[inception] till death do us part [7/9]
‘Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)
Part VII: in sickness and in health
[ fic masterpost] || [ art masterpost] || [fanmix]
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Walking out of the restaurant after settling Arthur’s bill, Eames watches in fascination as the explosion rocks the building. It’s merely a little bomb-not enough to cause major catastrophe but enough to make a point. For this case, the point in question would be ‘my husband was trying to kill me so I give him this explosion as my little revenge to him’.
Sure, that makes him look petty, but all is fair in love and war. And what he has with Arthur can be counted as both.
Leaning against one of the lamp posts, he watches the crowd come pouring out of the restaurant. Searching the faces, he couldn’t find the one he’s looking for. Frowning, he senses the very first beginning of worry seeping into his heart.
It can’t be that Arthur failed to escape the explosion… no, of course it can’t be. And if he is… well, it’s his mission to ‘deal’ with Arthur. He shouldn’t feel worried.
Right. Right, of course. And, obviously, the reason why his feet bring him closer to the explosion scene instead of going away from it is not because he’s worried, but merely to make sure that…
A movement on the corner of his eyes grabs his attention. Turning his head sharply, he meets the gaze of Arthur fleeing the crime scene. He casts away the relief he feels in his heart as something unimportant, and he justifies the fact that he’s smiling because of the thrill of the game ahead that he and Arthur will apparently still be playing.
Chasing after him to the parking lot, Eames only manages to catch sound of tires screeching and Arthur’s car driving away. He is debating whether he should chase after him or not when he suddenly hears some ominous tick-ticking sound. His eyes widens when he realises that the sound is coming from his left suit pocket. Sparing no time for thinking, he quickly sheds his suit jacket and throws it as far way from him as possible.
It explodes even before it reaches the ground.
Eames thanks every holy being that exists for giving him a pair of quick hands that have already saved him twice from being burnt to crisp today. But he does have one thing to complain about.
“Oh, sweet,” he says, staring at the smoking remains of his beloved suit. It was Ozwald Boateng, for heaven’s sake! He knows that Arthur often threatened to burn his ‘hideous shirt’, but this is the first time he carried out his plan.
And that, of course, means war.
Less than ten minutes after that, he’s already behind the steering wheel of some car (stolen, since his car is still under the river, and Yusuf’s the one who drove him to the restaurant for his rendezvous with Arthur) and trying to dial Arthur’s number with another phone Yusuf gave him. He’s not ashamed to admit that he still memorise Arthur’s number.
Arthur answers after the second ring. “Arthur Eames speaking.”
Eames allows a smug grin at how Arthur introduces himself. “And here I thought you didn’t want to use that name again after you tried to kill me for the second time today.”
“Oh, come on,” Arthur’s voice holds a hint of mock repentance. “It’s just a little bomb.”
Eames grits his teeth as he races his car faster in that busy road, narrowly missing a car when he changes lane.
“I want you to know,” he tells Arthur, remembering the sight of his burnt down suit jacket. “That I’m going home and I’m going to burn everything I bought for you.”
“And I’ll burn all of your hideous shirts,” Arthur threatens.
“Not before I reach home first,” Eames tells him firmly.
There’s a chuckle and then Arthur’s voice, saying, “I’ll race you there, baby.”
The sound of dial tone greets him after that, letting him know that Arthur has hung up on him. Eames stares at the phone in his hand and he laughs. He laughs even though he also wants to cry and to get angry and to fuck Arthur to next century.
It’s Arthur, only his Arthur, who can make him feel like this, has been so ever since the first time they met each other on that fateful day five years ago.
He hits redial as he swerves out of the road and drives through some poor guy’s backyard. The shortcut will save him time.
Arthur greets him with, “You there yet?”
Eames chooses not to acknowledge that question and instead asks him, “Tell me, the first time we met, what was your first thought?”
“You tell me.”
“I thought…” he starts. He tries to think of that moment, to remember the multitude of feeling he felt when he first met Arthur, talked with him, got to know him, got to love him. He tries to remember the euphoria he experienced the moment Arthur told him ‘yes’ after he proposed to him. “You looked like the sun rising behind the hill at the back of my parents’ manor. I used to wake up early just to get a glimpse of it. I… don’t know how to say it.”
Arthur is silent for a moment before he asks, softly, “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because at the end you’re starting to think about the beginning,” he says. And isn’t that the truth? They’re already at the end-Eames can’t really allude himself in believing that they could save their marriage anymore. There are too many lies, too many secrets, which have been going on between them. At times like that, he can’t help but remember how it all started and how, despite everything that has happened, he still loves Arthur.
“So, how about it, Arthur?” he asks casually, trying to keep his emotions out of his voice.
“I thought…” Arthur proceeds to speak, stops, and then continues. “I thought you’re the most beautiful mark I’ve ever seen.”
Eames knows he should have expected something like that, but it still leaves a trace of bitterness in him when he hears Arthur say it for real. “So, it’s all business?”
“All business,” Arthur agrees.
“That’s all I need to know,” Eames says before he hangs up the phone.
Yes, he thinks as he crosses back to the main road, that’s all he needs to know.
It takes Eames only seven minutes to reach the suburban complex, when it usually takes fifteen. When he reaches the corner of the road to their home, he sees Arthur’s car from the other end of the road. As he speeds up, Arthur speeds up too. His car is faster though, and just when he’s about to turn into the front lawn, Arthur’s car accelerates and it crashes to his, sending it crashing through the white picket fence. Eames shoots an angry glare to Arthur.
“Not the bloody fence, goddamnit!” he shouts. The picket fence was Eames’ own handiwork and now most of it is broken to pieces.
Arthur even has the gall to give him a smug smirk before he pulls back and continues down their driveway leaving Eames’ car-stolen car-on the roadside. Eames growls and jumps out of the car, mourning over his fence for a quick second. He leaps over the fence and runs through the front lawn up to the front porch. He doesn’t bother with the front door and instead, proceeds to spy on the front windows, to check if Arthur has gotten inside.
He almost falls over when his feet stumbles one of the big rocks lining around the post of gloxinia. And then, in a sheer moment of childish rage Eames deliberately steps on Arthur’s gloxinia, destroying the already wilting flowers, sending it to its demise. After stomping on more than half of the flowers, Eames continues his pursue for Arthur.
Eames gives a little satisfied nod at the pitiful state of the flowers, wincing a little bit as he remembers what gloxinia means in floral language. But it doesn’t matter what the flower means, because it’s not like it has anything to do with the sad state of his and Arthur’s marriage. He convinces himself, as he tip toes to the side of the house, that this marriage has already met its end. There’s no use hanging by the single weak thread of hope.
With a renewed determination, Eames runs along the driveway path that leads to the garage-Arthur’s car parked haphazardly in front of the closed garage door-ducking under every window while still trying to make out any movements from inside the house. He can’t see anything through the curtains and it’s not exactly bright inside the house as some of the lights are off. He curses and quickly hides behind Arthur’s car when he hears a small click from the back door. He peers up and sees the door opening slightly.
There’s Arthur without his suit jacket, looking fierce and dangerous. He’s armed with a couple of firearms strapped around his body. He’s holding two suppressed Glocks in his hands, while scouting the backyard. He doesn’t seem to notice Eames hiding behind his car. After a few moments, Arthur goes inside, locking the door behind him.
Eames releases his breath, not realising he’s been holding it as he saw Arthur just now. He has to admit, looking at Arthur armed to the teeth like that gives him mixed feelings. Arthur looking like he could kill twenty people in less fifteen seconds without breaking a sweat-he probably can-with all the firearms he has somehow doesn’t make him cower in fear. The more rational part of his brain is seething because he doesn’t have anything to counter Arthur’s fully-armed state. The more irrational part of his brain, that seems to be connected straight to his nether region, eggs him to jump Arthur here and now, even at the risk of having his brain blown up to bits.
He shakes his head and stomps on the irrelevant train of thought. He crawls down and heads for the garage. The door, fortunately, is unlocked. He gets in and rummages through the mess under the working table. There’s a medium sized metal box under the piles of ropes and cables. He grabs it and pops the false bottom of box and some metal pieces fall out onto the table. He quickly assembles the pieces into a revolver-a Colt XSE-and loads an eight rounds magazine. He smashes a flashlight that’s hanging on the wall open. A suppressor rolls out of it and he threads it on the Colt.
Taking some careful steps out of the garage, Eames heads for the furthest window from the back door. He breaks a section of the window with his elbow, and waits for any sound from inside. When he hears nothing, he slips his hand in and flicks the lock open. He hops over the ledge, carefully avoids the shattered glass and gets in. He’s in the small room beside the kitchen that functions as the laundry room. Tucking the Colt under his arm, he rolls up his sleeves and tip toes out of the room. He reaches the kitchen and stares longingly at the oven. There are many weapons there, yet he can’t risk alarming Arthur where his position is because the oven is so bloody noisy with the beeps.
He holds the Colt steady, searching for any movements as he treads carefully, back to the wall, and looks at the dining room across the kitchen. Still no sign of Arthur. As he ducks behind the wall, he notices that the front door is locked firmly. The stairs is right in front of the foyer, he has a blind side, and he will not have any way of knowing if Arthur was there, waiting to ambush him.
Eames’ eyes fall on some of the framed pictures hanging on the wall. He grits his teeth, grabs one-a picture of him and Arthur kissing Phillipa’s cheeks on her second birthday-and holding it over the wall, using it as a mirror to check the stairs. He squints at the blurred reflection on the glass and tries to not focus on the picture. There’s a swift movement and cursing his damn luck, Eames drops the picture frame and ducks.
--
Arthur smirks, cocks up his shotgun and starts shooting the wall. He shoots twice and then stops, shotgun still pointed to the big hole created just now on the wall. He can see the barest hint of Eames’ dirty blond hair.
“You still alive, baby?” Arthur is never the one for terms of endearment. It has always been Eames with his ‘darling’, or ‘love’, or ‘babe’. Back in the days, Arthur had thought it endearing, and sometimes… once in a blue moon, he’d use it too (somewhere along the line of ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’). These days, these few hours to be exact, Arthur thinks about the terms as some kind of insult, and has used it at least four times (he keeps count). He just wants to mock Eames and show him he doesn’t have any qualms over disposing Eames from the face of the earth, and also not affected by their separation.
