Fic: Things Are Gonna Slide (2/2)

[five_ht]

*

Eames answers the door in a worn undershirt and jeans, and Arthur tries not to let that distract him too much.

"I'm not handling this well," Eames says. Arthur is almost too relieved to see him to feel satisfied at the fact that he looks even worse than Arthur feels. Almost.

"Well, at least we're on the same page."

Eames steps back to let him into the room, running his hand through his hair, which looks damp. Arthur walks past him and hears Eames sigh as the door clicks shut.

"I'm sorry. But I'm... not, really," he says, and Arthur looks around at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm sorry this is frustrating for you, but I don't think there was another way for me to do this. I look at you and I can't think rationally about any of this."

Arthur closes his eyes. Twenty-four hours ago, hearing Eames say he wants Arthur so bad he can't think would have been grounds for Arthur to throw himself at him. Now, it's just frustrating.

"Do you even hear yourself?" he opens his eyes and Eames is still standing in the entryway, looking uncomfortable. "Why are you ignoring what that means? Why is wanting me a bad thing?"

Eames' brow furrows, and Arthur gets the distinct impression that he's being appraised. Eames steps closer, but then he's walking past Arthur, sitting heavily on the end of the bed.

"Did you like what we did last night?" he finally asks, "Is that something you want?"

Arthur leans back against the desk, a suitable distance away. "Yeah, Eames, it was hot, I liked it. I haven't been analyzing it for the last twelve hours the way you have."

"Maybe you should have been," Eames says, a little sharply. "Maybe you should be asking yourself what you want, Arthur, because you have to know, you have to be sure. What happened last night, the way I was treating you then, is that what you want? Do you want that again?"

Arthur opens his mouth to respond, then hesitates. He feels awkward, again like he's being strung along through a conversation where he only has half the necessary information. "I don't know, it was hot, it felt --" his throat catches on the word freeing, because even in his head it sounds ridiculous. "-- good. I don't know the specifics, what do you want me to say?"

Bringing his hands up to his face, Eames groans. "This is so fucked up. It's so fucked up," he drops his hands, and the look he gives Arthur is defeated, making something anxious clench in Arthur's stomach. "Maybe I should take off for a while. Saunders has been trying to tap me for a job in Istanbul, I could be out by morning. Give us both some time to cool off."

Arthur wants to scream. "Why do you keep talking like that? Why can't we give this a try, why do we have to cool off?"

"Because you don't know what you want, Arthur," Eames almost yells, then takes a breath, lowering his voice. "Given the circumstances, this doesn't seem like the best way to get you involved in a relationship like this."

"No, fuck that, I know what I want," Arthur says, trying not to sound desperate, but it's hard to keep his voice steady. "I want you, I want to try. How am I supposed to know any more than that if you don't show me what you can give me?"

Eames doesn't say anything then, but he holds Arthur's eyes, and Arthur forces himself not to waver. Even exhausted and rumpled, Eames is beautiful. Arthur thinks about last night, about Eames' praise, the firm hand in his hair, the harsh scrape of teeth on his neck. He thinks about being on his knees, feeling every one of Eames' groans like they were his own pleasure.

He thinks about how stupid he's going to feel if he lets Eames get on a plane to fucking Istanbul before he gives this his best shot.

Arthur strips off his jacket and his waistcoat quickly, holding Eames' gaze as he does it. Without allowing himself another second to think, he steps up to the bed, casting his eyes downward. Slowly, as gracefully as he can manage, he sinks to his knees at Eames' feet.

"I want you," he whispers, bringing one hand up to rest on Eames' knee, leaning his cheek against Eames' thigh. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. "I -- I think I need it, Eames. Please tell me you want me like this."

"Arthur," Eames says, and it's a low rumble, so similar to the way he growled Arthur's name last night, but so much warmer. Arthur feels arousal pool in his belly when Eames' hand touches his hair. "Look up, love. Look at me."

