Jack of Hearts [2/2]
Eames does try. The next day, they go to a movie. It’s terrible, and since they’re the only ones there, they spend the entire hour and forty minutes laughing and making up their own dialogue.
But Arthur still won’t give him a kiss.
“Tomorrow, Eames,” Arthur says. They’re still standing in Arthur’s doorway, but at least this time, there isn’t a door in Eames’ face. “Try again tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Eames says, straightening up. “Good night, Arthur.”
Arthur smiles at him, the smile that makes his eyes crinkle and Eames’ grin to widen. “Good night, Mr. Eames.”
So Eames tries again. And again. He takes Arthur to parks and museums and zoos to the point where they’re so filled with inane facts about everything from Neolithic food sources to migrating patterns of pygmy owls that their next date may as well be a go at Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.
“What if I said please,” Eames asks finally, out of desperation, and Arthur laughs and says, “It wouldn’t hurt to try.” So he does.
“Darling,” he says. “Lovely, delightful Arthur. May I please have a kiss?”
They’re standing by Eames’ car just outside Arthur’s building because it doesn’t matter that Arthur’s already gotten his own car back, Eames still drives them everywhere, even when the date is Arthur’s idea. Arthur is dressed up nicely because Eames had made reservations for them at the outrageously over-priced restaurant across town. Eames is dressed up nicely, too, but Eames finds himself appreciating Arthur’s clothes much, much more.
Arthur moves in to where Eames is leaning against the hood of the car, fitting himself neatly between Eames’ legs. His hands run down the length of Eames’ suit jacket, and he ducks his head slightly so Eames can’t quite see his eyes.
“I’m not supposed to trust you,” he says quietly, slipping his fingers under the lapel.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Eames says, equally quiet, placing a hand on the curve of Arthur’s hip. “It would be for the best.”
It’s rather dark out, Eames thinks as Arthur presses in closer, the light from the streetlamp nearby casting dark shadows across his face. It’s also kind of cold.
Arthur kisses Eames, then and there, four days before he’s to be called to testify at Mal’s murder trial, and twenty-three days after Eames first learned of Arthur Darling and what he meant.
Eames’ eyes slip shut, and Arthur kisses him and kisses him until his lips tingle with every touch.
Eames makes it a point to kiss Arthur every night after that. And morning. And pretty much every hour in between.
*
The day before Arthur is to be at court, Nash makes Eames come into the office.
“Do you have anything that I can use?” Nash half-growls, when Eames greets him with an unusually sincere “Good morning.”
“I have many things,” Eames says generously. “I’m going to need a little more specificity.”
The look on Nash’s face says a lot of things, several of which seem to include a strong desire to shoot Eames in the face with an assault rifle. “I need something I can use in court,” he snarls.
“I don’t have anything,” Eames says truthfully. “Nothing on Arthur, anyway, if that’s what you want. I’ve dug up everything that I can, and I’ve asked him myself. He’s just someone who saw someone else get pushed off a twenty-story building.”
“You asked Arthur,” Nash says flatly. “About if there was anything you could use against him in court.”
“Yes.”
“Are you fucking serious right now, Eames? I don’t care, okay? You can marry him if you want, but for fuck’s sake, you have a job to do.”
“And I’m doing it,” Eames shoots back. “I got you the autopsy; I got you the police reports, the lab results; I personally interviewed the other suspects.”
“That’s not the point, Eames!” Nash says harshly. “I told you to find something on Arthur, and you haven’t done it! This is the goddamn United States of America-everyone has something to hide.”
Eames glares at him.
“Not that I’m not happy for you,” Nash relents with a sigh. “If this were any other time, any other case, I wouldn't give a shit, but we don’t have that privilege right now. You need to fucking focus.”
“I am focused,” Eames retorts. “What does it matter? The DA’s still got his prints, not to mention DNA.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Nash barks back; he heaves another sigh. “Look, I get it, alright? It’s Mal. I know it’s Mal, okay? I have to defend my clients to the best of my ability. He has a right an attorney, and it’s my job to fight for him.”
“Rights? Fuck that, you know it’s because he has money. Jesus Christ,” Eames swears. “You wouldn’t even be trying this hard if he wasn’t going to land you a six figure bonus.”
“Try again, Eames,” Nash says darkly as he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a mini tape recorder.
“What’s that?” Eames asks, distracted.
“Insurance,” Nash replies, face grim. He looks at Eames. “Remember the Mendez case?”
Eames pales. “You,” he starts, gritting his teeth. “You said you got rid of everything.”
“Almost everything,” Nash corrects with a twist of his mouth. “It’s still enough to put you away for some time.”
