(08) → birds on a wire
title: birds on a wire
pairing: arthur/eames
summary: they're three parts stupid and two destructive.
notes: written for ze_zebra for qldfloodauction
Eames goes to Venezuela and fucks a girl named Vivian. She smells like cigarettes (always, always) and looks pretty up close and dangerous from far away.
Eames is never far away.
He sends a letter every month with scribbled writing along the outside of the envelope and a scrap of paper inside. He never says anything important, just says hello and how are you and when I get back, we should fuck. And that's all it's been, for the most part. Maybe that's all it'll ever be, but Arthur doesn't mind so much.
Not as much as he used to, at least, when they were together all the time.
They were stupid, then.
(And maybe a little destructive.)
*
The next letter Eames sends comes a month too late. He writes sloppier than usual, doodles in the corners and doesn't include an address. With his other letters, he made it too easy. Each one screamed don't chase me if you're looking for the adventure. Now, Eames was giving the adventure to him.
He takes a flight over to Europe and does his usual rounds in England, Germany, and Austria. He places calls to former co-workers and does his own research while waiting to hear back. Eames is gone, for the most part. He’s disappeared because he doesn’t want to be found. (Except, maybe, by Arthur. Or perhaps by anyone but him. The fine line is one Arthur’s danced across many times.)
He lets it go for weeks, lingers in London just enough to make himself known and heads back to the states. He even puts down some roots in Massachusetts. He rents out a one-bedroom home for more a month than it’s worth and spends the summer near the water.
Eames is still gone.
Maybe they’re still a little stupid, after all.
*
It isn’t unexpected when Eames shows up at his home. It isn’t entirely expected, either. What Arthur doesn’t say when Eames is standing outside in the freezing cold with two duffel bags and a tired look in his eyes is I looked everywhere for you, asshole. He doesn’t tell him that he might’ve been a bit worried, or maybe that he just missed him. He says Eames and lets him in.
“I forged Vivian,” Eames says, rushing through the doorway and dropping his bags off in the foyer. “I forged her. I know her. She’s real,” he explains. He rubs a hand over his face, standing restlessly in the kitchen. “I need a fucking cigarette.”
They take it back outside. The bitter wind carries the smoke from the cigarette away away away. Arthur watches it, shoves his hands in his pockets and waits.
“I don’t know why I forged her. I went under with the PASIV and it just happened.” Eames leans against the porch railing, staring out at the field. The snow has killed everything. “She smokes too much.”
Arthur watches him with a quiet curiosity, memorizes the crease of his forehead, the subtle undercurrent of power pulsing through each gaze. Eames could kill a man with those eyes. Just as quickly, he could make them fall in love. Or something like it.
“You smoke too much,” Arthur reminds him, sliding his fingers over Eames’ hand.
Eames pulls away, puts out the cigarette. “I smoke just enough to hate it.”
Stupid, Arthur thinks. We’re so stupid.
*
They don’t talk about Vivian for the rest of the night.
Arthur watches as Eames strips down to his boxers, notices that he’s put on just enough muscle to make his breath stutter. “Venezuela was lovely, by the way,” Eames says, crawling across the bed and straddling Arthur’s hips. “Thank you for asking.”
Eames fucks him so hard he’ll be sore for days, but it’s okay. He missed Eames. He knows he did. And maybe that’s stupid of him, considering he spent the better part of a year hating him. For everything.
“How was Venezuela?” Arthur asks. Eames’ hands slide up his back, palms too warm and too gentle.
“It fucking sucked,” he admits.
*
Now that Eames is back, it should be okay. It isn’t, though, because Eames keeps to himself too much and pushes Arthur away. They fuck when they need to and that’s about it.
Eames is Vivian, most days. He chain smokes until he looks like he might turn blue. He ends his sentences with hooded eyes. He favors his right side because Vivian got shot a few years back when she spoke too much and couldn’t grab her gun fast enough.
Arthur doesn’t even like Vivian, but he sticks around. Most days, he tells himself it’s for the sex.
It’s not. Not really.
(They’re three parts stupid and two destructive.)
*
Winter bows cordially and Spring steps in and Vivian has finally left.
Eames has made it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about any of it, but they don’t have to. Neither of them touch the PASIV or discuss any previous jobs. They leave the book closed for now, but Arthur has the page saved.
The next time they’re both in bed, Eames is sucking furiously at a scar on Arthur’s stomach. “What happened?” He asks, lifting Arthur’s hips and dragging his tongue down down down until yes, finally.
“I got shot,” Arthur murmurs. “Hurt like a bitch, too.”