Eames waits until Arthur meets his eyes before he cups Arthur's jaw, holding him there, thumb brushing over his mouth.

"You look perfect, Arthur," Eames says, "If we do this, I don't want you looking at the floor. I want you to show me what you're feeling. If I can't see you, if you're hiding something from me, then I can't make this good for either of us, least of all you. So I want you to look at me."

His thumb slips between Arthur's lips, and Arthur laps at it, hungry, until Eames draws it back again. "Anything," Arthur says, already hot just from those little touches.

"No, not anything," Eames says, brushing Arthur's hair off his forehead, "The only rule tonight is that you let me know what you're feeling, and that includes telling me if it gets to be too much, and you need to slow down or stop or even walk out of this room and never do this again. You have to be able to recognize if that happens. You have to know that you can say no at any point, and I'm not going to hold it against you. Can you promise me you'll do that?"

Arthur nods, thinking of Eames' empty threat to fuck him dry last night, thinking of how sure he was that he would have put a stop to it himself, if Eames had pushed that too far. "I promise."

"Good. Stand up."

Arthur does, rising from the floor to stand between Eames' knees, and Eames starts pulling Arthur's tie off immediately. Eames undresses him like it's a ritual, like it's something he's been waiting do to. Every item of clothing comes off slowly, fluttering to the floor, forgotten, when it reveals more skin for Eames to touch. Arthur is quiet, biting his tongue to keep from saying something ridiculous like thank you.

When Arthur is naked, Eames pulls his own shirt over his head quickly. Arthur's fingers twitch with the desire to reach out and run across Eames' shoulders and through the coarse hair on his chest. Eames adjusts his position so that he's perched on the edge of the mattress.

"C'mere," he says, taking Arthur's hips and guiding him into Eames' lap.

Arthur feels unsteady when he straddles Eames, with no room to plant his knees and only the slope of Eames' legs under his ass. He clutches at Eames' shoulders, but Eames catches his hands, guiding his arms behind him. Eames wraps his fingers around both of Arthur's wrists, pinning them at the small of his back, and Arthur tenses, trying to keep his balance.

"Relax," Eames tells him, "I've got you, you won't slip."

Arthur shuffles his knees, but finds no more purchase. Finally he exhales, letting himself sink into Eames' hold, and finds that Eames is right -- he does have him.

Eames smiles, running the palm of his free hand across Arthur's chest, mapping out every inch, "That's it."

Arthur's in unknown territory here, feeling anxious and exposed like a virgin, but Eames doesn't give him the chance to dwell on that. There's too much to think about, too many things that are too good to miss; rough, warm fingers exploring his torso, the attentive way Eames watches his face, the brutal grip on his wrists that keeps him balanced, reminding him why this is worth the risk. He squirms, pleased when he feels Eames is getting hard, even more so when the motion makes Eames' breath hitch.

"Christ, like you had to ask if I wanted you like this," Eames says, "You don't know how long I've thought about having you right here. The things I want to do to you..." his fingers trail low on Arthur's belly, wrapping lightly around his cock and stroking a few times before moving away to dance over his hip.

Arthur shivers at the thought of Eames fantasizing about him -- he wonders if Eames ever spent any of those nights in adjoining hotel rooms, touching himself the way Arthur had been. "Tell me," he says, humming when Eames' fingers trail down the cleft of his ass.

"Tell you what?"

"What you want to do to me," Arthur breathes, dizzy. "I've gotta make an informed decision here, right?"

Eames huffs a laugh, "You do," he agrees, and Arthur feels Eames' hand grip his ass. "I don't know how many times I've looked at you in those bloody beautiful suits of yours and thought about bending you over my knee. Pulling those trousers down and bringing my hand down on your arse until it was bright red, and you were sobbing..."

"Fuck," all of Arthur's breath leaves him in a rush, and he bows his head to Eames' shoulder when he feels himself flush pink. "I want that. God, I've thought about that so much."