“Son of a bitch,” Eames groans, running a hand through his hair. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
“If this case wasn’t so important-”
“Oh, spare me,” Eames gripes.
Nash gives him a look of warning and shakes his head. “Go home, Eames. Get some rest, look over your notes, and see if there’s something you might’ve missed,” he says tiredly. “I’ll see you in court tomorrow.”
*
So Eames sort of lied to Nash. He does have something on Arthur.
There’s a sealed record, dating back to 2000 with Arthur’s name stamped across it. It could mean absolutely nothing, but Eames knows how it would look to a jury-Cobb, the family friend and DA for the state; Arthur, the juvenile with reckless decisions and bad consequences.
It’s probably nothing.
There’s a knock on the door, and Eames blinks himself back to Earth. “Coming,” he calls as he pads down the hall.
It’s Arthur with a bottle of wine.
“Hello there, darling,” he says easily, stepping aside to let him in. Arthur grins at him and hands over the wine.
“Hello yourself,” he says.
Eames shuts the door and shows Arthur to the living room, handing him the remote to the TV with a “Back in a minute,” before meandering back over to the kitchen where he’s got a pre-cooked fish in the oven. There’s still a minute left on the timer so Eames gathers plates and forks and sets them on the counter. He hears the TV turn on, but the volume is low enough that he can’t quite make out the words.
The oven dings, and Eames busies himself with pulling out their dinner, adding the sauce packet as indicated, and bringing out to the living room. Arthur looks up when he walks in and moves to help, but Eames waves him off.
“We’re eating in here?” Arthur asks.
“Unless you want to eat in the kitchen,” Eames answers. “But then we’d have to stand.”
“I guess we’re eating here,” Arthur concedes, and Eames laughs. He goes to fetch the plates and utensils and returns to find Arthur settled in on the sofa, eyes fixed on an episode of Good Eats.
“Should I be offended?” Eames asks, reluctantly enthralled by the way Alton Brown is waving his fork pointer enthusiastically at a diagram of sushi.
“Well,” Arthur says, trying to look at Eames while keeping his eyes on the screen. “It’s not like anyone will ever measure up to him.”
They leave the TV on, volume muted, and their conversation somehow morphs into providing a running commentary for what’s happening on the screen.
“Look at that,” Eames says. “Look at the way he’s rolling the sushi. He’s done this before.”
“He was born in the sixties,” Arthur says, helping himself to another piece of fish. “He’s definitely done this before.”
Afterwards, Arthur helps him clean up, saying, “You cooked. I’ll clean,” and sets about scrubbing the pan, brows furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up past his elbows.
(A good third of the fish is thrown out because Arthur had prodded at it and said, “Eames, I think it’s undercooked.”
“If it looks red, it’s supposed to.”
“No, I mean, I think it’s still kind of frozen.”)
It’s barely eight when they finish so they play cards for the rest of the evening, because Arthur had seen his deck on the coffee table and said that he liked it.
“Are these Escher prints?” Arthur asks, amused, holding up a card. Eames answers yes; he’d gotten them from an art museum some years ago.
“Escher fan?” Eames asks.
“No,” Arthur answers. “I just know his work.”
They end up playing Go Fish because Eames doesn’t like playing poker unless he’s playing for money, and Arthur doesn’t like playing unless he knows he can win. They do, however, try to make the game a little more interesting, except a little bit of specificity only seems to draw out the game longer than a round of Monopoly.
“Do you have a two of spades?” Eames asks, frowning at the obscene amount of cards he’s holding. On the bright side, Arthur isn’t faring much better.
“Go fish.” Eames does and draws an ace of diamonds. He sighs, and Arthur smiles sympathetically. “Do you have a jack of hearts?”
“No,” Eames says, even though he does. “Go fish.”
Only, Arthur looks at him disbelievingly.
“Go fish,” Eames repeats, face innocent.
“I don’t believe you,” Arthur says flatly, lowering his cards.
“What do you want me to do? I don’t have it.”
“That’s impossible,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “You’re lying.”
“It’s Go Fish, Arthur,” Eames rejoins, exasperated. “Cheating at Go Fish is no achievement.”
Arthur snorts. “I can’t believe you,” he says, setting down his cards and scooting closer. Eames instinctively pulls his own hand to his chest. “Seven moves ago,” he says. “You asked if I had a jack of diamonds.” Arthur leans in close, crowding Eames into the sofa. “You have a fucking jack of hearts,” he growls.
Eames swallows, mouth dry, and places a hand on Arthur’s thigh, giving it a light squeeze. “Really?” he asks, voice even. “Sorry, I didn’t notice. It’s just such a demanding game.”