“Or maybe the bitch got hurt,” Eames teases, but when he takes Arthur into his mouth, it’s forgotten.
They’re still very, very stupid.
*
Eames disappears again for the entirety of the Summer.
He doesn’t call, doesn’t send letters, doesn’t do anything. He’s just gone.
Arthur doesn’t think much of it because he can’t. He sits outside on his veranda and sweats. He drinks lemonade because it seems appropriate. He meets a young woman named Gabriella and becomes quite smitten with her.
When Eames comes back, he tells Gabriella he’s moving. He doesn’t even give her his number. He packs up his things and takes a train to JFK to meet Eames. He fucks him in the airport bathroom and falls asleep on his shoulder on the way to New York.
Maybe they’re only a little stupid.
*
In New York, nothing happens. Nothing important. Nothing that might change everything like when Eames pulls Arthur aside and says I forged you.
It doesn’t change anything is what Arthur tries to tell himself. It doesn’t change a goddamn thing.
“You were stateside and I was gone. I was gone, I left, I left you and I forged you because I was gone.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. He doesn’t ask if Arthur wants one. “I got everything right about you, too. That’s the scary part.”
Arthur watches him, feels some sense of weight all the way down to his bones, pressing until he feels like he can’t breathe.
“I even got that scar right,” Eames says, keeps talking and talking. “When you got shot. I got that right, too. I could have been you.”
Arthur sucks in a breath, leans back against the door heavily. “You can’t do that, Eames. You can’t forge people you know. You can’t forge me and you can’t - “
“I know,” Eames cuts him off. He leans in and their faces are so close now that Arthur can see the ring of blue around his eyes. “Don’t you think I fucking know that? I’m telling you this because I’m at my wit’s end, Arthur, fucksake.”
He pulls away, puts out the cigarette and breathes in the last trail of smoke.
Arthur thinks of that time, a few months back, when Eames forged Vivian. When he came back and everything topside was a dark woman with even darker intentions.
What would happen if Eames was him?
They’re not that stupid, after all. They’re just scared shitless.
Mostly of each other.
*
“We should quit while we’re ahead,” Eames says. “I can make money somehow. And if not, we’ll be fine for a little while.”
I’m going to destroy myself if I keep going is what Eames is really saying. He’s really saying I’m cracking like a vase and the flowers in me are for mourners.
Arthur likes his job. He likes the rush of it and the feeling of security. The deep-down monster of waves that fills him up and says you’re dreaming and you can do anything you want until he’s a buoy.
Eames breathes against his ear patiently, fingers circling over his sides.
Arthur lets himself sink, lets himself go. There is a man at his back who he’s stupid for. Very stupid, but also very loyal.
*
It’s surprisingly easy to drop out of the business. Arthur’s just turned twenty-eight and Eames is nearing thirty-two. They have enough money to live comfortably until forty, maybe. Arthur thought he’d be gunned down by Cobol already, so this is unexpected.
He doesn’t put point man, dreamsharing in his résumé, but he ends up with a desk job that’s relatively the same. But there is no action, no adventure, no fear, no nothing. He works from 9-1, has lunch, then goes back from 2-5. It kills him, just a little, every day.
But Eames isn’t forging anymore. He isn’t getting lost in a sea of identities. He’s Eames. He’s just Eames. Now, he’s stealing and selling. He’s got the word profit on the tip of his tongue and when he kisses Arthur, it tastes a little bitter.
*
They make do because they have to. They’re both a little miserable, maybe, craving what they can’t have because it might just destroy them.
Such is the nature of the beast.
Arthur gives his PASIV to Ariadne, gets rid of it because it’s too tempting to go under. He tells himself it’s better for the both of them.
He’s not so sure.
Eames comes home with a few thousand dollars in his pocket from selling an original painting. He also comes home with a replica. It’s ugly. Arthur hates it the moment he sees it.
“What do you reckon it’s of?” Eames asks, staring thoughtfully at it. It’s been hung crookedly.
“It might be a dog. Thing. A dog-thing with three ears. And a lion’s mane.”
Eames laughs, a low noise from deep-down. Deep-down from where he used to pull his laughter when they were stupid. Stupid and destroying themselves.
“It’s supposed to be a horse,” he says, bumping Arthur’s shoulder. “Bloody fuck, that’s not a horse.”
Arthur grins, letting Eames push him back against the wall until the painting drops down to the floor. “I hate it,” he says, unbuttoning Eames’ shirt. “I really hate it.”
He pushes the painting aside with his foot, Eames’ lips right there and there and here.
