Eames/Arthur
Title: Tear Us Apart (Again)
Summary: Wherein Arthur and Eames fall in love, the way normal people do. Rough and with no small amount of heartache.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Too. Many. Emotions. Misplaced anger. Artsy formatting & woefully unbeta'd.
Word Count: 5,100 / ~20,000
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
A/N: Its done. Freaking Hell. These boys... need to stop being so ~complicated. /collapses
[September, 2001]
Arthur is with Dom less than seven hours after he receives the news.
Mallorie’s death stops his world and yet, it somehow propels Eames’ forward. Flings him far, far away from Arthur who spends his days at Dom’s side and his nights preparing for the worst. They spend three months in hiding, no connection to the Miles’ or Cobb’s children, no dreaming, nothing but isolation until, in a coincidence that almost seems like fate to Arthur, another tragedy overshadows the death of one Mallorie Cobb.
They continue to lie low. Arthur makes his appearances with the right people, keeping himself visible through his more respectable aliases but only just enough to justify his presence, and he never stays for long.
The whirring of smooth metal on every flat surface is common in Dom’s presence, the only sound to break the silence of his grief. He never speaks of Mal or how it happened. Arthur doesn’t need to hear him say it to know that he sees her around every corner, every time he closes his eyes.
When Dom finally starts talking dreams again, theories and jobs, Arthur is relieved to see some comprehension in those eyes, bobbing somewhere in the silent despairing blues. He insists that Arthur go home, just for a week, while Dom finds them a worthwhile job. He books a flight back to LA and, on his way out of their rented little flat, asks, “Do you want me to tell them you said hello?”
“Yeah,” Dom’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing the floor between them. “Hey, give them something for me?”
“Sure,” Arthur waits while Dom rummages through some of his things, returning to press a necklace and a two Euro coin into his palm. Arthur recognizes the necklace immediately, a simple gold affair with a heart pendant on it that he had seen Mal wear on occasion. The Euro, however, he didn’t understand. He bends to tuck them into his carry-on regardless.
“James used to tug on that whenever-” Dom pauses, trying to explain even though Arthur hasn’t asked for an explanation. “I can’t hold onto it any longer. And Phillipa, she always enjoyed the foreign money we would bring back for her…”
Arthur zips up his carry-on and rights himself. “I’ll make sure they know you sent it with love.”
The trip to the airport is nerve-wracking and Arthur almost tells the cab to turn around, to take him back to a Cobb who he doesn’t know well enough to leave alone for a week. He doesn’t and after four hours of inspection, in which he loses his tie clip, all of his pens, and is infinitely glad he wasn’t carrying his gun, Arthur ends up on a nearly empty plane destined for an apartment he hasn’t seen in over a year.
When Arthur drags himself up the three flights of stairs it takes to get to his apartment, he slips the key in the door and turns, finding no resistance. He immediately backs away from it, stepping off to the side.
His door is unlocked.
He’s spent twelve hours on a flight after six months of hiding and now his fucking door is unlocked.
Sliding the keys from the door, Arthur slips them back into his carry-on, and slowly, silently opens the door. In less than five seconds, the P12-45 he keeps in the drawer by the door is in his hand and trained on the broad, royal purple clad back in his kitchen.
“Darling, I know it might feel like it,” Eames turns to raise an eyebrow at him, grinning far too cheekily for someone on the wrong end of a semiautomatic sub-compact. “But this isn’t a dream.”
“Eames?” Arthur wants to reach for his die, no one but Cobb knew he was coming back to Los Angeles; he refrains, just to deny Eames the pleasure.
“In the flesh, kitten,” He leans on the counter, managing to look like he’s got every right to be there, leaning against Arthur’s counter with that come-hither look on his face. “Come give your man a proper hello.”
Arthur slams the pistol down, earning a “Woah, firearms, lets be cautious!” from Eames as he marches back out to retrieve the things he’d left in the hallway.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur demands, throwing his bags in the apartment and slamming the door shut.
“Well, I was in the area,” Eames says, setting a plate of sweet potato fries in front of Arthur, like he can make the world’s most unconvincing lie more believable with crunchy, warm sweetness. “I remembered what a delightful host you were… the, ah, few times I was here. So I decided to pop in and see if you were around.” Eames turns back to the spitting pan on the stove, fishing some more orange slivers out. When he continues, Arthur swears he sounds a little bitter. “Besides the place was bound to need some cleaning, what with you gone for six months at a time.”
“You broke into my house.” Arthur says dumbly, still not quite over the first sight of Eames in six months.
Eames glances over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. He flicks off the switch to the stove and fishes the last of the sweet potato slivers from the pan. “Mmm, must have been a long flight, yeah pet?”
Arthur’s brain kicks in just about then. “You can’t just break into my place without telling me!”
“Well… it wouldn’t be breaking in if I told you, now would it?” Eames motions to the plate in front of Arthur. “Come now, eat your chips. You’re strange and don’t like ‘em when they’re cold.”
“You can’t just…” Arthur shakes his head, unable to believe how Eames could possibly be so dense. Eames smiles around a wedge held between his lips, cocky, as if he’s simply playing to Arthur’s irritation.
“Arthur?” Eames asks when Arthur snatches his bags up in an irritated huff and storms down the hallway. “Come now Arthur don’t be like that!”
Arthur slams the bedroom door on him, locking it and for one wild minute, debates the merit of pushing the dresser in front of it. He vetoes that idea in lieu of shooting the forger if he tries to pick the lock.
Apparently Eames hadn’t been lying when he’d mentioned cleaning Arthur’s place. The sheets on his bed are slightly rumpled but obviously freshly washed, and while he knows how he feels about Eames sleeping in his bed, he isn’t sure how he feels about Eames changing his sheets. He resolves to be angry about it- its easier that way.
Once his clothes are put away, Cobb’s gifts placed on the dresser for later, Arthur orders curry and doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he only did so to piss Eames off. He gets the door before the delivery girl has a chance to knock and over-tips her to compensate for the way he snatches the food out of her hand, hasty to get back to his room. He spends the rest of the night in his room, door locked, and doesn’t know, doesn’t care, where Eames sleeps.
