FANFICTION: The Road Less Travelled (Reverse Big Bang with art by Loobeeinthesky)
Title: The Road Less Travelled
Rating: NC 17
Word Count: ~9,000
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: You don't live long in the Capital Wasteland by making stupid mistakes. It only takes Eames a few days on the rough road to Megaton to remind Arthur that you don't get far not taking chances, either. (Fallout 3/post-apocalyptic AU)
AN: This is the result of my i_reversebang collaboration with the ever patient, ever lovely loobeeinthesky . As most of you know, I was fucking ecstatic to get her and despite all the ups and downs and stress and WORK and real life being dicks, I've had a great time and am so glad we got the chance to do this together. Next time it will be less stressful Lucy! You and me and zombies, yeah? :3
You don’t survive long in the Capital Wasteland by making stupid mistakes.
Arthur knows this. He knows it even as he crouches down behind the rusted shell of a car, blood flowing thick and far too fast between the fingers he has clamped over his shoulder. He knows it as the harsh breathing and rough gait of the super mutant gets closer.
In his defence, the stupid mistake was Cobb’s, but that’s irrelevant now. Arthur is the one bleeding out while the behemoth stalks closer, and Arthur is the one who has to deal with it.
He hunches lower, trying to ignore the way the ground shakes with every lumbering step the behemoth takes. They should never have taken this fucking job, he thinks, as he rips open the last stimpak and jabs it into his forearm. He should have trusted his gut when Dom insisted it’d be easy, a simple in and out.
Arthur feels the drugs kicking in and winds a torn rag around the bloody gash in his shoulder, tight. Part of it is probably his fault. He’s the one who ran too fast, blind, and ended up tearing his shoulder on the twisted sheet metal and attracting the attention of the super mutant. Stupid to forget that there are far more dangerous things lurking in the wastes than asshole sell-outs who want to shoot you in the face.
He pulls the makeshift bandage tighter with his teeth and upends his pack, wincing at the sound of the behemoth's club scraping along the broken blacktop. Arthur knows he's out of ammo, but he checks anyway, because fuck it he's smarter than any bloody mutant and he sure as hell doesn't want to die this way.
"Shit," he grits out, hefting the only grenade left in his arsenal. Even if he bothered with a pip boy to do the hard work--which he doesn’t; they make you lazy and Arthur would rather be able to shoot straight on his own, thank you very much--one little grenade still wouldn’t down a super mutant. Not a behemoth.
He tightens his hand around the grenade, squeezes his eyes shut briefly with a useless prayer to a God that abandoned America a long time ago, and scrambles to his feet.
The behemoth roars when it sees him, breaking into a run, ground trembling beneath its feet.
Arthur sets his jaw, stands his ground, and throws the grenade.
The force of the explosion knocks him off his feet, debris and gore stinging his face. It takes him a few seconds to realise his ears are ringing so hard he can't hear shit.
He gets up, slowly, and blinks at the scattered remains of the behemoth. His grenade sure as hell didn’t do that.
"Watch out, sweetheart," a voice says behind him, muffled through the aftershocks still ringing in Arthur's ears. "I don't think he wanted to say hello."
Arthur turns. The owner of the voice has a cocky grin and a toothpick between his teeth, retrofitted grenade launcher slung casually over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. The scruff along his jaw does nothing to take away from the obviously handsome lines of his face.
"I'm Eames," the man says, reaching down to scratch at the ears of the dog that's pressing itself up against his legs. "This is Dogtag."
Arthur contemplates telling him that's a stupid name for a dog, but decides it wouldn't be very sporting to insult someone who just saved his life. "I'm... Arthur."
Eames looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the blood soaked rag tied around Arthur's shoulder. "Well, Arthur. I've got a safehouse just over the ridge. I can see to that," he nods his head in the direction of Arthur's shoulder, "if you like."
Arthur hesitates. Nothing comes for free in the wasteland, everybody knows that. But he's hurt, with no supplies, not even a weapon or any rad-x. It's not like he has a choice. There’s still the rendezvous to make with Cobb at the safehouse in Megaton City, and there’s no way he’s getting there without at least a bit of first aid and a fresh gun to take with him.
If Cobb even makes it there himself.
The ground suddenly seems too far away, rolling a little under Arthur’s feet, and he stumbles. “I don’t have anything to trade--”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence before the dog starts barking, circling cautiously around Eames’s legs. Watching it makes Arthur’s head swim even more.
“Shhh,” Eames says, digging his fingers into the thick fur at it’s neck. “I know, girl. Shhh.” Then he looks at Arthur again.
His eyes are blue. Nearly grey. Arthur wonders why this feels so important.
“Sun’s setting,” Eames continues. “You’re white as a sheet. I’m not going to leave you out here just because you haven’t got anything worthwhile in your pockets.”
That’s exactly what most people would do. Fuck, Arthur would do it himself, if he was in a particularly ungenerous mood. You don’t survive long in the Wasteland by being a bleeding heart, either.
“Hey?”
Arthur blinks. Eames is standing a lot closer, close enough to be reaching out to touch the blood-soaked sleeve of Arthur’s jacket.
It feels like he’s moving through molasses, but Arthur steps back. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps, self-preservation welling up strong beneath the fuzzy veil that’s falling over his consciousness. If only he still had a fucking gun. If only he didn’t take this fucking job
The ground drops out from under him.
“Easy there,” Eames says, catching an arm around his waist before he hits the ground.
*
A sharp pain in the side of Arthur’s neck jolts him awake. He opens his eyes, blinking away the gritty feeling. He’s sitting up, propped against a broken dresser on a low stool.
“Welcome back.”
Arthur glances up at Eames. He’s turning down the wick on the kerosene lamp that’s throwing shaky light around the safe house, illuminating the cracks running through the plaster at the corners and the tiny bed on the opposite side. One room, no more, beaten down by the force of time and neglect. Just like everything else in the wasteland is.
“Sorry I didn’t have any stimpaks left on me,” Eames says, forcing one of the dresser drawers open and sifting through whatever is inside. “Got another for when that one wears off though, and we should be able to fix you up in the meantime.”
Forming words hurts, but Arthur does it anyway. “You don’t have to do that.”
Eames just snorts. “I’m still going to.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, so he tries to stand up. The sleeve of his jacket is stiff with dried blood, and he wonders how long it took for Eames to drag him here. His sides hurt, too, deep pain that probably means a few bruised ribs.
“Can you walk?”
The answer on the tip of his tongue is yes. “I think so.”
Eames tucks a needle and thread between his teeth and grabs a couple of rags before sitting down on the bed. “C’mere.”
Arthur takes one careful step, two. He feels unpleasantly vulnerable, sizing up Eames carefully. He doesn’t have a gun, but he could probably take him in a fist fight if it came to that.
The pain lancing through his shoulder reminds him that he probably couldn’t. Not right now.
Once Arthur’s close enough, Eames grabs his good hand and tugs him down into the space between his legs. Arthur jerks, tamping down on the urge to lash out. Eames is helping. He’s safe. For now. The proximity still makes him twitch as Eames rests on hand gently on his hip.
“I’m going to take your jacket off, okay?” he says.
Arthur lets him peel the ruined garment off. He throws it onto the dusty floor, where Dogtag noses at it for a second before lying back down on her belly.
“You did a good job on this.”
Arthur sucks in a breath when Eames probes the wound, pulling back the ragged edges of Arthur’s shirt. The fabric sticks to his skin, bloody and dry, but he’s not going to show any more weakness than he has to. “I try," he says, gritting his teeth and cursing Cobb for landing him in this fucking situation.
“Shirt.”
Eames fingers brush over exposed skin at Arthur’s hips and he jerks at the contact, those warm fingertips sending a kick through his system more intense than any stimpak. He manages to stay still while Eames strips it off, helping Arthur lift his arm high enough.
“So,” Eames says as he wipes blood and caked dirt away from the gash. “What are you in the business of, Arthur?”
“Information.” Arthur says, short, wincing at the pain streaking down his arm to the elbow.
“Must be interesting information, to get you into binds like this.”
Arthur starts to shrug before he remembers his shoulder and bites his lip to stop himself making a sound. “You survive out here. Don’t pretend you don’t know what information can be worth.”
“Touche.”
There’s silence except for the subtle hiss of the lamp for a few minutes. Dogtag leaps up onto the bed, and Eames shifts forward a little to make room for her, cradling Arthur more closely. He can’t shift away without falling off the bed, so Arthur grits his teeth and deals with it. Even though the press of Eames’s inner thighs against his legs makes him want things that are completely out of the fucking question.
“Stitching now,” Eames says finally. “Ready?”
Arthur takes a deep breath, and nods.
The pain of the needle passing through flesh is sharper than the ache of the wound, cleaner somehow. Eames’s fingers are thick and warm where they pinch the skin together, shifting along the length of the gash and placing stitches at even intervals. Arthur leans forward and breathes through it.
By the time the last stitch is tugged into place Arthur’s head is nodding down towards his chest. He needs rest, proper rest, but the idea of sleeping around a stranger makes his gut twist uneasily, even though Eames could easily have abandoned him, or shanked him, or done anything he wanted to him while he was unconscious. He forces his eyes to stay open anyway, staring at the buckled floor while Eames winds a wide bandage around his ribs. Arthur can feel his breath on the back of his neck, and he shivers as those broad palms skim down his sides to the dip of his hips.
“There,” Eames says, tucking the end of the bandage in. “It’s not much, but it should hold you together long enough to get where you’re going.”
“Megaton,” Arthur offers without really thinking, sinking back into the muscled warmth behind him. “Going to Megaton.”
“You’re in luck then. So am I.”
*
Arthur wakes up with a face full of musty pillow and warm fur under one hand. Dogtag shifts when he does, making an affronted noise when he scrambles to sit up.
He doesn’t even want to think about how much rad could be in that pillow.
The soft sound of Billie Holiday drifting from the radio set on top of the dresser is distracting enough, especially when Eames is humming along under his breath, picking up a couple of lyrics about easy living every now and again as he sorts through a pile of clothes. He smiles when he notices Arthur. “Morning. I was just seeing if I couldn’t find something for you.”
Eames throws a pile of clothes at him and Arthur only just manages to catch it with one hand. There’s a t-shirt and a worn jacket that looks warmer than his old one, along with a checked neckerchief. He struggles into the t-shirt. “Thanks.”
