning consists of salt, not even any pepper.”
“I’ve been away,” Arthur explains for the hundredth time. His apartment is dusty, his dirty laundry is old, immeasurable, and embarrassing, and his shelves haven’t been stocked in ages. Eames said he could cook miracles, so Arthur let him try.
“Almost ready,” Eames says distractedly, eyeing the pot. His dark blue button down is rumpled from the plane ride and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. He looks amazing in those jeans.
Arthur bites his lip and grabs the bottle of wine from the counter. He pours some more into his glass and sips, waiting.
The stove is turned off. Eames tastes the broth and shoots him a triumphant smile, licking his lips.
“Dinner is ser-” Arthur kisses him soundly and thinks dinner can wait.
* * *
He should know by now that wine and Eames make for a dangerous combination.
He enjoys one and won’t give up the other. Eames stays at Arthur’s cozy little apartment for an indefinite amount of time, and sometimes there is wine, and sometimes there isn’t.
Arthur figures out that Eames can make a dirty martini but can’t cook miracles, that mornings when Arthur wakes up before him Eames loves to curl his arm around his waist and drag him back under the sheets.
“What happens when this goes south?” Arthur asks one night, his feet in Eames’ lap. The couch is comforting and the smell wafting from the oven is divine. Hopefully the cookies won’t burn this time.
Eames doesn’t respond immediately. Arthur’s been on his feet all day and Eames’ hands are strong and deft. Arthur watches him work with what he’s come to recognize as fondness. The soft, squishy part of him underneath the crisp shirts and tight waistcoats practically preens under the attention.
Finally, Eames looks up and meets Arthur’s eyes. His lips start that slow burn in Arthur’s stomach, the beginnings of a devastating smile, and he says Never, it won’t ever, sweetheart.
He wonders how Eames can still do that to him - make Arthur’s pulse thrum and his face beam. Marvels at how he’s learned to trust this man with a piece of his heart.
It’s all a big mystery he’s in no hurry to solve.
Sometimes I'm Crazy For You
Arthur/Eames - PG - Inception - 1,129 words of excessive schmoop. Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.
He’s become familiar with airports, the click-clack of stewardesses toting their bags over gleaming tiles, bodies pressing together like sardines on a crazy Saturday afternoon, waiting in a snaking line for half-burnt Starbucks coffee, thirty minutes till boarding.
This time, he’s not waiting for his flight or waiting for coffee. He barely has the stomach to swallow his own spit. His mouth is too dry, and he hasn’t had anything for breakfast. Beyond the large glass windows, the sky is bright and sharp blue. His pulse is a steady thread of thump-thumps.
No delays. Fifteen minutes till arrival.
Arthur gazes at the tarmac and takes a seat to wait. It’s been one year and twenty-two days, not that anyone was counting.
* * *
“You’re terrible at this game,” Arthur said. His face felt loose and his tongue was numb. A bottle of champagne sat recently opened at his elbow and the sharp bite of alcohol stung the air, prickled his nose. Somewhere below the table was an empty bottle of red wine.
Maybe he was a tad drunk. The thought had crossed his mind to stop.
“At this point,” Eames gestured with his hands at the almost empty table before him, all the chips having migrated to Arthur’s side over the course of the evening. “I can’t say I really give a damn.”
Of course, Eames should have known better than to play poker with Arthur. Arthur has absolutely no tells, and Eames should have know from experience that he became a stone cold fox, face unreadable.
Arthur took inventory of Eames’ rumpled, hideous Hawaiian shirt (they were in Miami, it was damn hot, and Eames insisted it was only fair that he could dress comfortably), and the air-conditioning was on full blast but only doing half its job because Eames had thrown the windows open first thing. It was probably time to call it in.
“You’re lucky we’re not playing for keeps,” Arthur mumbled and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. He saw Eames follow the movement with his eyes and couldn’t help but smirk.
“Go to bed, Mr Eames.”
Eames’ tired expression brightened, a sharp grin curving his lips. “Is that an invitation, darling?”
