Fic: 9301
Title: 9301
Rating: soft PG-13, mostly for language
Word Count: pushing 1300
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: They're drunk, or at least drunk enough. Arthur and Eames have downtime in Atlanta and fill it with drinking and arguing and flirting.
Eames is being obnoxious, jostling against him, swiping the debit card out of Arthur's hand and laughing at the fake name ("Marcus Williams? Oh darling, you could never be a Marcus"). They're drunk, or at least drunk enough, fighting like schoolboys as Arthur steps on Eames's foot and steals his card back. A quick poke at the ATM slot to make sure it doesn't have a skimmer on it--more because Arthur's never seen one in the wild than any concern over the paltry amount of money Marcus Williams has in his account--and then Arthur slides the card in, ready to get his cash.
Except that now Eames has hooked his chin over Arthur's shoulder, clearly angled to see the number pad. Arthur shoves him. "Get off."
Eames's chuckle in his ear is warm, teasing. "I thought you'd never ask."
Sober Arthur would be fed up by this point; Drunk Enough Arthur is busy thinking Eames is warm and inviting against his back. He turns and catches Eames's scarf, dragging him around to one side, then reels him in for a kiss. Eames grins against his lips, his hands sliding beneath Arthur's brown suede coat as he pulls him closer. Grey eyes shine with mirth as Arthur angles his head enough to disrupt the forger's line of sight, then blindly taps in his PIN without breaking the kiss.
And then snogs him a bit longer, just because.
"Nine-three-zero-one," Eames says triumphantly once Arthur lets him up for air.
"...What." Arthur couldn't make the tone of his voice sound any flatter if he tried.
Eames just grins, looking entirely too smug and satisfied. "Am I wrong? If so, you're welcome to try again."
It's tempting to kiss him, except Arthur knows from long experience that such a move only ever makes Eames even more impossibly smug. Instead he settles for shoving him again, then turns his attention towards the machine long enough to pull out a couple hundred bucks, as Arthur hates paying in anything other than cash unless absolutely necessary. "What makes you think that's the right number, anyway?"
"A magician never tells his secrets," Eames says magnanimously, and it's a good thing Arthur's busy shoving cash in his wallet, otherwise he might try to punch the smirk off of Eames's face. (Not that he actually would--Eames fights even dirtier than Arthur.) Arthur rolls his eyes, retrieving his Marcus Williams-branded card and tucking his wallet back into the inner pocket of his coat.
"So what is it?" Eames asks, falling into step beside him, crowding Arthur the way he does when he's been drinking. Drunk Enough Arthur doesn't mind, even as irritated as he is, because Atlanta is unseasonably cold and Eames is always, always unseasonably warm. "Not your birthday, although you look young enough to be born in '93--ow," he winces as Arthur lands a well-placed elbow. "Not an address, I don't think. Not your favorite numbers in descending order, although that would be something you'd do."
He's still musing as they step into another bar, cozy and warm and exactly what Arthur was hoping for. It's astonishing how many of these places Eames knows around the world, these bars that feel inviting yet anonymous, where the two of them never look out of place. They're tucked away in a booth minutes later, knee to knee, rehashing an old and familiar argument about American football (Arthur's second favorite sport after baseball, and the current subject on the television over the bar) and rugby (Eames's favorite sport period), and by the time they stumble back out into the cold, Eames seems to have forgotten his quest entirely.
Until he steps up behind Arthur on the train platform, voice soft and warm in his ear. "I'd forgotten that you Americans do dates backwards," he murmurs, and Arthur stiffens ever-so-slightly. "I couldn't think of any reason why nine March of 2001 would be worth remembering, until I realized that it was actually September the third." His lips skim over the sensitive skin just behind Arthur's ear. "The day we met."
"The day I got into dreamsharing," Arthur replies, although his voice is a little too tight to sound as nonchalant as he wants it to. The date had been an easy one to remember--eight days later, Eames and Arthur and the rest of their multinational military team had come out of a dream to news of the attacks on the Twin Towers, and suddenly dreamsharing was more than just an Army side project. It was random enough that he didn't think anyone else would be able to figure it out. But of course, Eames isn't anyone else.