“So you’re still up for it?” Eames asks, tugging open the bottom drawer of the broken dresser.
Arthur watches as he pulls out a couple of handguns, ammo, some really nice shock grenades that he wouldn’t mind having a few of himself. “Up for what?”
“Megaton. You said you’ll go with me.”
Arthur doesn’t remember that at all. What he does remember is warm hands and hard muscles curled around him as he slept, and those definitely didn’t belong to Dogtag. He shifts uncomfortably, craning his neck to see when Eames kicks the drawer shut and jimmies up one of the floorboards instead. “I... did I.”
“Yeah. And a good thing too, thought I’d have to leave all this extra stuff behind. Don’t want to get weighed down, y’know?” He lifts out another few handguns, before bending over and reaching deep into the gap.
The barrel of the shotgun comes first, sleek and untarnished, glinting in the morning light. Someone’s obviously taken a lot of care with it, right down to the glossy black stock. Arthur’s only seen weapons so well-maintained a few times in his life, and most of the time they’re his.
Instead of wincing at the memory of dropping his precious glocks, he tips his head at the shotgun. “That’s a nice gun.”
“Isn’t she just,” Eames strokes the barrel. “You can carry her, and these ones here. Just pass them to me if I need them.”
Arthur swallows a snort. As if he’d hand that over if there was a chance he could fire it himself. “Sure,” he says, mustering a smile.
It drops as soon as Eames turns back to packing his duffle bag. Sure, it’s probably a really stupid idea to try and make it all the way to Megaton on his own, even if Eames gives him supplies. That doesn’t mean Arthur has to like this.
Dogtag growls again and jumps down off the bed when Arthur gingerly works the jacket on over his injured arm. It’s too big through the shoulders, but just as warm as it looks once Arthur zips it up.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, boots hit the floor with a solid thud.
He hopes he isn’t going to live to regret this.
*
“New Vegas,” Eames says, throwing the stick for Dogtag again as they walk. Arthur watches as she scrabbles on the barren dirt, darting away into the rubble. “I hear there’s plenty to do there for someone who’s willing to work for it. And I feel like I’ve done all there is to do around here, y’know?”
Arthur nods. The good thing about Eames, he’s realised over the last couple of days, is that he’s happy to just talk. He never presses for more than a nod or the occasional affirmation, never expects Arthur to offer the same information in return. It’s nice in a way travelling with Cobb never is.
Arthur tries not to think too hard about that.
“I need to take a piss,” he says, adjusting the loose sling supporting his left arm. “I’ll be right back.”
Eames nods in affirmation.
The ruins are quiet except for the whistle of the wind through the ragged gaps, but Arthur keeps glancing around anyway, just to be safe. He’s zipping up his fly when the smooth blue curve on a partially obscured wall catches his eye. Slowly, fingers curled around the butt of the pistol in his thigh holster, he edges closer. As he slinks further to the right the rest of the graffiti comes into sight. The blue curve is part of circle surrounding a crudely drawn 21.
Arthur’s heart slams into his throat and he turns back, trying even harder to be silent.
Eames is rubbing behind Dogtag’s ears, cooing at her with a stupid grin on his face that shouldn’t be nearly as endearing as it is. He looks up when Arthur approaches.
“There are raiders around here,” Arthur says, hushed even though they haven’t seen any evidence of any living things except scrubby bushes and diseased dogs since they started out on their journey.
“Fuck. There weren’t any around here last time I passed through.” Eames frowns and rakes a hand through his hair. “Not like we can do anything about it. Stay quiet, stay low, move as fast as we can and hope they don’t notice us.”
At first Arthur is worried Dogtag will draw too much attention to them, bounding around and racing off to fetch things, but she only butts her head up against Eames’s hand once with the stick in her mouth and a single ‘no’ from him has her sticking so close to his legs that it looks like she should be tripping him.
They walk in silence for a few more hours. Most of the noisy terrain is easily avoidable if they’re careful where they step, but Arthur still holds his breath at every twig snap and squeak of gravel.
In the end, though, the first shot comes out of nowhere.
“Fuck,” Arthur says, one second after Eames does when the bullet hits the ground beside them in an explosion of dirt.
“Over there,” Eames points to a low wall. “Get down there.”
The gunshots echo through the hollow ruins, making it impossible to pinpoint a direction of fire, but the raiders obviously know where they’re hiding. Arthur flinches as another bullet hits the crumbling stone beside him. “There’s at least five of them.”
“At least,” Eames agrees. “Just keep your head down, I’ll take care of it.”
Arthur scowls but does as he’s told. There’s always the chance that the raiders will get bored and wander off if they don’t make themselves an obvious target. He tucks his back closer to the wall while Eames lines up his first shot. His stance is textbook-perfect down to the arch of his finger on the trigger, and Arthur would say he’s impressed if not for the bullets ricocheting around them.
Eames returns six shots, ignoring the drifting dust and stone shrapnel, before crouching back down. “I think I got one, but I can’t get a clean lock with the VATS.”
Fucking VATS, stopping people from learning to shoot straight on their own. “Do you think you can get them with a smoke grenade?”
“Sure, maybe.”
“No maybes, Eames, can you throw the fucking grenade or not?” He’d do it himself, but he’s not sure he can throw straight without the counter balance from his left arm.
Eames gives a sharp nod. “But what are you... no.”
Arthur ignores him, flicking the safety on the shotgun off. “You throw the grenade, I’ll shoot the raiders.”
Another bullet hits the edge of the wall and Eames blinks against the dust. “Even if I make my shot, you won’t make yours.”
“Do it, and watch me,” Arthur snaps. “Or let them wear us down.”
Eames leans close, holding up the grenade between them with a hard glint in his eyes. It’s the kind of look Arthur expects to see in the eyes of someone who survives the wasteland on their own. “Don’t fuck this up, Arthur,” he warns, a second before he leans up and throws the grenade in a long arc.
The explosion vibrates through the low wall along with the sound of the raiders yelling and Dogtag growling beside Eames. Arthur doesn’t wait before scrambling up. Dust still hangs in the air over the raiders’ vantage spot, but he can see the shadowy silhouettes beneath the cover. He nestles the stock of the shotgun in against his good shoulder, steadying it, before pulling the trigger. The recoil kicks through him like an electric shock but he shifts, steadies, fires again. A muzzle flashes in the dust cloud but the bullet goes wide and Arthur gets off the last shot before dropping back down.
He lets his head fall back against the wall for a second before propping the shotgun between his legs. It’s hot from the discharge, seeping through his pants and warming his thighs as he digs three more shells from his pocket and slams them into place.
When he looks up, pulling back the bolt with a satisfying shnick, Eames is staring at him. “What?”
“Can you show me how to do that?”
Before Arthur can answer Dogtag leaps up barking. The question dies on his lips when Eames grabs his handgun and drags the hammer back in one smooth motion, levelling it at Arthur’s face. For one disgusting, gut-wrenching second Arthur thinks he’s about to take a bullet in the forehead, but Eames’s aim swings higher, two shots skimming close enough to the top of Arthur’s head for him to feel the air move.
There’s a heavy thud behind him. A dead raider lies crumpled in the dirt, blood oozing from the bullet wounds in his head and shrapnel that cut through his mismatched body armour.
Arthur looks back at Eames. “With reflexes like that? I can teach you to do anything.”
Eames grins, smug. “My aim isn’t so bad afterall, is it.” He slumps back against the wall, digging in his inner pocket for a couple of cigarettes.
Arthur watches him strike the match on the stone. “We shouldn’t sit here, there might be-“
“Smoke?” Eames says, taking the lit cigarette from his lips and holding it out to Arthur.
It really is a stupid idea. There’s a corpse cooling beside them and there’s no guarantee they killed all the other raiders. But as the rush of adrenaline worms through his system, and Eames grins at him like that, all crooked teeth and one quirked eyebrow, Arthur figures there’s time, so he holds out his hand to take the cigarette.
He feels the slight moisture of Eames’s mouth against his lips as he inhales, and the sensation curls around the adrenaline, a rush of feeling to go with the warmth of the shotgun propped between his splayed legs.
Eames is staring at him again when he opens his eyes. “What?” he repeats.
“Nothing,” Eames says nonchalantly, petting Dogtag as he blows smoke into the dusty air. “Just thinking that maybe you didn’t need me after all.”
Maybe it’s true. Arthur probably wouldn’t have attracted the raiders at all, if he was by himself. But somehow, he’s not really sorry at all. “I didn’t.”
“That was meant to be a compliment.”
Arthur scrubs out the cigarette butt in the dirt before carefully swinging the shotgun back up onto his good shoulder. “I know.”
*
Dusk turns far too quickly into full night once they get moving again. The landscape is quiet in the milky moonlight, far more quiet than the ruins of D.C or Megaton itself.
The silence makes Arthur feel exposed. “We should have stopped at the rubble back there. It would have been a good place to hole up for the night.”
Just ahead, Eames stops to shift the weight of his pack. “Not as good as where we’re going. An actual bed, a door with a sturdy lock… way better than rubble. You’ll see.”
It’s impossible not to see when they reach the edge of the scrapyard, rusted cranes looming like some breed of mutated beast. Junk and twisted car bodies scatter the gravel and Arthur wonders how they even got here. He hasn’t exactly seen one running before.
Dogtag circles as they approach the shack standing just inside the broken chain-link gate. Arthur lets his fingers curl around the shoulder strap of the shotgun, glancing around. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“I’ve stayed here before,” Eames says, shouldering his own gun and reaching for the door. “Shit.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
Eames rattles the solid lock. “No. Bugger it. You can’t pick it, can you?”
“I could. With a bullet.”
“Too much noise.” Eames stares at it. “I guess we have to go back. Wouldn’t want to stay out in the open here in case any more raiders come wandering through. Took out a super mutant just over the ridge there once too.”
Walking all the way back in the dark doesn’t sound like a great plan, either. “I guess.” Arthur looks around again. “Or we could sleep in there,” he says, pointing to the intact car wedged between a pile of scrap and the chain-link.
“You’re pretty quick, aren’t you.”
Arthur just snorts and flexes his sore shoulder. It’s not going to be comfortable, but then again sleeping outside the relative safety of a settlement never is. “I’m tired. Get in the fucking car.”
Eames climbs up the scrap first, wiping thick dust from the windshield with his sleeve. “Looks like someone beat us to it.”
