Fic: A Shot Across the Bows
I have no self-restraint.
Title: A Shot Across the Bows
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary Pirate AU. Eames is the first mate, Arthur is the disgruntled captive cabin boy turned highly competent ship's medic (still disgruntled).
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2500
Warnings: No actual violence occurring during the time frame of the story, but Arthur does have a bit of a kink for hearing about the origins of Eames' scars. They're pirates, they're not the good guys.
Note: I'd say that there are probably one or two historical inaccuracies, but this is mostly just an excuse for me to air my obsession with pirates, so. Historical inaccuracies, but only if you're set on taking this seriously. (You shouldn't.)
"Just so we're clear, I can't stitch internal organs," Arthur says drily, frowning as Eames thunders down the steps to the infirmary, latching the door behind him.
He glances down at the large, wet bloodstain on the front of his shirt, and grimaces, "Ah, that's not mine. This, however," he pulls his hand away from his upper arm so Arthur can see the gash in his flesh, "Is. I don't think that's outside your considerable expertise, is it?"
Arthur gestures for him to sit on the poorly-padded bunk in the corner, and starts pulling out his supplies. "Someday, you're going to come to me with your entrails hanging out, and you'll thank me for having the decency not to say 'I told you so'."
"Well, it would be the first time you'd patched me up without comment, darling, so it might be worth getting disemboweled to experience the silence."
Arthur stops on his search for the properly-labeled vial of liquid long enough to arch one unimpressed eyebrow in Eames' direction. Eames grins.
Once his implements of mild torture are collected, Arthur pulls his chair over and sits in front of Eames. He cuts the sleeve of Eames' shirt at the shoulder, and Eames winces as the fabric pulls away from the congealing blood around his wound.
"You're still sloppy with the broadsword," Arthur tells him, splashing alcohol on the cut while Eames grits his teeth and hisses at the sting. "You strike to the right and don't cover your left, you've got to be quicker."
"That sword weighs about as much as you do," Eames says, "Quick isn't exactly an option."
Arthur rolls his eyes dismissively, picking up his needle and steel thread. "You're always too slow. Perhaps if you lost some of this bulk," he gestures at Eames' torso before he gets to work sewing Eames' skin back together, cool and efficient as always.
"I seem to recall your hands all over this bulk not twelve hours ago; I'm certain you'd miss it more than I would."
Arthur doesn't look up from his work, but Eames can see his lips twitch, the shadow of a smile appearing before he sets his face back to neutral disinterest.
Eames has endured far worse pain than being stitched, and at any rate, has experienced this particular pain enough to have adjusted to it, but watching Arthur's calm, methodical work always helps to dull things a little further. His long, thin fingers move swiftly but not messily, catching the blood with a rag, thread and needle moving so fast from hand to hand that Eames can scarcely follow the motions.
Arthur ties the stitching off and cuts the string, then wraps a strip of cloth around Eames' arm. He reaches back to drop his supplies on the table, saying, "It's a deep cut. The scar will be big."
"More for you to love, then," he grins, running the toe of his boot up Arthur's bare calf, his tattered breeches only reaching past his knees. "I'll have to get another one on the right, this'll ruin my symmetry." He turns both arms to show the identical scars along the undersides, and doesn't miss the way Arthur's eyelids lower, his tongue darting out over his lips.
"I always meant to ask about those," he says, his flush belying the casual tone of his voice.
"Got them the same day I got this one," Eames says, touching another scar at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, "On the second ship that ever took me on as crew."
"The Serpent's Tongue," Arthur says immediately, reaching up to thumb over the scar on Eames' uninjured arm.
"The Serpent's Tongue, yes," Eames says, temporarily thrown, "The amount of information you know about me is occasionally unsettling."
Arthur ignores this, wrapping his fingers around Eames' arm as if to measure the length of the scar. "So what happened?"
"The first mate didn't take too kindly to having his gold stolen in small amounts over a period of days and weeks," Eames says, flexing a little for Arthur's benefit - and his own, to hear the sharp little intake of breath it earns him, "So the captain pulled me out of my bed in the middle of the night and had me tossed off the back. I caught some rope on the way down, and hooked my arms in," he holds his arms up from his body to demonstrate, showing where the ropes had worn into his flesh. "I hung there until the next sundown."
"Most of a day," Arthur breathes, shifting on his seat, his eyes flicking to Eames' face, hungry and intent.
