[fic]: can't buy this sort of happiness
Title: Can't Buy This Sort of Happiness
Author: knowmydark
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 3,225.
Genre: Romance/Crack.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Eames orders a mail-order bride, but instead he gets an Arthur. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: This is not a break of my hiatus, this is just... a break of my hiatus. First ever inception_kink fill I've done! (For this prompt.) So much crack and ridiculousness, I don't even.
Please don’t forget to comment!
--
Can't Buy This Sort of Happiness
--
[This work has been translated into Chinese by micorom, and into Russian by lewd_prude, if you would prefer either of those over the original English below.]
--
“Listen,” Ariadne says.
Eames is listening. It’s exceptionally difficult not to listen when someone is dragging you into the house by your ear, especially if that someone is significantly shorter than you.
“You,” Ariadne says, “are going to get married.”
“But Ari,” Eames protests, “I’m too young to get married. I’m only twenty-six. I haven’t made enough ill-advised life choices or slept with enough people to qualify for marriage.”
Ariadne ignores him. This is standard procedure.
“There is butter all over my fridge,” says Ariadne.
“I was trying to make pancakes,” Eames explains.
“There is laundry all over my living room,” says Ariadne.
“I swear at least twenty percent of it is clean,” says Eames.
“There are suspicious stains all over the couch,” says Ariadne.
“Hey!” Eames exclaims and holds up his palms. This is not as easy a movement as one might expect it to be, seeing as Ariadne still has yet to let go of his ear. “I have a Y chromosome! It’s not my fault! I have to be allowed to masturbate somewhere!”
Cobb sticks his head out of Ariadne’s study. “Eames, I’m disappointed in you. The couch is zero points for creativity. Or hygiene. Don’t you have to sleep on it?”
“It’s alright,” says Eames. “I drape a sheet over it.”
“It’s not alright,” yells Ariadne. “That’s Italian silk, Eames.”
“It’s a couch,” Eames yells back. “You sit on it, Ari.”
Ariadne twists her thumbnail in. Eames yelps. Cobb makes a hasty retreat.
“You,” Ariadne says again, “are going to get married so you can get out of my flat.”
“Over my dead body, darling,” Eames says.
Ariadne scowls. “I’m not above that, actually.”
“You’re so cruel,” Eames says. “Mum was wrong about you. I always knew you were a closet psychopath.”
“With a brother like you,” Ariadne points out, “it’s hard not to resort to homicide.”
--
“I’ve already done it,” Ariadne says to Cobb at breakfast the next morning.
Eames lumbers in from the living room just in time to catch the tail end of that statement.
“I hope you disposed of the body,” Eames says and sits down to crack open the raspberry jam.
“You do know that’s disgusting, don’t you,” Cobb says. “Putting jam straight into your tea.”
“Can’t be as disgusting as coffee,” Eames says.
Cobb eyes his espresso and gives Eames a glare. Or a squint. Eames finds it hard to tell, nowadays.
“Don’t be stupid, Eames,” Ariadne says. “I haven’t done anything illegal. I haven’t killed anyone.”
“Spit it out, then,” Eames says.
“I’ve bought you a wife.”
Eames does spit it out. All his tea, that is. The result is Cobb with a sodden shirtfront and a thoroughly unamused look on his face.
“You can’t just buy me a wife,” Eames says.
“Yes, I can,” says Ariadne. “In fact, I have.”
“That’s illegal,” Eames says.
“You steal cars,” Cobb says.
“It’s my job,” Eames says indignantly. “I’m satisfying a consumer demand. I’m helping to reverse the financial crisis by upping the amount of cash flow and trade.”
Cobb squints. “That’s what you think you’re doing. But that’s not exactly true, is it?”
“Look,” says Eames. “This is a domestic disagreement. Just because you’re dating my sister right now doesn’t mean you take her side in arguments.”
“But I’m here for an important reason,” says Cobb. “You see, Eames, I specialise in a very specific type of security - subornative security. I’m here to protect you in the event that someone tries to corrupt your notion of free enterprise through perjury. Eames, you are not. Safe. Here.”
There’s a pause.
“No, I’m not,” Eames says finally. “My sister’s just bought me a mail-order bride. There are so, so many things wrong with that.”
Ariadne’s face turns dangerous. Chernobyl could not have been more terrifying.
“I’m doing you a favour,” Ariadne says. “Now you’ll have someone to iron your shirts.”
“I already have someone to iron my shirts.”
“Someone that isn’t me,” Ariadne says.
“Now you’re just being sexist,” Eames says. “Getting married just to have someone to iron your shirts is a clear example of objectifying women. You’re a woman, Ariadne. You shouldn’t degrade your own sex like that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cobb says.