“Did you want to do something else?” Arthur asks, just shy of breathless.
“Why?” Eames ask, just to ask. “Did you have something better in mind?” and Arthur smiles down at him like a cat to a canary.
“I’m a writer,” Arthur says, pressing their foreheads together, mouth barely ghosting over Eames’. “I always have something in mind.” He grins then, and Eames feels a hand at the back of his neck, fingers pressing against the skin.
With his free hand, Eames presses his thumb against the corner of Arthur’s lips and says, “Yeah,” and “I like that,” but then Arthur’s lips are on his, soft but demanding, and maybe he doesn’t say anything at all.
They’ve made out plenty of times already, Eames has made sure of that, but the way Arthur is moaning into his mouth, lips red and so nicely swollen, it’s just-
“Jesus,” Arthur groans, when their hips grind together, and Eames sees stars in the corner of his eyes. “Eames,” he pants. “Eames, I will give you the best blowjob of your life right now,” he hisses, frantic, moving against him again and again, and Eames can feel his cock through the fabric and moans, “Yes, yes, fuck yes.”
Arthur wastes no time in pulling Eames’ pants down, and the next thing he knows, Arthur’s palming his cock through his briefs, and Eames is only vaguely aware of the groan that escapes the back of his throat.
Eames pulls him back in for a kiss that Arthur returns with avid enthusiasm, running their tongues against each other until Eames feels a trail of saliva running down the side of his mouth, and it’s just so much sloppier than he’d ever imagined a kiss with Arthur could get.
Arthur makes a noise that could be a whimper, and Eames groans into it.
“Fuck,” he says. “Arthur, Arthur, please.”
Arthur moves down and doesn’t tease him any more than a flick of the wrist before Eames feels the velvet heat of his mouth around the head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he swears. “Just like that.”
Except, not like that, because Arthur takes him in fully, cheeks hollowed, hands on his thighs, and he’s looking up at Eames with those brown eyes of his, so focused and determined, and he moans around Eames’ cock and the vibrations go straight through his spine.
Arthur’s hands fall away, jaw slackened, and Eames takes the hint and starts to fuck his mouth, a hand tangled in Arthur’s hair. He can see a gleaming dribble of spit running down Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur just takes it, with only a hand on the back of Eames’ knee to keep himself steady.
“I’m going to come,” he warns, but Arthur doesn’t pull away. If anything, he presses himself closer, until Eames’ breath stutters, and he says, “Oh fuck,” and throws his head back as he comes and comes, and Arthur swallows it all.
*
“Why do you have a sealed record?” Eames asks, later, when Arthur is sated and soft on the edge of sleep.
Arthur mumbles incoherently for a moment before clearing his throat and saying, “I was eighteen and stoned and probably drunk as well.”
“Oh,” Eames says.
Arthur yawns. “I was in bed with this girl-she was fifteen, a freshman, I don’t know. I don’t remember much of that night. Believe me when I say it’s one fucking blur.”
“I believe you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. “I believe you.”
Arthur blinks at him sleepily. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Eames says, meeting his gaze, ignoring the way his own stomach churns in disgust.
This is a new low, even for him.
*
Arthur leaves in a rush the next morning, fumbling with his clothes while simultaneously trying to give Eames a kiss good-bye.
“You’re going to be at the courthouse today, too, right?” he asks, and Eames nods.
“Go get yourself pretty,” Eames says, giving Arthur a light tap on the ass he hurries through the door. “I’ll see you later.”
Arthur waves and doesn’t look back as he pulls out of Eames’ driveway.
*
Eames arrives early, a folder in his hand. Nash meets him just outside the courtroom.
“I got you something,” Eames says, handing him the folder.
Nash looks surprised. “Thought you said there wasn’t anything for you to find?” he says, flicking through it with interest.
Eames shrugs. “I’ve been known to be wrong on occasion.”
“It’s not much,” Nash says, reading over Eames’ notes. “But it’s better than nothing, right?”
“Yeah,” Eames says dryly. “Fucking perfect, innit?”
Nash lowers the folder, frowning at him. “Hey,” he says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Eames smiles tightly. “Look, I trust you, but do you really need this?” he asks, lowering his voice as people rush by. “Is this really going to make any difference?”
“Probably not,” Nash says, handing back the files. “But it’s worth a shot.”
*
“The People call Arthur Darling to the stand,” the D.A., Robert Fischer, says very clearly.
Arthur is sworn in, and for a brief moment before Fischer gets up to begin questioning, he gives Eames a small smile. Eames returns it as best he can.
“Now, Arthur,” Fischer says as he stands, one hand smoothing out the front of his suit. “Can you tell us what happened on the afternoon of July 18, 2010?”