The climb is a little harder for Arthur, with one arm still bound up, but he makes it up the pile and leans shamelessly on Eames. “Oh.” The skeleton slumped over the steering wheel looks old, at least, dull white bone picked clean. “Well, the driver’s seat is uncomfortable anyway.”
Eames laughs and shifts along, wrenching the passenger door open as he whistles. “Here, girl.”
Dogtag bounds easily over the scrap and into the car. Then Eames looks up at Arthur, holding out a hand. “Come on then, love. Let’s get you tucked in.”
Arthur freezes, half-way to taking Eames’s hand for balance. It’s not the first time Eames has called him something ridiculous; he got over within the first couple of hours. But it’s different when they’re actually about to spend the night so close, breathing the same air and kicking each other in their sleep.
The pain-hazy memory of the night in the safehouse nags at him, but Arthur shoves it away and grabs Eames’s wrist.
Dogtag is already curled up on the front passenger seat, gnawing on one of the skeleton’s armbones, so Arthur slides along the dusty seat until his back is up against the door. Then he slips the shotgun off and lays it down on the floor, throwing down his bag and ammo along with it.
“Stop that.” Eames swats at Dogtag once the car door is shut.
Arthur ignores them both, trying to find the most comfortable way to lean against the door while still giving Eames some space for his legs.
“What are you doing?” Eames asks.
“Getting comfortable,” Arthur replies, shifting again.
“Don’t be daft. You’ll never get any sleep like that.” He lies down, nudging Arthur with his boot until he shifts forward to make space. “Here,” he says finally, tapping the narrow space between his body and the edge of the seat.
Arthur hesitates before carefully slipping into the gap, pressed against Eames from ankle to shoulder to stop from rolling off.
Eames slings his arm over Arthur’s waist. “Sorry,” he says, in a way that makes it obvious he’s not really sorry at all. “It’s going to get a bit cosy.”
There’s not really anything Arthur can say to that. Just concentrating on breathing is hard enough. The air is musty with old decay and rusting steel, so he focuses on that, on drawing the smell of it down into his lungs. It’s better than the hyper-awareness sparking up his spine where Eames is spooned against him, the growing warmth of Eames’s broad hand resting casually across his belly.
He closes his eyes. It should be easy to sleep, warm and comfortable, with another body curled around his. All he can think about, though, is how long it’s been since anyone’s touched him unless they were trying to kill him. Not since the last job they pulled for the Brotherhood, when he’d let that Paladin fuck him up against a crumbling wall. It was quick and dirty, which was fine; the Paladin had muscle and he knew how to use it. But everything is quick and dirty these days, and if he’s honest with himself, Arthur would much rather have someone reliable with a good trigger finger who’s willing to keep him warm on cold wasteland nights.
He squirms against Eames’s bulk. Of course, random strangers, no matter how wide their shoulders or precise their trigger fingers, should probably never be considered in those terms.
“Arthur,” Eames whispers against the back of Arthur’s neck, and the warm brush of his lips is enough to make Arthur decide common sense can get fucked. “If you don’t stay still...”
“If I don’t stay still, what?”
Eames’s fingers splay more firmly across Arthur’s stomach, holding him still as he tilts his hips up. “That.”
There’s nothing ambiguous about the hardness digging in to the curve of his ass, and it’s embarrassing how quickly Arthur arches back into it. The tips of Eames’s fingers dig in just below his ribs, hard enough to bring the bruised ache back to the surface, but the pain is nothing compared to the feel of Eames pulling him even closer and licking the very edge of his ear. “This is happening, then,” Arthur says, grabbing Eames’s hand and shoving it down towards the hem of his shirt.
“Yeah.” He shifts his grip and lifts Arthur like he weighs nothing, but it’s still an awkward few seconds as they squirm between positions. “I guess it is.”
Arthur looks down at Eames. His stubble is close to being more of a beard than just scruff now, and Arthur wants to feel it scrape the inside of his thighs. “Okay,” he whispers, and leans down to kiss him.
His shoulder is throbbing within a few seconds, but it’s easy to ignore with Eames’s tongue in his mouth, Eames’s rough fingertips edging under his shirt and jacket to drag them up just high enough to expose the dip of his lower back.
“Fuck,” Arthur breathes, shifting his weight until the solid shape of Eames’s thigh is pressing between his legs. “Eames, I just...” he trails off with a groan when Eames loops his fingers through Arthur’s belt and tugs him down, hard.
“Just what?” he says, crooking his knee up a little to give Arthur something more to ride.
Arthur bites his lip to keep the cry in. He just wants to come. It’s been so long, too fucking long, and Eames is right here and warm and more than willing if the bulge in his pants is anything to go by. “Just... shut up.”
Eames does, sucking on Arthur’s neck instead and slipping a hand down into his pants to squeeze his ass, hot skin against skin.
Arthur’s thighs are already trembling with the desperation of it, the thick rush of blood in his ears. Just a little more skin, a hand on his cock...
He sucks on Eames’s lower lip just to hear him whimper, and works a hand between them to where Eames’s belt buckle is digging into his stomach with each rhythmic grind of their hips. His sling slips down as he reaches for it, the metal warm beneath his fingers.
The soft sound of something touching the chain-link fence cuts into his awareness.
Arthur has never hated the Capital Wasteland more than he does in that instant. He lifts his head, cock still throbbing against the thick spread of Eames’s thigh between his legs, and presses a finger to Eames’s lips. “Did you hear that?”
Surprisingly it’s a lot easier to ignore how close he is to coming in his pants than it is to ignore the way Eames sucks the tips of his fingers into his mouth. In another place, another time, Arthur’s pretty sure he could come just from those slick lips around his fingers. Right now though... he shivers. “No, seriously,” he says, hips stuttering downwards as he watches Eames suck his fingers in a little bit further. “I think--”
The chain-link fence rattles again, closer this time, and Eames’s eyes fly open. They stare at each other for a second, years and years of ingrained instinct warring with the desire to just keep rutting against each other until they’re nothing but a sticky, satiated tangle of half-dressed limbs sharing the back seat of the car.
Instinct wins and their hands collide as they both reach for their guns at the same time. “Ow, fuck,” Arthur hisses, jerking his shoulder as he scrambles up.
“Careful, love.” Eames leans across and tucks another handful of shells into Arthur’s jacket pocket. “It’s probably just raiders. Nothing to worry about.”
The optimism in his tone suggests he’s just as keen to get rid of their company and pick up where they left off as Arthur is. Arthur slips his sling back up while he peers out through the thick haze of dust coating the window. “I can’t see anything.”
“I’ll take point,” Eames says, clicking his fingers at Dogtag and opening the door slowly, carefully.
Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it again, and nods.
It’s harder to get out of the car quietly than it was to get in. Eames uses the door for cover to peek over while Dogtag slinks ahead, belly low to the ground. Arthur takes a few extra seconds to shake the syrupy feeling of imminent orgasm, and shoulders the shotgun.
There’s an explosion of barks and shouts by the gate, then silence.
“Fuck,” Eames growls, crouching down. “Brotherhood Outcasts.”
Arthur frowns. “I’ve done deals with the Outcasts before. They’re pretty reasonable.”
“Arthur,” Eames says, pulling his second pistol from its holster. “If they catch you with me, they will cut out your heart and feed it to their robots.”
There’s a story in that, obviously, but Arthur just nods.
“We’ll sneak out over there,” Eames points. “Use the car and the scrapheap for cover.”
It’s darker on the other side of the heap and Eames makes it down first, holding out his hand again to steady Arthur on the last hop down. This time he takes it without hesitation.
“Who’s there?”
They both turn around to face the Outcast standing behind them, his power armour humming.
“Run,” Eames hisses, just as the Outcast lifts his plasma rifle and shouts, “You.”
Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice and darts away just in time to feel the air turn melting hot behind him.
He breaks into a sprint, zig zagging as much to avoid the junk scattered about the yard as to throw off any more shots. The shotgun bangs against his hip with every step until the torn chain link comes into view ahead of them. Dogtag gallops past him, leaping easily through the gap. Arthur doesn’t go as easy, catching his sleeve on the ragged edges and hearing it rip, loud in the cold night air.
Eames is just behind him by the time he scrambles through, along with the shouts and plasma bolts of the Outcasts.
“Fuck. I’m stuck.”
Arthur doesn’t think as he stops, turns, grabs Eames’s collar and pulls. The sound of fabric tearing splits the air again. Arthur keeps pulling, cursing Eames’s shoulders for the first time since he met him, ignoring the accompanying tear of flesh and warm trickle of blood down his hands. “Come on.”
One more pull and Eames staggers through the gap, taking off at a run. Arthur follows this time and doesn’t look back, cold air burning his lungs, as the sounds of the Outcasts fade behind them.
*
“You’re causing me more trouble than Cobb did,” Arthur says, wiping alcohol over the gashes in Eames’s arms.
“Ah, but at least I’m not leaving you high and dry afterwards, am I, darling.”
Arthur doesn’t have an answer for that. He adjusts his sling and shifts to Eames’s other side, the flickering firelight catching on the bulky musculature exposed by his worn tank top. Normally Arthur would be more appreciative, but considering those wide shoulders just almost got them killed, he thinks better of it. He lifts the rag to the cut on Eames’s jaw and watches as he flinches the tiniest bit before steadying himself.
There are other wounds striking across his skin, old scars mixed in with the tattoos winding over his biceps. Arthur figures those cuts probably have explanations of stupidity too. “So are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
Eames shrugs, taking a swig from the same bottle of moonshine Arthur has been using to clean him up. “The Outcasts and I haven’t always seen eye to eye on... well. A lot of things.”
“Obviously.”
Dogtag trots back into the little broken stone corner they’ve found to shelter next to for the night, curling up next to Eames with a wide yawn. He digs his fingers into the ruff of fur at her neck. “Nothing going on out there girl?”
If there is, there would have been barking. Arthur finishes cleaning up the gashes before sitting down next to Eames, back up against the wall.
He ignores the way their knees touch. That particular ship has sailed. At least for tonight.
“You know,” Eames says, passing him the bottle. “You’re not a bad man to have around in a bind, Arthur.”
“Well, that’s my job. Being useful in a bind.” He takes a long swallow. “I’ll take first watch.”
“Not going to complain.” Eames leans for his bag, digging through it for a clean shirt to pull on before rolling up his jacket for a makeshift pillow. “Wake me up in a couple of hours. I’ll be pissed if you don’t.”