Eames's hands wrap around his waist, reaching forward to tuck into Arthur's front pockets, pushing his coat back from his hips. "Mmm. Still the day we met."
"Yes," Arthur concedes, because it's not worth fighting over any longer.
Eames doesn't say anything more, possibly because the train's coming in then, just holds onto Arthur longer than is strictly necessary with his chin hooked over the point man's shoulder. Arthur reaches back and grabs Eames's scarf as the doors to the train slide open, dragging him along and into a half-empty car. "I do so adore when you get rough with me," Eames teases, laughing with the carefree attitude of someone who knows he's going to get fucked tonight.
In response, because nothing is ever straightforward with them, Arthur bites him hard enough to bruise, just above the collarbone, right there on the train in front of everybody.
"It's not about you," he insists against Eames's skin, shivering as Eames's nimble fingers tug his shirt out of the back of his pants and slide beneath to caress the warm, soft skin there, hidden beneath his coat. "It's about dreamsharing and the day my life changed. Which I suppose means it's not just about you."
The train sways around a curve and Eames's hands tighten around him, but Arthur's not so drunk that he can pretend that it's just Eames trying to keep his balance. "It was a good day," the forger hums in his ear.
Arthur nods, and his answer is completely honest. "Yeah, it was." A day full, in so many ways, of possibility.
"Does this mean we'll have an anniversary coming up next year?" Eames asks, leaning back just enough to look him in the eye. "Shall I bring you roses?"
"If you want," Arthur says loftily, "but I'm just going to give them to the PASIV. Along with chocolates, I think."
"Cruel man," Eames replies, although he doesn't bother to hide the fondness in his voice. "Why I still put up with you after all these years, I'll never know."
"Sex," Arthur replies primly, as if it were that easy.
Eames chuckles against his neck, nosing past Arthur's open collar. For a moment Arthur's afraid that the conversation might continue down this path, into a deep and tangled forest that they've never chosen to explore, as Eames's lips move across his skin. "Ten years," he murmurs, but then he lets it go in favor of tasting Arthur's neck. They tease and torment each other until the train reaches their stop, ignoring everyone else in the car.
Rating: soft PG-13, mostly for language
Word Count: pushing 1300
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary: They're drunk, or at least drunk enough. Arthur and Eames have downtime in Atlanta and fill it with drinking and arguing and flirting.
Eames is being obnoxious, jostling against him, swiping the debit card out of Arthur's hand and laughing at the fake name ("Marcus Williams? Oh darling, you could never be a Marcus"). They're drunk, or at least drunk enough, fighting like schoolboys as Arthur steps on Eames's foot and steals his card back. A quick poke at the ATM slot to make sure it doesn't have a skimmer on it--more because Arthur's never seen one in the wild than any concern over the paltry amount of money Marcus Williams has in his account--and then Arthur slides the card in, ready to get his cash.
Except that now Eames has hooked his chin over Arthur's shoulder, clearly angled to see the number pad. Arthur shoves him. "Get off."
Eames's chuckle in his ear is warm, teasing. "I thought you'd never ask."
Sober Arthur would be fed up by this point; Drunk Enough Arthur is busy thinking Eames is warm and inviting against his back. He turns and catches Eames's scarf, dragging him around to one side, then reels him in for a kiss. Eames grins against his lips, his hands sliding beneath Arthur's brown suede coat as he pulls him closer. Grey eyes shine with mirth as Arthur angles his head enough to disrupt the forger's line of sight, then blindly taps in his PIN without breaking the kiss.
And then snogs him a bit longer, just because.
"Nine-three-zero-one," Eames says triumphantly once Arthur lets him up for air.
"...What." Arthur couldn't make the tone of his voice sound any flatter if he tried.
Eames just grins, looking entirely too smug and satisfied. "Am I wrong? If so, you're welcome to try again."
It's tempting to kiss him, except Arthur knows from long experience that such a move only ever makes Eames even more impossibly smug. Instead he settles for shoving him again, then turns his attention towards the machine long enough to pull out a couple hundred bucks, as Arthur hates paying in anything other than cash unless absolutely necessary. "What makes you think that's the right number, anyway?"