Eames' hand comes up to tug at his hair, pull him back up so Eames can look at him. "You would want it, wouldn't you?" Eames asks, and guides Arthur in for a kiss, deep and claiming. His hand finds Arthur's cock again, now with a firmer grip, and he breaks the kiss with a rumbled growl. "Do you want to hear more?"

Arthur nods, silent except for a small moan, pushing into Eames' fist, a little too dry but still so good.

"I'd put you on my bed, tie your wrists to your ankles and have that gorgeous arse up in the air and on display for me," Eames swipes precome down Arthur's length, and that little bit of slick has him bucking, trusting Eames to keep him stable. "I'd sit there and touch myself and talk to you until you went mad for it, and you broke and cried for me to fuck you."

"Christ, Eames," Arthur finds himself grinding down to feel Eames' erection, feverish at the thought. He can't help his eyes slipping closed, but he doesn't hide his face this time, feeling the heat spread down his neck.

"And I'll spread you open and tie you like that, on your back," Eames goes on, and the shift from hypothetical to definite isn't lost on Arthur, "Bring you off again and again with my mouth and my fingers and my cock, see how many times I can make you come before you beg for mercy."

"Oh god," Arthur says, a rough edge on his voice, his body practically vibrating with arousal, "Fuck, Eames, keep going."

"Oh, love," Eames' grip on his wrists tightens almost painfully, and his hand leaves Arthur's cock. "It gets so much better, but I could give you a little preview instead, what do you think?"

"Yes," Arthur gasps, straining forward to press himself against Eames' abs, but Eames tugs his arms back, keeping him still. "Show me," he says, and he doesn't even really know what he's asking for, but he's as sure of it as he is of Eames' fingers squeezing bruises into his wrists.

Eames releases him then, bringing his hands to Arthur's hips and guiding him off Eames' lap. Arthur stands shakily, and Eames follows, tangling his hand in Arthur's hair to bring him in for another kiss, rough and demanding. It's completely at odds with the gentle, quiet confidence in his voice when he pulls away, saying, "On the bed for me. On your back."

It thrills Arthur to comply, crawling onto the bed while Eames crosses the room to his suitcase. He settles on his back as he watches Eames pull a bottle of lube and a condom from a side pocket, and comes back to the bed, his eyes running over Arthur's body.

"Bend your knees up," he says, a deep rumble in his chest, "Spread your legs for me."

Arthur can feel his cock leaking on his belly as he obeys, opening up for Eames. It shouldn't feel so different from last night, from Eames inspecting him on his knees, but it does. Arthur can read arousal in every one of Eames' movements, in the flush of his cheeks, in the hot, intent way his gaze sweeps down between Arthur's legs.

Eames strips his jeans off before he climbs onto the bed, and Arthur has to grip the sheets to stop himself from reaching out for him before Eames has a chance to crawl on top of him, fitting comfortably between Arthur's legs.

Fingers brush the hair off his forehead, and Eames kisses him, quickly this time. "How do you feel?"

"Good, really good," Arthur says, then, figuring complete honesty is the best strategy in the face of Eames' searching eyes, "A little nervous, but... I like this."

"Good, nervous is fine. I might be concerned if you weren't," Eames says, "But you've got nothing to worry about. We're not going to do anything intense right now."

Arthur nods, swallowing where his throat has gone slightly dry, "I trust you."

Eames kisses him again, and now it's back to the norm, rough and possessive, licking behind Arthur's teeth. "Let me earn that," he says as he pulls away, a bit breathless, "Let me earn your trust."

Arthur can't imagine a scenario where he wouldn't trust Eames -- Eames, who's always watching his six, who Arthur is so accustomed to working with that he wonders sometimes if he could work alone again -- Eames already has Arthur's trust.

"I trust you," Arthur insists, inching his legs apart further and turning his palms up on the bed, as if that might illustrate the point. "You've never given me a reason not to. You've already earned it."