“How doesn’t it matter?” Eames says.
“Because you’ll be together,” Cobb says and squints.
“I’m ninety percent sure that didn’t make sense,” says Eames. “And anyway, what if I don’t even like her? I don’t want to have to send her back. Postal rates are expensive nowadays.”
“Oh, you’ll like him,” Ariadne says.
“You can’t be sure that I’ll like - ”
Eames stops. His brain catches up to his mouth.
“Wait. Him?”
--
“Hi,” the man on the doorstep says. “I believe you placed an order for me?”
“Sorry,” says Eames. “I don’t prey on children. But there’s a Catholic church just down the street.”
The man bristles.
“I’m twenty-five,” he says.
“You don’t look it,” says Eames. “Do you have some ID?”
“If we’re going to be married,” the man points out, “I think we should learn to trust each other. Trust is necessary in a healthy relationship.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Eames says. “It’s just that I don’t trust my sister, you see.”
“Can we have this discussion inside,” the man says.
“Wait,” says Eames. “You’re not armed, are you? My sister didn’t hire you to kill me, did she?”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill you,” the man says, one dark brow hiked up in an elegant sweep. “You seem like such a charming person and all.”
“The child has a sense of humour,” says Eames. “I like you. My name is Eames, by the way.”
“Arthur. And I’m not a child,” Arthur says.
“If you say so,” Eames says and lets him in.
--
“Do you actually live here?” Arthur says.
“Yes. Was I supposed to carry you over the threshold?” says Eames.
Arthur shakes his head and tries again.
“Do you actually live here?” Arthur says.
The way he says ‘here’ could mean a whole array of things, from ‘apartment’, to ‘slightly haphazard living arrangements’, to ‘prehistoric cave-like dwelling containing several large lumps trying to pass themselves off unsuccessfully as a couch and a broken TV’.
Eames is unashamed to admit that the third description is most accurate.
Arthur looks rightly appalled.
“I would offer you something to drink,” says Eames, “but they cut my power off last week and everything in the fridge will be off by now.”
“Do you actually - ” Arthur begins again, before stopping to drag his hand over his face. “Never mind.”
“That’s the spirit, sweetheart,” Eames says.
--
They get takeout for dinner, which is all for the best because Eames’ fridge is a biological hazard.
They eat in the dark.
There aren’t any lights.
“First thing,” Arthur says the third time he misses his fork and ends up plunging a hand into the chow mien instead, “I am going to do once I can see straight again will be to kick your ass for not paying the bills, Mr Eames.”
“What an incentive to continue not to pay the bills,” says Eames. “That way, it’ll be longer before you can see me properly again.”
--
Eames comes back from stealing a Maserati and Arthur has swamped the entire kitchen with plastic bags. The kitchen bench is looking a little overwhelmed. It’s probably never seen so much food in its entire life.
There are French sticks in the closest bag to the door. Eames takes one out and swats Arthur on the arse with it.
“Hullo, love,” Eames says, when Arthur straightens up from the fridge with a glare. “Are you stockpiling food for a nuclear war? Wait. Holy shit. This place is clean.”
And it is.
Arthur’s wearing a put-upon expression.
Eames can see how his own mouth is hanging wide open from the reflection off the stainless steel kettle.
Eames can see a reflection off the stainless steel kettle.
This is such an enlightening experience for him.
“What did you do?” Eames manages after what feels like an eternity. He’s tempted to squint his eyes a little in the blinding glare of the polished white goods. “What happened to the tiles running next to the sink?”
“Those aren’t tiles,” and Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Those are windows. You’re supposed to be able to see through them.”
Eames takes a step back. “This isn’t my flat. You’ve drugged me with something. I’m hallucinating.”
“If the best hallucination you can come up with is a clean kitchen, Eames, then there is something seriously wrong with you.”
Arthur’s gone back to putting things into the fridge. Eames watches, silent partly from lingering shock and partly from appreciation of the wonderful way Arthur’s trousers are pulling across his arse-cheeks.
And then he realises what exactly it is Arthur’s doing.
“The electricity’s back on,” Eames notices, since he’s apparently one for subtlety. Arthur makes a small you’re-such-an-idiot noise. “What did you pay the bills with? You don’t have my bank card.”
“I sold the Rolls Royce,” Arthur says breezily.
Eames almost has a coronary for the second time in so many minutes. This is not a good day.
“You sold what?”
“I sold the Rolls Royce in the back,” Arthur says. “Wasn’t hard, actually. There was a man down the road - hey, aren’t you going to help with the groceries?”
Eames ignores him.