There’s no response from where he shot the wall. Arthur is sure the bullets didn’t hit Eames though, so he steps down the stairs slowly, the shotgun still aimed at the wall. The shotgun is not his only weapon of course. There are two suppressed Glocks tucked safely behind his back and there’s also one sub-machine gun strapped over his shoulder. He can switch to any weapon at any time.
Suddenly there’s a movement behind the wall. Not caring whatever the source of the sound, Arthur starts firing his shotgun again, and the hole on the wall gets bigger. He unslings the shotgun over his shoulder and switch to the H&K sub-machine gun as he strides over to the kitchen. He starts firing when he sees Eames ducking behind the kitchen island. The bullets hitting the wooden surface of the kitchen island and some of the glasses on it shatter. Eames appears to fire twice at Arthur’s direction but the bullets only hit the picture frames on the wall.
When Arthur fires again, Eames whips open the refrigerator door and it deflects the bullets-Arthur curses the subzero steel door. Arthur pushes past the door and Eames runs around the kitchen island towards the laundry room while still firing his gun over his shoulder.
“Your aim is as bad as your fashion sense, William!” Arthur shouts as he ducks down to avoid Eames’ bullet. “And that’s saying something!”
Three seconds after the last bullet hits the window over the sink, Arthur stands up and starts his search for Eames again. The laundry room is empty, and there’s no sign of Eames in the small hallway under the stairs. Arthur switches to shotgun again, reloads the bullets and carefully steps out of the room through the other exit that’s leading to the hallway to Eames’ study and the sitting room on the front.
The door to Eames’ study is still locked so Arthur doesn’t bother to check it. With his back to the door, he steadies his gun and carefully points it to the hallway leading to the side door and the sitting room’s other entry. Just when the muzzle passes the wall, there’s a swift gunshot and Arthur loses his hold on the shotgun. The shotgun clatters to the foyer. Eames fires another two bullets, and they hit the wall in front of Arthur.
Arthur hears Eames curses under his breath and the sound of a heavy thing drops to the carpeted floor. He must have run out of ammo, Arthur thinks. Arthur doesn’t waste any time to unslings the submachine gun from over his shoulder, takes a deep breath and then runs straight pass the hallway while firing the submachine gun, making holes in the cabinets along the hallway and destroying some of the frames hanging on the wall. He sees Eames ducks into the sitting room through the other entry. He takes cover behind the sitting room wall, he waits for any movement from his left, nothing-only the sound of frames still falling off the wall, and then he turns to the right, gun at the ready.
He aims the gun to the sitting room and pulls the trigger. And then a golf club swings out, Eames holding it, and it hits the gun out of Arthur’s hands. Arthur feels the pain travelling from his wrist to his elbow, but quick to recover and reach back for his Glock. Eames is quicker, as he sends a kick to Arthur’s side. Arthur falls on his stomach and he feels one of the guns removed from his back. He quickly rolls onto his back, reaching for the other Glock, and aims it to Eames who’s standing over him near the base of the staircase. Eames, even though he has the upper hand on having the gun first, is not aiming it to Arthur.
“Look up, darling,” he says, pointing the gun up onto the ceiling.
Arthur looks up, sees the crystal chandelier hanging on the ceiling, and then his eyes flick to the gun pointed at it. The crystal chandelier was a housewarming gift from Mal.
“Oh no, you won’t,” he hisses, flicking the safety off.
“Too bad. I am,” Eames says shortly, he even dares to smile smugly before he fires all the bullets at the chandelier.
Arthur rolls over towards the dining room to avoid the falling chandelier-and his back hits the chair. The crystals break into pieces as it hit the wooden floor. “Fuck,” Arthur curses under his breath, leaping up to his feet and holding himself steady on the back of one of the chairs surrounding the dining table. He gives Eames a seething glare. “That’s from Mal, asshole!”
“So?”
Arthur’s eyes narrow, then they flick over Eames’ shoulder to the trinkets displayed on top of the cabinet separating the foyer from the sitting room. He focuses on the carriage clock. Eames looks back over his shoulder and seems to have noticed what has caught Arthur’s attention. Arthur looks at Eames again, and he gives him an actual wide smile.
“No, no, no. Arthur, that one has been in my family for generations!”
“I know,” Arthur says, he points his gun to it. “It also came from your father.” He fires four times, blowing the clock to smithereens. Cogs and springs, and pieces of glass rain down.
Arthur gives Eames a challenging smirk, daring him to do something. He knows there’s no more bullets left on the gun Eames has, and he himself only has five more bullets. Arthur knows he should’ve used a ten rounds magazine instead of eight. Suddenly Eames moves his hand to grip the suppressor and he actually throws the gun to Arthur’s direction. The gun doesn’t hit him, it passes over his head, and Arthur-in a swift moment of foolishness-turns over to see where it hits. It hits the small sized crystal chandelier hanging above the dining table, and Eames sends a sharp kick to Arthur’s stomach while his attention is elsewhere.
Arthur is thrown back onto the dining table, the gun slips out of his hand. He doubles up, clutching his stomach. Eames doesn’t give Arthur any spare time to recover because he’s already grabbing Arthur’s waistcoat, heaves him up and throws him over to the front window. The glass shatters from the impact and Arthur falls over to the floor, taking the white curtain with him.
“Come on, darling,” Eames says, looming over Arthur, “Come to Daddy.”
Arthur heaves himself up. He’s breathing hard and his palms are slightly bleeding from being scratched by the pieces of broken glass, yet he can’t really feel any pain there since mostly the pain is mostly centred on his stomach and his back. He notices the wine bottle under the table and then he looks at the white curtain on his hands. He takes the wine bottle and grips the curtain. Then he stands up on his feet, spins, smash the wine bottle to Eames’ head-the bottle, unfortunately, doesn’t break, but it sure hurts like hell-slips the curtain over Eames’ neck, knees his stomach and as he doubles up, Arthur headbutts him, kicking him again for a good measure, sending Eames crashing into the tall cabinet by the wall.
Arthur looks down at Eames who’s groaning and clutching his head. He smirks.
“Who’s your daddy now?”
--
The hit to his head is what mostly makes Eames takes a bit more time to stand up. He leaps on his feet, chases Arthur who’s running towards the broken chandelier, no doubt wanting to take the shotgun that’s still lying somewhere under it. Eames quickly lunges down to the floor, not caring for the broken pieces of crystals, as he sees Arthur reaching down for the shotgun. He swipes his leg around, catching Arthur and making him loses his balance. Eames grabs the shotgun at the same time Arthur rolls on his back towards the cabinet, slips his hand under and pulls out a Beretta.
They both leap up to their feet and spin to face each other. Eames with the shotgun pointed at Arthur. Arthur with the Beretta pointed at Eames. The muzzles of their firearms pressed to each other. Arthur flicks the safety off and Eames tightens his finger on the trigger in reflex. They’re both breathing hard and Eames feels his head spins, his vision starting to get hazy.
Dust waft around them, broken crystals scattered under their shoes, and it’s almost completely dark with the only light coming from the wall lamp hanging on the circular staircase wall and the desk lamps in the sitting room. They’re standing right in the middle of the foyer, and somehow, Eames feels it’s just too fucking melodramatic, them settling their scores in the centre of their home, in the centre of their universe.
He stomps on that thought and looks at Arthur’s eyes sharply, just for something to focus on. And what he sees there makes him rethink about the whole thing.
The wild flare in Arthur’s eyes is accompanied by some more raw emotions. Suspicion, anger, and confusion. There’s also hesitation in Arthur’s eyes and Eames doesn’t want to think that Arthur is hesitating to pull the trigger on him, because he shouldn’t be. He understands completely that there’s no such thing as hesitation in their line of work, and Eames thinks Arthur must have known about it too.
If you hesitate, you die. Except, neither of them is dead yet. Because they’re both hesitating.
Eames loosens his grip on the pump, he takes a deep breath and fights the urge to close his eyes to think. He remembers how desperate Arthur had been when they kissed in the restaurant, how painful it was for Eames to stop the kiss because he had wanted more. He didn’t want to stop kissing Arthur then, and Eames doesn’t even want to imagine not being able to kiss Arthur ever again if he-if they both pull the triggers.
Suddenly there’s a crack from Eames’ right. Arthur’s eyes flick to the direction of the sound, and so Eames does as well. The picture frames on the wall that leads to laundry room are falling off. There are some huge holes from when Arthur had shot at it using his shotgun earlier. Eames feels like he wants to laugh over the broken pieces of the frames. Their life together is staring back at them, as if accusing him, accusing both of them for ruining the whole lifetime they’ve shared, and Eames knows, he knows he can never ever pull the trigger.
His gaze turns back to Arthur again, their eyes locked. There’s still a hesitation in Arthur’s eyes, so Eames does what’s possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done as an assassin, but it’s also the only thing he could think to do for Arthur; he lowers the barrel, he lets his grip on the pump go, and finally he drops the shotgun to the floor. It falls with a loud clatter.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, his voice is cracking slightly, and he winces.
“I can’t do it,” Eames answers, giving Arthur a rueful smile. “You want it? Take it.”
Arthur’s expression changes drastically. His jaw tightens, he blinks fast, his eyebrows knits in pure confusion, and Eames just wants to hold that face and kiss the confusion away.
“Don’t do this,” Arthur says, steadying his grip on the Beretta with both hands. “Pick it up.”
Eames shakes his head, takes one step closer. “You win, Arthur.” Another step. “Shoot me and be done with it.” He’s standing right in front of Arthur’s Beretta, the muzzle pointed directly to his face, but he stays unfazed.
“Pick it up, goddamnit!” Arthur’s raising his voice now. But it’s still cracked and Eames knows Arthur can’t pull the trigger too.
And when Arthur’s resolve crumble, as the gun lowers an inch, Eames lunges, slapping the gun away. Arthur meets him in the middle, grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer. Eames cups Arthur’s jaw and when their lips collide he sighs, feeling relieved beyond words because this is what he wants, what he hopes, what he will do everything for to have forever. And the best part is Arthur wants it too.