The next day they barely see each other, and that may be in part because Arthur is attempting to accomplish just that. He gets in touch with Stephen and arranges to see James and Phillipa the next day. When he slips back into his apartment, well past midnight, Eames is nowhere to be found. He retreats to his room, locking the door before falling into bed. He falls asleep without bothering to take his belt off.
There is a gentle rapping of knuckles at his door.
“Arthur?” Eames’ voice.
Arthur looks blearily at the door, worried for a moment that he forgot to lock it, not that it would matter if Eames truly wished to gain entrance.
“Arthur?” A little louder this time, but still tentative. “Are you awake?”
He looks at the alarm clock by his bedside. It’s 3:18 in the morning.
After a couple moments Arthur can hear Eames shuffle away from the door, back down the hall. Arthur leaves early enough the next morning to see that Eames has taken to sleeping on his couch, his button down draped over his bare chest like a blanket.
When he comes home at half past six, after a day of seeing Dom’s children and enduring Mrs. Miles passive-aggressive company, there is a bottle of wine breathing on the barely-for-two table and Eames is sizzling something that smells like heaven in a pan on the stove.
He looks up when he hears the door open, smiling at Arthur like he’s perfectly happy to play his part in this domestic charade. “Home so early? Darling, what a pleasant surprise.”
Arthur flicks the top lock and throws his keys on the counter, heading to the bedroom to put his briefcase away, since his table has somehow spontaneously formed placemats.
“How was your day, kitten?” Eames calls from the kitchen.
Arthur ignores him and takes his time slipping his tie from around his neck, toeing his shoes off and setting them in the closet. He contemplates locking Eames out again and falling into bed for the brief coma his mental and emotional states are demanding, but he is really hungry and Eames knows his way around a kitchen. At this point, with this delicious smell permeating his apartment, locking himself away would punish him just as much as it would Eames.
“That eventful, yeah?” Eames asks when Arthur pads back into the living room.
He never thought he’d regret buying an apartment with a breakfast nook that looked into the living room. “You really wouldn’t care.”
The sizzling from the kitchen is interrupted by the soft sound of a utensil being set down on the stovetop. “Arthur, you don’t know that. I asked you, didn’t I?”
“You also broke into my apartment,” Arthur points out, snatching up a magazine that’s found its way onto his coffee table.
“Blimey, is that what this is all about?” Eames switches the stove off with an agitated flick of his wrist. “I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem, it never has been. But if you need me to say it, then fine, I’ll say it. I’m sorry for breaking into your flat, darling. Next time I’ll wait for your express permission.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, the derisive “I bet,” almost drowned out by the vicious way he flips the page.
“Arthur…” Eames sighs and Arthur can hear him moving things around in the kitchen. His kitchen. His kitchen that has acquired Eames’ clutter the way his coffee table has, the way his dining table has. Arthur angrily flips past another page.
“Will you just tell me how your day was?” Eames prods from the kitchen.
“I’m pretty sure your actions have shown just how much you don’t care about what I did with my day.” Arthur slaps the magazine down on the coffee table, entirely uninterested in Eames’ trash. “Don’t you have someone to be following?”
“I thought I’d take the night off,” He raises the plate of salmon over the breakfast nook, pointedly.
“Oh, right,” Arthur rolls his eyes at the gesture, unwilling to be sucked into his calculated schemes. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be back on the job once you get what you want.”
“I-“ Eames blinks, completely caught off guard by how Arthur’s words sting.
“You said you were on a job,” Arthur knows he’s baiting Eames, willing the other to escalate the fight. “I’m just being reasonable and not assuming that I’m the only entertainment tonight.”
“Arthur,” Eames is a good actor, he even sounds hurt; Arthur supposes it comes with the job description. “I’m sorry if you don’t like me taking a job in LA. It’s hardly important, I can drop it. I was only trying to see-“
“Don’t-“ Arthur cuts him off with a wave of his hand. He would rather the flimsy job excuse than whatever version of the truth Eames wants to drop on him. “Don’t apologize for doing your job.”
“Then what can I apologize for?” Eames drops the plate on the table, most likely spattering the placemats with salmon sauce. “What can I say to stop this bloody argument you want so badly to pick with me?”
“There is no argument. We’re professionals; this is what you do.” Arthur shrugs. “I don’t care who you fuck to get your information.”
“I’m not fucking anyone! I would think that much is clearly evident!” Eames shouts, throwing his hands out to encompass his surroundings; as if any outsider could walk in and tell that Arthur has been back for two days and they haven’t so much as sat on the same couch in all that time.
“Look, I understand that you have this…” Eames takes a breath, ordering his thoughts. “This need to pick a fight with me, and any other time I’d play along because I’m a pretty obliging bloke. But it’s hard for me to understand what the hell goes on up there in that head of yours when you pull this shite with me. I can’t read your mind Arthur, despite how I might try. Its-“ Eames shakes his head, knocking his knuckles against the tabletop, and Arthur has to wonder who Eames stole that from, what unsuspecting mark’s nervous tick Eames is channeling this time. “Its like you’ve got this distrust hardwired into you and to be perfectly honest, it is not terribly endearing.”
“Yes, that must be it.” Arthur pushes off the couch and stalks past Eames, determined to eat the stupid fish and be done with this entire scene. “I have some intrinsic need to be disappointed in every decision you make. That must be it.” He throws a handful of ice cubes into a glass and puts it under the water filter, shooting Eames an annoyed look as the glass fills with water.
“That is such a lazy, perfunctory,” Arthur cuts the water off with more force than is entirely necessary. “Blameless way of classifying my irritation with you.”
“So you admit that you’re irritated at me?” Eames clarifies, snaring Arthur in his own logic. “You admit that we’re having a row?”
“I-“ It’s probably the look on his face, so smug at having caught Arthur in his own avoidance, that makes him lash out. “I admit that there are things that you do that piss me off, but that is who you are. You piss me off and right now,” Arthur sets his glass down on the table, standing his ground in his own apartment. “Happens to be one of those times.”
Eames growls, exasperated and pleading but all Arthur can hear is the frustration of a man who is too used to charming his way out of bad situations. “What! What have I done to get you in such a piss poor mood this time?”
“How about disappearing for six months after-“ Arthur’s mouth twists up, unwilling to speak of Mal in his home. Reluctant to remember her here, lest he give her yet another place to haunt him.