“You sold the Rolls Royce,” he says.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “Now pass the milk, please.”
“Do you have any idea how long it took me to steal that,” Eames yells. “I had to dress up in a tiny skirt for a week. And wear heels. And pretend to be a cocktail waitress. All the wretched perversions of nature I had to endure just to get my hands on a bunch of car keys.”
“Can’t be worse than the wretched perversion of nature that was this kitchen before I took to it,” Arthur yells back.
“It was perfectly fine the way it was,” Eames yells.
“You had tofu in the condiment rack,” Arthur yells.
“Tofu is a legitimate condiment,” Eames yells. “You can spread it on things. You can pour it on things. Sort of.”
“It belongs in the fridge,” Arthur yells. “Now pass me the milk before I throw something.”
--
Arthur does throw something.
It’s a squash.
Eames trips on his feet trying to dodge it and ends up sprawled on the newly-scrubbed kitchen floor, French stick crumbled from where he’d mistakenly tried to use it as a cushion to stop himself breaking his back.
Arthur laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
Arthur’s surprisingly pretty whenever he laughs.
--
The couch has been vacuumed and Arthur is already busy leafing through the IKEA catalogue.
They watch TV. At least, they attempt to watch TV. At least, Eames attempts to watch TV but Arthur keeps changing the goddamn channel to watch documentaries about oceans and tectonic plate shifts, and that isn’t TV, that’s just blatantly wrong. Eames gets up because he’s all about being mature and doesn’t want to spend the next thirty minutes wrestling with Arthur over the TV remote like they do in all of the kid movies.
He only spends the next twenty minutes wrestling with Arthur over the TV remote.
Arthur wins. This is extremely unfair. Eames is much too mature to sulk inwardly so instead he sulks rather outwardly.
Arthur dimples. Eames figures that’s worth it, at least.
When Eames announces that he’s going to take a shower Arthur looks at him.
“Oh, wow,” Arthur says. “I’ll break out the champagne.”
“You’re an asshole,” Eames says and tries hard not to grin.
In the shower he thinks of Arthur’s neck and the stubborn way he won’t sleep on the bed. Arthur smells like linen and household bleach. Arthur’s been in the house for under a week. There is gas, there is water, there is electricity, there are meals and there is percolated coffee. Arthur’s thrown out at least half of Eames’ wardrobe. Including the wardrobe. It was ugly, apparently.
Eames goes hard in the shower thinking of Arthur’s laugh, the way his brown eyes tweak up at the sides. When he gets out of the shower, Arthur’s asleep on the couch with his lashes curled darkly against his pale cheeks.
--
Eames only realises that Arthur has thrown out the couch when he tries to sit on it in the second week and ends up in a pile on the carpet instead.
“Hey,” Eames says. “You threw out the couch. I liked that couch. I was attached to it.”
Arthur growls and throws Eames a dirty look. The compounded effect is unsettling.
“It smelled like cats,” Arthur mutters darkly and delivers a vicious chop to a carrot with the kitchen knife. “I hate cats.”
“You’re so discriminatory,” says Eames.
“They’ll deliver the new one tomorrow,” Arthur says. “I’m sure you can sit on the floor until then.”
The problem is not so much Eames sitting on the floor for TV but where Arthur is going to sleep for that night. Eames’ bed is a single. Eames barely fits on it. Eames can’t imagine Arthur sharing the bed without one of them getting asphyxiated.
Eames lets Arthur brush his teeth first, the soft whir of Arthur’s electric toothbrush.
“Listen,” Eames says when Arthur comes out. “You sleep on the bed, alright? I’ll bunk down on the floor. Just remember not to tread on me in the morning, or else there’ll be bloody hell to pay.”
“You’re so melodramatic,” Arthur says. “They should have cast you in that ridiculous Baz Luhrmann film.”
“You’re imagining me shirtless and tipping a bucket of water over all of my rippling chest muscles, aren’t you?”
Arthur snorts. It manages to sound extremely endearing.
“Melodramatic and an exhibitionist,” Arthur says.
“I can demonstrate, if you’d like,” Eames says to that and makes to pull his shirt up and off his chest.
The speed at which Arthur blurts out a “No” could rival the speed of light, Eames thinks.
There’s a pause.
Eames’ hands are still there on his hem. Arthur looks like someone has sucker-punched him in the face.
“Uh,” says Arthur.
“We’re married,” says Eames.
“On paper,” Arthur points out reflexively and then winces. His brown eyes cut to the side.
“I mean,” Arthur says.
“That’s not what,” Arthur says.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Arthur says, and he does.
--
The new couch is so quintessentially Swedish that Eames picks up an accent just sitting on it.