The kiss is not like the one in the restaurant at all. While it was the very first time they kissed quite passionately after such a long time, it still can’t compare with this one. All the tension, the thrill, the fear, everything is poured into the kiss.
They kiss frantically, their teeth collide with a loud clink, and their tongues are lapping at each other in their mouths, their hands trying to touch everything they can reach and Eames thinks, he think that he has forgotten how it would feel to have Arthur’s body pressed fully against him. He has forgotten how Arthur’s taste is. He has forgotten how he could never have enough of Arthur all around him, wrapping him up, and filling him. But now he has the chance to remember it again, and he will never let the chance go.
They tumble into the sitting room, Eames pushes Arthur up to the cabinet after he sweeps the mess of the carriage clock pieces down. Arthur’s hands are roaming all over his back, tugging his shirt up and when they slip under his shirt, touching and scratching his back, Eames groans into Arthur’s mouth but they keep kissing. Eames’ fingers are digging into Arthur’s hair, messing the slicked back hair, tugging his head back and moves to his jaw, leaving a line of kisses down to his throat and then moves up to nip at Arthur’s earlobe.
“I’ve missed you so, so, so much,” Eames murmurs to Arthur’s ear. He lets go of Arthur’s hair and starts unbuttoning his waistcoat. Arthur has moved to loosen Eames’ tie. He’s wrapping his legs around Eames’ waist, dragging him closer, rubbing their crotch together. It doesn’t take too long for Eames’ cock to get hard, and he can feel Arthur’s cock swell in response.
Arthur pulls Eames away from his throat and starts attacking his mouth again, plunging his tongue into his mouth, and Eames is all happy to suck it in, savouring it. And then Arthur push himself up from the cabinet, tightening his legs around Eames’ waist, and wrapping his arms around his neck to hold himself up. Eames stops his activity to remove the offending waistcoat from Arthur’s body, and moves to hold Arthur up, his hands cupping Arthur’s arse.
Eames staggers backwards, his back hitting the wall and picture frames falling off from the collision. Arthur breaks the kiss and giggles-he actually giggles!-into Eames’ neck. Eames can’t help his own grin to bloom on his face and he lets out a loud groan when Arthur moves up and down, grinding their hard-on against each other. There’re too many layers of clothes separating them, and Eames just wants to rip them all off, not caring he’s wearing some expensive suit, not caring how Arthur’s going to bitch over it.
So he does. He reluctantly removes his hands from Arthur’s arse-Arthur can hold himself up-and slips them in between their pressed bodies. Arthur perks up from his neck when Eames forcefully tugs the waistcoat off, buttons flying everywhere. For one moment, everything stops moving. Eames stares at Arthur. Arthur stares back. And Eames can’t help but keep looking down to Arthur’s red swollen lips. He looks back up again, and he grins when Arthur scowls.
“You’re lucky I love you too much,” Arthur says.
Eames laughs and laughs and they kiss again, and again and again, until they’re out of breath. But they don’t stop. Even as they both try to divest more clothes off, even as they break more picture frames-Arthur slams Eames to the wall over and over again, even as Eames’ hand slips under Arthur’s waistband and palming his erection making Arthur moans loudly, their lips never separate for more than two seconds.
They fall onto the sofa, limbs tangled, shirts hanging off their shoulders and panting into each other’s mouth. Eames settles himself on top of Arthur, then he nips the junction of Arthur’s neck and shoulder, marking him. Arthur’s fingers swiftly tug the button on Eames’ trousers loose, he unzips it, pushes his boxer down and finally, freeing Eames’ cock from its confinement.
Eames sighs into Arthur’s mouth, both his hands are shaking as he tries to hold himself up, and it’s a difficult feat to do. So difficult because Arthur is jerking his cock mercilessly, sending shivers all over his body and he’s longing for this sensation for such a long time. He settles one hand on Arthur’s hip, slips back, palming his arse again, and pushes himself down to get more friction. Arthur doesn’t disappoint. He thumbs at the slit, smearing pre-come over Eames’ cock.
A litany of curses comes out of Arthur’s mouth when Eames tugs his cock free, his hand tangled with Arthur’s and they’re jerking their cocks together. He nuzzles and laves and bites Arthur’s throat, tasting the sweat, breathing in the smell he’s missed so much.
The ‘oh’s and ‘God’s and ‘yeah’s are filling up the silence around the sitting room. Eames keeps thrusting, their hands are slick from the pre-come dripping from their cocks, and he feels the heat coiling under his abdomen builds up. Arthur moans, and grunts impatiently, jerking his hand faster. Eames feels his balls clenching tight, his thrust becomes more erratic, and he speeds up too, wanting to see, to feel Arthur breaks free.
Arthur comes first-his whole body trembling and shaking. He bites his lip to hold back the scream, and then his one hand grips at Eames’ hair tightly, tugging him down, and he shouts into his mouth. After a couple more jerks, Eames follows, coming with a loud groan, spilling himself into both of their hands. He continued to tug and pull until the orgasm fades, then he falls on top of Arthur.
There’s only the sound of their heavy breathing. Eames buries his face into Arthur’s neck, not caring the sticky mess on their stomachs. Then Arthur pushes him off, and he falls down to the floor. He looks up to see Arthur turns on his side, one hand supporting his head and the other, the injured one that’s still covered with their come, is draped over his stomach. His exposed skin is glistening with sweat and he’s just the most beautiful thing Eames has ever laid his eyes on.
And Eames thinks dropping the shotgun is the right thing to do after all.
--
Arthur bites his lip, trying hard to not let the smile from blooming completely on his face. But he seems to be failing because he can feel his face stretches painfully and he knows he must’ve looked like a teenager who’s just gotten off for the first time with the stupid dimples appearing. He can’t help it though. Especially with Eames grinning stupidly like that.
“What was that?” he asks, looking up to the ceiling. He feels a little bit dazed and still coming down from the post-coital high.
“You mean out of ten?” Eames replies cheekily, taking his hand and weaves their fingers together.
Arthur looks down, their eyes meet, and this time, he lets the smile blooms completely.
“Eight,” they both says.
The next thing that happens is Eames tugs him down, and they start to kiss again, slower this time. It’s like they’re savouring their time, to enjoy every kiss, every touch, and getting re-acquainted with each other’s body again. Arthur hisses when his over-sensitised cock makes contact with Eames’. His trousers and boxer are hung low in the middle of his thighs and the friction of the material with his skin is burning him up as they rut against each other again.
“Pants,” he grunts into Eames’ mouth, “off. Pants off now.”
Instead of his pants, Eames goes for Arthur’s shirt instead. He slips it off Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur arches his back when Eames pinches his nipple, his teeth latching on his shoulder, biting and then soothing the bite mark with his tongue. Arthur’s whole body still feels too sensitive for any stimulation but he doesn’t care. It will take some time before they’re ready for round two, it doesn’t mean Arthur will let the refractory period passes without doing anything.
He wriggles out of his shirt and throws it over his back, not caring where it lands. He straddles Eames’ thighs and grabs his shirt to pull him up. Crushing his lips into Eames’ red-swollen one, Arthur plunders his mouth with his tongue again. He traces the ridges of the roof of Eames’ mouth as Eames’ hand starts to tug at his hair again. Eames’ other hand is tracing circles on Arthur’s back and Arthur can feel the shivers spreading from his back to his limbs and gathering into a coiling heat in his stomach.
Suddenly Arthur feels over-balanced and almost topples back if only he didn’t already have his arms wrapped around Eames’ neck. Eames straightens both of them up, and Arthur doesn’t know how he manages to stand on both his feet when they still feel like jelly.
“Upsy daisy,” Eames says, in between planting soft kisses to Arthur’s face. “Bedroom. Now.”
Arthur groans at the thought of having to extricate himself from Eames just to get upstairs, but then Eames drags down his own pants and boxers, steps out of his loafers and peels his socks off, and then there he is, fully naked for Arthur to see. Now, it’s not that Arthur has never seen Eames naked, they’re married for fuck’s sake. It’s just that… it’s just that it has been so fucking long since he could look at Eames’ bare body all the while feeling this intense heat that seems to fill every inch of his body.
“Enjoying the view, darling?” Eames says.
“Can’t we just stay here?” Arthur asks, and he definitely doesn’t whine. “There’s the couch.” Arthur knows he sounds stupid. No one can blame him. His brain is still trying to catch up with what’s happening. He’s allowed to say nonsensical thing, and Arthur thinks there’s nothing nonsensical about wanting to shag on the couch where it’s just there instead of making the trip upstairs to the bedroom.
Eames smiles at him adoringly. Before, Arthur would give Eames a scowl for his trouble. Now, Arthur tries hard not to swoon. They’ve just made up for less than half an hour and Arthur already feels like a fucking lovesick teenager again.
“I’d rather fuck you on our bed,” Eames purrs, “and see if it’s still sturdy enough.”
Arthur smashes their lips together again in reply.
They make their way to the staircase through the foyer, touching and kissing. Arthur kicks his shoes off-they land on the mess of broken crystals on the wooden floor-and all but jumps up to Eames’ arms after he divests him all of his clothing, leaving a trail of expensive tailored pants on the lower stairs, a pair of socks and boxers on the landing.
By the time they reach the door to their room, Arthur’s already half-hard and he can feel Eames’ cock poking under his thigh. Eames lets him down and runs his hands down Arthur’s chest to his torso, one hand pinching his nipples and the other travels down to grab at his cock. Arthur throws his head back and moans loudly. He almost slips down to the floor, he thinks his feet will not be able to support his body again if Eames keeps on doing what he’s doing to Arthur’s cock. But Arthur doesn’t want him to stop.
Arthur reaches back to open the door, his other hand combing through Eames’ hair as Eames licks and sucks at his throat. They tumble inside, and Arthur almost lets out a whine when Eames lets his cock go, pushing him to the direction of the bed. Arthur breathes a sigh of content when his back makes contact with the soft cotton sheets. He feels the bed dips and then Eames is hovering above him, kneeling between his legs.
Pulling his legs up to accommodate Eames, Arthur starts to trace Eames’ face with his hand. Touching and feeling every contour of Eames’ face. He traces those lips, red and plump and bruised heavily from their intense kiss, and when those sinuous lips stretched into a wide smile, Arthur feels his own mimics it too.