"Arthur," Eames says, sounding ruined, "God, you make this too easy."

He reaches for the lube then, squeezing some of it out onto his palm and moving off of Arthur to stretch out next to him. Arthur gasps at the cold when Eames' hand wraps around his cock, but the shock only lasts a second. Eames' grip is slick and tight, stroking him steady, bringing him quickly back to a state of trembling arousal.

"I'd have you all to myself if I could," Eames murmurs in his ear, "You'd be all mine, you don't know, Arthur."

Arthur reaches one shaking hand up to touch Eames' jaw. "I want to know," he says, "It doesn't scare me, I want you."

"Just let me show you," Eames says, like there's still a secret Arthur has to discover. Eames strokes him quickly, pinning Arthur's hips with his knee and forcing Arthur to keep still. He feels himself coiling tight way too soon, and he scrabbles at Eames' shoulders.

"I can't -- I'm gonna come," he warns hoarsely, not entirely sure he wants Eames to stop.

"I want you to come," Eames says, slick hand working him into a frenzy, "I want you to let go for me, just let yourself go."

And it's so easy to do it then, to accept whatever pleasure Eames wants to offer, let self control slip away and come with a cry, with a full-body shudder. Eames strokes him through it, insistent, and Arthur's breath all catches in his chest as the waves roll over him and he spills onto his stomach.

But Eames doesn't stop when Arthur goes boneless. He doesn't let up at all, he keeps stroking and the waves start to turn into shocks, little jolts of electricity that travel up Arthur's legs and center on his oversensitive cock

"Eames," he manages to gasp, though the air in the room feels too thick and too hot to enter his lungs.

"Hold on," Eames whispers, moving down his body. Arthur feels his throat tear on a sob when Eames' tongue swipes, flat and thick, over the head of Arthur's cock. It's too much, but Eames keeps going, licking and sucking at him, gathering up Arthur's come on his fingers and pressing them at his entrance, slipping inside to tease at more hyper-sensitive nerves.

Arthur's muscles are rigid, and he tries to hold on, tries to breathe as his brain short-circuits, unable to classify the sensation as either pleasure or pain. It's too much, he can't get a breath, his eyes sting with moisture. He doesn't want to stop, but he doesn't know if he can hold on, and maybe he needs to ask Eames to slow down, just a little --

But then Eames is moving back up, his fingers still probing deep and rubbing at the spot that makes Arthur's whole body tremor.

"Good boy, Arthur," Eames says gently, a sharp contrast to his fingers stretching Arthur open and driving inside him roughly, "You're still hard for me, can you feel that? You're doing so well, just breathe deep for me, just take it, you can do it."

Arthur hears himself sob again through the rushing in his ears, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he relaxes, just a hair, with Eames' weight on top of him and that voice murmuring praise in his ear.

"That's it, that's perfect, keep breathing," Eames says. He fingers Arthur with a demanding pace, and all the little shocks running through Arthur soon start to feel like pleasure again, at Eames' coaxing.

Arthur actually whines when the fingers leave him, his body now more than welcoming the stimulation.

"Eames," he rasps, still reeling. He feels himself trembling, feels his eyes stinging, but this time it's -- different. It feels like catharsis, like he just figured it all out; pushed past what he thought were his limits, urged through it with Eames' hands forcing his body and Eames' words stringing him along.

"How fucking perfect are you," Eames says, and Arthur opens his eyes to find Eames looking down at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Arthur touches Eames' chest and feels his heart hammering almost as fast as Arthur's own. This is perfect.

"Don't stop," Arthur whispers, "Whatever you want to do, please don't stop."

Eames grinds down on him, making the breath catch in both their throats. "Right now, I want to fuck you. I want to see your face while I fuck you."