Arthur talks less, sells Eames’ Maserati the next time Eames goes to the newsagent for smokes and goes on an IKEA shopping spree, which is a disturbing way to cope with stress but Eames lets him, since it’s something for Arthur to do. Eames doesn’t even yell about the Maserati. Not much, anyway. Not any more than last time.
Ariadne sweeps through the apartment on Tuesday and steals the leftovers from Eames’ fridge.
“That’s my lasagne,” Eames says to this. Arthur’s out. At IKEA. “I was going to eat that.”
“This isn’t lasagne,” Ariadne points out, though this is barely decipherable through her mouthful of cheese. “This is heaven. I’d probably bathe in this.”
“There are so many things wrong with that image,” says Eames.
“Just because you don’t appreciate Arthur,” says Ariadne, “doesn’t mean he’s not worth appreciating.”
“Hey,” says Eames. “I appreciate him. Every time he bends over, I appreciate him.”
Ariadne ignores him. This is standard procedure.
“Your apartment is not a pigsty anymore,” says Ariadne.
“I resent that comparison extremely,” says Eames.
“There is actual edible food in your fridge,” says Ariadne.
“It was edible before,” says Eames. “Just less so.”
“You’re happy,” says Ariadne.
Eames has nothing to that.
Eames has nothing that wouldn’t be a bald-faced lie.
Well, almost nothing.
“I’m not entirely happy,” says Eames. “We’re not actually married. We’re just playing at married. Once you decide that I’ve finally learnt my lesson and permit me to move back in with you, he’ll divorce me.”
Ariadne stares for a moment.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she says. “And you never learn your lessons, so this is all just hypothetical, anyway.”
“I’ll be divorced at twenty-six,” whines Eames. “No woman will ever want to sleep with me again.”
Ariadne pokes him in the chin with her fork. “The question is, will you ever want to sleep with them? After Arthur?”
“I haven’t slept with Arthur yet.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Ariadne says and munches on her pasta thoughtfully.
--
There is actually no space in their flat anymore. Or Eames’ flat. Or whoever’s flat.
Eames doesn’t make a complaint until the furniture boxes start to obstruct his view of the precious TV. The precious, new, bought-on-an-impulse TV which has way too many complicated buttons on the remote and drives Eames abso-fucking-lutely crazy.
“Darling,” Eames says after almost two months of the slowly-invading IKEA boxes. “I can’t remember what colour the carpet is anymore.”
“It’s beige,” Arthur says.
“That’s not the point,” Eames says.
Arthur’s trying to make some sort of casserole. This would be infinitely easier for him if not for the dozens of unpacked appliances still stacked all over the kitchen bench.
Eames can spot at least three blenders.
There’s two toasters, but Arthur says that one of them can cook an egg at the same time, so they’re different.
Sort of.
“You don’t seem to be in the habit of making a point,” Arthur says, and doesn’t look up at him. This is classic evasion tactics from Arthur. Eames resists the urge to point this out to him.
“Our home is fast becoming a storage zone,” Eames says. “We could operate wholesale from here.”
Arthur sniffs. “I’ll move out, if you want,” Arthur says.
Eames stares.
“I mean, it’s just on paper, right?” Arthur says. “I’m really just here to cook and to clean.”
Eames stares.
“It’s not like you really need me here,” Arthur says. “I got ordered by your sister for a joke, after all.”
Eames stares.
Arthur may be babbling, just a little bit. Eames may have lost control of his higher cognitive functions.
“It’s been two months, so the joke’s probably starting to wear thin, so if you want you can file a divorce,” Arthur says. “I won’t be offended. You can just send me back. And the postage rates have dropped a little, so if you want to take the unique opportunity to save twenty cents for every kilogram - ”
Eames leans across the kitchen counter and kisses Arthur right in the middle of his stupid sentence.
Arthur stares.
Eames stares.
Arthur is still holding the kitchen knife, which Eames would probably find rather daunting if not for how certain Eames is that he’s right.
“Arthur,” Eames says. “I want you to stay.”
“No, you don’t,” says Arthur.
“Yes, I do,” says Eames.
Arthur stares.
Eames kisses him, twice, for good measure. Arthur doesn’t stab him for it, which is quite a relief.
--
What’s more of a relief is that when Eames wakes the next morning Arthur’s neither disappeared nor asphyxiated, just tangled on the edge of their single bed, and smiling, and smiling, and smiling, asleep.
--
The End.
--
A/N: My first ever inception_kink fill! Hopefully it was fun. I'll likely be doing some more fills soon, because I am addicted to that Kink Meme now, it's ridiculous.