“Oh, really Arthur,” Eames crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head. “What use would Cobb have had for me?”
“Comfort! Compassion! The same things he got from me! You flew to Australia while I spent six months piecing him back together!” Arthur feels his throat tightening and perhaps that isn’t the best phrase to use, but he can think of worse.
“And who knows how many more after you tire of this little vacation, yeah?” Eames quips, his body radiating displeasure.
“It’s because I cared enough to go get him, that he’s not in jail right now.” Arthur spits, amazed that Eames has the audacity to try and make Arthur feel anything less than justified. “He needed help, Eames, and I was the only one willing to help him!”
“Yes, because what is better than one wanted criminal?” Eames pauses theatrically, tilting his head as if entertaining the idea of letting Arthur guess. “Oh, that’s right, three! One of whom is mentally unhinged because his wife decided to end it in front of him.” Eames looks at him like he’s only stating the obvious and can’t figure out why Arthur is the one not getting it. “That’s extremely self-preserving darling, really.”
“So I should be like you? Disappear whenever it’s damn well convenient for me?” Arthur is furious at Eames’ nonchalance; the blasé way he speaks of the death of a woman who he knows was so much a part of Arthur’s life. “Indulge in this ‘self-preservation’ fantasy that means I’m only responsible for myself and damn the rest?”
“Arthur you are like me you insufferable-!” Eames takes a step toward Arthur, fingers pressing into his crossed arms to keep him from reaching out to grab Arthur. “You’re ruthless and damn good at what you do. You get things done, regardless of what happens along the way. But this, this running to Cobb when it puts you in danger-“
“How can you not understand?” Arthur’s words are sharp, clipped with the sound of disbelief creeping into his voice. No one was immune to Mal’s charm, and yet Eames is acting like the world could continue on, just as it always had, now that she’s gone; like Arthur was truly in the wrong for feeling the way he did. “What kind of single-minded sociopath are you that you can’t understand how much of a void she left?”
“The kind that can’t understand how you run to Cobb instead of me, that kind Arthur! The kind that has only just begun to understand how little you expect for yourself. From me, for that matter!” Eames shouts, brushing past Arthur with a wide enough berth to make it obvious the last thing he wants to do is touch him. “The kind who is apparently wasting both his breath and his time on you!”
Eames seems to take the air with him when he storms out, slamming the door and Arthur has the strangest sense of standing in a vacuum. Arthur sits down heavily, the ice in his glass shifting when he puts his elbows on the table. He stares down at his imperfect cuticles.
Idly, thoughts try to present themselves, abased to the melancholy of this apartment Eames had tried so hard to confront him in. Arthur pushes them away, just to see how long he can keep himself from feeling anything, wondering if existing in a vacuum would really be that bad.
Hours seem to pass, or maybe just minutes. Somewhere along the line the apartment grows dark and Arthur can’t bring himself to care about turning on a light besides the one Eames had left on in the kitchen. The night looms before Arthur, a loaded presence, like an opponent biding its time, waiting him out.
Arthur finally gives into his hunger, picking at the fish straight from the serving plate. It’s salmon, delicious and perfect and Arthur can see the process; Eames at the supermarket, picking out the fish, marinating it, gently sautéing it as he waits for Arthur to come home-
He sets the fork down and cradles his head on the table.
Eames was honest in his intentions, unflagging in his efforts even if they lacked a necessary finesse. There was nothing he’d said that hadn’t made sense. If anything, Arthur realizes, Eames had been right about the frivolity of his actions.
But it hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary at the time. When Dom calls, Arthur answers. It’s always been that way, and this was no different. Arthur doesn’t know how to not be Dom’s point man. How was he supposed to separate his loyalties to a colleague and those of his friend?
And Eames… had he really thought Arthur had wanted to squirrel Dom away for six months, living with the perpetual whirr-skid of metal on wood? Did he think Arthur enjoyed hearing about the forger’s successes around the globe while he tried to pry his way into Dom’s mind enough to piece him back together? Did he really think him so bestial?
He knocks his head against the table, willing the thoughts away, praying for the sounds of the city to seep through the windows and lull him into oblivion. Arthur’s fingers run through his hair, something soothing in the way they ruin all the work he spent getting it to stay in place. His eyes slip closed, torso bent over the table, willing his mind to be quiet.
“Arthur-“
Arthur’s eyes fly open, his body barely registering the hand on his shoulder.
“Eames,” Arthur groans, closing his eyes against the disorienting placement of his surroundings. He’s stiff and his living room is sideways. No, he’s at his kitchen table. They’re in his clean, dim apartment in LA. He fell asleep at the table. He asks, “What are we doing here?” when he means to ask what time it is.
“You fell asleep.” Eames says, always so skillful at sidestepping the question, staying just far enough from the whole truth of the matter.
“Oh…” Arthur lifts his head off the table. Everything is sore from the way he’d forced himself to sit for who knows how long.
“You’re tired darling,” Eames slips his hand into Arthur’s, guiding him out of his seat with deference to Arthur’s aches. He places a hand on Arthur’s waist, above the hip, and Arthur leans into him, too tired to say the words he knows need to be said. ”Lets go to bed.”
~
[December, 2006]
How many times?
How many times, Eames wonders, should one man allow another to blatantly disregard his wishes before he is allowed to throw said man’s mobile out the nearest window?
Eames gropes for the bedside table, dragging his confused, bedraggled head out from under the pillow when his hand passes through empty space. It takes him a moment to realize they aren’t in Arthur’s LA apartment, another to realize where they are.
He sits up and looks for Arthur’s phone when the vicious little bastard beeps again. Eames finds the noisy thing in the pocket of Arthur’s trousers, hastily discarded on Eames’ side of the bed the night prior. It takes Eames less than thirty seconds to break into Arthur’s phone, not for lack of imagination on Arthur’s part; Eames simply knows the way Arthur thinks, after all this time.
Undisclosed Number:
Point needed. 18/01/2007
Well. That was worth waking up for.