“Sure,” Arthur says, letting his feet shift closer to the warmth of Eames’s until they’re touching.
Out in the distance, over the scrubby, ruin-ridden flats, the lights of Megaton flicker uncertainly.
It’s going to be a long walk in the morning.
*
The gates of Megaton loom in the afternoon light, rusted jet plane wings and the one giant turbine squeaking as it turns in the breeze.
“I can find my way from here,” Arthur says, shifting the shotgun on his shoulder.
“I’ll walk with you. Wouldn’t want to get you all the way here only to find out you got shanked on the way to your rendezvous.”
He considers saying no. But he’d rather have Eames’s company than the pride of going it alone, so he nods.
Megaton’s no different than any other time Arthur has been there. It’s little more than corrugated iron tacked together with hopes and dreams and pure human determination, all the neat little ramps and runways to lift the makeshift city that bit higher out of the mud and piles of scrap.
Arthur’s half expecting Eames to say good bye when they reach the common house, but he just tells Dogtag to stay just outside the door.
An ugly part of Arthur wonders if he’ll even care if Cobb didn’t make it.
He doesn’t have to find out though, because the first thing he sees when he swings open the door is Cobb lounging on one of the bunks. He lowers the tattered book he’s reading at the sound of the door, grinning when he realises who it is. “Arthur!” he says, dropping the book and crossing the room in a couple of strides. “I was getting worried. Another day and I would have gone without you.”
“As if a minor fuck up like that could stop me.”
“And who’s this?’
Arthur glances back over his shoulder, where Eames is still standing. He steps forward, holding out a hand for Cobb. “Eames. I helped Arthur out of the bind you left him in.”
Eames is smiling when he says it, but the silence that comes after the words isn’t any less awkward. Cobb clears his throat. “If it’s compensation for the trouble you want...” he digs in his pocket for a second, pulling out a drawstring bang with the distinct tinny rattle of bottlecaps.
“What? Oh no.” Eames holds up his hands. “Arthur more than paid his way with good company and a better aim. I just wanted to make sure he got where he needed to be.”
Arthur feels Eames’s hand splay over the small of his back, solid and comforting.
“Now I have, I really must be off.”
Rather than think too hard about the fact he doesn’t want him to leave, Arthur fumbles with the shotgun strap. “Don’t forget this.”
Eames lifts his hand to Arthur’s shoulder, holding the strap down. “Nah. You keep it. You’re better with it than I am anyway.” He stares at Arthur for a second, and Arthur wonders what he’s trying to tell him with his eyes. “Safe travels.”
Then he’s touching two fingers to his forehead in a loose salute before turning on his heel and striding off, Dogtag bounding along beside him.
The finality of it twists something inside Arthur, and it isn’t until Cobb closes the door that he blinks and settles back into reality.
“Seems like you got lucky,” Cobb says, leading the way upstairs to the shared kitchen and living space.
“Yeah.” Not as lucky as he might have liked, really, but luckier than he had any right to expect out there in the middle of nowhere.
“We got lucky too. The information on Fischer came through, so we can start heading home tomorrow. Saito will fix it for us.”
Arthur does smile then. “That almost makes my busted shoulder worth it.”
But as he tries to listen to Cobb chatter about finally seeing his children again, all Arthur can think about is a crooked smile and big, warm hands against the curve of his spine.
*
He’s in the common house shower room preparing to scrub days of ground-in dust and grime and blood off his skin when the familiar voice makes him startle, one hand going for his pistol, the other to secure the towel around his waist.
“Cobb said I could find you in here,” Eames says, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot me just because you don’t need me any more.”
Arthur lowers the pistol slowly but his heart doesn’t stop pounding, as the possible reasons Eames might have for intruding on his shower, for coming back at all, start running through his head in vivid fantasy detail. “What do you want?”
Eames tilts his head. “I thought that’d be pretty obvious, love.”
“You didn’t seem interested in sticking around before.” It’s the truth, and Arthur’s had all afternoon to smart over it.
“I had something a little bit... well. Something that had the potential to explode in a very, very messy way if I didn’t deal with it right then.”
“Did you now.” Arthur sets the pistol down on the bench, skin already tingling in anticipation.
“I did. Do you know what else I did?”
Arthur turns back around to see Eames nonchalantly stripping his shirt off, tossing it onto the bench over the pistol, tattoos and cuts and solid planes of muscle standing out under the stark fluorescent light like they hadn’t under the dull flames. “What did you do?” He licks his lips as Eames’s hands drop to his fly.
“I locked that door behind me,” he says, kicking his pants in the general direction of the bench.
Arthur looks him up and down. Even completely naked he’s imposing, broad, thick; coarse hair Arthur wants to touch.
“Have you had a shower yet?” He asks, shifting his attention from the hard jut of Eames’s cock back up to his eyes.
“No.”
Slowly, deliberately, Arthur throws his towel aside and steps into the cubicle, turning the taps right up so the water sputters dark brown for a second before relaxing into a clear stream. “You should join me then. Fresh water is a valuable resource, you know.”
Eames was already moving before Arthur finished talking, crowding in behind him with hands wrapped firmly around his hips. It’s all the pure skin contact he wanted, has wanted, and Arthur gasps under the cool water and the touch.
Then Eames is turning him around, handling him like he’s nothing but a doll, pulling him in close.
“I want you to fuck me,” Arthur says, trying to blink water out of his eyes so he can look at the slick muscles under his hands, all the skin he’s wanted to touch but couldn’t.
Eames bites his earlobe and works a broad hand down to wrap around their cocks. “Later.” He squeezes just hard enough to make Arthur gasp, tightening his good arm around Eames’s neck. “I’ll put you on your knees and finger you until you come. Then I’ll fuck you till you come again.”
Arthur moans, tilting his hips up into the slow stroke of Eames’s fist. His thighs are shaking so hard he can barely stand so he clings closer to Eames’s neck, fingers digging into wet skin.
“Would you like that, pet?” Eames murmurs, tilting his head down to kiss the rough stitches bristling down Arthur’s shoulder. “Do you want my fingers in you?”
“And your cock,” Arthur tells him, feeling the thick, hot weight of it against his own as Eames strokes them together. The words come out more desperate than Arthur ever wants to admit, but he doesn’t care anymore. They’re as safe as it’s possible to be so he can relax into it a little, let the entire fucked-up world narrow down to nothing but Eames’s body against his and the firm touch of his hand and he’s close, so fucking close. “I want your cock in me.”
The growl Eames lets out doesn’t do Arthur’s shaking legs any favours. He shoves Arthur back against the cubicle wall, grit and slimy old tile cold under his skin, breathing ragged and jerking them both faster, with more purpose. Arthur spreads his legs and arches into it, letting Eames support him with the weight of his body. “Fuck, Eames.”
Arthur can hear the low rumble of voices on the other side of the wall and he wonders vaguely if he should bite down on Eames’s neck to stop them hearing when he comes but it’s too late. He moans, loud, shuddering against Eames’s wet skin while he strokes him through it before coming a few seconds later.
Arthur watches as the water washes the smeared white splatter away, shivering through the aftershocks.
*
They dry and dress in comfortable silence, staggering their exit from the shower to avoid any unnecessary attention. Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair while he waits it out, concentrating on how good it feels to finally be clean and warm and thoroughly post-coital. It’s not a bed, it’s not waking up in the morning with someone, but it’s still nicer than the half-dressed wham-bam-thank-you-m’am he’s used to getting in supply closets or in convenient places outside.
Eames is sitting a few seats down from Cobb at the bar by the time Arthur gets there. He toys with the bottlecaps in his pocket while he decides, before walking across the dusty floor to slide onto the barstool next to Cobb.
Cobb glances at him, but if he notices the flush in his cheeks or the loose, easy stance to his limbs he’s diplomatic enough not to mention it. “Got everything ready to head home in the morning,” he says. “How about you?”
“I guess.” He looks down the bar to Eames, to the wide bulk of his shoulders as he leans on the termite-ridden wood. Arthur supposes it’s easy to say things like ‘I’ll fuck you later’ in the heat of the moment, but it’s never really that simple. Always every man for himself at the end of the day. Even Cobb, reliable as he’s been for years, is thinking of his wife and kids first. Avery might be home for Cobb, but it’s never really felt that way to Arthur. He’s got nothing tying him there.
“Actually,” Arthur says, rubbing his thumb along the stock of the shotgun. “I was thinking. About... freelancing for a while.”
Cobb puts down his mug and stares at Arthur like he’s just said he wants to turn into a ghoul. “But you hate...” he trails off, following the quick flick of Arthur’s eyes to Eames’s back. “Well. Are you sure freelancing is really such a good idea?”
Of course he’s not fucking sure. Nothing’s ever sure. “You know I can take care of myself.”
Cobb sighs, and shrugs. “You don’t need my permission, Arthur. But promise me you’ll at least-- Arthur?”
As Arthur watches, Eames gets up from the bar and walks out, corrugated iron door rattling behind him. “Thanks, Dom. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He hasn’t got far into the quiet Megaton dusk by the time Arthur catches up with him, slipping down a muddy embankment and grabbing his elbow. “Hey! Where are you going?”
“Home,” Eames snaps. “Like you are.”
“What? No, Eames, I... fuck.” Arthur scrubs his face with his hands and sucks in a breath. “I’ve always wanted to try my luck in New Vegas,” he says.
Eames spins around then. “Oh really?”
Arthur thinks about the last few days. It’s a whim, a gamble. But while you might not live long in the wasteland by making stupid mistakes, you don’t get far not taking chances, either.
“Really.” He slips down further, bumping into Eames’s hip.
Eames throws an arm around his waist to steady him. “It’s not as wild out west. More civilized. You might get bored.”
Arthur braces a hand against Eames’s chest for balance. “With the way you attract trouble? I doubt it.”
Eames grins, and Arthur does the only thing he can do.
He leans up, and kisses him.