"Yeah," Arthur gasps, arching up against Eames, the friction on his cock still sending jolts through him. Eames slicks his fingers again, and Arthur's instinct to beg, to tell Eames he doesn't need any more prep, he can handle it, is chased away by the wet fingers sliding easily back inside him. It feels too good to rush, any part of Eames inside him feels so fucking good when Eames is watching him like this, eyes intent and searching.

"I wish I could have seen your face the first time I did this to you," Eames says, scissoring his fingers and letting Arthur feel the stretch. "I can't believe I missed it."

Arthur lifts his head up to kiss Eames, whining into his mouth as a third finger presses in, spreading apart and spreading him open. "Doesn't count," he breathes against Eames' lips, "This is a do-over."

Eames follows him down when he drops back to the pillows, kissing him again, fucking Arthur's mouth with his tongue in time with his fingers. Every nudge at his prostate is a shock down Arthur's nerves, welcome overstimulation driving him out of his head.

The fingers pull out then, one swift motion leaving Arthur gaping, whining at the emptiness but desperate for what's coming. It really does feel like this is their first time, the crinkle of the condom wrapper sending a thrill of need through him, his body thrumming with anticipation.

Arthur barely has time to draw a breath before Eames presses inside him, one firm push right to the hilt.

"God, you feel good," Eames rasps, resting his forehead against Arthur's and panting against his lips. Arthur nods, frantic, because Eames feels incredible inside him, unmoving and big and hot and almost too much. It's nothing like before, the quick, efficient fuck from behind; everything about it feels different. This is a different person.

Arthur clenches, his body begging for movement, and Eames gets leverage on his elbows and surges forward, less of a thrust than a press to get further inside. Arthur wants to open his legs wider, wants to wrap them around Eames' waist and get him deeper, but he's as deep as he can go.

"Perfect, look at you," Eames says, and Arthur realizes he's clawing at the bedclothes, arching against Eames, mindless. Eames kisses him, swallowing Arthur's whimpers. "Don't hold back, love, you'll get what you need."

Arthur hears himself moaning, a rough, wild sound he barely recognizes, and Eames starts to move, rutting against him. It's not a lot, and it shouldn't really be satisfying, but Eames is so deep, Arthur feels like his breath is being pushed out of him with every roll of Eames' hips. He's high on Eames' body, the heavy bulk between his thighs, all that muscle and strength that promises the best kind of aches and bruises.

If Arthur could speak through his panting, it would be some barely-coherent proclamation, some worshipful, breathless babble of how good, how full, how much he needs. He thinks Eames, with his savage kisses and the sharp force he uses to drive into Arthur's body, might understand.

Arthur clutches hard at Eames' shoulders when he feels him tensing, hears his moans getting rougher, like he's right on the edge.

"Yeah, come on," Arthur whines. He can't come again himself, not yet, but he wants to see Eames' face when he falls, beautiful and powerful and taking his pleasure from Arthur's body. He hooks his legs over Eames' hips to urge him on, but then Eames growls, winding one hand in Arthur's hair and going still.

Arthur can feel the tension in Eames' muscles, tremors running through him like he's moments from coming, taking gasping gulps of air. Before Arthur can speak, Eames is kissing him, fucking him with his tongue as though in apology, like he's trying to make up for the utter lack of movement of his hips. Arthur could get lost in Eames' claiming kisses, he could, but there's something hard and hot shoved up his ass that is giving his body other ideas.

He doesn't realize he's moving, squirming on Eames' cock, until Eames breaks the kiss with a wet sound and reaches down, one hand wrapping around Arthur's hip.

"Stop." Eames says, and it sounds like an order, so Arthur does, shivering. "Good boy."

"Fuck," Arthur moans, tensing with the effort to keep still. Eames kisses him again, swallowing up all of Arthur's noises, a hand on his hip and one in his hair keeping him steady. Arthur does his best, kissing back with what coordination he has, clenching hard on Eames' cock when the pressure starts building again.