Momentarily, Eames contemplates how angry Arthur would be with him if he did throw his mobile out the window. The pros, not having to hear the thing beep for approximately six hours, fail to outweigh the cons, Arthur punching him in the whatever’s closest and possibly initiating another game of transcontinental hide and seek. Eames switches the phone to silent
Curled on his side, Arthur is little more than a warm, scraggly mess of hair peeking out from under the comforter; hardly the terror Eames knows him to be. Arthur’s temper is just as bad as Eames’, so deceiving in his calm, composed public face. Perhaps that double-faced nature is what keeps them orbiting around each other, the gravity of one too attractive a pull for the other to ignore. Essentially, they are the same- in all the ways that count at least. They like to play their cards close to the chest, even if it is common knowledge that the deck is rigged.
Eames fiddles with Arthur’s phone.
They rail against each other because Arthur has expectations and Eames has no idea where he gets them from, but he’s never been one to acknowledge such trivial things. It was worse in the beginning, when they were first figuring each other out, so sure nothing could feel like this, that everything would fall apart any second.
Once upon a time, Eames had thought they’d be better off if he left, if he buckled under the weight of Arthur expecting him to, but Eames is a selfish man. He’s selfish for Arthur’s intensity, every little bit of it. Because when it’s bad between them, it’s awful, but when it’s good... When it’s good, it’s better than anything Eames has ever had.
It’s never about the words, it’s the competition; who will give in first. Eames wonders when Arthur will realize that he’s in for the long haul.
Eames catches the sunlight on the back of Arthur’s phone, casting the beam on the ceiling.
Sometimes Eames can see, in the curve of Arthur’s mouth, the tenderness in his touch, that Arthur knows… something. He allows himself to believe- what, Eames is never sure, but it’s there and Eames’ chest swells with the knowledge that he put it there.
It is a slow process, pockmarked with explosive rows and tears neither talk about, but it’s there and they’re working on it, willing it to work. They’re worth this and Eames is willing to lay it out and admit that he wants it, that he wants Arthur to want it too. He’ll wait as long as it takes for Arthur to stop questioning it and accept that some things aren’t for him to decide.
Impulsively, Eames reaches out to smooth the wild mess of Arthur’s bed head.
Arthur’s desire for Eames to stay is finally stronger than his expectation that Eames will leave, but that doesn’t mean he’ll admit to it just yet. It’s an impasse Eames can live with because he is hopelessly hopeful and maybe, someday, Arthur will realize how hopeless this fight actually is.
“Why are you awake?” Arthur asks, voice muffled where he has his face burrowed into a pillow.
“You never turn your blasted phone off.”
Arthur makes a noise that even after all this time Eames can’t describe, a mixture of amused self-satisfaction and noncommittal concurrence.
“Undisclosed number asking for a point.” Supplies Eames, on the off chance Arthur might want to know.
Arthur shoulders the comforter over his head and grumbles, “Fuck ‘em.”
Eames drops the phone to the floor, diving beneath the covers to join the svelte man ensconced within. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s sleep-warm body, whispering, “I love your sunny disposition in the mornings,” as he presses kisses to a naked shoulder blade.
Humming in agreement, Arthur pulls Eames’ arms tighter around him, lacing their fingers together. “No one’s ever accused you of having good taste before.”
“Mmm but I love the way you taste.” Eames mumbles wickedly, licking a stripe from Arthur’s shoulder to his earlobe which he immediately begins suckling on.
Arthur’s hands tighten around Eames’ and he wriggles to give Eames more flesh to explore. “That doesn’t say good things about me.”
“I think it says wonderful things about you.” Eames assures, trailing kisses down the rough angle of a jaw that hasn’t seen the sharp end of a razor in nearly two days.
Arthur leans into the kisses, twisting toward Eames to help them toward their destination.
Eames stops and glances at Arthur’s lips, excitement gripping him fierce and new. Hidden in this cave of linens, Arthur’s lips are a secret, offered to Eames free of deliberation, fueled by desire. Across the room, Eames’ totem lies in his shirt pocket, and Eames wonders if he would wake up if this were all a dream. Impatient, Arthur leans up to take what he wants.
Twisting around under the covers, Arthur slips his tongue against Eames’ lips, testing, tracing, seeking entrance to a place Eames can hardly call his own any longer. Arthur slings a lazy leg over Eames’ thighs, snatching his foot back under the covers when his toes peek out. They kiss to the unspoken agreement that no limbs should find their way out from under the bedding, laughing breathlessly when an elbow or knee inevitably sneaks out.
Tongues tangled, Eames rolls Arthur onto his back, situating himself with knees on either side of him, bellies pressed together. Arthur laughs against his lips, kicking the coverlet to cover their momentarily exposed feet, lest the small infraction on the rules be noticed. Eames pulls back enough to appreciate lips and cheeks blushed with desire, the feel of Arthur’s eyes on him in this warm, dark space.
Only Arthur can wreck him like this.
Nothing will ever compare; Eames’ hands shake with the surety of it.
Eames rests his forehead on Arthur’s, trying to catch his breath around more than just the kiss. “I love you,” slips out, whispered unbidden on Arthur’s lips.
Sighing, Arthur presses his nose against Eames’. He’s gotten better at accepting the words since the first time.
“I’m sorry, kitten. I know you don’t like to hear it, but I need to say it.“ Eames brushes Arthur’s hair back, wild and sleep-mussed as it is. “I’m afraid you’ll forget.”
“You’ve got a strange idea of how love works Eames.” Arthur mutters, allowing blunt fingers to sneak beneath his skull and cradle the back of his head.
“You’re a strange bloke,” Eames says, smiling when Arthur leans up with the barest hint of pressure from Eames’ fingers. “I never stood a chance.”
Arthur snorts, “Yeah, I bet.”
Leaning in, Eames molds them together again, losing himself in the press of Arthur’s lips and the warmth of his body. When Arthur finally pulls away, panting and too hard to function, Eames has somehow relocated to his side. He’s wrapped around Arthur with Arthur’s feet tangled between his legs and somewhere along the line, they’ve both emerged from the covers. The morning slips away as they lie entangled, cooling down.
Eames rests his lips against the crown of Arthur’s head, nose buried in his hair. “Someday I am going to say it, and you’re going to accept that it’s true.”
Arthur’s hand curls over Eames’ hip, and Eames can’t read Arthur’s mind but he knows what he hopes that means.
There are no promises between them. They are creatures of habit, nostalgic for disaster and hungry for every facet of this mystery between them. They don’t make promises because it’s hardly about the destination, when they’re so caught up in the chase.