"Most of a day," Eames confirms, "Then I pulled myself up, snuck into the cabins, took the first mate's gold and a spare boat and rowed away." He finishes with a flourished wave of his hand, but Arthur is engrossed in examining the scar, licking his lips, his cheeks pink.
"And this one?" Arthur asks, touching the knotted flesh on Eames' shoulder.
"Ah, well, the first mate wasn't as asleep as I'd been expecting. He tried to slit my throat - but I'm at least quick enough to sidestep that." Eames wraps his hand around Arthur's, guiding his fingers to trace along the thick line, listening to Arthur's breathing get heavier. "His knife caught me here, but it was his throat that ended up open, in the end."
Arthur surges forward, pressing their mouths together urgently, crawling onto the narrow bed to straddle Eames' lap.
"Thought you'd like that one," Eames says smugly, as Arthur breaks away to trace the scar on Eames' shoulder with his tongue. The front of Arthur's breeches are straining against his erection, and he presses it against Eames' stomach, unmindful of the bloodstains on his shirt.
"It won't be so appealing to me if you get yourself killed," Arthur growls, humming as Eames palms his backside roughly, pulling him closer.
"Well, I don't expect I'll die a natural death," Eames says, which is a reasonable assessment, as far as he's concerned. But Arthur doesn't seem to agree, coming back to bite at Eames' lips, snarling as he shoves down, rutting on Eames' cock.
"You--" Arthur grits at him, then seems to cut himself off before the words can form, instead taking a much more pragmatic path. "Fuck me."
Eames tugs at Arthur's breeches, yanking them pointedly as Arthur grinds against him. "Stand up," he urges, stilling Arthur's hips. Arthur slides off him long enough to tug his breeches to the floor, and retrieve a jar of oil from his supplies. Eames shifts back, giving Arthur enough room to move as he slides into Eames' lap once more, dipping his fingers into the oil.
"I could have done that for you, you know," Eames says, watching Arthur reach behind himself and tense, shuddering.
"You take too long," Arthur breathes, shoving down against his hand.
"You mean I enjoy myself?" Eames smirks, reaching around to feel where Arthur is stretching himself open around two fingers. "I believe I've made you scream for these fingers, don't tell me you don't like it too." Eames pushes his own calloused finger in alongside Arthur's, and Arthur moans, clenching tight around them both.
"I like it," he groans, "Like your cock better. Get those open," he says, nodding down at Eames' breeches.
Eames pulls his finger out reluctantly, tugging at his laces until his cock is free, and hissing as he drips cool oil onto it.
"That's fine, that's enough," Arthur pants, shuffling forward. Eames feels his cock nudge at Arthur's hole where he's still holding himself open with his fingers, his brow creased as he presses down.
"Careful, now," Eames says, though he only brings his hand around to put his fingers to use and help Arthur accommodate him, "You can't take the biggest you've ever had without a little work."
Arthur groans as the head slips inside and they pull their fingers free. "I was exaggerating then," he says breathlessly, "Just being kind."
"I have never known you to be kind," Eames grins, giving a short thrust.
"Fuck," Arthur gasps, "Fuck, do that again."
Eames lifts his hips, pushing in a little deeper, forcing Arthur's too-tight body to take him inside. They fuck like a fight, always a struggle, the way they do everything else.
Arthur is sweating by the time he sits flush on Eames' lap, clenching around him, his head dropped to Eames' shoulder where he tongues again at the long, pink scar there. Eames' injured arm twinges with pain as he lifts Arthur's weight, but it's worth it to slam him back down, enveloped by gripping heat and hearing Arthur moan against his neck.
When he pulls together enough coordination to move himself, Arthur sets the pace, hard and fast, aiming to be sore when they're finished.
"Next time-" he says, breaking off to whine as Eames shifts, changing the angle, "At the next port, you're taking me with you, and - fuck, there, right there."
"D'you like that?" Eames asks, ignoring the rest - they both know Arthur's not permitted to leave the ship, no matter how much Eames would like to fight alongside him.
"Yes, yeah," Arthur nods, rolling his hips frantically, train of thought apparently forgotten. His hand reaches back again, and Eames feels the ghost of a touch as Arthur traces where he's spread wide around Eames' girth.
"God, you little slag," Eames groans, thrusting up roughly, "Not the biggest, my arse. I'd like to see you take more."
"I'd like to see it too," Arthur says, eyes dancing, picking Eames' hand up from his hip and licking a clean, pointed stripe across his wrist.
"Fuck, you little slag," Eames repeats, hoping to drive the point home as he drives up into Arthur's body.