"A magician never tells his secrets," Eames says magnanimously, and it's a good thing Arthur's busy shoving cash in his wallet, otherwise he might try to punch the smirk off of Eames's face. (Not that he actually would--Eames fights even dirtier than Arthur.) Arthur rolls his eyes, retrieving his Marcus Williams-branded card and tucking his wallet back into the inner pocket of his coat.
"So what is it?" Eames asks, falling into step beside him, crowding Arthur the way he does when he's been drinking. Drunk Enough Arthur doesn't mind, even as irritated as he is, because Atlanta is unseasonably cold and Eames is always, always unseasonably warm. "Not your birthday, although you look young enough to be born in '93--ow," he winces as Arthur lands a well-placed elbow. "Not an address, I don't think. Not your favorite numbers in descending order, although that would be something you'd do."
He's still musing as they step into another bar, cozy and warm and exactly what Arthur was hoping for. It's astonishing how many of these places Eames knows around the world, these bars that feel inviting yet anonymous, where the two of them never look out of place. They're tucked away in a booth minutes later, knee to knee, rehashing an old and familiar argument about American football (Arthur's second favorite sport after baseball, and the current subject on the television over the bar) and rugby (Eames's favorite sport period), and by the time they stumble back out into the cold, Eames seems to have forgotten his quest entirely.
Until he steps up behind Arthur on the train platform, voice soft and warm in his ear. "I'd forgotten that you Americans do dates backwards," he murmurs, and Arthur stiffens ever-so-slightly. "I couldn't think of any reason why nine March of 2001 would be worth remembering, until I realized that it was actually September the third." His lips skim over the sensitive skin just behind Arthur's ear. "The day we met."
"The day I got into dreamsharing," Arthur replies, although his voice is a little too tight to sound as nonchalant as he wants it to. The date had been an easy one to remember--eight days later, Eames and Arthur and the rest of their multinational military team had come out of a dream to news of the attacks on the Twin Towers, and suddenly dreamsharing was more than just an Army side project. It was random enough that he didn't think anyone else would be able to figure it out. But of course, Eames isn't anyone else.
Eames's hands wrap around his waist, reaching forward to tuck into Arthur's front pockets, pushing his coat back from his hips. "Mmm. Still the day we met."
"Yes," Arthur concedes, because it's not worth fighting over any longer.
Eames doesn't say anything more, possibly because the train's coming in then, just holds onto Arthur longer than is strictly necessary with his chin hooked over the point man's shoulder. Arthur reaches back and grabs Eames's scarf as the doors to the train slide open, dragging him along and into a half-empty car. "I do so adore when you get rough with me," Eames teases, laughing with the carefree attitude of someone who knows he's going to get fucked tonight.
In response, because nothing is ever straightforward with them, Arthur bites him hard enough to bruise, just above the collarbone, right there on the train in front of everybody.
"It's not about you," he insists against Eames's skin, shivering as Eames's nimble fingers tug his shirt out of the back of his pants and slide beneath to caress the warm, soft skin there, hidden beneath his coat. "It's about dreamsharing and the day my life changed. Which I suppose means it's not just about you."
The train sways around a curve and Eames's hands tighten around him, but Arthur's not so drunk that he can pretend that it's just Eames trying to keep his balance. "It was a good day," the forger hums in his ear.
Arthur nods, and his answer is completely honest. "Yeah, it was." A day full, in so many ways, of possibility.
"Does this mean we'll have an anniversary coming up next year?" Eames asks, leaning back just enough to look him in the eye. "Shall I bring you roses?"
"If you want," Arthur says loftily, "but I'm just going to give them to the PASIV. Along with chocolates, I think."
"Cruel man," Eames replies, although he doesn't bother to hide the fondness in his voice. "Why I still put up with you after all these years, I'll never know."
"Sex," Arthur replies primly, as if it were that easy.
Eames chuckles against his neck, nosing past Arthur's open collar. For a moment Arthur's afraid that the conversation might continue down this path, into a deep and tangled forest that they've never chosen to explore, as Eames's lips move across his skin. "Ten years," he murmurs, but then he lets it go in favor of tasting Arthur's neck. They tease and torment each other until the train reaches their stop, ignoring everyone else in the car.