♥Fin
Summary: Wherein Arthur and Eames fall in love, the way normal people do. Rough and with no small amount of heartache.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Too. Many. Emotions. Misplaced anger. Artsy formatting & woefully unbeta'd.
Word Count: 5,100 / ~20,000
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
A/N: Its done. Freaking Hell. These boys... need to stop being so ~complicated. /collapses
[September, 2001]
Arthur is with Dom less than seven hours after he receives the news.
Mallorie’s death stops his world and yet, it somehow propels Eames’ forward. Flings him far, far away from Arthur who spends his days at Dom’s side and his nights preparing for the worst. They spend three months in hiding, no connection to the Miles’ or Cobb’s children, no dreaming, nothing but isolation until, in a coincidence that almost seems like fate to Arthur, another tragedy overshadows the death of one Mallorie Cobb.
They continue to lie low. Arthur makes his appearances with the right people, keeping himself visible through his more respectable aliases but only just enough to justify his presence, and he never stays for long.
The whirring of smooth metal on every flat surface is common in Dom’s presence, the only sound to break the silence of his grief. He never speaks of Mal or how it happened. Arthur doesn’t need to hear him say it to know that he sees her around every corner, every time he closes his eyes.
When Dom finally starts talking dreams again, theories and jobs, Arthur is relieved to see some comprehension in those eyes, bobbing somewhere in the silent despairing blues. He insists that Arthur go home, just for a week, while Dom finds them a worthwhile job. He books a flight back to LA and, on his way out of their rented little flat, asks, “Do you want me to tell them you said hello?”
“Yeah,” Dom’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing the floor between them. “Hey, give them something for me?”
“Sure,” Arthur waits while Dom rummages through some of his things, returning to press a necklace and a two Euro coin into his palm. Arthur recognizes the necklace immediately, a simple gold affair with a heart pendant on it that he had seen Mal wear on occasion. The Euro, however, he didn’t understand. He bends to tuck them into his carry-on regardless.
“James used to tug on that whenever-” Dom pauses, trying to explain even though Arthur hasn’t asked for an explanation. “I can’t hold onto it any longer. And Phillipa, she always enjoyed the foreign money we would bring back for her…”
Arthur zips up his carry-on and rights himself. “I’ll make sure they know you sent it with love.”
The trip to the airport is nerve-wracking and Arthur almost tells the cab to turn around, to take him back to a Cobb who he doesn’t know well enough to leave alone for a week. He doesn’t and after four hours of inspection, in which he loses his tie clip, all of his pens, and is infinitely glad he wasn’t carrying his gun, Arthur ends up on a nearly empty plane destined for an apartment he hasn’t seen in over a year.
When Arthur drags himself up the three flights of stairs it takes to get to his apartment, he slips the key in the door and turns, finding no resistance. He immediately backs away from it, stepping off to the side.
His door is unlocked.
He’s spent twelve hours on a flight after six months of hiding and now his fucking door is unlocked.
Sliding the keys from the door, Arthur slips them back into his carry-on, and slowly, silently opens the door. In less than five seconds, the P12-45 he keeps in the drawer by the door is in his hand and trained on the broad, royal purple clad back in his kitchen.
“Darling, I know it might feel like it,” Eames turns to raise an eyebrow at him, grinning far too cheekily for someone on the wrong end of a semiautomatic sub-compact. “But this isn’t a dream.”
“Eames?” Arthur wants to reach for his die, no one but Cobb knew he was coming back to Los Angeles; he refrains, just to deny Eames the pleasure.
“In the flesh, kitten,” He leans on the counter, managing to look like he’s got every right to be there, leaning against Arthur’s counter with that come-hither look on his face. “Come give your man a proper hello.”
Arthur slams the pistol down, earning a “Woah, firearms, lets be cautious!” from Eames as he marches back out to retrieve the things he’d left in the hallway.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur demands, throwing his bags in the apartment and slamming the door shut.
“Well, I was in the area,” Eames says, setting a plate of sweet potato fries in front of Arthur, like he can make the world’s most unconvincing lie more believable with crunchy, warm sweetness. “I remembered what a delightful host you were… the, ah, few times I was here. So I decided to pop in and see if you were around.” Eames turns back to the spitting pan on the stove, fishing some more orange slivers out. When he continues, Arthur swears he sounds a little bitter. “Besides the place was bound to need some cleaning, what with you gone for six months at a time.”
“You broke into my house.” Arthur says dumbly, still not quite over the first sight of Eames in six months.
Eames glances over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. He flicks off the switch to the stove and fishes the last of the sweet potato slivers from the pan. “Mmm, must have been a long flight, yeah pet?”
Arthur’s brain kicks in just about then. “You can’t just break into my place without telling me!”
“Well… it wouldn’t be breaking in if I told you, now would it?” Eames motions to the plate in front of Arthur. “Come now, eat your chips. You’re strange and don’t like ‘em when they’re cold.”
“You can’t just…” Arthur shakes his head, unable to believe how Eames could possibly be so dense. Eames smiles around a wedge held between his lips, cocky, as if he’s simply playing to Arthur’s irritation.
“Arthur?” Eames asks when Arthur snatches his bags up in an irritated huff and storms down the hallway. “Come now Arthur don’t be like that!”
Arthur slams the bedroom door on him, locking it and for one wild minute, debates the merit of pushing the dresser in front of it. He vetoes that idea in lieu of shooting the forger if he tries to pick the lock.
Apparently Eames hadn’t been lying when he’d mentioned cleaning Arthur’s place. The sheets on his bed are slightly rumpled but obviously freshly washed, and while he knows how he feels about Eames sleeping in his bed, he isn’t sure how he feels about Eames changing his sheets. He resolves to be angry about it- its easier that way.
Once his clothes are put away, Cobb’s gifts placed on the dresser for later, Arthur orders curry and doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he only did so to piss Eames off. He gets the door before the delivery girl has a chance to knock and over-tips her to compensate for the way he snatches the food out of her hand, hasty to get back to his room. He spends the rest of the night in his room, door locked, and doesn’t know, doesn’t care, where Eames sleeps.