"You know me better than anyone," Arthur whispers, grinning against Eames' lips.
Eames laughs breathlessly, kissing him. He reaches for Arthur's cock, but his fingers barely brush it before Arthur knocks his hand away.
"Don't, just - come on," he says, clenching down hard, "Come on, make me feel it."
Eames growls, lifting Arthur up and forcing him back down, rolling his hips to match the movement. Arthur is nearly sobbing into his shoulder, shaky encouragements panted hot against his skin. He does it again, and again, then holds Arthur down, squirming and pressed flush against him, until Arthur's slender body tenses and Eames feels another wet stain join the blood on his shirt as Arthur comes.
As soon as Eames releases his hips, Arthur starts rocking again, shivering with overstimulation as the last drops trickle down the length of his cock. The shivers running through him make him tighten like a vice around Eames, and it's only a few more brutal thrusts before Eames is groaning, crushing Arthur in his arms and coming deep inside him, relishing in Arthur's moans almost as much as his own release.
Arthur is boneless after his orgasm, slumped onto Eames, and Eames himself is too exhausted, after a day's worth of fighting and fucking, to move. The sweat has started to cool by the time he shifts, lifting Arthur up to pull out of his body. Arthur's arms tighten around his neck, but Eames doesn't push him off, just settles him again, reaching down to trace Arthur's entrance. He presses one finger in, feeling his own come slicking Arthur's insides, waiting to feel Arthur tense, any evidence that they went too fast.
"Does that hurt?" Eames asks.
"Feels good," Arthur tells him. He whines softly when Eames pulls his finger free, but he's still too sated to demand more.
"So I assume we'll be hauling anchor shortly?" Arthur asks after a long moment, speaking into Eames' neck, "Unless you've developed more finesse and haven't left a trail of dead and wounded behind you this time."
"Ah, yes," Eames says, "I expect we'll be leaving the port as soon as the captain gets wind of this. Assuming he doesn't simply opt to make good on his daily threats to throw me over and rid himself of the nuisance."
"He'd be nowhere without you," Arthur says in an uncharacteristic display of honest praise, running his fingers idly through the hair on Eames' chest over the low collar of his shirt, "I don't understand why you follow his orders; you're stronger and God knows you're more intelligent, you could run this ship."
Eames raises an eyebrow that Arthur can't see, still slouched onto his shoulder. "And can I assume that by 'you', you actually mean 'we'?"
"Of course," Arthur says, undaunted, "Someone will have to teach you to cover your left side. Or at least sew you up when you don't."
Eames doesn't miss the transition from the hypothetical 'could' to the definite 'will', but he doesn't comment on it. Arthur doesn't have quite the experience Eames does, but his ideas are a long way from far-fetched. Eames would be lying if he kept insisting it couldn't be done. And Arthur may have a vested interest in this - his freedom hinges on mutiny led by someone who considers him more than a prisoner, after all - but when he's right, he's right. Mutiny is seeming more possible - and more appealing - every day, in Eames' mind. At least, mutiny with Arthur armed at his side.
But he's had enough blood on his hands, and his clothes, for one day, so for now, they both fall silent. Eames strokes Arthur's back underneath his shirt, feeling the slow, gentle roll of the ship in the sheltered harbour's waters.
The rare moment of tranquility is broken by a booming voice from the upper deck.
"Eames, you unmanageable brute, get up here!"
Eames sighs, nudging Arthur off his lap. He laces his breeches with difficulty, his muscle pulling at its stitches. "Sounds like it's overboard for me, then," he says as he stands.
Arthur bends to pull his own breeches back on, "Well, if you can't catch a rope on your way down," he says, straightening, regarding Eames with a smirk that's a shade more affectionate than sardonic, for once, "Look for me jumping after you."
Eames cocks his head, watching as Arthur shakes his hair back from his eyes.
"Come here," Eames says, pulling Arthur flush against him as he steps forward, kissing him. Arthur is soft and smooth and sharp against him all at once, and Eames finds himself making a promise that he is suddenly so sure of, he can feel it in his bones: "He'll be the next one over the side of this ship, once she's ours to keep."
Arthur huffs a laugh into Eames' mouth, catching the back of his head and kissing him fiercely. He pulls back, smiling, "But what good is the word of a pirate?"
There's a pounding on the cabin door, and the navigator's voice bellowing, "Eames, he'll hang you from the mast by your feet if-"
"Right, I got it," Eames shouts over his shoulder, placing one last kiss against Arthur's grin. "It's as good as yours on these waters, darling. You might as well trust it."