“Yes,” Arthur says. “I saw that man push Mal-push the victim off the building.”
“To be clear, you saw the defendant, Charles Sung, push the victim off the building?”
“Yes.”
Fischer smiles, a quick upturn of the lips. “Thank you, Mr. Darling,” he says. Turning to the judge, he adds, “The People rest, Your Honor.”
Saito nods. “Mr. Nash?”
Nash stands and walks to the front of the courtroom. “Mr. Darling,” he begins. “Would you say that you knew the victim well?”
“Yes,” Arthur replies without elaboration, and Eames can’t help but feel pleased that at least he’d been prepped well.
“What would you describe your relationship as?”
“We were friends.”
“And were you friends with her husband, our esteemed State’s Attorney, Dominic Cobb?”
“Yes.”
“And what was your history with Mr. Cobb?”
“Objection,” Fischer calls. “Relevance?”
“I’m getting there, Your Honor.”
“Let’s get there quick, shall we, Mr. Nash?” Saito remarks. “Overruled. You may answer the question, Mr. Darling.”
“He’s a family friend.”
“So you’ve known him for a while?”
“Yes.”
“Could you put a number on that?”
“Twelve, almost thirteen years.”
“Thirteen years,” Nash echoes. “Mr. Darling, has Mr. Cobb ever done you any favors?”
“Objection,” Fischer calls again. “Relevance?”
“Overruled,” Saito declares. “You said there was a point, Mr. Nash. I suggest now is the time to make it.”
“Yes,” Arthur says, without prompt.
“Yes, Mr. Cobb has done you favors?” Nash repeats.
“Yes.”
“Do those favors include sealing a record on statutory rape?”
“Objection! Relevance?”
“Goes to the credibility of the witness, Your Honor,” Nash replies smoothly.
Saito sighs. “I’ll allow it.”
Arthur’s face is carefully blank, but his eyes shift to Eames. They stare at each other for a moment, Arthur ruthless and Eames unable to look to away. “Yes,” Arthur says after a moment, looking back at Nash, voice imperceptibly cool. “It would include that.”
Nash nods at him. “No further questions.”
Saito turns to Arthur and says gently, “Thank you for your service, Mr. Darling. You may step down.”
Arthur does not look at Eames for the rest of the proceedings.
*
“Arthur!” Eames calls as the trial concludes for the day, and everyone spills out into the halls. “Arthur, wait up!”
Arthur waits, and when Eames is close enough, says, “Can’t say I shouldn’t have expected that.”
“Arthur,” he says. “I should never have given him that; I had to, but I shouldn’t have. Fuck, I never should’ve even asked you. That was a complete dick move.”
“Eames,” Arthur sighs. “You really don’t have anything to apologize for. I expected you to do your job, however unconventionally.” Except, Arthur shifts and crosses his arms, and Eames feels that same disgusting churn of his stomach he had felt last night, and he doesn’t ever want to feel that again.
“I shouldn’t have done it. Darling, Arthur, not all of it was for my job,” Eames presses on urgently. “Yes, that’s how it started-following you, keeping track of you, crashing your car-I know this looks terrible, but I swear, Arthur, I swear, I don’t do this,” he says, almost plaintive. “I don’t date the people I’m supposed to investigate, but you’re interesting and absolutely lovely, and frankly, I’ve got to thank Nash for sending me on this fucking case, but Arthur, I swear that it was a terrible, terrible mistake, and one I have no intention of repeating.”
“Eames, I know that,” Arthur says, sighing, the tension slowly ebbing out of his stance. “I’m not mad at you-well, yeah, I am, but Eames, I would never have kept seeing you if I didn’t think your interest in me was in some way genuine. I tell people things because I want them to know. I told you about that party and the girl because I wanted you to know. And you know that I could’ve had Cobb arrest you a long time ago.”
Eames stares at him and says weakly, “But you didn’t.”
“No,” he agrees. “I didn’t. Eames, I’m sorry we had to meet the way we did, but that’s all.”
“Does this mean we’re still on for tonight?” Eames asks, hopeful.
Arthur looks at him, and his face gives nothing away. Eames holds his breath up until Arthur exhales slowly and says, “Fine, yes, but not just because I already said I’d come, but because we need to have a long fucking talk and frankly-”
“Arthur,” Eames interrupts. “Arthur, you are possibly the greatest person alive, and I think I should like to kiss you right now.”
So he does, and if Arthur makes the faintest noise of protest, he ignores that because Arthur is also pulling him closer, and Eames would maybe like to keep him there forever.
ETA: noapologyapathy is AWESOME and drew fanart! :D