The next day they barely see each other, and that may be in part because Arthur is attempting to accomplish just that. He gets in touch with Stephen and arranges to see James and Phillipa the next day. When he slips back into his apartment, well past midnight, Eames is nowhere to be found. He retreats to his room, locking the door before falling into bed. He falls asleep without bothering to take his belt off.
There is a gentle rapping of knuckles at his door.
“Arthur?” Eames’ voice.
Arthur looks blearily at the door, worried for a moment that he forgot to lock it, not that it would matter if Eames truly wished to gain entrance.
“Arthur?” A little louder this time, but still tentative. “Are you awake?”
He looks at the alarm clock by his bedside. It’s 3:18 in the morning.
After a couple moments Arthur can hear Eames shuffle away from the door, back down the hall. Arthur leaves early enough the next morning to see that Eames has taken to sleeping on his couch, his button down draped over his bare chest like a blanket.
When he comes home at half past six, after a day of seeing Dom’s children and enduring Mrs. Miles passive-aggressive company, there is a bottle of wine breathing on the barely-for-two table and Eames is sizzling something that smells like heaven in a pan on the stove.
He looks up when he hears the door open, smiling at Arthur like he’s perfectly happy to play his part in this domestic charade. “Home so early? Darling, what a pleasant surprise.”
Arthur flicks the top lock and throws his keys on the counter, heading to the bedroom to put his briefcase away, since his table has somehow spontaneously formed placemats.
“How was your day, kitten?” Eames calls from the kitchen.
Arthur ignores him and takes his time slipping his tie from around his neck, toeing his shoes off and setting them in the closet. He contemplates locking Eames out again and falling into bed for the brief coma his mental and emotional states are demanding, but he is really hungry and Eames knows his way around a kitchen. At this point, with this delicious smell permeating his apartment, locking himself away would punish him just as much as it would Eames.
“That eventful, yeah?” Eames asks when Arthur pads back into the living room.
He never thought he’d regret buying an apartment with a breakfast nook that looked into the living room. “You really wouldn’t care.”
The sizzling from the kitchen is interrupted by the soft sound of a utensil being set down on the stovetop. “Arthur, you don’t know that. I asked you, didn’t I?”
“You also broke into my apartment,” Arthur points out, snatching up a magazine that’s found its way onto his coffee table.
“Blimey, is that what this is all about?” Eames switches the stove off with an agitated flick of his wrist. “I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem, it never has been. But if you need me to say it, then fine, I’ll say it. I’m sorry for breaking into your flat, darling. Next time I’ll wait for your express permission.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, the derisive “I bet,” almost drowned out by the vicious way he flips the page.
“Arthur…” Eames sighs and Arthur can hear him moving things around in the kitchen. His kitchen. His kitchen that has acquired Eames’ clutter the way his coffee table has, the way his dining table has. Arthur angrily flips past another page.
“Will you just tell me how your day was?” Eames prods from the kitchen.
“I’m pretty sure your actions have shown just how much you don’t care about what I did with my day.” Arthur slaps the magazine down on the coffee table, entirely uninterested in Eames’ trash. “Don’t you have someone to be following?”
“I thought I’d take the night off,” He raises the plate of salmon over the breakfast nook, pointedly.
“Oh, right,” Arthur rolls his eyes at the gesture, unwilling to be sucked into his calculated schemes. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be back on the job once you get what you want.”
“I-“ Eames blinks, completely caught off guard by how Arthur’s words sting.
“You said you were on a job,” Arthur knows he’s baiting Eames, willing the other to escalate the fight. “I’m just being reasonable and not assuming that I’m the only entertainment tonight.”
“Arthur,” Eames is a good actor, he even sounds hurt; Arthur supposes it comes with the job description. “I’m sorry if you don’t like me taking a job in LA. It’s hardly important, I can drop it. I was only trying to see-“
“Don’t-“ Arthur cuts him off with a wave of his hand. He would rather the flimsy job excuse than whatever version of the truth Eames wants to drop on him. “Don’t apologize for doing your job.”
“Then what can I apologize for?” Eames drops the plate on the table, most likely spattering the placemats with salmon sauce. “What can I say to stop this bloody argument you want so badly to pick with me?”
“There is no argument. We’re professionals; this is what you do.” Arthur shrugs. “I don’t care who you fuck to get your information.”
“I’m not fucking anyone! I would think that much is clearly evident!” Eames shouts, throwing his hands out to encompass his surroundings; as if any outsider could walk in and tell that Arthur has been back for two days and they haven’t so much as sat on the same couch in all that time.
“Look, I understand that you have this…” Eames takes a breath, ordering his thoughts. “This need to pick a fight with me, and any other time I’d play along because I’m a pretty obliging bloke. But it’s hard for me to understand what the hell goes on up there in that head of yours when you pull this shite with me. I can’t read your mind Arthur, despite how I might try. Its-“ Eames shakes his head, knocking his knuckles against the tabletop, and Arthur has to wonder who Eames stole that from, what unsuspecting mark’s nervous tick Eames is channeling this time. “Its like you’ve got this distrust hardwired into you and to be perfectly honest, it is not terribly endearing.”
“Yes, that must be it.” Arthur pushes off the couch and stalks past Eames, determined to eat the stupid fish and be done with this entire scene. “I have some intrinsic need to be disappointed in every decision you make. That must be it.” He throws a handful of ice cubes into a glass and puts it under the water filter, shooting Eames an annoyed look as the glass fills with water.
“That is such a lazy, perfunctory,” Arthur cuts the water off with more force than is entirely necessary. “Blameless way of classifying my irritation with you.”
“So you admit that you’re irritated at me?” Eames clarifies, snaring Arthur in his own logic. “You admit that we’re having a row?”
“I-“ It’s probably the look on his face, so smug at having caught Arthur in his own avoidance, that makes him lash out. “I admit that there are things that you do that piss me off, but that is who you are. You piss me off and right now,” Arthur sets his glass down on the table, standing his ground in his own apartment. “Happens to be one of those times.”
Eames growls, exasperated and pleading but all Arthur can hear is the frustration of a man who is too used to charming his way out of bad situations. “What! What have I done to get you in such a piss poor mood this time?”
“How about disappearing for six months after-“ Arthur’s mouth twists up, unwilling to speak of Mal in his home. Reluctant to remember her here, lest he give her yet another place to haunt him.
“Oh, really Arthur,” Eames crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head. “What use would Cobb have had for me?”