Eames pulls back with a smile, "I like that you're desperate for it," he says, swiping over Arthur's mouth with his thumb, pushing it between Arthur's lips. "And that you'll wait for me anyway."

Arthur sucks greedily at Eames' thumb, in case Eames just needs a little incentive to get moving again. Eames takes his hand away, pushing himself up so he can trail it between them. Arthur's legs strain open wide at the feel of Eames' fingers tracing his hole, slick and stretched around the base of Eames' cock. Eames draws his hips back and Arthur nearly gasps, beyond ready to get fucked again.

"Tell me if it's too much," Eames says, then pushes back in, two fingers easing in alongside his cock, stretching Arthur impossibly wide.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Arthur gasps, trying to pull his knees up, keening, "That's -- big."

"You can tell me to stop," Eames says, but he's still pushing in and in and in, like he knows what Arthur is going to say.

"Don't, don't stop, I can take it."

"I don't doubt it," Eames says, reverent, starting to fuck Arthur in deep, smooth strokes. This isn't hard or fast either, but Arthur's eyes still clench tight and tear up with pleasure, opened impossibly wide around Eames' fingers and his cock. The stretch is bigger than anything he's felt before, just riding the edge of too much.

He arches off the bed when Eames spreads his fingers apart, soothing the little hurt with a deep stroke in. Arthur hears himself, mindless noises spilling from his lips, but he has no control, over that or anything else.

"You are lovely like this," Eames says, his voice raw, "I've always wanted to take you apart, figure out what you were hiding under all that pretty cloth. If I'd known..." he gives a hard thrust in and Arthur cries out, clutching Eames' bicep and feeling the coiled strength as he holds himself up. "... I'd have gotten you on your knees for me ages ago, darling."

"I'd have done it," Arthur promises, and he doesn't know how long that's been true, but it's been a while. He feels Eames speeding up then, feels the snap of his hips that means he's close, and Arthur wants it so badly. "Christ, yes, yes," he says, Eames' fingers now just holding Arthur open so he can thrust in faster and harder. Arthur meets it as much as he can, arching up and pulling Eames closer, letting him drive in deep -- but then Eames stills, pulling his fingers free, growling low in his throat like it pains him to stop this time.

Arthur is writhing, clenching his teeth against the no and the please, and Eames grips his hip again.

"Stop," Eames tells him, his voice hoarse this time, torn up with pleasure, but it's no less a command. The desire to be good is almost overwhelming, and Arthur makes himself stop squirming, moans when Eames drops back down on his elbows and kisses him deeply. "Just wait. How do you feel?"

"Fuck -- fucking amazing," he says, completely honest, all nervousness and hesitance washed away. He's never felt so blissfully strung out, so desperate and yielding and owned. And he doesn't remember when the pleasure went from too much to perfect, but he feels like he could come now, whenever Eames starts to move again.

It occurs to him then that Eames hasn't been making Arthur wait; he's been holding himself off -- holding off so Arthur can get there again, so he can come with Eames inside him.

The realization has him reeling, every muscle taut with the effort to stay still. "Eames," he chokes out, "Eames, fuck, I want--"

"Tell me," Eames murmurs, "Beg for it, Arthur, tell me what you need."

"Please fuck me," Arthur moans, sure he's about to rip the sheets between his fingers, "Hard, fuck me hard, I need it, please."

"Good," Eames groans, teeth against Arthur's jaw as he picks Arthur's legs up, hooking them around his arms. "Good boy, Arthur, that's--" but the rest is muffled into Arthur's neck, lost under a cry ripped from his throat as Eames thrusts in deep.

Eames fucks his breath out of him, so hard it hurts, harder than last night but so much better with Eames groaning his name, leaving wet, biting kisses everywhere his mouth reaches.

Arthur can't beg for anything now, can't think of anything he needs that isn't this. He knows he's sobbing, knows the headboard is leaving dents in the wall, knows all of Eames' strength is behind every thrust. He babbles a litany of "Yes, yes, yes," as Eames sucks a mark onto his neck. Arthur wants every reminder he can get.