It could have been because of the wine, or perhaps the champagne was what did him in, or maybe it was the late hour and the drag of Arthur’s eyelids, the lure of sleep and a comfortable bed. Whatever it was, in his hazy stumble to the bedroom, Arthur failed to tell Eames no.
Eames tumbled into bed after him a minute later, when Arthur had already drifted under a dreamless sleep.
It happened the next morning, and if Arthur believed in such things as inevitability, he probably wouldn’t have protested as much, or given Eames a split lip. He kissed it better seconds after his fist made contact, regretting it. He remembered the stunned look on Eames’ face, the taste of copper and stale breath, and how warm his mouth was. During the night, the heat had stuck their clothes to their skin. Arthur could recall in perfect detail how he peeled that hideous shirt off of Eames’ broad shoulders.
* * *
Now arriving, flight - Arthur’s eyes snap up to see the passengers of flight 907 filing out. He sits and watches until too many bodies obstruct his view, then he stands to peer over their heads.
Arthur sees him almost immediately, that unmistakable quirk of an eyebrow, the warm smile.
“Arthur, dear Arthur,” Eames is happy to see him. Arthur’s fingers itch to grab him, but he extends his hand for a more appropriate greeting.
Eames clasps his hand, yanks, and has him in a hug before he can protest. Eames holds him for a long time, an arm around his shoulders. His jaw feels fantastic, rough and newly shaven. He smells good even after six hours on a plane. Mint and aftershave. Arthur closes his eyes, briefly, to breathe it in.
Eames invites himself to Arthur’s apartment, cajoles him with a wink and a smile and the words I’ve missed you skate across his cheek.
Arthur doesn’t put up much of a fight.
* * *
What I’ll remember the most, Arthur thinks, is the way he drinks wine straight from the bottle. Such class. Eames cooks with it, pouring ridiculous amounts into the canned-vegetable stew.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me drunk.”
“Can’t help it,” Eames says and stirs cheerily. “Not when you haven’t got a spice rack and seasoning consists of salt, not even any pepper.”
“I’ve been away,” Arthur explains for the hundredth time. His apartment is dusty, his dirty laundry is old, immeasurable, and embarrassing, and his shelves haven’t been stocked in ages. Eames said he could cook miracles, so Arthur let him try.
“Almost ready,” Eames says distractedly, eyeing the pot. His dark blue button down is rumpled from the plane ride and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. He looks amazing in those jeans.
Arthur bites his lip and grabs the bottle of wine from the counter. He pours some more into his glass and sips, waiting.
The stove is turned off. Eames tastes the broth and shoots him a triumphant smile, licking his lips.
“Dinner is ser-” Arthur kisses him soundly and thinks dinner can wait.
* * *
He should know by now that wine and Eames make for a dangerous combination.
He enjoys one and won’t give up the other. Eames stays at Arthur’s cozy little apartment for an indefinite amount of time, and sometimes there is wine, and sometimes there isn’t.
Arthur figures out that Eames can make a dirty martini but can’t cook miracles, that mornings when Arthur wakes up before him Eames loves to curl his arm around his waist and drag him back under the sheets.
“What happens when this goes south?” Arthur asks one night, his feet in Eames’ lap. The couch is comforting and the smell wafting from the oven is divine. Hopefully the cookies won’t burn this time.
Eames doesn’t respond immediately. Arthur’s been on his feet all day and Eames’ hands are strong and deft. Arthur watches him work with what he’s come to recognize as fondness. The soft, squishy part of him underneath the crisp shirts and tight waistcoats practically preens under the attention.
Finally, Eames looks up and meets Arthur’s eyes. His lips start that slow burn in Arthur’s stomach, the beginnings of a devastating smile, and he says Never, it won’t ever, sweetheart.
He wonders how Eames can still do that to him - make Arthur’s pulse thrum and his face beam. Marvels at how he’s learned to trust this man with a piece of his heart.
It’s all a big mystery he’s in no hurry to solve.