“Comfort! Compassion! The same things he got from me! You flew to Australia while I spent six months piecing him back together!” Arthur feels his throat tightening and perhaps that isn’t the best phrase to use, but he can think of worse.
“And who knows how many more after you tire of this little vacation, yeah?” Eames quips, his body radiating displeasure.
“It’s because I cared enough to go get him, that he’s not in jail right now.” Arthur spits, amazed that Eames has the audacity to try and make Arthur feel anything less than justified. “He needed help, Eames, and I was the only one willing to help him!”
“Yes, because what is better than one wanted criminal?” Eames pauses theatrically, tilting his head as if entertaining the idea of letting Arthur guess. “Oh, that’s right, three! One of whom is mentally unhinged because his wife decided to end it in front of him.” Eames looks at him like he’s only stating the obvious and can’t figure out why Arthur is the one not getting it. “That’s extremely self-preserving darling, really.”
“So I should be like you? Disappear whenever it’s damn well convenient for me?” Arthur is furious at Eames’ nonchalance; the blasé way he speaks of the death of a woman who he knows was so much a part of Arthur’s life. “Indulge in this ‘self-preservation’ fantasy that means I’m only responsible for myself and damn the rest?”
“Arthur you are like me you insufferable-!” Eames takes a step toward Arthur, fingers pressing into his crossed arms to keep him from reaching out to grab Arthur. “You’re ruthless and damn good at what you do. You get things done, regardless of what happens along the way. But this, this running to Cobb when it puts you in danger-“
“How can you not understand?” Arthur’s words are sharp, clipped with the sound of disbelief creeping into his voice. No one was immune to Mal’s charm, and yet Eames is acting like the world could continue on, just as it always had, now that she’s gone; like Arthur was truly in the wrong for feeling the way he did. “What kind of single-minded sociopath are you that you can’t understand how much of a void she left?”
“The kind that can’t understand how you run to Cobb instead of me, that kind Arthur! The kind that has only just begun to understand how little you expect for yourself. From me, for that matter!” Eames shouts, brushing past Arthur with a wide enough berth to make it obvious the last thing he wants to do is touch him. “The kind who is apparently wasting both his breath and his time on you!”
Eames seems to take the air with him when he storms out, slamming the door and Arthur has the strangest sense of standing in a vacuum. Arthur sits down heavily, the ice in his glass shifting when he puts his elbows on the table. He stares down at his imperfect cuticles.
Idly, thoughts try to present themselves, abased to the melancholy of this apartment Eames had tried so hard to confront him in. Arthur pushes them away, just to see how long he can keep himself from feeling anything, wondering if existing in a vacuum would really be that bad.
Hours seem to pass, or maybe just minutes. Somewhere along the line the apartment grows dark and Arthur can’t bring himself to care about turning on a light besides the one Eames had left on in the kitchen. The night looms before Arthur, a loaded presence, like an opponent biding its time, waiting him out.
Arthur finally gives into his hunger, picking at the fish straight from the serving plate. It’s salmon, delicious and perfect and Arthur can see the process; Eames at the supermarket, picking out the fish, marinating it, gently sautéing it as he waits for Arthur to come home-
He sets the fork down and cradles his head on the table.
Eames was honest in his intentions, unflagging in his efforts even if they lacked a necessary finesse. There was nothing he’d said that hadn’t made sense. If anything, Arthur realizes, Eames had been right about the frivolity of his actions.
But it hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary at the time. When Dom calls, Arthur answers. It’s always been that way, and this was no different. Arthur doesn’t know how to not be Dom’s point man. How was he supposed to separate his loyalties to a colleague and those of his friend?
And Eames… had he really thought Arthur had wanted to squirrel Dom away for six months, living with the perpetual whirr-skid of metal on wood? Did he think Arthur enjoyed hearing about the forger’s successes around the globe while he tried to pry his way into Dom’s mind enough to piece him back together? Did he really think him so bestial?
He knocks his head against the table, willing the thoughts away, praying for the sounds of the city to seep through the windows and lull him into oblivion. Arthur’s fingers run through his hair, something soothing in the way they ruin all the work he spent getting it to stay in place. His eyes slip closed, torso bent over the table, willing his mind to be quiet.
“Arthur-“
Arthur’s eyes fly open, his body barely registering the hand on his shoulder.
“Eames,” Arthur groans, closing his eyes against the disorienting placement of his surroundings. He’s stiff and his living room is sideways. No, he’s at his kitchen table. They’re in his clean, dim apartment in LA. He fell asleep at the table. He asks, “What are we doing here?” when he means to ask what time it is.
“You fell asleep.” Eames says, always so skillful at sidestepping the question, staying just far enough from the whole truth of the matter.
“Oh…” Arthur lifts his head off the table. Everything is sore from the way he’d forced himself to sit for who knows how long.
“You’re tired darling,” Eames slips his hand into Arthur’s, guiding him out of his seat with deference to Arthur’s aches. He places a hand on Arthur’s waist, above the hip, and Arthur leans into him, too tired to say the words he knows need to be said. ”Lets go to bed.”
~
[December, 2006]
How many times?
How many times, Eames wonders, should one man allow another to blatantly disregard his wishes before he is allowed to throw said man’s mobile out the nearest window?
Eames gropes for the bedside table, dragging his confused, bedraggled head out from under the pillow when his hand passes through empty space. It takes him a moment to realize they aren’t in Arthur’s LA apartment, another to realize where they are.
He sits up and looks for Arthur’s phone when the vicious little bastard beeps again. Eames finds the noisy thing in the pocket of Arthur’s trousers, hastily discarded on Eames’ side of the bed the night prior. It takes Eames less than thirty seconds to break into Arthur’s phone, not for lack of imagination on Arthur’s part; Eames simply knows the way Arthur thinks, after all this time.
Undisclosed Number:
Point needed. 18/01/2007
Well. That was worth waking up for.