Please don't forget to comment, darlings!
♥
Author: knowmydark
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 3,225.
Genre: Romance/Crack.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Eames orders a mail-order bride, but instead he gets an Arthur. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: This is not a break of my hiatus, this is just... a break of my hiatus. First ever inception_kink fill I've done! (For this prompt.) So much crack and ridiculousness, I don't even.
Please don’t forget to comment!
--
Can't Buy This Sort of Happiness
--
[This work has been translated into Chinese by micorom, and into Russian by lewd_prude, if you would prefer either of those over the original English below.]
--
“Listen,” Ariadne says.
Eames is listening. It’s exceptionally difficult not to listen when someone is dragging you into the house by your ear, especially if that someone is significantly shorter than you.
“You,” Ariadne says, “are going to get married.”
“But Ari,” Eames protests, “I’m too young to get married. I’m only twenty-six. I haven’t made enough ill-advised life choices or slept with enough people to qualify for marriage.”
Ariadne ignores him. This is standard procedure.
“There is butter all over my fridge,” says Ariadne.
“I was trying to make pancakes,” Eames explains.
“There is laundry all over my living room,” says Ariadne.
“I swear at least twenty percent of it is clean,” says Eames.
“There are suspicious stains all over the couch,” says Ariadne.
“Hey!” Eames exclaims and holds up his palms. This is not as easy a movement as one might expect it to be, seeing as Ariadne still has yet to let go of his ear. “I have a Y chromosome! It’s not my fault! I have to be allowed to masturbate somewhere!”
Cobb sticks his head out of Ariadne’s study. “Eames, I’m disappointed in you. The couch is zero points for creativity. Or hygiene. Don’t you have to sleep on it?”
“It’s alright,” says Eames. “I drape a sheet over it.”
“It’s not alright,” yells Ariadne. “That’s Italian silk, Eames.”
“It’s a couch,” Eames yells back. “You sit on it, Ari.”
Ariadne twists her thumbnail in. Eames yelps. Cobb makes a hasty retreat.
“You,” Ariadne says again, “are going to get married so you can get out of my flat.”
“Over my dead body, darling,” Eames says.
Ariadne scowls. “I’m not above that, actually.”
“You’re so cruel,” Eames says. “Mum was wrong about you. I always knew you were a closet psychopath.”
“With a brother like you,” Ariadne points out, “it’s hard not to resort to homicide.”
--
“I’ve already done it,” Ariadne says to Cobb at breakfast the next morning.
Eames lumbers in from the living room just in time to catch the tail end of that statement.
“I hope you disposed of the body,” Eames says and sits down to crack open the raspberry jam.
“You do know that’s disgusting, don’t you,” Cobb says. “Putting jam straight into your tea.”
“Can’t be as disgusting as coffee,” Eames says.
Cobb eyes his espresso and gives Eames a glare. Or a squint. Eames finds it hard to tell, nowadays.
“Don’t be stupid, Eames,” Ariadne says. “I haven’t done anything illegal. I haven’t killed anyone.”
“Spit it out, then,” Eames says.
“I’ve bought you a wife.”
Eames does spit it out. All his tea, that is. The result is Cobb with a sodden shirtfront and a thoroughly unamused look on his face.
“You can’t just buy me a wife,” Eames says.
“Yes, I can,” says Ariadne. “In fact, I have.”
“That’s illegal,” Eames says.
“You steal cars,” Cobb says.
“It’s my job,” Eames says indignantly. “I’m satisfying a consumer demand. I’m helping to reverse the financial crisis by upping the amount of cash flow and trade.”
Cobb squints. “That’s what you think you’re doing. But that’s not exactly true, is it?”
“Look,” says Eames. “This is a domestic disagreement. Just because you’re dating my sister right now doesn’t mean you take her side in arguments.”
“But I’m here for an important reason,” says Cobb. “You see, Eames, I specialise in a very specific type of security - subornative security. I’m here to protect you in the event that someone tries to corrupt your notion of free enterprise through perjury. Eames, you are not. Safe. Here.”
There’s a pause.
“No, I’m not,” Eames says finally. “My sister’s just bought me a mail-order bride. There are so, so many things wrong with that.”
Ariadne’s face turns dangerous. Chernobyl could not have been more terrifying.
“I’m doing you a favour,” Ariadne says. “Now you’ll have someone to iron your shirts.”
“I already have someone to iron my shirts.”
“Someone that isn’t me,” Ariadne says.
“Now you’re just being sexist,” Eames says. “Getting married just to have someone to iron your shirts is a clear example of objectifying women. You’re a woman, Ariadne. You shouldn’t degrade your own sex like that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cobb says.