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames sighs, and he leans over, nuzzling Arthur’s temple. Arthur tilts his head to the side as Eames plants light kisses from his temple, to his jaw, down to his neck and up to the back of his ear where Arthur’s more sensitive. “I love you so, so, so much.”
As much as he wants to savour the raw emotional-and honest-moment, Arthur thinks it’s about time they start again. So he flips them over, pushes Eames to his back, and straddles his hip. He kisses his way down from Eames’ neck, to his chest, and then stops to latch his teeth on Eames’ nipple. Eames moans loudly and bucks his hips up, his cock slides with Arthur’s and it’s too difficult to not start rutting himself down.
“Oh God, Arthur… Arthur… I want to fuck you so hard,” Eames groans incoherently.
Once he’s satisfied with Eames’ nipples, Arthur trails wet open mouthed kiss along Eames’ stomach, moving down, down, and he crawls back, settling himself between Eames legs. Just when his mouth is just a few inches to Eames’ strained cock, Arthur stops and looks up. Eames looks utterly wrecked, he’s panting hard, there’s pink blush spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down to his neck, and he looks like he’s about to shoot someone when he realises Arthur’s mouth is still not doing what he wants it to do.
Arthur breathes hot air into the head of Eames’ cock.
“Jesus, Arthur, please,” Eames gasps, throwing his head back and Arthur has to grip at his hips hard to stop him from thrusting up.
Without warning, Arthur complies. He ducks his head down and licks the head of Eames’ cock. Eames lets out what Arthur most definitely thinks as a whine. Arthur slides his lips around Eames’ cock, swallowing around him. Then Arthur feels Eames’ hands grabbing a handful of his hair and tugging him down as he thrusts his hips up into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur eases his throat to take more of Eames in and he hums, sending vibration into Eames’ cock. Bobbing his head up and down, Arthur keeps on sucking and licking at the beads of pre-come dripping out. He makes it as wet as possible, and before long, Eames’ cock is already slick with his own pre-come and Arthur’s saliva.
After a few moments Arthur lets go of Eames’ cock with an obscene pop. Before Eames can whine at the loss, Arthur’s already licking his way down from the underside of his cock, sucking at his balls for a few moments, and then his tongue trails down to lap at Eames’ puckered hole.
“Oh my fucking God!” Eames shouts quite loudly. He thrashes wildly, and Arthur has to dodge Eames’ flailing legs. He keeps licking at Eames’ asshole, circling the tight heat with a twirl of his tongue and then he plunges in. Arthur goes as deep as he can and enjoying the way Eames pants heavily, muttering a line of curses.
“Stop! Stop!” Eames says suddenly as he tugs at Arthur’s hair. And when Arthur stops thrusting his tongue into his hole and looks up, he flops down with a sigh. “As much as I want to come into your mouth, I want to come in your arse, Arthur,” he says again, sounding a little bit too coherent for Arthur’s taste.
Eames words almost make Arthur comes here and there, against the soft bedsheets. He claws at the sheets, trying to keep control and ease down the heat coiling under his abdomen. Slowly, he crawls up and moves to straddle Eames again. There’s a bottle of lube in one of the dresser’s drawers, but Arthur really, really doesn’t want to move himself off of Eames to go and get it. So he settles for pushing his two fingers into Eames’ mouth.
Luckily, Eames understands immediately and starts sucking his fingers, lapping them with his tongue and covering it with his spit. After Arthur deems it to be wet enough, he pulls his fingers out of Eames’ mouth and then slowly pushes one into himself. He hisses as he stretches himself, pushing another finger in and starts scissoring. Arthur’s thighs shake. He winces, feeling the burn travels up to his spine. He only realises he’s closing his eyes when he hears Eames’ heavy breath.
...only to have them opened again when he realizes one simple yet crucial fact that he should have realised before they come to this stage. They may be married but they also haven’t had sex for God knows how long.
“How about...” he tries to say but finds that he can’t quite voice out his thought.
Eames blinks a couple of times, trying to focus. “How about what, Arthur?”
Arthur pulls out his fingers. “Shouldn’t we...”
“We should fuck now, if that was what you’re trying to say,” Eames says.
“No! I mean, yes of course we should!” Then he sighs, he leans down and looks into Eames’ eyes. “Shouldn’t we... um... use condom?”
Eames frowns for a quick second, then he smiles, taking Arthur’s face with his hands and pulls him down for a soft kiss. “Baby, it’s never been anyone but you,” he murmurs against Arthur’s lips, “...unless you have some explanation on your own?”
“I’m too busy killing people and dealing with you every day. I don’t have time to fuck around, asshole,” Arthur replies.
Eames chuckles lightly. “Then do continue, darling.”
Arthur meets Eames’ eyes as he takes his cock-which is still slick with his spit and pre-come, he lines it up to his hole, and then he sinks down with a sigh. It burns, but it also feels great. Really great that Arthur almost forgets to breath. He stays still for a few moments, waiting for his body to loosen up and letting Eames in all the way. He squeezes his thighs against Eames sides and bites his lower lip when Eames’ breath hitch and he thrusts up.
They rock slowly together at first, Arthur trying to get used to being filled again. Eames runs his hands all over Arthur’s body, spreading his ass cheeks. He shudders when he feels the head of Eames’ cock hits his prostate. Arthur pushes himself down, harder on Eames’ cock, and they both groan when he rolls his hips. He leans down and nips Eames’ lips, feels rough calloused hands holding his hips tight, and they find their rhythm.
Arthur smiles into Eames’ mouth, plants both his hands on the headboard. He pushes himself up, arching his ass so high Eames’ cock almost slips out and then he sinks down again. He whines when Eames’ cock hits his prostate as he pushes up and down.
The next moment, Eames flips them both over. The sound of skin slapping against skin intermingled with the sound of their heavy breathing, filling up the entire room. It’s hot and stuffy and their bodies are covered in sweat. Arthur licks the drops of the salty water that’s trailing down Eames’ cheek as his thrusts become even more frantic.
They’re close and Arthur hisses, moans, and murmurs incoherent words into Eames’ ear. He wraps his arms around Eames’ neck, locks his legs around his waist, and bucking up to meet his thrust. Eames is fucking him so hard Arthur can hear the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, and he has to laugh because of that. Eames almost stops moving when he hears it, but Arthur scratches his nails on to his back and orders him, “Move! I didn’t tell you to sto-”
He stops talking when Eames lifts one of his legs up and changes the angle. Arthur lets out a particularly loud moan when the change of angle causes Eames’ cock to hit his prostate over and over again.
Eames kisses his way into Arthur’s mouth as he comes with a quick snap of his hips and Arthur holds him in place with his legs, bracing him between his thighs.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” Eames grunts, and he wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock and starts pumping as Arthur feels himself filled with Eames’ come. “Come for me, Arthur. Come for me.”
Arthur might have screamed Eames’ name loud when he comes with a quick jerk of Eames’ hand. Arthur doesn’t know, he’s too busy experiencing the best orgasm he’s ever had to even understand what words are coming out of his mouth.
After Eames jerks the last drop of come from Arthur’s cock he falls rather gracelessly against him in a sweaty, bedraggled heap. And he’s heavy. It’s a comfortable weight on Arthur’s body though. A comfortable and welcome weight that he has missed dearly.
Of course, he’s not going to tell Eames that.
--
Eventually, Eames starts to breathe normally again. His whole body feels like its going to melt, or maybe it already has, seeing as he can’t move any limbs. Even opening his eyes seems to be such a tiring thing to do. He’s still lying on top of Arthur and it’s getting a little bit too uncomfortable, their sweat slicked skin plastered together like that, but Eames still wants to feel Arthur’s frantic heartbeat against his own, wants to feel it when their hearts calm down and start beating together in synchrony.
But then Arthur shoves him off with a grunt and he flops onto his side. He takes Arthur’s hand and laces their fingers together.
“Okay…” Eames starts, he turns to look at Arthur. “That was a nine. It would’ve been ten, except…” He makes weird gestures with his hand to his temple-there’s an angry red bruise from when Arthur hit his head with the wine bottle. “I think you broke my brain.”
Arthur chuckles, his dimples appeared in full force, his cheeks are still flushed pink and Eames falls in love all over again.
The light chuckle dies out and their eyes locked. And Arthur, in true fashion of someone who has just been fucked out of his brain, growls, “I’ll give you ‘nine’.”
“God. I thought you just did!” Eames protests. He doesn’t stop Arthur from tackling him for round three.
--
Except… there’s no round three.
They’re both too exhausted to do anything more strenuous than kissing after wasting all their energy during the fight and the two rounds of sex. Now they’re just relaxing on the bed. Arthur is leaning back to the headboard while Eames is draped over his stomach, tracing meaningless pattern on his chest, and plants some dry kisses here and there. Arthur lets him.
The clock on the bedside table says it is half past midnight. It’s serene and really, Arthur can’t remember the last time he experienced such calmness during the night.
Suddenly Eames breaks the moment. “Did you know that after five years average couple makes love only once a week?” he asks.
Arthur thinks he’s heard that before. Once. Courtesy of Miles.
“I think I know,” he answers.
Eames rolls onto his back, resting his head to the mountain of pillows and then drags Arthur by his shoulders so his head is resting on Eames’ chest. “We didn’t do for how long…?”
“Two years,” Arthur says.
“That long?” Eames asks, raising one eyebrow.
“To be specific, around twenty months,” Arthur says softly.
“I think we can catch up. Give or take a couple of years and we’ll be fine.”
Arthur hums in agreement, kisses Eames’ chest once, and then buries his face into the curve of his husband neck to hide his smile. He wants to tell Eames how glad he is that Eames has chosen to drop his gun. He wants to tell Eames that he’s happy. He wants to tell Eames everything about what he’s feeling and thinking at the moment.
But there will be time for that in the morning-and Arthur doesn’t want to sound like a sap-so he lets Eames drawls on and on about inane things, and lets himself taking in the warmth of his husband’s body seeping through his own.
They will be all right. They will be fine. And that’s all he needs to think about.
[to love and to hold] next >>
Part VII: in sickness and in health
[ fic masterpost] || [ art masterpost] || [fanmix]
<< [for richer for poorer] previous
Walking out of the restaurant after settling Arthur’s bill, Eames watches in fascination as the explosion rocks the building. It’s merely a little bomb-not enough to cause major catastrophe but enough to make a point. For this case, the point in question would be ‘my husband was trying to kill me so I give him this explosion as my little revenge to him’.
Sure, that makes him look petty, but all is fair in love and war. And what he has with Arthur can be counted as both.
Leaning against one of the lamp posts, he watches the crowd come pouring out of the restaurant. Searching the faces, he couldn’t find the one he’s looking for. Frowning, he senses the very first beginning of worry seeping into his heart.
It can’t be that Arthur failed to escape the explosion… no, of course it can’t be. And if he is… well, it’s his mission to ‘deal’ with Arthur. He shouldn’t feel worried.
Right. Right, of course. And, obviously, the reason why his feet bring him closer to the explosion scene instead of going away from it is not because he’s worried, but merely to make sure that…
A movement on the corner of his eyes grabs his attention. Turning his head sharply, he meets the gaze of Arthur fleeing the crime scene. He casts away the relief he feels in his heart as something unimportant, and he justifies the fact that he’s smiling because of the thrill of the game ahead that he and Arthur will apparently still be playing.
Chasing after him to the parking lot, Eames only manages to catch sound of tires screeching and Arthur’s car driving away. He is debating whether he should chase after him or not when he suddenly hears some ominous tick-ticking sound. His eyes widens when he realises that the sound is coming from his left suit pocket. Sparing no time for thinking, he quickly sheds his suit jacket and throws it as far way from him as possible.
It explodes even before it reaches the ground.
Eames thanks every holy being that exists for giving him a pair of quick hands that have already saved him twice from being burnt to crisp today. But he does have one thing to complain about.
“Oh, sweet,” he says, staring at the smoking remains of his beloved suit. It was Ozwald Boateng, for heaven’s sake! He knows that Arthur often threatened to burn his ‘hideous shirt’, but this is the first time he carried out his plan.
And that, of course, means war.
Less than ten minutes after that, he’s already behind the steering wheel of some car (stolen, since his car is still under the river, and Yusuf’s the one who drove him to the restaurant for his rendezvous with Arthur) and trying to dial Arthur’s number with another phone Yusuf gave him. He’s not ashamed to admit that he still memorise Arthur’s number.
Arthur answers after the second ring. “Arthur Eames speaking.”
Eames allows a smug grin at how Arthur introduces himself. “And here I thought you didn’t want to use that name again after you tried to kill me for the second time today.”
“Oh, come on,” Arthur’s voice holds a hint of mock repentance. “It’s just a little bomb.”
Eames grits his teeth as he races his car faster in that busy road, narrowly missing a car when he changes lane.
“I want you to know,” he tells Arthur, remembering the sight of his burnt down suit jacket. “That I’m going home and I’m going to burn everything I bought for you.”
“And I’ll burn all of your hideous shirts,” Arthur threatens.
“Not before I reach home first,” Eames tells him firmly.
There’s a chuckle and then Arthur’s voice, saying, “I’ll race you there, baby.”
The sound of dial tone greets him after that, letting him know that Arthur has hung up on him. Eames stares at the phone in his hand and he laughs. He laughs even though he also wants to cry and to get angry and to fuck Arthur to next century.
It’s Arthur, only his Arthur, who can make him feel like this, has been so ever since the first time they met each other on that fateful day five years ago.
He hits redial as he swerves out of the road and drives through some poor guy’s backyard. The shortcut will save him time.
Arthur greets him with, “You there yet?”
Eames chooses not to acknowledge that question and instead asks him, “Tell me, the first time we met, what was your first thought?”
“You tell me.”
“I thought…” he starts. He tries to think of that moment, to remember the multitude of feeling he felt when he first met Arthur, talked with him, got to know him, got to love him. He tries to remember the euphoria he experienced the moment Arthur told him ‘yes’ after he proposed to him. “You looked like the sun rising behind the hill at the back of my parents’ manor. I used to wake up early just to get a glimpse of it. I… don’t know how to say it.”
Arthur is silent for a moment before he asks, softly, “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because at the end you’re starting to think about the beginning,” he says. And isn’t that the truth? They’re already at the end-Eames can’t really allude himself in believing that they could save their marriage anymore. There are too many lies, too many secrets, which have been going on between them. At times like that, he can’t help but remember how it all started and how, despite everything that has happened, he still loves Arthur.
“So, how about it, Arthur?” he asks casually, trying to keep his emotions out of his voice.
“I thought…” Arthur proceeds to speak, stops, and then continues. “I thought you’re the most beautiful mark I’ve ever seen.”
Eames knows he should have expected something like that, but it still leaves a trace of bitterness in him when he hears Arthur say it for real. “So, it’s all business?”
“All business,” Arthur agrees.
“That’s all I need to know,” Eames says before he hangs up the phone.
Yes, he thinks as he crosses back to the main road, that’s all he needs to know.
It takes Eames only seven minutes to reach the suburban complex, when it usually takes fifteen. When he reaches the corner of the road to their home, he sees Arthur’s car from the other end of the road. As he speeds up, Arthur speeds up too. His car is faster though, and just when he’s about to turn into the front lawn, Arthur’s car accelerates and it crashes to his, sending it crashing through the white picket fence. Eames shoots an angry glare to Arthur.
“Not the bloody fence, goddamnit!” he shouts. The picket fence was Eames’ own handiwork and now most of it is broken to pieces.
Arthur even has the gall to give him a smug smirk before he pulls back and continues down their driveway leaving Eames’ car-stolen car-on the roadside. Eames growls and jumps out of the car, mourning over his fence for a quick second. He leaps over the fence and runs through the front lawn up to the front porch. He doesn’t bother with the front door and instead, proceeds to spy on the front windows, to check if Arthur has gotten inside.
He almost falls over when his feet stumbles one of the big rocks lining around the post of gloxinia. And then, in a sheer moment of childish rage Eames deliberately steps on Arthur’s gloxinia, destroying the already wilting flowers, sending it to its demise. After stomping on more than half of the flowers, Eames continues his pursue for Arthur.
Eames gives a little satisfied nod at the pitiful state of the flowers, wincing a little bit as he remembers what gloxinia means in floral language. But it doesn’t matter what the flower means, because it’s not like it has anything to do with the sad state of his and Arthur’s marriage. He convinces himself, as he tip toes to the side of the house, that this marriage has already met its end. There’s no use hanging by the single weak thread of hope.
With a renewed determination, Eames runs along the driveway path that leads to the garage-Arthur’s car parked haphazardly in front of the closed garage door-ducking under every window while still trying to make out any movements from inside the house. He can’t see anything through the curtains and it’s not exactly bright inside the house as some of the lights are off. He curses and quickly hides behind Arthur’s car when he hears a small click from the back door. He peers up and sees the door opening slightly.
There’s Arthur without his suit jacket, looking fierce and dangerous. He’s armed with a couple of firearms strapped around his body. He’s holding two suppressed Glocks in his hands, while scouting the backyard. He doesn’t seem to notice Eames hiding behind his car. After a few moments, Arthur goes inside, locking the door behind him.
Eames releases his breath, not realising he’s been holding it as he saw Arthur just now. He has to admit, looking at Arthur armed to the teeth like that gives him mixed feelings. Arthur looking like he could kill twenty people in less fifteen seconds without breaking a sweat-he probably can-with all the firearms he has somehow doesn’t make him cower in fear. The more rational part of his brain is seething because he doesn’t have anything to counter Arthur’s fully-armed state. The more irrational part of his brain, that seems to be connected straight to his nether region, eggs him to jump Arthur here and now, even at the risk of having his brain blown up to bits.
He shakes his head and stomps on the irrelevant train of thought. He crawls down and heads for the garage. The door, fortunately, is unlocked. He gets in and rummages through the mess under the working table. There’s a medium sized metal box under the piles of ropes and cables. He grabs it and pops the false bottom of box and some metal pieces fall out onto the table. He quickly assembles the pieces into a revolver-a Colt XSE-and loads an eight rounds magazine. He smashes a flashlight that’s hanging on the wall open. A suppressor rolls out of it and he threads it on the Colt.
Taking some careful steps out of the garage, Eames heads for the furthest window from the back door. He breaks a section of the window with his elbow, and waits for any sound from inside. When he hears nothing, he slips his hand in and flicks the lock open. He hops over the ledge, carefully avoids the shattered glass and gets in. He’s in the small room beside the kitchen that functions as the laundry room. Tucking the Colt under his arm, he rolls up his sleeves and tip toes out of the room. He reaches the kitchen and stares longingly at the oven. There are many weapons there, yet he can’t risk alarming Arthur where his position is because the oven is so bloody noisy with the beeps.
He holds the Colt steady, searching for any movements as he treads carefully, back to the wall, and looks at the dining room across the kitchen. Still no sign of Arthur. As he ducks behind the wall, he notices that the front door is locked firmly. The stairs is right in front of the foyer, he has a blind side, and he will not have any way of knowing if Arthur was there, waiting to ambush him.
Eames’ eyes fall on some of the framed pictures hanging on the wall. He grits his teeth, grabs one-a picture of him and Arthur kissing Phillipa’s cheeks on her second birthday-and holding it over the wall, using it as a mirror to check the stairs. He squints at the blurred reflection on the glass and tries to not focus on the picture. There’s a swift movement and cursing his damn luck, Eames drops the picture frame and ducks.
--
Arthur smirks, cocks up his shotgun and starts shooting the wall. He shoots twice and then stops, shotgun still pointed to the big hole created just now on the wall. He can see the barest hint of Eames’ dirty blond hair.
“You still alive, baby?” Arthur is never the one for terms of endearment. It has always been Eames with his ‘darling’, or ‘love’, or ‘babe’. Back in the days, Arthur had thought it endearing, and sometimes… once in a blue moon, he’d use it too (somewhere along the line of ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’). These days, these few hours to be exact, Arthur thinks about the terms as some kind of insult, and has used it at least four times (he keeps count). He just wants to mock Eames and show him he doesn’t have any qualms over disposing Eames from the face of the earth, and also not affected by their separation.