Momentarily, Eames contemplates how angry Arthur would be with him if he did throw his mobile out the window. The pros, not having to hear the thing beep for approximately six hours, fail to outweigh the cons, Arthur punching him in the whatever’s closest and possibly initiating another game of transcontinental hide and seek. Eames switches the phone to silent
Curled on his side, Arthur is little more than a warm, scraggly mess of hair peeking out from under the comforter; hardly the terror Eames knows him to be. Arthur’s temper is just as bad as Eames’, so deceiving in his calm, composed public face. Perhaps that double-faced nature is what keeps them orbiting around each other, the gravity of one too attractive a pull for the other to ignore. Essentially, they are the same- in all the ways that count at least. They like to play their cards close to the chest, even if it is common knowledge that the deck is rigged.
Eames fiddles with Arthur’s phone.
They rail against each other because Arthur has expectations and Eames has no idea where he gets them from, but he’s never been one to acknowledge such trivial things. It was worse in the beginning, when they were first figuring each other out, so sure nothing could feel like this, that everything would fall apart any second.
Once upon a time, Eames had thought they’d be better off if he left, if he buckled under the weight of Arthur expecting him to, but Eames is a selfish man. He’s selfish for Arthur’s intensity, every little bit of it. Because when it’s bad between them, it’s awful, but when it’s good... When it’s good, it’s better than anything Eames has ever had.
It’s never about the words, it’s the competition; who will give in first. Eames wonders when Arthur will realize that he’s in for the long haul.
Eames catches the sunlight on the back of Arthur’s phone, casting the beam on the ceiling.
Sometimes Eames can see, in the curve of Arthur’s mouth, the tenderness in his touch, that Arthur knows… something. He allows himself to believe- what, Eames is never sure, but it’s there and Eames’ chest swells with the knowledge that he put it there.
It is a slow process, pockmarked with explosive rows and tears neither talk about, but it’s there and they’re working on it, willing it to work. They’re worth this and Eames is willing to lay it out and admit that he wants it, that he wants Arthur to want it too. He’ll wait as long as it takes for Arthur to stop questioning it and accept that some things aren’t for him to decide.
Impulsively, Eames reaches out to smooth the wild mess of Arthur’s bed head.
Arthur’s desire for Eames to stay is finally stronger than his expectation that Eames will leave, but that doesn’t mean he’ll admit to it just yet. It’s an impasse Eames can live with because he is hopelessly hopeful and maybe, someday, Arthur will realize how hopeless this fight actually is.
“Why are you awake?” Arthur asks, voice muffled where he has his face burrowed into a pillow.
“You never turn your blasted phone off.”
Arthur makes a noise that even after all this time Eames can’t describe, a mixture of amused self-satisfaction and noncommittal concurrence.
“Undisclosed number asking for a point.” Supplies Eames, on the off chance Arthur might want to know.
Arthur shoulders the comforter over his head and grumbles, “Fuck ‘em.”
Eames drops the phone to the floor, diving beneath the covers to join the svelte man ensconced within. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s sleep-warm body, whispering, “I love your sunny disposition in the mornings,” as he presses kisses to a naked shoulder blade.
Humming in agreement, Arthur pulls Eames’ arms tighter around him, lacing their fingers together. “No one’s ever accused you of having good taste before.”
“Mmm but I love the way you taste.” Eames mumbles wickedly, licking a stripe from Arthur’s shoulder to his earlobe which he immediately begins suckling on.
Arthur’s hands tighten around Eames’ and he wriggles to give Eames more flesh to explore. “That doesn’t say good things about me.”
“I think it says wonderful things about you.” Eames assures, trailing kisses down the rough angle of a jaw that hasn’t seen the sharp end of a razor in nearly two days.
Arthur leans into the kisses, twisting toward Eames to help them toward their destination.
Eames stops and glances at Arthur’s lips, excitement gripping him fierce and new. Hidden in this cave of linens, Arthur’s lips are a secret, offered to Eames free of deliberation, fueled by desire. Across the room, Eames’ totem lies in his shirt pocket, and Eames wonders if he would wake up if this were all a dream. Impatient, Arthur leans up to take what he wants.
Twisting around under the covers, Arthur slips his tongue against Eames’ lips, testing, tracing, seeking entrance to a place Eames can hardly call his own any longer. Arthur slings a lazy leg over Eames’ thighs, snatching his foot back under the covers when his toes peek out. They kiss to the unspoken agreement that no limbs should find their way out from under the bedding, laughing breathlessly when an elbow or knee inevitably sneaks out.
Tongues tangled, Eames rolls Arthur onto his back, situating himself with knees on either side of him, bellies pressed together. Arthur laughs against his lips, kicking the coverlet to cover their momentarily exposed feet, lest the small infraction on the rules be noticed. Eames pulls back enough to appreciate lips and cheeks blushed with desire, the feel of Arthur’s eyes on him in this warm, dark space.
Only Arthur can wreck him like this.
Nothing will ever compare; Eames’ hands shake with the surety of it.
Eames rests his forehead on Arthur’s, trying to catch his breath around more than just the kiss. “I love you,” slips out, whispered unbidden on Arthur’s lips.
Sighing, Arthur presses his nose against Eames’. He’s gotten better at accepting the words since the first time.
“I’m sorry, kitten. I know you don’t like to hear it, but I need to say it.“ Eames brushes Arthur’s hair back, wild and sleep-mussed as it is. “I’m afraid you’ll forget.”
“You’ve got a strange idea of how love works Eames.” Arthur mutters, allowing blunt fingers to sneak beneath his skull and cradle the back of his head.
“You’re a strange bloke,” Eames says, smiling when Arthur leans up with the barest hint of pressure from Eames’ fingers. “I never stood a chance.”
Arthur snorts, “Yeah, I bet.”
Leaning in, Eames molds them together again, losing himself in the press of Arthur’s lips and the warmth of his body. When Arthur finally pulls away, panting and too hard to function, Eames has somehow relocated to his side. He’s wrapped around Arthur with Arthur’s feet tangled between his legs and somewhere along the line, they’ve both emerged from the covers. The morning slips away as they lie entangled, cooling down.
Eames rests his lips against the crown of Arthur’s head, nose buried in his hair. “Someday I am going to say it, and you’re going to accept that it’s true.”
Arthur’s hand curls over Eames’ hip, and Eames can’t read Arthur’s mind but he knows what he hopes that means.
There are no promises between them. They are creatures of habit, nostalgic for disaster and hungry for every facet of this mystery between them. They don’t make promises because it’s hardly about the destination, when they’re so caught up in the chase.
♥Fin