“How doesn’t it matter?” Eames says.
“Because you’ll be together,” Cobb says and squints.
“I’m ninety percent sure that didn’t make sense,” says Eames. “And anyway, what if I don’t even like her? I don’t want to have to send her back. Postal rates are expensive nowadays.”
“Oh, you’ll like him,” Ariadne says.
“You can’t be sure that I’ll like - ”
Eames stops. His brain catches up to his mouth.
“Wait. Him?”
--
“Hi,” the man on the doorstep says. “I believe you placed an order for me?”
“Sorry,” says Eames. “I don’t prey on children. But there’s a Catholic church just down the street.”
The man bristles.
“I’m twenty-five,” he says.
“You don’t look it,” says Eames. “Do you have some ID?”
“If we’re going to be married,” the man points out, “I think we should learn to trust each other. Trust is necessary in a healthy relationship.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Eames says. “It’s just that I don’t trust my sister, you see.”
“Can we have this discussion inside,” the man says.
“Wait,” says Eames. “You’re not armed, are you? My sister didn’t hire you to kill me, did she?”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill you,” the man says, one dark brow hiked up in an elegant sweep. “You seem like such a charming person and all.”
“The child has a sense of humour,” says Eames. “I like you. My name is Eames, by the way.”
“Arthur. And I’m not a child,” Arthur says.
“If you say so,” Eames says and lets him in.
--
“Do you actually live here?” Arthur says.
“Yes. Was I supposed to carry you over the threshold?” says Eames.
Arthur shakes his head and tries again.
“Do you actually live here?” Arthur says.
The way he says ‘here’ could mean a whole array of things, from ‘apartment’, to ‘slightly haphazard living arrangements’, to ‘prehistoric cave-like dwelling containing several large lumps trying to pass themselves off unsuccessfully as a couch and a broken TV’.
Eames is unashamed to admit that the third description is most accurate.
Arthur looks rightly appalled.
“I would offer you something to drink,” says Eames, “but they cut my power off last week and everything in the fridge will be off by now.”
“Do you actually - ” Arthur begins again, before stopping to drag his hand over his face. “Never mind.”
“That’s the spirit, sweetheart,” Eames says.
--
They get takeout for dinner, which is all for the best because Eames’ fridge is a biological hazard.
They eat in the dark.
There aren’t any lights.
“First thing,” Arthur says the third time he misses his fork and ends up plunging a hand into the chow mien instead, “I am going to do once I can see straight again will be to kick your ass for not paying the bills, Mr Eames.”
“What an incentive to continue not to pay the bills,” says Eames. “That way, it’ll be longer before you can see me properly again.”
--
Eames comes back from stealing a Maserati and Arthur has swamped the entire kitchen with plastic bags. The kitchen bench is looking a little overwhelmed. It’s probably never seen so much food in its entire life.
There are French sticks in the closest bag to the door. Eames takes one out and swats Arthur on the arse with it.
“Hullo, love,” Eames says, when Arthur straightens up from the fridge with a glare. “Are you stockpiling food for a nuclear war? Wait. Holy shit. This place is clean.”
And it is.
Arthur’s wearing a put-upon expression.
Eames can see how his own mouth is hanging wide open from the reflection off the stainless steel kettle.
Eames can see a reflection off the stainless steel kettle.
This is such an enlightening experience for him.
“What did you do?” Eames manages after what feels like an eternity. He’s tempted to squint his eyes a little in the blinding glare of the polished white goods. “What happened to the tiles running next to the sink?”
“Those aren’t tiles,” and Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Those are windows. You’re supposed to be able to see through them.”
Eames takes a step back. “This isn’t my flat. You’ve drugged me with something. I’m hallucinating.”
“If the best hallucination you can come up with is a clean kitchen, Eames, then there is something seriously wrong with you.”
Arthur’s gone back to putting things into the fridge. Eames watches, silent partly from lingering shock and partly from appreciation of the wonderful way Arthur’s trousers are pulling across his arse-cheeks.
And then he realises what exactly it is Arthur’s doing.
“The electricity’s back on,” Eames notices, since he’s apparently one for subtlety. Arthur makes a small you’re-such-an-idiot noise. “What did you pay the bills with? You don’t have my bank card.”
“I sold the Rolls Royce,” Arthur says breezily.
Eames almost has a coronary for the second time in so many minutes. This is not a good day.
“You sold what?”
“I sold the Rolls Royce in the back,” Arthur says. “Wasn’t hard, actually. There was a man down the road - hey, aren’t you going to help with the groceries?”
Eames ignores him.
“You sold the Rolls Royce,” he says.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “Now pass the milk, please.”