Thank you so much to everyone who helped on this, be it by putting up with my epic QQ and supporting me even when I was dragging my feet and whining about this. So basically, thanks tweeps, thanks Lydia, thanks everyone. And special thanks to bookshop for a literal last-second beta. Now, go look at the amazing art Lucy did for this. She drew three scenes plus CHIBIS. Here, click the cute chibis to go see the extra art and tell her she is awesome, because she tells this story better than I ever could:
Rating: NC 17
Word Count: ~9,000
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: You don't live long in the Capital Wasteland by making stupid mistakes. It only takes Eames a few days on the rough road to Megaton to remind Arthur that you don't get far not taking chances, either. (Fallout 3/post-apocalyptic AU)
AN: This is the result of my i_reversebang collaboration with the ever patient, ever lovely loobeeinthesky . As most of you know, I was fucking ecstatic to get her and despite all the ups and downs and stress and WORK and real life being dicks, I've had a great time and am so glad we got the chance to do this together. Next time it will be less stressful Lucy! You and me and zombies, yeah? :3
You don’t survive long in the Capital Wasteland by making stupid mistakes.
Arthur knows this. He knows it even as he crouches down behind the rusted shell of a car, blood flowing thick and far too fast between the fingers he has clamped over his shoulder. He knows it as the harsh breathing and rough gait of the super mutant gets closer.
In his defence, the stupid mistake was Cobb’s, but that’s irrelevant now. Arthur is the one bleeding out while the behemoth stalks closer, and Arthur is the one who has to deal with it.
He hunches lower, trying to ignore the way the ground shakes with every lumbering step the behemoth takes. They should never have taken this fucking job, he thinks, as he rips open the last stimpak and jabs it into his forearm. He should have trusted his gut when Dom insisted it’d be easy, a simple in and out.
Arthur feels the drugs kicking in and winds a torn rag around the bloody gash in his shoulder, tight. Part of it is probably his fault. He’s the one who ran too fast, blind, and ended up tearing his shoulder on the twisted sheet metal and attracting the attention of the super mutant. Stupid to forget that there are far more dangerous things lurking in the wastes than asshole sell-outs who want to shoot you in the face.
He pulls the makeshift bandage tighter with his teeth and upends his pack, wincing at the sound of the behemoth's club scraping along the broken blacktop. Arthur knows he's out of ammo, but he checks anyway, because fuck it he's smarter than any bloody mutant and he sure as hell doesn't want to die this way.
"Shit," he grits out, hefting the only grenade left in his arsenal. Even if he bothered with a pip boy to do the hard work--which he doesn’t; they make you lazy and Arthur would rather be able to shoot straight on his own, thank you very much--one little grenade still wouldn’t down a super mutant. Not a behemoth.
He tightens his hand around the grenade, squeezes his eyes shut briefly with a useless prayer to a God that abandoned America a long time ago, and scrambles to his feet.
The behemoth roars when it sees him, breaking into a run, ground trembling beneath its feet.
Arthur sets his jaw, stands his ground, and throws the grenade.
The force of the explosion knocks him off his feet, debris and gore stinging his face. It takes him a few seconds to realise his ears are ringing so hard he can't hear shit.
He gets up, slowly, and blinks at the scattered remains of the behemoth. His grenade sure as hell didn’t do that.
"Watch out, sweetheart," a voice says behind him, muffled through the aftershocks still ringing in Arthur's ears. "I don't think he wanted to say hello."
Arthur turns. The owner of the voice has a cocky grin and a toothpick between his teeth, retrofitted grenade launcher slung casually over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. The scruff along his jaw does nothing to take away from the obviously handsome lines of his face.
"I'm Eames," the man says, reaching down to scratch at the ears of the dog that's pressing itself up against his legs. "This is Dogtag."
Arthur contemplates telling him that's a stupid name for a dog, but decides it wouldn't be very sporting to insult someone who just saved his life. "I'm... Arthur."
Eames looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the blood soaked rag tied around Arthur's shoulder. "Well, Arthur. I've got a safehouse just over the ridge. I can see to that," he nods his head in the direction of Arthur's shoulder, "if you like."
Arthur hesitates. Nothing comes for free in the wasteland, everybody knows that. But he's hurt, with no supplies, not even a weapon or any rad-x. It's not like he has a choice. There’s still the rendezvous to make with Cobb at the safehouse in Megaton City, and there’s no way he’s getting there without at least a bit of first aid and a fresh gun to take with him.
If Cobb even makes it there himself.
The ground suddenly seems too far away, rolling a little under Arthur’s feet, and he stumbles. “I don’t have anything to trade--”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence before the dog starts barking, circling cautiously around Eames’s legs. Watching it makes Arthur’s head swim even more.
“Shhh,” Eames says, digging his fingers into the thick fur at it’s neck. “I know, girl. Shhh.” Then he looks at Arthur again.
His eyes are blue. Nearly grey. Arthur wonders why this feels so important.
“Sun’s setting,” Eames continues. “You’re white as a sheet. I’m not going to leave you out here just because you haven’t got anything worthwhile in your pockets.”
That’s exactly what most people would do. Fuck, Arthur would do it himself, if he was in a particularly ungenerous mood. You don’t survive long in the Wasteland by being a bleeding heart, either.
“Hey?”
Arthur blinks. Eames is standing a lot closer, close enough to be reaching out to touch the blood-soaked sleeve of Arthur’s jacket.
It feels like he’s moving through molasses, but Arthur steps back. “Don’t touch me,” he snaps, self-preservation welling up strong beneath the fuzzy veil that’s falling over his consciousness. If only he still had a fucking gun. If only he didn’t take this fucking job
The ground drops out from under him.
“Easy there,” Eames says, catching an arm around his waist before he hits the ground.
*
A sharp pain in the side of Arthur’s neck jolts him awake. He opens his eyes, blinking away the gritty feeling. He’s sitting up, propped against a broken dresser on a low stool.
“Welcome back.”
Arthur glances up at Eames. He’s turning down the wick on the kerosene lamp that’s throwing shaky light around the safe house, illuminating the cracks running through the plaster at the corners and the tiny bed on the opposite side. One room, no more, beaten down by the force of time and neglect. Just like everything else in the wasteland is.
“Sorry I didn’t have any stimpaks left on me,” Eames says, forcing one of the dresser drawers open and sifting through whatever is inside. “Got another for when that one wears off though, and we should be able to fix you up in the meantime.”
Forming words hurts, but Arthur does it anyway. “You don’t have to do that.”
Eames just snorts. “I’m still going to.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, so he tries to stand up. The sleeve of his jacket is stiff with dried blood, and he wonders how long it took for Eames to drag him here. His sides hurt, too, deep pain that probably means a few bruised ribs.
“Can you walk?”
The answer on the tip of his tongue is yes. “I think so.”
Eames tucks a needle and thread between his teeth and grabs a couple of rags before sitting down on the bed. “C’mere.”
Arthur takes one careful step, two. He feels unpleasantly vulnerable, sizing up Eames carefully. He doesn’t have a gun, but he could probably take him in a fist fight if it came to that.
The pain lancing through his shoulder reminds him that he probably couldn’t. Not right now.
Once Arthur’s close enough, Eames grabs his good hand and tugs him down into the space between his legs. Arthur jerks, tamping down on the urge to lash out. Eames is helping. He’s safe. For now. The proximity still makes him twitch as Eames rests on hand gently on his hip.
“I’m going to take your jacket off, okay?” he says.
Arthur lets him peel the ruined garment off. He throws it onto the dusty floor, where Dogtag noses at it for a second before lying back down on her belly.
“You did a good job on this.”
Arthur sucks in a breath when Eames probes the wound, pulling back the ragged edges of Arthur’s shirt. The fabric sticks to his skin, bloody and dry, but he’s not going to show any more weakness than he has to. “I try," he says, gritting his teeth and cursing Cobb for landing him in this fucking situation.
“Shirt.”
Eames fingers brush over exposed skin at Arthur’s hips and he jerks at the contact, those warm fingertips sending a kick through his system more intense than any stimpak. He manages to stay still while Eames strips it off, helping Arthur lift his arm high enough.
“So,” Eames says as he wipes blood and caked dirt away from the gash. “What are you in the business of, Arthur?”
“Information.” Arthur says, short, wincing at the pain streaking down his arm to the elbow.
“Must be interesting information, to get you into binds like this.”
Arthur starts to shrug before he remembers his shoulder and bites his lip to stop himself making a sound. “You survive out here. Don’t pretend you don’t know what information can be worth.”
“Touche.”
There’s silence except for the subtle hiss of the lamp for a few minutes. Dogtag leaps up onto the bed, and Eames shifts forward a little to make room for her, cradling Arthur more closely. He can’t shift away without falling off the bed, so Arthur grits his teeth and deals with it. Even though the press of Eames’s inner thighs against his legs makes him want things that are completely out of the fucking question.
“Stitching now,” Eames says finally. “Ready?”
Arthur takes a deep breath, and nods.
The pain of the needle passing through flesh is sharper than the ache of the wound, cleaner somehow. Eames’s fingers are thick and warm where they pinch the skin together, shifting along the length of the gash and placing stitches at even intervals. Arthur leans forward and breathes through it.
By the time the last stitch is tugged into place Arthur’s head is nodding down towards his chest. He needs rest, proper rest, but the idea of sleeping around a stranger makes his gut twist uneasily, even though Eames could easily have abandoned him, or shanked him, or done anything he wanted to him while he was unconscious. He forces his eyes to stay open anyway, staring at the buckled floor while Eames winds a wide bandage around his ribs. Arthur can feel his breath on the back of his neck, and he shivers as those broad palms skim down his sides to the dip of his hips.
“There,” Eames says, tucking the end of the bandage in. “It’s not much, but it should hold you together long enough to get where you’re going.”
“Megaton,” Arthur offers without really thinking, sinking back into the muscled warmth behind him. “Going to Megaton.”
“You’re in luck then. So am I.”
*
Arthur wakes up with a face full of musty pillow and warm fur under one hand. Dogtag shifts when he does, making an affronted noise when he scrambles to sit up.
He doesn’t even want to think about how much rad could be in that pillow.
The soft sound of Billie Holiday drifting from the radio set on top of the dresser is distracting enough, especially when Eames is humming along under his breath, picking up a couple of lyrics about easy living every now and again as he sorts through a pile of clothes. He smiles when he notices Arthur. “Morning. I was just seeing if I couldn’t find something for you.”
Eames throws a pile of clothes at him and Arthur only just manages to catch it with one hand. There’s a t-shirt and a worn jacket that looks warmer than his old one, along with a checked neckerchief. He struggles into the t-shirt. “Thanks.”
“So you’re still up for it?” Eames asks, tugging open the bottom drawer of the broken dresser.