They’re still a little stupid after all. Such is the nature of the beast.
fin.
pairing: arthur/eames
summary: they're three parts stupid and two destructive.
notes: written for ze_zebra for qldfloodauction
Eames goes to Venezuela and fucks a girl named Vivian. She smells like cigarettes (always, always) and looks pretty up close and dangerous from far away.
Eames is never far away.
He sends a letter every month with scribbled writing along the outside of the envelope and a scrap of paper inside. He never says anything important, just says hello and how are you and when I get back, we should fuck. And that's all it's been, for the most part. Maybe that's all it'll ever be, but Arthur doesn't mind so much.
Not as much as he used to, at least, when they were together all the time.
They were stupid, then.
(And maybe a little destructive.)
*
The next letter Eames sends comes a month too late. He writes sloppier than usual, doodles in the corners and doesn't include an address. With his other letters, he made it too easy. Each one screamed don't chase me if you're looking for the adventure. Now, Eames was giving the adventure to him.
He takes a flight over to Europe and does his usual rounds in England, Germany, and Austria. He places calls to former co-workers and does his own research while waiting to hear back. Eames is gone, for the most part. He’s disappeared because he doesn’t want to be found. (Except, maybe, by Arthur. Or perhaps by anyone but him. The fine line is one Arthur’s danced across many times.)
He lets it go for weeks, lingers in London just enough to make himself known and heads back to the states. He even puts down some roots in Massachusetts. He rents out a one-bedroom home for more a month than it’s worth and spends the summer near the water.
Eames is still gone.
Maybe they’re still a little stupid, after all.
*
It isn’t unexpected when Eames shows up at his home. It isn’t entirely expected, either. What Arthur doesn’t say when Eames is standing outside in the freezing cold with two duffel bags and a tired look in his eyes is I looked everywhere for you, asshole. He doesn’t tell him that he might’ve been a bit worried, or maybe that he just missed him. He says Eames and lets him in.
“I forged Vivian,” Eames says, rushing through the doorway and dropping his bags off in the foyer. “I forged her. I know her. She’s real,” he explains. He rubs a hand over his face, standing restlessly in the kitchen. “I need a fucking cigarette.”
They take it back outside. The bitter wind carries the smoke from the cigarette away away away. Arthur watches it, shoves his hands in his pockets and waits.
“I don’t know why I forged her. I went under with the PASIV and it just happened.” Eames leans against the porch railing, staring out at the field. The snow has killed everything. “She smokes too much.”
Arthur watches him with a quiet curiosity, memorizes the crease of his forehead, the subtle undercurrent of power pulsing through each gaze. Eames could kill a man with those eyes. Just as quickly, he could make them fall in love. Or something like it.
“You smoke too much,” Arthur reminds him, sliding his fingers over Eames’ hand.
Eames pulls away, puts out the cigarette. “I smoke just enough to hate it.”
Stupid, Arthur thinks. We’re so stupid.
*
They don’t talk about Vivian for the rest of the night.
Arthur watches as Eames strips down to his boxers, notices that he’s put on just enough muscle to make his breath stutter. “Venezuela was lovely, by the way,” Eames says, crawling across the bed and straddling Arthur’s hips. “Thank you for asking.”
Eames fucks him so hard he’ll be sore for days, but it’s okay. He missed Eames. He knows he did. And maybe that’s stupid of him, considering he spent the better part of a year hating him. For everything.
“How was Venezuela?” Arthur asks. Eames’ hands slide up his back, palms too warm and too gentle.
“It fucking sucked,” he admits.
*
Now that Eames is back, it should be okay. It isn’t, though, because Eames keeps to himself too much and pushes Arthur away. They fuck when they need to and that’s about it.
Eames is Vivian, most days. He chain smokes until he looks like he might turn blue. He ends his sentences with hooded eyes. He favors his right side because Vivian got shot a few years back when she spoke too much and couldn’t grab her gun fast enough.
Arthur doesn’t even like Vivian, but he sticks around. Most days, he tells himself it’s for the sex.
It’s not. Not really.
(They’re three parts stupid and two destructive.)
*
Winter bows cordially and Spring steps in and Vivian has finally left.
Eames has made it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about any of it, but they don’t have to. Neither of them touch the PASIV or discuss any previous jobs. They leave the book closed for now, but Arthur has the page saved.
The next time they’re both in bed, Eames is sucking furiously at a scar on Arthur’s stomach. “What happened?” He asks, lifting Arthur’s hips and dragging his tongue down down down until yes, finally.
“I got shot,” Arthur murmurs. “Hurt like a bitch, too.”