“Do you have any idea how long it took me to steal that,” Eames yells. “I had to dress up in a tiny skirt for a week. And wear heels. And pretend to be a cocktail waitress. All the wretched perversions of nature I had to endure just to get my hands on a bunch of car keys.”
“Can’t be worse than the wretched perversion of nature that was this kitchen before I took to it,” Arthur yells back.
“It was perfectly fine the way it was,” Eames yells.
“You had tofu in the condiment rack,” Arthur yells.
“Tofu is a legitimate condiment,” Eames yells. “You can spread it on things. You can pour it on things. Sort of.”
“It belongs in the fridge,” Arthur yells. “Now pass me the milk before I throw something.”
--
Arthur does throw something.
It’s a squash.
Eames trips on his feet trying to dodge it and ends up sprawled on the newly-scrubbed kitchen floor, French stick crumbled from where he’d mistakenly tried to use it as a cushion to stop himself breaking his back.
Arthur laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
Arthur’s surprisingly pretty whenever he laughs.
--
The couch has been vacuumed and Arthur is already busy leafing through the IKEA catalogue.
They watch TV. At least, they attempt to watch TV. At least, Eames attempts to watch TV but Arthur keeps changing the goddamn channel to watch documentaries about oceans and tectonic plate shifts, and that isn’t TV, that’s just blatantly wrong. Eames gets up because he’s all about being mature and doesn’t want to spend the next thirty minutes wrestling with Arthur over the TV remote like they do in all of the kid movies.
He only spends the next twenty minutes wrestling with Arthur over the TV remote.
Arthur wins. This is extremely unfair. Eames is much too mature to sulk inwardly so instead he sulks rather outwardly.
Arthur dimples. Eames figures that’s worth it, at least.
When Eames announces that he’s going to take a shower Arthur looks at him.
“Oh, wow,” Arthur says. “I’ll break out the champagne.”
“You’re an asshole,” Eames says and tries hard not to grin.
In the shower he thinks of Arthur’s neck and the stubborn way he won’t sleep on the bed. Arthur smells like linen and household bleach. Arthur’s been in the house for under a week. There is gas, there is water, there is electricity, there are meals and there is percolated coffee. Arthur’s thrown out at least half of Eames’ wardrobe. Including the wardrobe. It was ugly, apparently.
Eames goes hard in the shower thinking of Arthur’s laugh, the way his brown eyes tweak up at the sides. When he gets out of the shower, Arthur’s asleep on the couch with his lashes curled darkly against his pale cheeks.
--
Eames only realises that Arthur has thrown out the couch when he tries to sit on it in the second week and ends up in a pile on the carpet instead.
“Hey,” Eames says. “You threw out the couch. I liked that couch. I was attached to it.”
Arthur growls and throws Eames a dirty look. The compounded effect is unsettling.
“It smelled like cats,” Arthur mutters darkly and delivers a vicious chop to a carrot with the kitchen knife. “I hate cats.”
“You’re so discriminatory,” says Eames.
“They’ll deliver the new one tomorrow,” Arthur says. “I’m sure you can sit on the floor until then.”
The problem is not so much Eames sitting on the floor for TV but where Arthur is going to sleep for that night. Eames’ bed is a single. Eames barely fits on it. Eames can’t imagine Arthur sharing the bed without one of them getting asphyxiated.
Eames lets Arthur brush his teeth first, the soft whir of Arthur’s electric toothbrush.
“Listen,” Eames says when Arthur comes out. “You sleep on the bed, alright? I’ll bunk down on the floor. Just remember not to tread on me in the morning, or else there’ll be bloody hell to pay.”
“You’re so melodramatic,” Arthur says. “They should have cast you in that ridiculous Baz Luhrmann film.”
“You’re imagining me shirtless and tipping a bucket of water over all of my rippling chest muscles, aren’t you?”
Arthur snorts. It manages to sound extremely endearing.
“Melodramatic and an exhibitionist,” Arthur says.
“I can demonstrate, if you’d like,” Eames says to that and makes to pull his shirt up and off his chest.
The speed at which Arthur blurts out a “No” could rival the speed of light, Eames thinks.
There’s a pause.
Eames’ hands are still there on his hem. Arthur looks like someone has sucker-punched him in the face.
“Uh,” says Arthur.
“We’re married,” says Eames.
“On paper,” Arthur points out reflexively and then winces. His brown eyes cut to the side.
“I mean,” Arthur says.
“That’s not what,” Arthur says.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Arthur says, and he does.
--
The new couch is so quintessentially Swedish that Eames picks up an accent just sitting on it.