Eames pulls Arthur's legs up over his shoulders, folding him in half, crushing Arthur to the bed with his weight. "How -- how do you feel?" he asks again, his voice breaking on his thrusts.

"Need you," Arthur manages, "Need to come, please, please."

Eames leans in as if for a kiss, but neither of them can coordinate it, panting into each others' mouths.

"Come for me," Eames says, "Come with me."

Arthur thinks he hears himself scream, some harsh, primal noise torn out of him as he comes, with Eames fucking into him ruthlessly. He spills onto his stomach again, onto his chest, floored by the force of his orgasm. Eames' hips snap harsh and quick as Arthur clenches around him, and he comes, moaning against Arthur's mouth, halfway toward a kiss as they fall to pieces together.

Arthur has never been one for coordination or coherence after orgasms, but when Eames slumps on top of him, he feels like he could sleep for days. He's aware that they lie there for some not inconsiderable amount of time before Eames shifts, but that doesn't stop Arthur from whining at the prospect of having to move.

He can only cling weakly, too exhausted to do anything else, when Eames slips out of him. He'd like to keep Eames' weight on him for as long as possible, but Eames rolls away, and Arthur feels the bed dip and rise as he stands.

He hears footsteps and the sound of running water, and it feels a little bit like last night, with Arthur blissed out and Eames bustling around the room with altogether too much energy. What's different, though, is when Arthur opens his eyes at the sound of Eames standing over him, and instead of the confused, closed-off expression from the last time, Eames' face is soft, a lopsided smile quirking his lips.

"Do you always get like this after sex? Just out of curiosity," Eames says, setting a glass of water on the nightstand and kneeling on the bed, cloth in hand.

"Like what?" Arthur mumbles, then reaches out when Eames starts to clean up the mess on his belly. "You don't have to --"

"But you like it when I do," Eames smiles, a little indulgently, and Arthur sinks back against the sheets, cheeks warm with pleasure.

"It's nice," he says, watching Eames' face.

Eames takes longer than necessary to clean Arthur up, slow strokes of the cloth across his stomach, his legs, his cock. When Eames speaks, it's soft, still with that smile, like he's getting as much out of this as Arthur is.

"This part can be as good as anything else. If you'll let me, if you'd like to, I'll wear you out till you can't even stand, and when it's over, I'll pick you up and carry you to the bathtub for this. And I'll clean you up, and touch you till you come back to life for me. Soft and easy."

Arthur lets out a low moan, lifting a heavy arm so he can stroke his hand up Eames' thigh. "Fuck, that sounds good."

When Eames finishes, he picks up the glass of water, propping Arthur up with his arm. Maybe it should feel patronizing to let Eames hold the glass to his lips, especially when he's certain his hands work just fine, but it doesn't. It's too good to let Eames take care of him like this, they're both enjoying it too much.

Eames kisses his temple when he sets the water back on the nightstand, easing Arthur down to the bed again, leaning over him on his hands.

"We should probably talk, huh?" Eames says, and Arthur's eyes are closed, but he can still hear the smile.

"Do I look like I can talk right now? Now it's sleeping time."

"It's just after six."

"Nap, then," Arthur mumbles, already halfway there. The bed moves again, and Arthur pries one eye open to watch Eames draw the heavy curtains over the window, plunging them into almost-darkness.

Eames doesn't say anything else as he gets back onto the bed, gathering Arthur up against him and kissing the top of his head as Arthur throws a leg over Eames' hips. Arthur puts his cheek over Eames' heartbeat, and he's out before Eames can even pull the covers up around them.

*

"Incoming."

Arthur starts at Eames' voice in his ear, pulled from a mental rehearsal of the latest changes to their maze. He turns in his chair in time to see their current client striding toward them across their workshop.