Title: A Shot Across the Bows
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary Pirate AU. Eames is the first mate, Arthur is the disgruntled captive cabin boy turned highly competent ship's medic (still disgruntled).
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2500
Warnings: No actual violence occurring during the time frame of the story, but Arthur does have a bit of a kink for hearing about the origins of Eames' scars. They're pirates, they're not the good guys.
Note: I'd say that there are probably one or two historical inaccuracies, but this is mostly just an excuse for me to air my obsession with pirates, so. Historical inaccuracies, but only if you're set on taking this seriously. (You shouldn't.)
"Just so we're clear, I can't stitch internal organs," Arthur says drily, frowning as Eames thunders down the steps to the infirmary, latching the door behind him.
He glances down at the large, wet bloodstain on the front of his shirt, and grimaces, "Ah, that's not mine. This, however," he pulls his hand away from his upper arm so Arthur can see the gash in his flesh, "Is. I don't think that's outside your considerable expertise, is it?"
Arthur gestures for him to sit on the poorly-padded bunk in the corner, and starts pulling out his supplies. "Someday, you're going to come to me with your entrails hanging out, and you'll thank me for having the decency not to say 'I told you so'."
"Well, it would be the first time you'd patched me up without comment, darling, so it might be worth getting disemboweled to experience the silence."
Arthur stops on his search for the properly-labeled vial of liquid long enough to arch one unimpressed eyebrow in Eames' direction. Eames grins.
Once his implements of mild torture are collected, Arthur pulls his chair over and sits in front of Eames. He cuts the sleeve of Eames' shirt at the shoulder, and Eames winces as the fabric pulls away from the congealing blood around his wound.
"You're still sloppy with the broadsword," Arthur tells him, splashing alcohol on the cut while Eames grits his teeth and hisses at the sting. "You strike to the right and don't cover your left, you've got to be quicker."
"That sword weighs about as much as you do," Eames says, "Quick isn't exactly an option."
Arthur rolls his eyes dismissively, picking up his needle and steel thread. "You're always too slow. Perhaps if you lost some of this bulk," he gestures at Eames' torso before he gets to work sewing Eames' skin back together, cool and efficient as always.
"I seem to recall your hands all over this bulk not twelve hours ago; I'm certain you'd miss it more than I would."
Arthur doesn't look up from his work, but Eames can see his lips twitch, the shadow of a smile appearing before he sets his face back to neutral disinterest.
Eames has endured far worse pain than being stitched, and at any rate, has experienced this particular pain enough to have adjusted to it, but watching Arthur's calm, methodical work always helps to dull things a little further. His long, thin fingers move swiftly but not messily, catching the blood with a rag, thread and needle moving so fast from hand to hand that Eames can scarcely follow the motions.
Arthur ties the stitching off and cuts the string, then wraps a strip of cloth around Eames' arm. He reaches back to drop his supplies on the table, saying, "It's a deep cut. The scar will be big."
"More for you to love, then," he grins, running the toe of his boot up Arthur's bare calf, his tattered breeches only reaching past his knees. "I'll have to get another one on the right, this'll ruin my symmetry." He turns both arms to show the identical scars along the undersides, and doesn't miss the way Arthur's eyelids lower, his tongue darting out over his lips.
"I always meant to ask about those," he says, his flush belying the casual tone of his voice.
"Got them the same day I got this one," Eames says, touching another scar at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, "On the second ship that ever took me on as crew."
"The Serpent's Tongue," Arthur says immediately, reaching up to thumb over the scar on Eames' uninjured arm.
"The Serpent's Tongue, yes," Eames says, temporarily thrown, "The amount of information you know about me is occasionally unsettling."
Arthur ignores this, wrapping his fingers around Eames' arm as if to measure the length of the scar. "So what happened?"
"The first mate didn't take too kindly to having his gold stolen in small amounts over a period of days and weeks," Eames says, flexing a little for Arthur's benefit - and his own, to hear the sharp little intake of breath it earns him, "So the captain pulled me out of my bed in the middle of the night and had me tossed off the back. I caught some rope on the way down, and hooked my arms in," he holds his arms up from his body to demonstrate, showing where the ropes had worn into his flesh. "I hung there until the next sundown."
"Most of a day," Arthur breathes, shifting on his seat, his eyes flicking to Eames' face, hungry and intent.
"Most of a day," Eames confirms, "Then I pulled myself up, snuck into the cabins, took the first mate's gold and a spare boat and rowed away." He finishes with a flourished wave of his hand, but Arthur is engrossed in examining the scar, licking his lips, his cheeks pink.