Arthur talks less, sells Eames’ Maserati the next time Eames goes to the newsagent for smokes and goes on an IKEA shopping spree, which is a disturbing way to cope with stress but Eames lets him, since it’s something for Arthur to do. Eames doesn’t even yell about the Maserati. Not much, anyway. Not any more than last time.
Ariadne sweeps through the apartment on Tuesday and steals the leftovers from Eames’ fridge.
“That’s my lasagne,” Eames says to this. Arthur’s out. At IKEA. “I was going to eat that.”
“This isn’t lasagne,” Ariadne points out, though this is barely decipherable through her mouthful of cheese. “This is heaven. I’d probably bathe in this.”
“There are so many things wrong with that image,” says Eames.
“Just because you don’t appreciate Arthur,” says Ariadne, “doesn’t mean he’s not worth appreciating.”
“Hey,” says Eames. “I appreciate him. Every time he bends over, I appreciate him.”
Ariadne ignores him. This is standard procedure.
“Your apartment is not a pigsty anymore,” says Ariadne.
“I resent that comparison extremely,” says Eames.
“There is actual edible food in your fridge,” says Ariadne.
“It was edible before,” says Eames. “Just less so.”
“You’re happy,” says Ariadne.
Eames has nothing to that.
Eames has nothing that wouldn’t be a bald-faced lie.
Well, almost nothing.
“I’m not entirely happy,” says Eames. “We’re not actually married. We’re just playing at married. Once you decide that I’ve finally learnt my lesson and permit me to move back in with you, he’ll divorce me.”
Ariadne stares for a moment.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she says. “And you never learn your lessons, so this is all just hypothetical, anyway.”
“I’ll be divorced at twenty-six,” whines Eames. “No woman will ever want to sleep with me again.”
Ariadne pokes him in the chin with her fork. “The question is, will you ever want to sleep with them? After Arthur?”
“I haven’t slept with Arthur yet.”
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Ariadne says and munches on her pasta thoughtfully.
--
There is actually no space in their flat anymore. Or Eames’ flat. Or whoever’s flat.
Eames doesn’t make a complaint until the furniture boxes start to obstruct his view of the precious TV. The precious, new, bought-on-an-impulse TV which has way too many complicated buttons on the remote and drives Eames abso-fucking-lutely crazy.
“Darling,” Eames says after almost two months of the slowly-invading IKEA boxes. “I can’t remember what colour the carpet is anymore.”
“It’s beige,” Arthur says.
“That’s not the point,” Eames says.
Arthur’s trying to make some sort of casserole. This would be infinitely easier for him if not for the dozens of unpacked appliances still stacked all over the kitchen bench.
Eames can spot at least three blenders.
There’s two toasters, but Arthur says that one of them can cook an egg at the same time, so they’re different.
Sort of.
“You don’t seem to be in the habit of making a point,” Arthur says, and doesn’t look up at him. This is classic evasion tactics from Arthur. Eames resists the urge to point this out to him.
“Our home is fast becoming a storage zone,” Eames says. “We could operate wholesale from here.”
Arthur sniffs. “I’ll move out, if you want,” Arthur says.
Eames stares.
“I mean, it’s just on paper, right?” Arthur says. “I’m really just here to cook and to clean.”
Eames stares.
“It’s not like you really need me here,” Arthur says. “I got ordered by your sister for a joke, after all.”
Eames stares.
Arthur may be babbling, just a little bit. Eames may have lost control of his higher cognitive functions.
“It’s been two months, so the joke’s probably starting to wear thin, so if you want you can file a divorce,” Arthur says. “I won’t be offended. You can just send me back. And the postage rates have dropped a little, so if you want to take the unique opportunity to save twenty cents for every kilogram - ”
Eames leans across the kitchen counter and kisses Arthur right in the middle of his stupid sentence.
Arthur stares.
Eames stares.
Arthur is still holding the kitchen knife, which Eames would probably find rather daunting if not for how certain Eames is that he’s right.
“Arthur,” Eames says. “I want you to stay.”
“No, you don’t,” says Arthur.
“Yes, I do,” says Eames.
Arthur stares.
Eames kisses him, twice, for good measure. Arthur doesn’t stab him for it, which is quite a relief.
--
What’s more of a relief is that when Eames wakes the next morning Arthur’s neither disappeared nor asphyxiated, just tangled on the edge of their single bed, and smiling, and smiling, and smiling, asleep.
--
The End.
--
A/N: My first ever inception_kink fill! Hopefully it was fun. I'll likely be doing some more fills soon, because I am addicted to that Kink Meme now, it's ridiculous.
Please don't forget to comment, darlings!
♥