"A word, gentlemen?" he asks as Arthur stands, smoothing out his shirt.

"Certainly," Eames gestures to the only set of table and chairs not covered in paper, but Whalen simply comes to stand in front of them, a head taller than both of them, and just a few inches too close for friendly conversation.

"I'd like you to tell me about your work."

Arthur glances at Eames, who looks as though he's biting through his tongue with the effort not to laugh.

"Is there something specific you'd like to know?" Arthur asks quickly, "It's a little late in the game for you to be having second thoughts." A little late meaning two hours before the job.

"Well, for example, I'd like to know what Mr. Eames' role is in all of this."

Now Eames just looks wary. "I'll be locating our target's secrets in the maze we build in his mind," he says.

"Exactly," Whalen says, "You sold yourself to me as an extractor."

"Where is this going, Whalen?" Arthur asks, bristling at the tone.

"He's a forger," Whalen points an accusatory finger at Eames, "He hid it well, but my people found it."

Arthur has no patience for people who can't do their own research. "We didn't hide anything, you weren't looking."

"I assure you, Mr. Whalen, I am a more than capable extractor. The fact that my reputation as a forger overshadows my other considerable and varied talents is neither here nor there," Eames' eyes flash, belying his even tone.

"You two are playing with my livelihood here," Whalen says, "I expect more than 'capable'."

It takes every ounce of willpower Arthur has not to roll his eyes. Every client's job is their fucking livelihood, or their life's work, or their worth as a human being. "We understand that," he says calmly, "But this is a routine extraction, and your money doesn't go anywhere until we get you your information, so you're taking no risk."

Whalen narrows his eyes. "I'm aiding a crime that I didn't even know existed a month ago. There's always a risk." He points his finger at Eames again, and Arthur clenches his jaw against the urge to snap it off. "Don't fuck this up."

His shoes tap on the cement as he turns and walks away, apparently satisfied with his intimidation tactics. Eames lets out a growl, knitting his fingers behind his head, as soon as Whalen is out of earshot.

"Remind me again why we took this job?"

"You remember all those zeroes?" Arthur scrubs at his eyes, sighing when the workshop door slams shut.

"Right, the zeroes, of course."

Arthur turns back to his desk, but he's tense now, in need of a coffee and a dart board with Whalen's face on it. He sucks in a breath when Eames' hand snakes around him, fingers splaying out over his chest.

"D'you think we'll even remember to check our accounts once we come out on the other side of this?" Eames murmurs, hand sliding up to wrap loosely around Arthur's neck.

"Maybe in the morning," Arthur says, leaning back against Eames and turning his head to nudge his nose against Eames' cheek. Eames tightens his thumb and index finger on Arthur's throat just a shade, and Arthur lets his eyes slip closed, trying to imagine what it will feel like to have a strip of leather there, snug and secure. He hasn't seen it yet, but he's had weeks of promises to imagine it. He wonders if Eames will want him on his knees when he puts it on him for the first time, he wonders how tight it will be, whether Eames will be able to hook a finger underneath it to lead him, or if there'll be a ring or even a chain for that purpose. He flushes with arousal as Eames' free hand roams across his chest and stomach, casually possessive.

"Maybe," Eames says, dropping his head to kiss Arthur's shoulder. He lets go of Arthur's throat to stroke his finger across it, right where Arthur knows his collar will sit. "Doesn't seem so important now."

They stand there for a minute, silent, Eames running his hands over Arthur like he's leaving his mark, and Arthur leaning against him, all his aggravation easing away. Even months into this, he still wonders how he could have gone so long without knowing how badly he needs it. How badly he needs it from Eames.

When Eames steps away, Arthur feels loose-limbed and calm, still amazed at how easily Eames can pull the tension straight from his bones with a few touches. He knows they'll pull this job off, for the same reason he knows that he won't hesitate when Eames tightens the collar around his neck tonight. Eames has his back, he always did. It's never been a question.