"And this one?" Arthur asks, touching the knotted flesh on Eames' shoulder.
"Ah, well, the first mate wasn't as asleep as I'd been expecting. He tried to slit my throat - but I'm at least quick enough to sidestep that." Eames wraps his hand around Arthur's, guiding his fingers to trace along the thick line, listening to Arthur's breathing get heavier. "His knife caught me here, but it was his throat that ended up open, in the end."
Arthur surges forward, pressing their mouths together urgently, crawling onto the narrow bed to straddle Eames' lap.
"Thought you'd like that one," Eames says smugly, as Arthur breaks away to trace the scar on Eames' shoulder with his tongue. The front of Arthur's breeches are straining against his erection, and he presses it against Eames' stomach, unmindful of the bloodstains on his shirt.
"It won't be so appealing to me if you get yourself killed," Arthur growls, humming as Eames palms his backside roughly, pulling him closer.
"Well, I don't expect I'll die a natural death," Eames says, which is a reasonable assessment, as far as he's concerned. But Arthur doesn't seem to agree, coming back to bite at Eames' lips, snarling as he shoves down, rutting on Eames' cock.
"You--" Arthur grits at him, then seems to cut himself off before the words can form, instead taking a much more pragmatic path. "Fuck me."
Eames tugs at Arthur's breeches, yanking them pointedly as Arthur grinds against him. "Stand up," he urges, stilling Arthur's hips. Arthur slides off him long enough to tug his breeches to the floor, and retrieve a jar of oil from his supplies. Eames shifts back, giving Arthur enough room to move as he slides into Eames' lap once more, dipping his fingers into the oil.
"I could have done that for you, you know," Eames says, watching Arthur reach behind himself and tense, shuddering.
"You take too long," Arthur breathes, shoving down against his hand.
"You mean I enjoy myself?" Eames smirks, reaching around to feel where Arthur is stretching himself open around two fingers. "I believe I've made you scream for these fingers, don't tell me you don't like it too." Eames pushes his own calloused finger in alongside Arthur's, and Arthur moans, clenching tight around them both.
"I like it," he groans, "Like your cock better. Get those open," he says, nodding down at Eames' breeches.
Eames pulls his finger out reluctantly, tugging at his laces until his cock is free, and hissing as he drips cool oil onto it.
"That's fine, that's enough," Arthur pants, shuffling forward. Eames feels his cock nudge at Arthur's hole where he's still holding himself open with his fingers, his brow creased as he presses down.
"Careful, now," Eames says, though he only brings his hand around to put his fingers to use and help Arthur accommodate him, "You can't take the biggest you've ever had without a little work."
Arthur groans as the head slips inside and they pull their fingers free. "I was exaggerating then," he says breathlessly, "Just being kind."
"I have never known you to be kind," Eames grins, giving a short thrust.
"Fuck," Arthur gasps, "Fuck, do that again."
Eames lifts his hips, pushing in a little deeper, forcing Arthur's too-tight body to take him inside. They fuck like a fight, always a struggle, the way they do everything else.
Arthur is sweating by the time he sits flush on Eames' lap, clenching around him, his head dropped to Eames' shoulder where he tongues again at the long, pink scar there. Eames' injured arm twinges with pain as he lifts Arthur's weight, but it's worth it to slam him back down, enveloped by gripping heat and hearing Arthur moan against his neck.
When he pulls together enough coordination to move himself, Arthur sets the pace, hard and fast, aiming to be sore when they're finished.
"Next time-" he says, breaking off to whine as Eames shifts, changing the angle, "At the next port, you're taking me with you, and - fuck, there, right there."
"D'you like that?" Eames asks, ignoring the rest - they both know Arthur's not permitted to leave the ship, no matter how much Eames would like to fight alongside him.
"Yes, yeah," Arthur nods, rolling his hips frantically, train of thought apparently forgotten. His hand reaches back again, and Eames feels the ghost of a touch as Arthur traces where he's spread wide around Eames' girth.
"God, you little slag," Eames groans, thrusting up roughly, "Not the biggest, my arse. I'd like to see you take more."
"I'd like to see it too," Arthur says, eyes dancing, picking Eames' hand up from his hip and licking a clean, pointed stripe across his wrist.
"Fuck, you little slag," Eames repeats, hoping to drive the point home as he drives up into Arthur's body.
"You know me better than anyone," Arthur whispers, grinning against Eames' lips.