Arthur watches as he pulls out a couple of handguns, ammo, some really nice shock grenades that he wouldn’t mind having a few of himself. “Up for what?”
“Megaton. You said you’ll go with me.”
Arthur doesn’t remember that at all. What he does remember is warm hands and hard muscles curled around him as he slept, and those definitely didn’t belong to Dogtag. He shifts uncomfortably, craning his neck to see when Eames kicks the drawer shut and jimmies up one of the floorboards instead. “I... did I.”
“Yeah. And a good thing too, thought I’d have to leave all this extra stuff behind. Don’t want to get weighed down, y’know?” He lifts out another few handguns, before bending over and reaching deep into the gap.
The barrel of the shotgun comes first, sleek and untarnished, glinting in the morning light. Someone’s obviously taken a lot of care with it, right down to the glossy black stock. Arthur’s only seen weapons so well-maintained a few times in his life, and most of the time they’re his.
Instead of wincing at the memory of dropping his precious glocks, he tips his head at the shotgun. “That’s a nice gun.”
“Isn’t she just,” Eames strokes the barrel. “You can carry her, and these ones here. Just pass them to me if I need them.”
Arthur swallows a snort. As if he’d hand that over if there was a chance he could fire it himself. “Sure,” he says, mustering a smile.
It drops as soon as Eames turns back to packing his duffle bag. Sure, it’s probably a really stupid idea to try and make it all the way to Megaton on his own, even if Eames gives him supplies. That doesn’t mean Arthur has to like this.
Dogtag growls again and jumps down off the bed when Arthur gingerly works the jacket on over his injured arm. It’s too big through the shoulders, but just as warm as it looks once Arthur zips it up.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, boots hit the floor with a solid thud.
He hopes he isn’t going to live to regret this.
*
“New Vegas,” Eames says, throwing the stick for Dogtag again as they walk. Arthur watches as she scrabbles on the barren dirt, darting away into the rubble. “I hear there’s plenty to do there for someone who’s willing to work for it. And I feel like I’ve done all there is to do around here, y’know?”
Arthur nods. The good thing about Eames, he’s realised over the last couple of days, is that he’s happy to just talk. He never presses for more than a nod or the occasional affirmation, never expects Arthur to offer the same information in return. It’s nice in a way travelling with Cobb never is.
Arthur tries not to think too hard about that.
“I need to take a piss,” he says, adjusting the loose sling supporting his left arm. “I’ll be right back.”
Eames nods in affirmation.
The ruins are quiet except for the whistle of the wind through the ragged gaps, but Arthur keeps glancing around anyway, just to be safe. He’s zipping up his fly when the smooth blue curve on a partially obscured wall catches his eye. Slowly, fingers curled around the butt of the pistol in his thigh holster, he edges closer. As he slinks further to the right the rest of the graffiti comes into sight. The blue curve is part of circle surrounding a crudely drawn 21.
Arthur’s heart slams into his throat and he turns back, trying even harder to be silent.
Eames is rubbing behind Dogtag’s ears, cooing at her with a stupid grin on his face that shouldn’t be nearly as endearing as it is. He looks up when Arthur approaches.
“There are raiders around here,” Arthur says, hushed even though they haven’t seen any evidence of any living things except scrubby bushes and diseased dogs since they started out on their journey.
“Fuck. There weren’t any around here last time I passed through.” Eames frowns and rakes a hand through his hair. “Not like we can do anything about it. Stay quiet, stay low, move as fast as we can and hope they don’t notice us.”
At first Arthur is worried Dogtag will draw too much attention to them, bounding around and racing off to fetch things, but she only butts her head up against Eames’s hand once with the stick in her mouth and a single ‘no’ from him has her sticking so close to his legs that it looks like she should be tripping him.
They walk in silence for a few more hours. Most of the noisy terrain is easily avoidable if they’re careful where they step, but Arthur still holds his breath at every twig snap and squeak of gravel.
In the end, though, the first shot comes out of nowhere.
“Fuck,” Arthur says, one second after Eames does when the bullet hits the ground beside them in an explosion of dirt.
“Over there,” Eames points to a low wall. “Get down there.”
The gunshots echo through the hollow ruins, making it impossible to pinpoint a direction of fire, but the raiders obviously know where they’re hiding. Arthur flinches as another bullet hits the crumbling stone beside him. “There’s at least five of them.”
“At least,” Eames agrees. “Just keep your head down, I’ll take care of it.”
Arthur scowls but does as he’s told. There’s always the chance that the raiders will get bored and wander off if they don’t make themselves an obvious target. He tucks his back closer to the wall while Eames lines up his first shot. His stance is textbook-perfect down to the arch of his finger on the trigger, and Arthur would say he’s impressed if not for the bullets ricocheting around them.
Eames returns six shots, ignoring the drifting dust and stone shrapnel, before crouching back down. “I think I got one, but I can’t get a clean lock with the VATS.”
Fucking VATS, stopping people from learning to shoot straight on their own. “Do you think you can get them with a smoke grenade?”
“Sure, maybe.”
“No maybes, Eames, can you throw the fucking grenade or not?” He’d do it himself, but he’s not sure he can throw straight without the counter balance from his left arm.
Eames gives a sharp nod. “But what are you... no.”
Arthur ignores him, flicking the safety on the shotgun off. “You throw the grenade, I’ll shoot the raiders.”
Another bullet hits the edge of the wall and Eames blinks against the dust. “Even if I make my shot, you won’t make yours.”
“Do it, and watch me,” Arthur snaps. “Or let them wear us down.”
Eames leans close, holding up the grenade between them with a hard glint in his eyes. It’s the kind of look Arthur expects to see in the eyes of someone who survives the wasteland on their own. “Don’t fuck this up, Arthur,” he warns, a second before he leans up and throws the grenade in a long arc.
The explosion vibrates through the low wall along with the sound of the raiders yelling and Dogtag growling beside Eames. Arthur doesn’t wait before scrambling up. Dust still hangs in the air over the raiders’ vantage spot, but he can see the shadowy silhouettes beneath the cover. He nestles the stock of the shotgun in against his good shoulder, steadying it, before pulling the trigger. The recoil kicks through him like an electric shock but he shifts, steadies, fires again. A muzzle flashes in the dust cloud but the bullet goes wide and Arthur gets off the last shot before dropping back down.
He lets his head fall back against the wall for a second before propping the shotgun between his legs. It’s hot from the discharge, seeping through his pants and warming his thighs as he digs three more shells from his pocket and slams them into place.
When he looks up, pulling back the bolt with a satisfying shnick, Eames is staring at him. “What?”
“Can you show me how to do that?”
Before Arthur can answer Dogtag leaps up barking. The question dies on his lips when Eames grabs his handgun and drags the hammer back in one smooth motion, levelling it at Arthur’s face. For one disgusting, gut-wrenching second Arthur thinks he’s about to take a bullet in the forehead, but Eames’s aim swings higher, two shots skimming close enough to the top of Arthur’s head for him to feel the air move.
There’s a heavy thud behind him. A dead raider lies crumpled in the dirt, blood oozing from the bullet wounds in his head and shrapnel that cut through his mismatched body armour.
Arthur looks back at Eames. “With reflexes like that? I can teach you to do anything.”
Eames grins, smug. “My aim isn’t so bad afterall, is it.” He slumps back against the wall, digging in his inner pocket for a couple of cigarettes.
Arthur watches him strike the match on the stone. “We shouldn’t sit here, there might be-“
“Smoke?” Eames says, taking the lit cigarette from his lips and holding it out to Arthur.
It really is a stupid idea. There’s a corpse cooling beside them and there’s no guarantee they killed all the other raiders. But as the rush of adrenaline worms through his system, and Eames grins at him like that, all crooked teeth and one quirked eyebrow, Arthur figures there’s time, so he holds out his hand to take the cigarette.
He feels the slight moisture of Eames’s mouth against his lips as he inhales, and the sensation curls around the adrenaline, a rush of feeling to go with the warmth of the shotgun propped between his splayed legs.
Eames is staring at him again when he opens his eyes. “What?” he repeats.
“Nothing,” Eames says nonchalantly, petting Dogtag as he blows smoke into the dusty air. “Just thinking that maybe you didn’t need me after all.”
Maybe it’s true. Arthur probably wouldn’t have attracted the raiders at all, if he was by himself. But somehow, he’s not really sorry at all. “I didn’t.”
“That was meant to be a compliment.”
Arthur scrubs out the cigarette butt in the dirt before carefully swinging the shotgun back up onto his good shoulder. “I know.”
*
Dusk turns far too quickly into full night once they get moving again. The landscape is quiet in the milky moonlight, far more quiet than the ruins of D.C or Megaton itself.
The silence makes Arthur feel exposed. “We should have stopped at the rubble back there. It would have been a good place to hole up for the night.”
Just ahead, Eames stops to shift the weight of his pack. “Not as good as where we’re going. An actual bed, a door with a sturdy lock… way better than rubble. You’ll see.”
It’s impossible not to see when they reach the edge of the scrapyard, rusted cranes looming like some breed of mutated beast. Junk and twisted car bodies scatter the gravel and Arthur wonders how they even got here. He hasn’t exactly seen one running before.
Dogtag circles as they approach the shack standing just inside the broken chain-link gate. Arthur lets his fingers curl around the shoulder strap of the shotgun, glancing around. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“I’ve stayed here before,” Eames says, shouldering his own gun and reaching for the door. “Shit.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
Eames rattles the solid lock. “No. Bugger it. You can’t pick it, can you?”
“I could. With a bullet.”
“Too much noise.” Eames stares at it. “I guess we have to go back. Wouldn’t want to stay out in the open here in case any more raiders come wandering through. Took out a super mutant just over the ridge there once too.”
Walking all the way back in the dark doesn’t sound like a great plan, either. “I guess.” Arthur looks around again. “Or we could sleep in there,” he says, pointing to the intact car wedged between a pile of scrap and the chain-link.
“You’re pretty quick, aren’t you.”
Arthur just snorts and flexes his sore shoulder. It’s not going to be comfortable, but then again sleeping outside the relative safety of a settlement never is. “I’m tired. Get in the fucking car.”
Eames climbs up the scrap first, wiping thick dust from the windshield with his sleeve. “Looks like someone beat us to it.”