“Or maybe the bitch got hurt,” Eames teases, but when he takes Arthur into his mouth, it’s forgotten.
They’re still very, very stupid.
*
Eames disappears again for the entirety of the Summer.
He doesn’t call, doesn’t send letters, doesn’t do anything. He’s just gone.
Arthur doesn’t think much of it because he can’t. He sits outside on his veranda and sweats. He drinks lemonade because it seems appropriate. He meets a young woman named Gabriella and becomes quite smitten with her.
When Eames comes back, he tells Gabriella he’s moving. He doesn’t even give her his number. He packs up his things and takes a train to JFK to meet Eames. He fucks him in the airport bathroom and falls asleep on his shoulder on the way to New York.
Maybe they’re only a little stupid.
*
In New York, nothing happens. Nothing important. Nothing that might change everything like when Eames pulls Arthur aside and says I forged you.
It doesn’t change anything is what Arthur tries to tell himself. It doesn’t change a goddamn thing.
“You were stateside and I was gone. I was gone, I left, I left you and I forged you because I was gone.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. He doesn’t ask if Arthur wants one. “I got everything right about you, too. That’s the scary part.”
Arthur watches him, feels some sense of weight all the way down to his bones, pressing until he feels like he can’t breathe.
“I even got that scar right,” Eames says, keeps talking and talking. “When you got shot. I got that right, too. I could have been you.”
Arthur sucks in a breath, leans back against the door heavily. “You can’t do that, Eames. You can’t forge people you know. You can’t forge me and you can’t - “
“I know,” Eames cuts him off. He leans in and their faces are so close now that Arthur can see the ring of blue around his eyes. “Don’t you think I fucking know that? I’m telling you this because I’m at my wit’s end, Arthur, fucksake.”
He pulls away, puts out the cigarette and breathes in the last trail of smoke.
Arthur thinks of that time, a few months back, when Eames forged Vivian. When he came back and everything topside was a dark woman with even darker intentions.
What would happen if Eames was him?
They’re not that stupid, after all. They’re just scared shitless.
Mostly of each other.
*
“We should quit while we’re ahead,” Eames says. “I can make money somehow. And if not, we’ll be fine for a little while.”
I’m going to destroy myself if I keep going is what Eames is really saying. He’s really saying I’m cracking like a vase and the flowers in me are for mourners.
Arthur likes his job. He likes the rush of it and the feeling of security. The deep-down monster of waves that fills him up and says you’re dreaming and you can do anything you want until he’s a buoy.
Eames breathes against his ear patiently, fingers circling over his sides.
Arthur lets himself sink, lets himself go. There is a man at his back who he’s stupid for. Very stupid, but also very loyal.
*
It’s surprisingly easy to drop out of the business. Arthur’s just turned twenty-eight and Eames is nearing thirty-two. They have enough money to live comfortably until forty, maybe. Arthur thought he’d be gunned down by Cobol already, so this is unexpected.
He doesn’t put point man, dreamsharing in his résumé, but he ends up with a desk job that’s relatively the same. But there is no action, no adventure, no fear, no nothing. He works from 9-1, has lunch, then goes back from 2-5. It kills him, just a little, every day.
But Eames isn’t forging anymore. He isn’t getting lost in a sea of identities. He’s Eames. He’s just Eames. Now, he’s stealing and selling. He’s got the word profit on the tip of his tongue and when he kisses Arthur, it tastes a little bitter.
*
They make do because they have to. They’re both a little miserable, maybe, craving what they can’t have because it might just destroy them.
Such is the nature of the beast.
Arthur gives his PASIV to Ariadne, gets rid of it because it’s too tempting to go under. He tells himself it’s better for the both of them.
He’s not so sure.
Eames comes home with a few thousand dollars in his pocket from selling an original painting. He also comes home with a replica. It’s ugly. Arthur hates it the moment he sees it.
“What do you reckon it’s of?” Eames asks, staring thoughtfully at it. It’s been hung crookedly.
“It might be a dog. Thing. A dog-thing with three ears. And a lion’s mane.”
Eames laughs, a low noise from deep-down. Deep-down from where he used to pull his laughter when they were stupid. Stupid and destroying themselves.
“It’s supposed to be a horse,” he says, bumping Arthur’s shoulder. “Bloody fuck, that’s not a horse.”
Arthur grins, letting Eames push him back against the wall until the painting drops down to the floor. “I hate it,” he says, unbuttoning Eames’ shirt. “I really hate it.”
He pushes the painting aside with his foot, Eames’ lips right there and there and here.
They’re still a little stupid after all. Such is the nature of the beast.
fin.