Eames laughs breathlessly, kissing him. He reaches for Arthur's cock, but his fingers barely brush it before Arthur knocks his hand away.
"Don't, just - come on," he says, clenching down hard, "Come on, make me feel it."
Eames growls, lifting Arthur up and forcing him back down, rolling his hips to match the movement. Arthur is nearly sobbing into his shoulder, shaky encouragements panted hot against his skin. He does it again, and again, then holds Arthur down, squirming and pressed flush against him, until Arthur's slender body tenses and Eames feels another wet stain join the blood on his shirt as Arthur comes.
As soon as Eames releases his hips, Arthur starts rocking again, shivering with overstimulation as the last drops trickle down the length of his cock. The shivers running through him make him tighten like a vice around Eames, and it's only a few more brutal thrusts before Eames is groaning, crushing Arthur in his arms and coming deep inside him, relishing in Arthur's moans almost as much as his own release.
Arthur is boneless after his orgasm, slumped onto Eames, and Eames himself is too exhausted, after a day's worth of fighting and fucking, to move. The sweat has started to cool by the time he shifts, lifting Arthur up to pull out of his body. Arthur's arms tighten around his neck, but Eames doesn't push him off, just settles him again, reaching down to trace Arthur's entrance. He presses one finger in, feeling his own come slicking Arthur's insides, waiting to feel Arthur tense, any evidence that they went too fast.
"Does that hurt?" Eames asks.
"Feels good," Arthur tells him. He whines softly when Eames pulls his finger free, but he's still too sated to demand more.
"So I assume we'll be hauling anchor shortly?" Arthur asks after a long moment, speaking into Eames' neck, "Unless you've developed more finesse and haven't left a trail of dead and wounded behind you this time."
"Ah, yes," Eames says, "I expect we'll be leaving the port as soon as the captain gets wind of this. Assuming he doesn't simply opt to make good on his daily threats to throw me over and rid himself of the nuisance."
"He'd be nowhere without you," Arthur says in an uncharacteristic display of honest praise, running his fingers idly through the hair on Eames' chest over the low collar of his shirt, "I don't understand why you follow his orders; you're stronger and God knows you're more intelligent, you could run this ship."
Eames raises an eyebrow that Arthur can't see, still slouched onto his shoulder. "And can I assume that by 'you', you actually mean 'we'?"
"Of course," Arthur says, undaunted, "Someone will have to teach you to cover your left side. Or at least sew you up when you don't."
Eames doesn't miss the transition from the hypothetical 'could' to the definite 'will', but he doesn't comment on it. Arthur doesn't have quite the experience Eames does, but his ideas are a long way from far-fetched. Eames would be lying if he kept insisting it couldn't be done. And Arthur may have a vested interest in this - his freedom hinges on mutiny led by someone who considers him more than a prisoner, after all - but when he's right, he's right. Mutiny is seeming more possible - and more appealing - every day, in Eames' mind. At least, mutiny with Arthur armed at his side.
But he's had enough blood on his hands, and his clothes, for one day, so for now, they both fall silent. Eames strokes Arthur's back underneath his shirt, feeling the slow, gentle roll of the ship in the sheltered harbour's waters.
The rare moment of tranquility is broken by a booming voice from the upper deck.
"Eames, you unmanageable brute, get up here!"
Eames sighs, nudging Arthur off his lap. He laces his breeches with difficulty, his muscle pulling at its stitches. "Sounds like it's overboard for me, then," he says as he stands.
Arthur bends to pull his own breeches back on, "Well, if you can't catch a rope on your way down," he says, straightening, regarding Eames with a smirk that's a shade more affectionate than sardonic, for once, "Look for me jumping after you."
Eames cocks his head, watching as Arthur shakes his hair back from his eyes.
"Come here," Eames says, pulling Arthur flush against him as he steps forward, kissing him. Arthur is soft and smooth and sharp against him all at once, and Eames finds himself making a promise that he is suddenly so sure of, he can feel it in his bones: "He'll be the next one over the side of this ship, once she's ours to keep."
Arthur huffs a laugh into Eames' mouth, catching the back of his head and kissing him fiercely. He pulls back, smiling, "But what good is the word of a pirate?"
There's a pounding on the cabin door, and the navigator's voice bellowing, "Eames, he'll hang you from the mast by your feet if-"
"Right, I got it," Eames shouts over his shoulder, placing one last kiss against Arthur's grin. "It's as good as yours on these waters, darling. You might as well trust it."