The climb is a little harder for Arthur, with one arm still bound up, but he makes it up the pile and leans shamelessly on Eames. “Oh.” The skeleton slumped over the steering wheel looks old, at least, dull white bone picked clean. “Well, the driver’s seat is uncomfortable anyway.”
Eames laughs and shifts along, wrenching the passenger door open as he whistles. “Here, girl.”
Dogtag bounds easily over the scrap and into the car. Then Eames looks up at Arthur, holding out a hand. “Come on then, love. Let’s get you tucked in.”
Arthur freezes, half-way to taking Eames’s hand for balance. It’s not the first time Eames has called him something ridiculous; he got over within the first couple of hours. But it’s different when they’re actually about to spend the night so close, breathing the same air and kicking each other in their sleep.
The pain-hazy memory of the night in the safehouse nags at him, but Arthur shoves it away and grabs Eames’s wrist.
Dogtag is already curled up on the front passenger seat, gnawing on one of the skeleton’s armbones, so Arthur slides along the dusty seat until his back is up against the door. Then he slips the shotgun off and lays it down on the floor, throwing down his bag and ammo along with it.
“Stop that.” Eames swats at Dogtag once the car door is shut.
Arthur ignores them both, trying to find the most comfortable way to lean against the door while still giving Eames some space for his legs.
“What are you doing?” Eames asks.
“Getting comfortable,” Arthur replies, shifting again.
“Don’t be daft. You’ll never get any sleep like that.” He lies down, nudging Arthur with his boot until he shifts forward to make space. “Here,” he says finally, tapping the narrow space between his body and the edge of the seat.
Arthur hesitates before carefully slipping into the gap, pressed against Eames from ankle to shoulder to stop from rolling off.
Eames slings his arm over Arthur’s waist. “Sorry,” he says, in a way that makes it obvious he’s not really sorry at all. “It’s going to get a bit cosy.”
There’s not really anything Arthur can say to that. Just concentrating on breathing is hard enough. The air is musty with old decay and rusting steel, so he focuses on that, on drawing the smell of it down into his lungs. It’s better than the hyper-awareness sparking up his spine where Eames is spooned against him, the growing warmth of Eames’s broad hand resting casually across his belly.
He closes his eyes. It should be easy to sleep, warm and comfortable, with another body curled around his. All he can think about, though, is how long it’s been since anyone’s touched him unless they were trying to kill him. Not since the last job they pulled for the Brotherhood, when he’d let that Paladin fuck him up against a crumbling wall. It was quick and dirty, which was fine; the Paladin had muscle and he knew how to use it. But everything is quick and dirty these days, and if he’s honest with himself, Arthur would much rather have someone reliable with a good trigger finger who’s willing to keep him warm on cold wasteland nights.
He squirms against Eames’s bulk. Of course, random strangers, no matter how wide their shoulders or precise their trigger fingers, should probably never be considered in those terms.
“Arthur,” Eames whispers against the back of Arthur’s neck, and the warm brush of his lips is enough to make Arthur decide common sense can get fucked. “If you don’t stay still...”
“If I don’t stay still, what?”
Eames’s fingers splay more firmly across Arthur’s stomach, holding him still as he tilts his hips up. “That.”
There’s nothing ambiguous about the hardness digging in to the curve of his ass, and it’s embarrassing how quickly Arthur arches back into it. The tips of Eames’s fingers dig in just below his ribs, hard enough to bring the bruised ache back to the surface, but the pain is nothing compared to the feel of Eames pulling him even closer and licking the very edge of his ear. “This is happening, then,” Arthur says, grabbing Eames’s hand and shoving it down towards the hem of his shirt.
“Yeah.” He shifts his grip and lifts Arthur like he weighs nothing, but it’s still an awkward few seconds as they squirm between positions. “I guess it is.”
Arthur looks down at Eames. His stubble is close to being more of a beard than just scruff now, and Arthur wants to feel it scrape the inside of his thighs. “Okay,” he whispers, and leans down to kiss him.
His shoulder is throbbing within a few seconds, but it’s easy to ignore with Eames’s tongue in his mouth, Eames’s rough fingertips edging under his shirt and jacket to drag them up just high enough to expose the dip of his lower back.
“Fuck,” Arthur breathes, shifting his weight until the solid shape of Eames’s thigh is pressing between his legs. “Eames, I just...” he trails off with a groan when Eames loops his fingers through Arthur’s belt and tugs him down, hard.
“Just what?” he says, crooking his knee up a little to give Arthur something more to ride.
Arthur bites his lip to keep the cry in. He just wants to come. It’s been so long, too fucking long, and Eames is right here and warm and more than willing if the bulge in his pants is anything to go by. “Just... shut up.”
Eames does, sucking on Arthur’s neck instead and slipping a hand down into his pants to squeeze his ass, hot skin against skin.
Arthur’s thighs are already trembling with the desperation of it, the thick rush of blood in his ears. Just a little more skin, a hand on his cock...
He sucks on Eames’s lower lip just to hear him whimper, and works a hand between them to where Eames’s belt buckle is digging into his stomach with each rhythmic grind of their hips. His sling slips down as he reaches for it, the metal warm beneath his fingers.
The soft sound of something touching the chain-link fence cuts into his awareness.
Arthur has never hated the Capital Wasteland more than he does in that instant. He lifts his head, cock still throbbing against the thick spread of Eames’s thigh between his legs, and presses a finger to Eames’s lips. “Did you hear that?”
Surprisingly it’s a lot easier to ignore how close he is to coming in his pants than it is to ignore the way Eames sucks the tips of his fingers into his mouth. In another place, another time, Arthur’s pretty sure he could come just from those slick lips around his fingers. Right now though... he shivers. “No, seriously,” he says, hips stuttering downwards as he watches Eames suck his fingers in a little bit further. “I think--”
The chain-link fence rattles again, closer this time, and Eames’s eyes fly open. They stare at each other for a second, years and years of ingrained instinct warring with the desire to just keep rutting against each other until they’re nothing but a sticky, satiated tangle of half-dressed limbs sharing the back seat of the car.
Instinct wins and their hands collide as they both reach for their guns at the same time. “Ow, fuck,” Arthur hisses, jerking his shoulder as he scrambles up.
“Careful, love.” Eames leans across and tucks another handful of shells into Arthur’s jacket pocket. “It’s probably just raiders. Nothing to worry about.”
The optimism in his tone suggests he’s just as keen to get rid of their company and pick up where they left off as Arthur is. Arthur slips his sling back up while he peers out through the thick haze of dust coating the window. “I can’t see anything.”
“I’ll take point,” Eames says, clicking his fingers at Dogtag and opening the door slowly, carefully.
Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it again, and nods.
It’s harder to get out of the car quietly than it was to get in. Eames uses the door for cover to peek over while Dogtag slinks ahead, belly low to the ground. Arthur takes a few extra seconds to shake the syrupy feeling of imminent orgasm, and shoulders the shotgun.
There’s an explosion of barks and shouts by the gate, then silence.
“Fuck,” Eames growls, crouching down. “Brotherhood Outcasts.”
Arthur frowns. “I’ve done deals with the Outcasts before. They’re pretty reasonable.”
“Arthur,” Eames says, pulling his second pistol from its holster. “If they catch you with me, they will cut out your heart and feed it to their robots.”
There’s a story in that, obviously, but Arthur just nods.
“We’ll sneak out over there,” Eames points. “Use the car and the scrapheap for cover.”
It’s darker on the other side of the heap and Eames makes it down first, holding out his hand again to steady Arthur on the last hop down. This time he takes it without hesitation.
“Who’s there?”
They both turn around to face the Outcast standing behind them, his power armour humming.
“Run,” Eames hisses, just as the Outcast lifts his plasma rifle and shouts, “You.”
Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice and darts away just in time to feel the air turn melting hot behind him.
He breaks into a sprint, zig zagging as much to avoid the junk scattered about the yard as to throw off any more shots. The shotgun bangs against his hip with every step until the torn chain link comes into view ahead of them. Dogtag gallops past him, leaping easily through the gap. Arthur doesn’t go as easy, catching his sleeve on the ragged edges and hearing it rip, loud in the cold night air.
Eames is just behind him by the time he scrambles through, along with the shouts and plasma bolts of the Outcasts.
“Fuck. I’m stuck.”
Arthur doesn’t think as he stops, turns, grabs Eames’s collar and pulls. The sound of fabric tearing splits the air again. Arthur keeps pulling, cursing Eames’s shoulders for the first time since he met him, ignoring the accompanying tear of flesh and warm trickle of blood down his hands. “Come on.”
One more pull and Eames staggers through the gap, taking off at a run. Arthur follows this time and doesn’t look back, cold air burning his lungs, as the sounds of the Outcasts fade behind them.
*
“You’re causing me more trouble than Cobb did,” Arthur says, wiping alcohol over the gashes in Eames’s arms.
“Ah, but at least I’m not leaving you high and dry afterwards, am I, darling.”
Arthur doesn’t have an answer for that. He adjusts his sling and shifts to Eames’s other side, the flickering firelight catching on the bulky musculature exposed by his worn tank top. Normally Arthur would be more appreciative, but considering those wide shoulders just almost got them killed, he thinks better of it. He lifts the rag to the cut on Eames’s jaw and watches as he flinches the tiniest bit before steadying himself.
There are other wounds striking across his skin, old scars mixed in with the tattoos winding over his biceps. Arthur figures those cuts probably have explanations of stupidity too. “So are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
Eames shrugs, taking a swig from the same bottle of moonshine Arthur has been using to clean him up. “The Outcasts and I haven’t always seen eye to eye on... well. A lot of things.”
“Obviously.”
Dogtag trots back into the little broken stone corner they’ve found to shelter next to for the night, curling up next to Eames with a wide yawn. He digs his fingers into the ruff of fur at her neck. “Nothing going on out there girl?”
If there is, there would have been barking. Arthur finishes cleaning up the gashes before sitting down next to Eames, back up against the wall.
He ignores the way their knees touch. That particular ship has sailed. At least for tonight.
“You know,” Eames says, passing him the bottle. “You’re not a bad man to have around in a bind, Arthur.”
“Well, that’s my job. Being useful in a bind.” He takes a long swallow. “I’ll take first watch.”
“Not going to complain.” Eames leans for his bag, digging through it for a clean shirt to pull on before rolling up his jacket for a makeshift pillow. “Wake me up in a couple of hours. I’ll be pissed if you don’t.”