There’s no response from where he shot the wall. Arthur is sure the bullets didn’t hit Eames though, so he steps down the stairs slowly, the shotgun still aimed at the wall. The shotgun is not his only weapon of course. There are two suppressed Glocks tucked safely behind his back and there’s also one sub-machine gun strapped over his shoulder. He can switch to any weapon at any time.
Suddenly there’s a movement behind the wall. Not caring whatever the source of the sound, Arthur starts firing his shotgun again, and the hole on the wall gets bigger. He unslings the shotgun over his shoulder and switch to the H&K sub-machine gun as he strides over to the kitchen. He starts firing when he sees Eames ducking behind the kitchen island. The bullets hitting the wooden surface of the kitchen island and some of the glasses on it shatter. Eames appears to fire twice at Arthur’s direction but the bullets only hit the picture frames on the wall.
When Arthur fires again, Eames whips open the refrigerator door and it deflects the bullets-Arthur curses the subzero steel door. Arthur pushes past the door and Eames runs around the kitchen island towards the laundry room while still firing his gun over his shoulder.
“Your aim is as bad as your fashion sense, William!” Arthur shouts as he ducks down to avoid Eames’ bullet. “And that’s saying something!”
Three seconds after the last bullet hits the window over the sink, Arthur stands up and starts his search for Eames again. The laundry room is empty, and there’s no sign of Eames in the small hallway under the stairs. Arthur switches to shotgun again, reloads the bullets and carefully steps out of the room through the other exit that’s leading to the hallway to Eames’ study and the sitting room on the front.
The door to Eames’ study is still locked so Arthur doesn’t bother to check it. With his back to the door, he steadies his gun and carefully points it to the hallway leading to the side door and the sitting room’s other entry. Just when the muzzle passes the wall, there’s a swift gunshot and Arthur loses his hold on the shotgun. The shotgun clatters to the foyer. Eames fires another two bullets, and they hit the wall in front of Arthur.
Arthur hears Eames curses under his breath and the sound of a heavy thing drops to the carpeted floor. He must have run out of ammo, Arthur thinks. Arthur doesn’t waste any time to unslings the submachine gun from over his shoulder, takes a deep breath and then runs straight pass the hallway while firing the submachine gun, making holes in the cabinets along the hallway and destroying some of the frames hanging on the wall. He sees Eames ducks into the sitting room through the other entry. He takes cover behind the sitting room wall, he waits for any movement from his left, nothing-only the sound of frames still falling off the wall, and then he turns to the right, gun at the ready.
He aims the gun to the sitting room and pulls the trigger. And then a golf club swings out, Eames holding it, and it hits the gun out of Arthur’s hands. Arthur feels the pain travelling from his wrist to his elbow, but quick to recover and reach back for his Glock. Eames is quicker, as he sends a kick to Arthur’s side. Arthur falls on his stomach and he feels one of the guns removed from his back. He quickly rolls onto his back, reaching for the other Glock, and aims it to Eames who’s standing over him near the base of the staircase. Eames, even though he has the upper hand on having the gun first, is not aiming it to Arthur.
“Look up, darling,” he says, pointing the gun up onto the ceiling.
Arthur looks up, sees the crystal chandelier hanging on the ceiling, and then his eyes flick to the gun pointed at it. The crystal chandelier was a housewarming gift from Mal.
“Oh no, you won’t,” he hisses, flicking the safety off.
“Too bad. I am,” Eames says shortly, he even dares to smile smugly before he fires all the bullets at the chandelier.
Arthur rolls over towards the dining room to avoid the falling chandelier-and his back hits the chair. The crystals break into pieces as it hit the wooden floor. “Fuck,” Arthur curses under his breath, leaping up to his feet and holding himself steady on the back of one of the chairs surrounding the dining table. He gives Eames a seething glare. “That’s from Mal, asshole!”
“So?”
Arthur’s eyes narrow, then they flick over Eames’ shoulder to the trinkets displayed on top of the cabinet separating the foyer from the sitting room. He focuses on the carriage clock. Eames looks back over his shoulder and seems to have noticed what has caught Arthur’s attention. Arthur looks at Eames again, and he gives him an actual wide smile.
“No, no, no. Arthur, that one has been in my family for generations!”
“I know,” Arthur says, he points his gun to it. “It also came from your father.” He fires four times, blowing the clock to smithereens. Cogs and springs, and pieces of glass rain down.
Arthur gives Eames a challenging smirk, daring him to do something. He knows there’s no more bullets left on the gun Eames has, and he himself only has five more bullets. Arthur knows he should’ve used a ten rounds magazine instead of eight. Suddenly Eames moves his hand to grip the suppressor and he actually throws the gun to Arthur’s direction. The gun doesn’t hit him, it passes over his head, and Arthur-in a swift moment of foolishness-turns over to see where it hits. It hits the small sized crystal chandelier hanging above the dining table, and Eames sends a sharp kick to Arthur’s stomach while his attention is elsewhere.
Arthur is thrown back onto the dining table, the gun slips out of his hand. He doubles up, clutching his stomach. Eames doesn’t give Arthur any spare time to recover because he’s already grabbing Arthur’s waistcoat, heaves him up and throws him over to the front window. The glass shatters from the impact and Arthur falls over to the floor, taking the white curtain with him.
“Come on, darling,” Eames says, looming over Arthur, “Come to Daddy.”
Arthur heaves himself up. He’s breathing hard and his palms are slightly bleeding from being scratched by the pieces of broken glass, yet he can’t really feel any pain there since mostly the pain is mostly centred on his stomach and his back. He notices the wine bottle under the table and then he looks at the white curtain on his hands. He takes the wine bottle and grips the curtain. Then he stands up on his feet, spins, smash the wine bottle to Eames’ head-the bottle, unfortunately, doesn’t break, but it sure hurts like hell-slips the curtain over Eames’ neck, knees his stomach and as he doubles up, Arthur headbutts him, kicking him again for a good measure, sending Eames crashing into the tall cabinet by the wall.
Arthur looks down at Eames who’s groaning and clutching his head. He smirks.
“Who’s your daddy now?”
--
The hit to his head is what mostly makes Eames takes a bit more time to stand up. He leaps on his feet, chases Arthur who’s running towards the broken chandelier, no doubt wanting to take the shotgun that’s still lying somewhere under it. Eames quickly lunges down to the floor, not caring for the broken pieces of crystals, as he sees Arthur reaching down for the shotgun. He swipes his leg around, catching Arthur and making him loses his balance. Eames grabs the shotgun at the same time Arthur rolls on his back towards the cabinet, slips his hand under and pulls out a Beretta.
They both leap up to their feet and spin to face each other. Eames with the shotgun pointed at Arthur. Arthur with the Beretta pointed at Eames. The muzzles of their firearms pressed to each other. Arthur flicks the safety off and Eames tightens his finger on the trigger in reflex. They’re both breathing hard and Eames feels his head spins, his vision starting to get hazy.
Dust waft around them, broken crystals scattered under their shoes, and it’s almost completely dark with the only light coming from the wall lamp hanging on the circular staircase wall and the desk lamps in the sitting room. They’re standing right in the middle of the foyer, and somehow, Eames feels it’s just too fucking melodramatic, them settling their scores in the centre of their home, in the centre of their universe.
He stomps on that thought and looks at Arthur’s eyes sharply, just for something to focus on. And what he sees there makes him rethink about the whole thing.
The wild flare in Arthur’s eyes is accompanied by some more raw emotions. Suspicion, anger, and confusion. There’s also hesitation in Arthur’s eyes and Eames doesn’t want to think that Arthur is hesitating to pull the trigger on him, because he shouldn’t be. He understands completely that there’s no such thing as hesitation in their line of work, and Eames thinks Arthur must have known about it too.
If you hesitate, you die. Except, neither of them is dead yet. Because they’re both hesitating.
Eames loosens his grip on the pump, he takes a deep breath and fights the urge to close his eyes to think. He remembers how desperate Arthur had been when they kissed in the restaurant, how painful it was for Eames to stop the kiss because he had wanted more. He didn’t want to stop kissing Arthur then, and Eames doesn’t even want to imagine not being able to kiss Arthur ever again if he-if they both pull the triggers.
Suddenly there’s a crack from Eames’ right. Arthur’s eyes flick to the direction of the sound, and so Eames does as well. The picture frames on the wall that leads to laundry room are falling off. There are some huge holes from when Arthur had shot at it using his shotgun earlier. Eames feels like he wants to laugh over the broken pieces of the frames. Their life together is staring back at them, as if accusing him, accusing both of them for ruining the whole lifetime they’ve shared, and Eames knows, he knows he can never ever pull the trigger.
His gaze turns back to Arthur again, their eyes locked. There’s still a hesitation in Arthur’s eyes, so Eames does what’s possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done as an assassin, but it’s also the only thing he could think to do for Arthur; he lowers the barrel, he lets his grip on the pump go, and finally he drops the shotgun to the floor. It falls with a loud clatter.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, his voice is cracking slightly, and he winces.
“I can’t do it,” Eames answers, giving Arthur a rueful smile. “You want it? Take it.”
Arthur’s expression changes drastically. His jaw tightens, he blinks fast, his eyebrows knits in pure confusion, and Eames just wants to hold that face and kiss the confusion away.
“Don’t do this,” Arthur says, steadying his grip on the Beretta with both hands. “Pick it up.”
Eames shakes his head, takes one step closer. “You win, Arthur.” Another step. “Shoot me and be done with it.” He’s standing right in front of Arthur’s Beretta, the muzzle pointed directly to his face, but he stays unfazed.
“Pick it up, goddamnit!” Arthur’s raising his voice now. But it’s still cracked and Eames knows Arthur can’t pull the trigger too.
And when Arthur’s resolve crumble, as the gun lowers an inch, Eames lunges, slapping the gun away. Arthur meets him in the middle, grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer. Eames cups Arthur’s jaw and when their lips collide he sighs, feeling relieved beyond words because this is what he wants, what he hopes, what he will do everything for to have forever. And the best part is Arthur wants it too.
The kiss is not like the one in the restaurant at all. While it was the very first time they kissed quite passionately after such a long time, it still can’t compare with this one. All the tension, the thrill, the fear, everything is poured into the kiss.
They kiss frantically, their teeth collide with a loud clink, and their tongues are lapping at each other in their mouths, their hands trying to touch everything they can reach and Eames thinks, he think that he has forgotten how it would feel to have Arthur’s body pressed fully against him. He has forgotten how Arthur’s taste is. He has forgotten how he could never have enough of Arthur all around him, wrapping him up, and filling him. But now he has the chance to remember it again, and he will never let the chance go.
They tumble into the sitting room, Eames pushes Arthur up to the cabinet after he sweeps the mess of the carriage clock pieces down. Arthur’s hands are roaming all over his back, tugging his shirt up and when they slip under his shirt, touching and scratching his back, Eames groans into Arthur’s mouth but they keep kissing. Eames’ fingers are digging into Arthur’s hair, messing the slicked back hair, tugging his head back and moves to his jaw, leaving a line of kisses down to his throat and then moves up to nip at Arthur’s earlobe.
“I’ve missed you so, so, so much,” Eames murmurs to Arthur’s ear. He lets go of Arthur’s hair and starts unbuttoning his waistcoat. Arthur has moved to loosen Eames’ tie. He’s wrapping his legs around Eames’ waist, dragging him closer, rubbing their crotch together. It doesn’t take too long for Eames’ cock to get hard, and he can feel Arthur’s cock swell in response.
Arthur pulls Eames away from his throat and starts attacking his mouth again, plunging his tongue into his mouth, and Eames is all happy to suck it in, savouring it. And then Arthur push himself up from the cabinet, tightening his legs around Eames’ waist, and wrapping his arms around his neck to hold himself up. Eames stops his activity to remove the offending waistcoat from Arthur’s body, and moves to hold Arthur up, his hands cupping Arthur’s arse.
Eames staggers backwards, his back hitting the wall and picture frames falling off from the collision. Arthur breaks the kiss and giggles-he actually giggles!-into Eames’ neck. Eames can’t help his own grin to bloom on his face and he lets out a loud groan when Arthur moves up and down, grinding their hard-on against each other. There’re too many layers of clothes separating them, and Eames just wants to rip them all off, not caring he’s wearing some expensive suit, not caring how Arthur’s going to bitch over it.
So he does. He reluctantly removes his hands from Arthur’s arse-Arthur can hold himself up-and slips them in between their pressed bodies. Arthur perks up from his neck when Eames forcefully tugs the waistcoat off, buttons flying everywhere. For one moment, everything stops moving. Eames stares at Arthur. Arthur stares back. And Eames can’t help but keep looking down to Arthur’s red swollen lips. He looks back up again, and he grins when Arthur scowls.
“You’re lucky I love you too much,” Arthur says.
Eames laughs and laughs and they kiss again, and again and again, until they’re out of breath. But they don’t stop. Even as they both try to divest more clothes off, even as they break more picture frames-Arthur slams Eames to the wall over and over again, even as Eames’ hand slips under Arthur’s waistband and palming his erection making Arthur moans loudly, their lips never separate for more than two seconds.
They fall onto the sofa, limbs tangled, shirts hanging off their shoulders and panting into each other’s mouth. Eames settles himself on top of Arthur, then he nips the junction of Arthur’s neck and shoulder, marking him. Arthur’s fingers swiftly tug the button on Eames’ trousers loose, he unzips it, pushes his boxer down and finally, freeing Eames’ cock from its confinement.
Eames sighs into Arthur’s mouth, both his hands are shaking as he tries to hold himself up, and it’s a difficult feat to do. So difficult because Arthur is jerking his cock mercilessly, sending shivers all over his body and he’s longing for this sensation for such a long time. He settles one hand on Arthur’s hip, slips back, palming his arse again, and pushes himself down to get more friction. Arthur doesn’t disappoint. He thumbs at the slit, smearing pre-come over Eames’ cock.
A litany of curses comes out of Arthur’s mouth when Eames tugs his cock free, his hand tangled with Arthur’s and they’re jerking their cocks together. He nuzzles and laves and bites Arthur’s throat, tasting the sweat, breathing in the smell he’s missed so much.
The ‘oh’s and ‘God’s and ‘yeah’s are filling up the silence around the sitting room. Eames keeps thrusting, their hands are slick from the pre-come dripping from their cocks, and he feels the heat coiling under his abdomen builds up. Arthur moans, and grunts impatiently, jerking his hand faster. Eames feels his balls clenching tight, his thrust becomes more erratic, and he speeds up too, wanting to see, to feel Arthur breaks free.
Arthur comes first-his whole body trembling and shaking. He bites his lip to hold back the scream, and then his one hand grips at Eames’ hair tightly, tugging him down, and he shouts into his mouth. After a couple more jerks, Eames follows, coming with a loud groan, spilling himself into both of their hands. He continued to tug and pull until the orgasm fades, then he falls on top of Arthur.
There’s only the sound of their heavy breathing. Eames buries his face into Arthur’s neck, not caring the sticky mess on their stomachs. Then Arthur pushes him off, and he falls down to the floor. He looks up to see Arthur turns on his side, one hand supporting his head and the other, the injured one that’s still covered with their come, is draped over his stomach. His exposed skin is glistening with sweat and he’s just the most beautiful thing Eames has ever laid his eyes on.
And Eames thinks dropping the shotgun is the right thing to do after all.
--
Arthur bites his lip, trying hard to not let the smile from blooming completely on his face. But he seems to be failing because he can feel his face stretches painfully and he knows he must’ve looked like a teenager who’s just gotten off for the first time with the stupid dimples appearing. He can’t help it though. Especially with Eames grinning stupidly like that.
“What was that?” he asks, looking up to the ceiling. He feels a little bit dazed and still coming down from the post-coital high.
“You mean out of ten?” Eames replies cheekily, taking his hand and weaves their fingers together.
Arthur looks down, their eyes meet, and this time, he lets the smile blooms completely.
“Eight,” they both says.
The next thing that happens is Eames tugs him down, and they start to kiss again, slower this time. It’s like they’re savouring their time, to enjoy every kiss, every touch, and getting re-acquainted with each other’s body again. Arthur hisses when his over-sensitised cock makes contact with Eames’. His trousers and boxer are hung low in the middle of his thighs and the friction of the material with his skin is burning him up as they rut against each other again.
“Pants,” he grunts into Eames’ mouth, “off. Pants off now.”
Instead of his pants, Eames goes for Arthur’s shirt instead. He slips it off Arthur’s shoulder and Arthur arches his back when Eames pinches his nipple, his teeth latching on his shoulder, biting and then soothing the bite mark with his tongue. Arthur’s whole body still feels too sensitive for any stimulation but he doesn’t care. It will take some time before they’re ready for round two, it doesn’t mean Arthur will let the refractory period passes without doing anything.
He wriggles out of his shirt and throws it over his back, not caring where it lands. He straddles Eames’ thighs and grabs his shirt to pull him up. Crushing his lips into Eames’ red-swollen one, Arthur plunders his mouth with his tongue again. He traces the ridges of the roof of Eames’ mouth as Eames’ hand starts to tug at his hair again. Eames’ other hand is tracing circles on Arthur’s back and Arthur can feel the shivers spreading from his back to his limbs and gathering into a coiling heat in his stomach.
Suddenly Arthur feels over-balanced and almost topples back if only he didn’t already have his arms wrapped around Eames’ neck. Eames straightens both of them up, and Arthur doesn’t know how he manages to stand on both his feet when they still feel like jelly.
“Upsy daisy,” Eames says, in between planting soft kisses to Arthur’s face. “Bedroom. Now.”
Arthur groans at the thought of having to extricate himself from Eames just to get upstairs, but then Eames drags down his own pants and boxers, steps out of his loafers and peels his socks off, and then there he is, fully naked for Arthur to see. Now, it’s not that Arthur has never seen Eames naked, they’re married for fuck’s sake. It’s just that… it’s just that it has been so fucking long since he could look at Eames’ bare body all the while feeling this intense heat that seems to fill every inch of his body.
“Enjoying the view, darling?” Eames says.
“Can’t we just stay here?” Arthur asks, and he definitely doesn’t whine. “There’s the couch.” Arthur knows he sounds stupid. No one can blame him. His brain is still trying to catch up with what’s happening. He’s allowed to say nonsensical thing, and Arthur thinks there’s nothing nonsensical about wanting to shag on the couch where it’s just there instead of making the trip upstairs to the bedroom.
Eames smiles at him adoringly. Before, Arthur would give Eames a scowl for his trouble. Now, Arthur tries hard not to swoon. They’ve just made up for less than half an hour and Arthur already feels like a fucking lovesick teenager again.
“I’d rather fuck you on our bed,” Eames purrs, “and see if it’s still sturdy enough.”
Arthur smashes their lips together again in reply.
They make their way to the staircase through the foyer, touching and kissing. Arthur kicks his shoes off-they land on the mess of broken crystals on the wooden floor-and all but jumps up to Eames’ arms after he divests him all of his clothing, leaving a trail of expensive tailored pants on the lower stairs, a pair of socks and boxers on the landing.
By the time they reach the door to their room, Arthur’s already half-hard and he can feel Eames’ cock poking under his thigh. Eames lets him down and runs his hands down Arthur’s chest to his torso, one hand pinching his nipples and the other travels down to grab at his cock. Arthur throws his head back and moans loudly. He almost slips down to the floor, he thinks his feet will not be able to support his body again if Eames keeps on doing what he’s doing to Arthur’s cock. But Arthur doesn’t want him to stop.
Arthur reaches back to open the door, his other hand combing through Eames’ hair as Eames licks and sucks at his throat. They tumble inside, and Arthur almost lets out a whine when Eames lets his cock go, pushing him to the direction of the bed. Arthur breathes a sigh of content when his back makes contact with the soft cotton sheets. He feels the bed dips and then Eames is hovering above him, kneeling between his legs.
Pulling his legs up to accommodate Eames, Arthur starts to trace Eames’ face with his hand. Touching and feeling every contour of Eames’ face. He traces those lips, red and plump and bruised heavily from their intense kiss, and when those sinuous lips stretched into a wide smile, Arthur feels his own mimics it too.
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames sighs, and he leans over, nuzzling Arthur’s temple. Arthur tilts his head to the side as Eames plants light kisses from his temple, to his jaw, down to his neck and up to the back of his ear where Arthur’s more sensitive. “I love you so, so, so much.”
As much as he wants to savour the raw emotional-and honest-moment, Arthur thinks it’s about time they start again. So he flips them over, pushes Eames to his back, and straddles his hip. He kisses his way down from Eames’ neck, to his chest, and then stops to latch his teeth on Eames’ nipple. Eames moans loudly and bucks his hips up, his cock slides with Arthur’s and it’s too difficult to not start rutting himself down.
“Oh God, Arthur… Arthur… I want to fuck you so hard,” Eames groans incoherently.
Once he’s satisfied with Eames’ nipples, Arthur trails wet open mouthed kiss along Eames’ stomach, moving down, down, and he crawls back, settling himself between Eames legs. Just when his mouth is just a few inches to Eames’ strained cock, Arthur stops and looks up. Eames looks utterly wrecked, he’s panting hard, there’s pink blush spreading from his cheeks to his ears and down to his neck, and he looks like he’s about to shoot someone when he realises Arthur’s mouth is still not doing what he wants it to do.
Arthur breathes hot air into the head of Eames’ cock.
“Jesus, Arthur, please,” Eames gasps, throwing his head back and Arthur has to grip at his hips hard to stop him from thrusting up.
Without warning, Arthur complies. He ducks his head down and licks the head of Eames’ cock. Eames lets out what Arthur most definitely thinks as a whine. Arthur slides his lips around Eames’ cock, swallowing around him. Then Arthur feels Eames’ hands grabbing a handful of his hair and tugging him down as he thrusts his hips up into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur eases his throat to take more of Eames in and he hums, sending vibration into Eames’ cock. Bobbing his head up and down, Arthur keeps on sucking and licking at the beads of pre-come dripping out. He makes it as wet as possible, and before long, Eames’ cock is already slick with his own pre-come and Arthur’s saliva.
After a few moments Arthur lets go of Eames’ cock with an obscene pop. Before Eames can whine at the loss, Arthur’s already licking his way down from the underside of his cock, sucking at his balls for a few moments, and then his tongue trails down to lap at Eames’ puckered hole.
“Oh my fucking God!” Eames shouts quite loudly. He thrashes wildly, and Arthur has to dodge Eames’ flailing legs. He keeps licking at Eames’ asshole, circling the tight heat with a twirl of his tongue and then he plunges in. Arthur goes as deep as he can and enjoying the way Eames pants heavily, muttering a line of curses.
“Stop! Stop!” Eames says suddenly as he tugs at Arthur’s hair. And when Arthur stops thrusting his tongue into his hole and looks up, he flops down with a sigh. “As much as I want to come into your mouth, I want to come in your arse, Arthur,” he says again, sounding a little bit too coherent for Arthur’s taste.
Eames words almost make Arthur comes here and there, against the soft bedsheets. He claws at the sheets, trying to keep control and ease down the heat coiling under his abdomen. Slowly, he crawls up and moves to straddle Eames again. There’s a bottle of lube in one of the dresser’s drawers, but Arthur really, really doesn’t want to move himself off of Eames to go and get it. So he settles for pushing his two fingers into Eames’ mouth.
Luckily, Eames understands immediately and starts sucking his fingers, lapping them with his tongue and covering it with his spit. After Arthur deems it to be wet enough, he pulls his fingers out of Eames’ mouth and then slowly pushes one into himself. He hisses as he stretches himself, pushing another finger in and starts scissoring. Arthur’s thighs shake. He winces, feeling the burn travels up to his spine. He only realises he’s closing his eyes when he hears Eames’ heavy breath.
...only to have them opened again when he realizes one simple yet crucial fact that he should have realised before they come to this stage. They may be married but they also haven’t had sex for God knows how long.
“How about...” he tries to say but finds that he can’t quite voice out his thought.
Eames blinks a couple of times, trying to focus. “How about what, Arthur?”
Arthur pulls out his fingers. “Shouldn’t we...”
“We should fuck now, if that was what you’re trying to say,” Eames says.
“No! I mean, yes of course we should!” Then he sighs, he leans down and looks into Eames’ eyes. “Shouldn’t we... um... use condom?”
Eames frowns for a quick second, then he smiles, taking Arthur’s face with his hands and pulls him down for a soft kiss. “Baby, it’s never been anyone but you,” he murmurs against Arthur’s lips, “...unless you have some explanation on your own?”
“I’m too busy killing people and dealing with you every day. I don’t have time to fuck around, asshole,” Arthur replies.
Eames chuckles lightly. “Then do continue, darling.”
Arthur meets Eames’ eyes as he takes his cock-which is still slick with his spit and pre-come, he lines it up to his hole, and then he sinks down with a sigh. It burns, but it also feels great. Really great that Arthur almost forgets to breath. He stays still for a few moments, waiting for his body to loosen up and letting Eames in all the way. He squeezes his thighs against Eames sides and bites his lower lip when Eames’ breath hitch and he thrusts up.
They rock slowly together at first, Arthur trying to get used to being filled again. Eames runs his hands all over Arthur’s body, spreading his ass cheeks. He shudders when he feels the head of Eames’ cock hits his prostate. Arthur pushes himself down, harder on Eames’ cock, and they both groan when he rolls his hips. He leans down and nips Eames’ lips, feels rough calloused hands holding his hips tight, and they find their rhythm.
Arthur smiles into Eames’ mouth, plants both his hands on the headboard. He pushes himself up, arching his ass so high Eames’ cock almost slips out and then he sinks down again. He whines when Eames’ cock hits his prostate as he pushes up and down.
The next moment, Eames flips them both over. The sound of skin slapping against skin intermingled with the sound of their heavy breathing, filling up the entire room. It’s hot and stuffy and their bodies are covered in sweat. Arthur licks the drops of the salty water that’s trailing down Eames’ cheek as his thrusts become even more frantic.
They’re close and Arthur hisses, moans, and murmurs incoherent words into Eames’ ear. He wraps his arms around Eames’ neck, locks his legs around his waist, and bucking up to meet his thrust. Eames is fucking him so hard Arthur can hear the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, and he has to laugh because of that. Eames almost stops moving when he hears it, but Arthur scratches his nails on to his back and orders him, “Move! I didn’t tell you to sto-”
He stops talking when Eames lifts one of his legs up and changes the angle. Arthur lets out a particularly loud moan when the change of angle causes Eames’ cock to hit his prostate over and over again.
Eames kisses his way into Arthur’s mouth as he comes with a quick snap of his hips and Arthur holds him in place with his legs, bracing him between his thighs.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” Eames grunts, and he wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock and starts pumping as Arthur feels himself filled with Eames’ come. “Come for me, Arthur. Come for me.”
Arthur might have screamed Eames’ name loud when he comes with a quick jerk of Eames’ hand. Arthur doesn’t know, he’s too busy experiencing the best orgasm he’s ever had to even understand what words are coming out of his mouth.
After Eames jerks the last drop of come from Arthur’s cock he falls rather gracelessly against him in a sweaty, bedraggled heap. And he’s heavy. It’s a comfortable weight on Arthur’s body though. A comfortable and welcome weight that he has missed dearly.
Of course, he’s not going to tell Eames that.
--
Eventually, Eames starts to breathe normally again. His whole body feels like its going to melt, or maybe it already has, seeing as he can’t move any limbs. Even opening his eyes seems to be such a tiring thing to do. He’s still lying on top of Arthur and it’s getting a little bit too uncomfortable, their sweat slicked skin plastered together like that, but Eames still wants to feel Arthur’s frantic heartbeat against his own, wants to feel it when their hearts calm down and start beating together in synchrony.
But then Arthur shoves him off with a grunt and he flops onto his side. He takes Arthur’s hand and laces their fingers together.
“Okay…” Eames starts, he turns to look at Arthur. “That was a nine. It would’ve been ten, except…” He makes weird gestures with his hand to his temple-there’s an angry red bruise from when Arthur hit his head with the wine bottle. “I think you broke my brain.”
Arthur chuckles, his dimples appeared in full force, his cheeks are still flushed pink and Eames falls in love all over again.
The light chuckle dies out and their eyes locked. And Arthur, in true fashion of someone who has just been fucked out of his brain, growls, “I’ll give you ‘nine’.”
“God. I thought you just did!” Eames protests. He doesn’t stop Arthur from tackling him for round three.
--
Except… there’s no round three.
They’re both too exhausted to do anything more strenuous than kissing after wasting all their energy during the fight and the two rounds of sex. Now they’re just relaxing on the bed. Arthur is leaning back to the headboard while Eames is draped over his stomach, tracing meaningless pattern on his chest, and plants some dry kisses here and there. Arthur lets him.
The clock on the bedside table says it is half past midnight. It’s serene and really, Arthur can’t remember the last time he experienced such calmness during the night.
Suddenly Eames breaks the moment. “Did you know that after five years average couple makes love only once a week?” he asks.
Arthur thinks he’s heard that before. Once. Courtesy of Miles.
“I think I know,” he answers.
Eames rolls onto his back, resting his head to the mountain of pillows and then drags Arthur by his shoulders so his head is resting on Eames’ chest. “We didn’t do for how long…?”
“Two years,” Arthur says.
“That long?” Eames asks, raising one eyebrow.
“To be specific, around twenty months,” Arthur says softly.
“I think we can catch up. Give or take a couple of years and we’ll be fine.”
Arthur hums in agreement, kisses Eames’ chest once, and then buries his face into the curve of his husband neck to hide his smile. He wants to tell Eames how glad he is that Eames has chosen to drop his gun. He wants to tell Eames that he’s happy. He wants to tell Eames everything about what he’s feeling and thinking at the moment.
But there will be time for that in the morning-and Arthur doesn’t want to sound like a sap-so he lets Eames drawls on and on about inane things, and lets himself taking in the warmth of his husband’s body seeping through his own.
They will be all right. They will be fine. And that’s all he needs to think about.
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