“Sure,” Arthur says, letting his feet shift closer to the warmth of Eames’s until they’re touching.
Out in the distance, over the scrubby, ruin-ridden flats, the lights of Megaton flicker uncertainly.
It’s going to be a long walk in the morning.
*
The gates of Megaton loom in the afternoon light, rusted jet plane wings and the one giant turbine squeaking as it turns in the breeze.
“I can find my way from here,” Arthur says, shifting the shotgun on his shoulder.
“I’ll walk with you. Wouldn’t want to get you all the way here only to find out you got shanked on the way to your rendezvous.”
He considers saying no. But he’d rather have Eames’s company than the pride of going it alone, so he nods.
Megaton’s no different than any other time Arthur has been there. It’s little more than corrugated iron tacked together with hopes and dreams and pure human determination, all the neat little ramps and runways to lift the makeshift city that bit higher out of the mud and piles of scrap.
Arthur’s half expecting Eames to say good bye when they reach the common house, but he just tells Dogtag to stay just outside the door.
An ugly part of Arthur wonders if he’ll even care if Cobb didn’t make it.
He doesn’t have to find out though, because the first thing he sees when he swings open the door is Cobb lounging on one of the bunks. He lowers the tattered book he’s reading at the sound of the door, grinning when he realises who it is. “Arthur!” he says, dropping the book and crossing the room in a couple of strides. “I was getting worried. Another day and I would have gone without you.”
“As if a minor fuck up like that could stop me.”
“And who’s this?’
Arthur glances back over his shoulder, where Eames is still standing. He steps forward, holding out a hand for Cobb. “Eames. I helped Arthur out of the bind you left him in.”
Eames is smiling when he says it, but the silence that comes after the words isn’t any less awkward. Cobb clears his throat. “If it’s compensation for the trouble you want...” he digs in his pocket for a second, pulling out a drawstring bang with the distinct tinny rattle of bottlecaps.
“What? Oh no.” Eames holds up his hands. “Arthur more than paid his way with good company and a better aim. I just wanted to make sure he got where he needed to be.”
Arthur feels Eames’s hand splay over the small of his back, solid and comforting.
“Now I have, I really must be off.”
Rather than think too hard about the fact he doesn’t want him to leave, Arthur fumbles with the shotgun strap. “Don’t forget this.”
Eames lifts his hand to Arthur’s shoulder, holding the strap down. “Nah. You keep it. You’re better with it than I am anyway.” He stares at Arthur for a second, and Arthur wonders what he’s trying to tell him with his eyes. “Safe travels.”
Then he’s touching two fingers to his forehead in a loose salute before turning on his heel and striding off, Dogtag bounding along beside him.
The finality of it twists something inside Arthur, and it isn’t until Cobb closes the door that he blinks and settles back into reality.
“Seems like you got lucky,” Cobb says, leading the way upstairs to the shared kitchen and living space.
“Yeah.” Not as lucky as he might have liked, really, but luckier than he had any right to expect out there in the middle of nowhere.
“We got lucky too. The information on Fischer came through, so we can start heading home tomorrow. Saito will fix it for us.”
Arthur does smile then. “That almost makes my busted shoulder worth it.”
But as he tries to listen to Cobb chatter about finally seeing his children again, all Arthur can think about is a crooked smile and big, warm hands against the curve of his spine.
*
He’s in the common house shower room preparing to scrub days of ground-in dust and grime and blood off his skin when the familiar voice makes him startle, one hand going for his pistol, the other to secure the towel around his waist.
“Cobb said I could find you in here,” Eames says, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot me just because you don’t need me any more.”
Arthur lowers the pistol slowly but his heart doesn’t stop pounding, as the possible reasons Eames might have for intruding on his shower, for coming back at all, start running through his head in vivid fantasy detail. “What do you want?”
Eames tilts his head. “I thought that’d be pretty obvious, love.”
“You didn’t seem interested in sticking around before.” It’s the truth, and Arthur’s had all afternoon to smart over it.
“I had something a little bit... well. Something that had the potential to explode in a very, very messy way if I didn’t deal with it right then.”
“Did you now.” Arthur sets the pistol down on the bench, skin already tingling in anticipation.
“I did. Do you know what else I did?”
Arthur turns back around to see Eames nonchalantly stripping his shirt off, tossing it onto the bench over the pistol, tattoos and cuts and solid planes of muscle standing out under the stark fluorescent light like they hadn’t under the dull flames. “What did you do?” He licks his lips as Eames’s hands drop to his fly.
“I locked that door behind me,” he says, kicking his pants in the general direction of the bench.
Arthur looks him up and down. Even completely naked he’s imposing, broad, thick; coarse hair Arthur wants to touch.
“Have you had a shower yet?” He asks, shifting his attention from the hard jut of Eames’s cock back up to his eyes.
“No.”
Slowly, deliberately, Arthur throws his towel aside and steps into the cubicle, turning the taps right up so the water sputters dark brown for a second before relaxing into a clear stream. “You should join me then. Fresh water is a valuable resource, you know.”
Eames was already moving before Arthur finished talking, crowding in behind him with hands wrapped firmly around his hips. It’s all the pure skin contact he wanted, has wanted, and Arthur gasps under the cool water and the touch.
Then Eames is turning him around, handling him like he’s nothing but a doll, pulling him in close.
“I want you to fuck me,” Arthur says, trying to blink water out of his eyes so he can look at the slick muscles under his hands, all the skin he’s wanted to touch but couldn’t.
Eames bites his earlobe and works a broad hand down to wrap around their cocks. “Later.” He squeezes just hard enough to make Arthur gasp, tightening his good arm around Eames’s neck. “I’ll put you on your knees and finger you until you come. Then I’ll fuck you till you come again.”
Arthur moans, tilting his hips up into the slow stroke of Eames’s fist. His thighs are shaking so hard he can barely stand so he clings closer to Eames’s neck, fingers digging into wet skin.
“Would you like that, pet?” Eames murmurs, tilting his head down to kiss the rough stitches bristling down Arthur’s shoulder. “Do you want my fingers in you?”
“And your cock,” Arthur tells him, feeling the thick, hot weight of it against his own as Eames strokes them together. The words come out more desperate than Arthur ever wants to admit, but he doesn’t care anymore. They’re as safe as it’s possible to be so he can relax into it a little, let the entire fucked-up world narrow down to nothing but Eames’s body against his and the firm touch of his hand and he’s close, so fucking close. “I want your cock in me.”
The growl Eames lets out doesn’t do Arthur’s shaking legs any favours. He shoves Arthur back against the cubicle wall, grit and slimy old tile cold under his skin, breathing ragged and jerking them both faster, with more purpose. Arthur spreads his legs and arches into it, letting Eames support him with the weight of his body. “Fuck, Eames.”
Arthur can hear the low rumble of voices on the other side of the wall and he wonders vaguely if he should bite down on Eames’s neck to stop them hearing when he comes but it’s too late. He moans, loud, shuddering against Eames’s wet skin while he strokes him through it before coming a few seconds later.
Arthur watches as the water washes the smeared white splatter away, shivering through the aftershocks.
*
They dry and dress in comfortable silence, staggering their exit from the shower to avoid any unnecessary attention. Arthur rakes his fingers through his hair while he waits it out, concentrating on how good it feels to finally be clean and warm and thoroughly post-coital. It’s not a bed, it’s not waking up in the morning with someone, but it’s still nicer than the half-dressed wham-bam-thank-you-m’am he’s used to getting in supply closets or in convenient places outside.
Eames is sitting a few seats down from Cobb at the bar by the time Arthur gets there. He toys with the bottlecaps in his pocket while he decides, before walking across the dusty floor to slide onto the barstool next to Cobb.
Cobb glances at him, but if he notices the flush in his cheeks or the loose, easy stance to his limbs he’s diplomatic enough not to mention it. “Got everything ready to head home in the morning,” he says. “How about you?”
“I guess.” He looks down the bar to Eames, to the wide bulk of his shoulders as he leans on the termite-ridden wood. Arthur supposes it’s easy to say things like ‘I’ll fuck you later’ in the heat of the moment, but it’s never really that simple. Always every man for himself at the end of the day. Even Cobb, reliable as he’s been for years, is thinking of his wife and kids first. Avery might be home for Cobb, but it’s never really felt that way to Arthur. He’s got nothing tying him there.
“Actually,” Arthur says, rubbing his thumb along the stock of the shotgun. “I was thinking. About... freelancing for a while.”
Cobb puts down his mug and stares at Arthur like he’s just said he wants to turn into a ghoul. “But you hate...” he trails off, following the quick flick of Arthur’s eyes to Eames’s back. “Well. Are you sure freelancing is really such a good idea?”
Of course he’s not fucking sure. Nothing’s ever sure. “You know I can take care of myself.”
Cobb sighs, and shrugs. “You don’t need my permission, Arthur. But promise me you’ll at least-- Arthur?”
As Arthur watches, Eames gets up from the bar and walks out, corrugated iron door rattling behind him. “Thanks, Dom. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He hasn’t got far into the quiet Megaton dusk by the time Arthur catches up with him, slipping down a muddy embankment and grabbing his elbow. “Hey! Where are you going?”
“Home,” Eames snaps. “Like you are.”
“What? No, Eames, I... fuck.” Arthur scrubs his face with his hands and sucks in a breath. “I’ve always wanted to try my luck in New Vegas,” he says.
Eames spins around then. “Oh really?”
Arthur thinks about the last few days. It’s a whim, a gamble. But while you might not live long in the wasteland by making stupid mistakes, you don’t get far not taking chances, either.
“Really.” He slips down further, bumping into Eames’s hip.
Eames throws an arm around his waist to steady him. “It’s not as wild out west. More civilized. You might get bored.”
Arthur braces a hand against Eames’s chest for balance. “With the way you attract trouble? I doubt it.”
Eames grins, and Arthur does the only thing he can do.
He leans up, and kisses him.
Thank you so much to everyone who helped on this, be it by putting up with my epic QQ and supporting me even when I was dragging my feet and whining about this. So basically, thanks tweeps, thanks Lydia, thanks everyone. And special thanks to bookshop for a literal last-second beta. Now, go look at the amazing art Lucy did for this. She drew three scenes plus CHIBIS. Here, click the cute chibis to go see the extra art and tell her she is awesome, because she tells this story better than I ever could: