cattle in the marketplace, scatterlings and orphanages
AHAHAHA SO, I know you guys probably all want to kill me when I do these, because you'd rather get...actual...finished things...then these snippets. But butterflythread is facing down weather disaster and needs cheering, and for various reasons (RL things/time constraints/MAJORLY BLOCKED ON THE ENTIRE STORY ARC) I haven't been able to finish these stories/may not be able to finish these stories for awhile. SO, IIIIIIT'S A WIP DUMP! Featuring the beginning of a cracky thing where Arthur sleepwalks, an Anastasia AU that's foxxcub's fault in which I basically retcon Romanov history, and, uh, 2,000 words of the new domesticverse featuring a new OC that I'll explain the purpose of at some point.
SORRY THESE AREN'T REAL STORIES, butterflythread, BUT I HOPE THAT SIDEWAYS RAIN GOES THE FUCK AWAY SOONER RATHER THAN LATER. ♥
So basically I was like LOL YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE HILARIOUS IS IF ARTHUR SLEEPWALKED and then I got distracted, SORRY THIS IS ONLY LIKE 300 WORDS
"So," Arthur says, apropos of nothing on the second day of the job, "I'm going off my meds."
Eames looks up from the room service menu, which hadn't been yielding him much in the way of acceptable choices anyway, opens his mouth, and shuts it again. It's not often he's at a loss for words, but then again, it's not often Arthur serves him up a punchline on a silver platter, either. There are so many potentially hilarious responses that his brain short circuits a little.
He settles on "Pardon?" and promptly wants to kick himself for wasting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Arthur scowls at him anyway, because that's how Arthur is, and waves a hand. "My meds. I can't take them; Yusuf says they'll interfere with the compound. I have a…sleeping thing, and since we've been forced to share a room, I thought it would be better that you know."
"A sleeping thing," Eames repeats. "Care to elaborate?"
"It's called REM sleep behavior disorder," Arthur snaps, as though the fact that they're having this conversation is Eames' fault. "It's a parasomnia."
"And now again," Eames says. "But in English this time, if you don't mind."
Arthur narrows his eyes into a glare that suggests he knows very well that Eames understood him the first time. To be fair, Eames did understand him the first time, but he's not one to pass up two fantastic opportunities in as many minutes. He raises Arthur a cocked head and a contrived expression of innocence, and Arthur sighs heavily and looks away.
"I sleepwalk," he bites out, and Eames notes with some satisfaction that that sentence was exactly as amusing as he'd imagined it to be.
It's less amusing six hours later, when he wakes up to a loud clattering noise and discovers that Arthur is attempting to climb the entertainment set like a monkey.
ROMANOV HISTORY IS NOTHING LIKE THIS
(No, really, it's absolutely nothing like this. It's not really much like the Disney 20th Centry Fox movie either, to be honest. But basically what's happening here is I'm going off of the Disney 20th Centry Fox version of history, kind of, but switching Anastasia for her brother Alexei, and Rasputin for Mal, and the Dowager Empress for...er...Cobb? I APOLOGIZE FOR THIS MADNESS.)
Alexei is eight years old when the world ends.
“Come on,” his grandfather screams, “Alexei, come on.” They are running through the palace gardens, the signet ring heavy in his pocket, all the more reminder of the pocket watch he’s left behind. Behind them are the sounds of the rising mob, the sick high-pitched roil of Rasputina’s laugh, and Alexei knows he shouldn’t be worrying about the pocket watch.
But it fell-it fell from his hand while that kitchen boy was leading them through the servant’s quarters, his grandfather’s watch, his watch. He promised to take care of it and now his home is crumbling behind him and it’s lost, it’ll always be lost.
“Grandpere,” he says, as they’re running for the train. He wants to apologize, but his breath is too short, his heart pounding out choked beats in panic. He says “Grandpere,” and nothing else, and then he falls from the back of the train, too slow to escape his fate after all.
“Alexei,” he hears, and then “Alexei!” and then, blissfully, nothing at all.
#
The thing about coming up with the perfect con, Eames muses bitterly, is that your own genius is rarely matched by those around you. It had seemed brilliant when he’d pulled it together, planning frantically with Yusuf over the fire-find a guy to play the lost Tsarevich, take him to Paris, collect the reward money. Straightforward and easy, he and Yusuf had agreed; their ticket out of St. Petersburg, their ticket to a new life.
If he’d known what he was going to be subjected to in the damn auditions, he’d never have bothered holding them to begin with.
“Interpretive dance,” he snorts, picking at his dinner. “Interpretive dance, I mean, honestly, does that seem particularly princely to you?”
“Now, now,” Yusuf says, “he may not have been right for the part, but you needn’t have been so hard on him.”
“He deserved it.”
“He wept,” Yusuf says sternly. “I know things are looking a little dire, but I hardly think it’s necessary to-“
He’s interrupted by a crash in the distance; they both freeze, looking towards the door. Looters are a regular enough hazard of living in the burned-out remains of the imperial palace, if a less-than-pleasant reminder of the reality of their situation, but there’s always the chance that it’s the police this time. Silently, Eames grabs the length of metal piping he keeps for emergencies, knowing without looking that Yusuf is behind him with a candlestick.
“Who’s there?” he calls, walking out towards the direction of the crash. No one answers, but he hears footsteps and follows them, breaking into a run without really knowing why. It would probably be better to allow whoever it is to leave unseen, but Eames can’t help but hold some attachment to this place, can’t help but feel that looters are violating a sacred trust. On some level-some long-since buried level, obviously-he’s still Dimitri the kitchen boy, staring out at the ballroom with wide-eyed wonder.
He's squatting here, of course, but that’s different. He’s earned it.
“Oi!” he cries, catching sight of his quarry. It’s a guy, tattered clothes, dark hair-Eames can’t see his face yet, but he’s certainly fit enough from behind, in a ragamuffin kind of way. He feels his cock jump a little in interest, and ignores it. “What’re you doing in here?”
“Shit,” the guy mutters, and turns around.
And here’s the thing: if he’d stopped anywhere else, if he’d turned around in any other spot, Eames probably wouldn’t have seen it. He’d probably have looked the guy over and thought nothing of him-well, no, okay, he is, just on an empirical level, very attractive, that might have given him pause-but if it hadn’t been for the portrait behind him, Eames would have let him go. He’d spent so much time looking for Alexei that he’d become almost numb to it, the parade of not-quite-look-alikes, and so without the jolt of his face right next to the Tsarevich’s, Eames would probably have missed it entirely.
As it is…
“Yusuf,” Eames whispers, “look.”
“I see it,” Yusuf says, equally soft. “My god, of course I see it, it’s uncanny.”
“Uh,” says the man-and really that’s the wrong word for him, he can’t be much over 18, which is perfect, he’s perfect-“I’m sorry, I was. Uh. Well, I’m looking for a Mr. Eames?”
“Well, then,” Eames drawls, nearly beside himself in excitement, “today is your lucky day.”
The man looks him over, doubt written in every crevice of his face, and then sighs his determination out through his nose. Haughty, Eames thinks gleefully, oh, god, it’s a goldmine walked right into my house.
“Right,” the man says, sticking out his hand, “I’m Arthur.”
Oh, domesticverse, someday I will stop being so fucking blocked on you
Eames recognizes, somewhere deep in his soul, that he can't actually blame himself for the thing with the mango. It's really Arthur's fault, if it's anyone's fault; rationality points to Arthur, and so does logic, and so does fact. If Arthur had seen it fit at any point in their professional or romantic relationship to say, "Hey, Eames, by the by, just so you know, in case you're worried about ever accidentally killing me or anything, I am deathly allergic to mango," none of it would ever have happened. More to the point, if Arthur had said, "Hey, Eames, what did you put in this smoothie," before he had a sip, the whole thing could have been averted.
So logic says it's Arthur's fault. Guilt, being a far stronger motivation than logic, pegs Eames himself--had some kind of instinct kicked in (which, by all rights, it should have) he would have used banana instead, neatly sidestepping disaster.
Of course, blame is not particularly relevant while watching a pale, sweating Arthur stab himself in the leg with a syringe he pulled hastily out of a yellow cardboard box. Luckily, relevance is not the kind of thing Eames brakes for.
"What the bloody fuck, Arthur?" he cries, rooted to the spot in their living room. The smoothie, which Arthur had dropped in his haste to get to the bathroom, is spilled across the hardwood, trickling into the cracks; Eames is torn between watching its progress and staring at the ceiling, anything to avoid looking at Arthur.
"Give me…a fucking…minute," Arthur pants, pressing the syringe down. He bends double, pulling the needle out of his leg and breathing heavily. He apparently has enough breath left to add a, "Jesus Christ, Eames," though, which is more than a little aggravating.
"You can't have a minute," Eames snaps. "You wouldn't have had one, anyway, if you'd died just now--"
Arthur holds up a hand. "Wasn't…going to--"
"Oh, like hell you weren't--"
"For fuck's sake," Arthur gasps, lifting his head to glare, "could I have my fucking…anaphylactic shock…in peace, please?"
"Once I'm sure you're not dead I'm going to murder you myself," Eames growls, and storms into the kitchen. He has a quick mental debate--the vase Rachel sent for Christmas has sentimental value, but the coffee pot is more essential to Arthur's existence--before picking up the half-full blender and hurling it into the wall.
"Mature," Arthur snaps, having apparently regained enough control to raise his voice.
"You're one to talk about maturity," Eames yells back, narrowing his eyes in satisfaction at the mess on the wall. "Give me a call if there's anything else you want to fucking share, yeah?"
He grabs his coat and slams out of the house before Arthur can respond.
--
"You want to tell me why we're here?" Yusuf asks, nursing a beer at the bar down the street from his apartment half an hour later. "Not that it isn't a pleasure to see you, but Ariadne and I have plans."
"It's appalling how whipped you've become," Eames snaps, which is unnecessary and below the belt, but he's in that kind of mood. Yusuf just rolls his eyes and takes a long pull from his beer.
"You're one to talk about whipped," he says, raising his eyebrows. "I seem to recall a year of you moping about my shop in Mombasa, and that was well before you and Arthur even--"
"Could you not mention his name?" Eames groans. "For the foreseeable future, say?"
"Ah," Yusuf says. "You've had a row, then."
"No, I dragged you out to the bar because things are going swimmingly." He runs his face over his hand and takes a sip of his tequila, wincing. "Remind me again why I decided to involve myself with the most irritating, reticent, bloody stubborn--"
"Character assassination isn't going to help me suss this out in the next--" Yusuf pauses, checks his watch, and sighs, "twenty minutes. And as fond as I am of you, mate, I have no intention of standing Ariadne up."
"There's a saying," Eames growls. "Something about bros and hos and which come first?"
"If you're calling Ariadne a ho it's going to go very hard for you," Yusuf says lightly. "Quite aside from the fact that I control the chemicals entering your body on a daily basis, she has a very powerful right hook."
"Beating you, is she?"
"Can we get to your problem, please?" Yusuf snaps, having apparently reached the end of his rope. Eames feels a little guilty about that--the end of Yusuf's rope is generally fairly difficult to reach. He must be particularly insufferable tonight. "Out with it, I haven't got all night."
"As you've made very clear," Eames mutters, just to be impossible. Yusuf levels a glare at him and he sighs, running his hand over his face again. "Fine, fine. If you must know, Arthur let me poison him this evening, which has left a rather sour taste in my mouth."
"Let you poison him," Yusuf repeats dubiously. "Given his survival instincts, I find that unlikely at best. Care to elaborate?"
"Apparently," Eames says, waving a hand, "he is allergic to mango. Which I did not know, and which I don't think I would have known if I hadn't, you know, nearly killed him an hour ago."
"You're angry because Arthur had an allergic reaction?" Yusuf asks, raising an eyebrow. "Even for you, Eames, that's a little--"
"I'm angry because he had the bloody epipen hidden in a secret compartment in the bathroom," Eames snaps. "I'm angry because when he asked what was in the damn drink he didn't even seem surprised, just got up and stumbled his way into part of my bloody house he'd never so much as bothered to--"
"Ahhh," Yusuf says, realization dawning on his face. "This is about the thing with the mortgage payments last month, isn't it?"
"No," Eames says at once. And then, with considerable suspicion, "How did you even know about that?"
"You should stop whining about your secret worries to Ariadne if you want them to stay secret," Yusuf advises him, his tone kind. "She's not inclined towards allowing you to be an idiot, and also it's pathetic. For all I know, she's told Arthur as well."
"Well," Eames spits, "that's just smashing," and he downs the rest of his drink in one go.
The thing with the mortgage payments was--is--a stupid thing. Eames had long since entrusted Arthur with fiscal responsibility for the both of them, since paperwork makes him break out in hives and Arthur gets all twitchy around the eyes when Eames mentions tax fraud. He'd assumed, upon their eventual admission of cohabitation, that Arthur had started pulling mortgage payments from both of their accounts--certainly it hadn't occurred to him in the intervening years they'd been living together that Arthur was, in fact, paying for the damn place entirely on his own.
Eames knows, he does actually know, that it's ridiculous to be upset about it. It's completely ridiculous. Of course it's stupid--together they've enough to buy the house outright without even really noticing a dent, and Eames knows Arthur had only bothered to mortgage the place to begin with because he has some unholy obsession with his credit score. It's hardly a statement about…about balance, about ownership, about who would be throwing out whom in the worst case scenario. It's not that Eames imagines Arthur has some kind of--some kind of bloody backup plan for when Eames eventually cocks this up, because that's not the kind of thing Arthur would do, not now.
Except for how it's exactly the kind of thing Arthur would do, even now. Except for how it's painfully, achingly believable, the idea that Arthur has built himself a backdoor.
"You might consider talking to him about it," Yusuf says gently, clapping him on the shoulder. "Rather than dodging it entirely and then throwing a wobbly over an allergic reaction, I mean."
"I don't see why," Eames mumbles into his drink. "My way is so much easier."
"Look," Yusuf says, glancing at his watch again, "I'd offer up my couch, but frankly I think that would only be enabling you, and I'm supposed meet Ariadne in--"
"Four minutes ago," Ariadne says, stepping up next to them and giving Yusuf a quick kiss. "I saw the Lotus outside."
"I see you two have progressed to the public affection stage," Eames says, raising his drink to them.
"Well, it was getting embarrassing, having to watch Cobb try to figure it out," Ariadne says, shrugging. "So, what are you and Arthur fighting about?"
"He's going to feed you some bullshit about allergies," Yusuf says quickly, before Eames can even open his mouth. "But really I think he's worried Arthur's planning on doing a runner. It's better if you don't encourage him."
"Aren't you guys a little late in the game to be having basic trust issues?" Ariadne asks. "Ugh, no, nevermind, don't answer that."
"They're the late bloomers of the relationship world," Yusuf agrees, finishing the last of his beer and dropping a few bills on the table. "Get them in a firefight and they don't even look round to check their backs, but ask them to have a simple conversation…"
Eames drops his head into his hands and groans. "See if I help either of you when you get out of the honeymoon phase," he warns, looking at the table. "Just see."
Yusuf stands and claps him on the back. "If it's any comfort," he says, "he should have told you, you're not wrong for thinking that. You're as bad as each other, really."
"Just talk to him," Ariadne adds cheerfully. She reaches out and ruffles his hair, and Eames can't be bothered to snap at her for it. "You might be surprised. Or you two might shoot each other to avoid having to discuss your feelings, but it's a risk you're going to have to take."
"Either way you'll be out of our hair," Yusuf says. "Cheers, mate!"
"Cheers," Eames says morosely, and resumes staring into his drink as they exit the bar.
--
Two drinks and one probably inadvisable drive home later, Eames is loitering in his own driveway, smoking a cigarette and waiting for the calzone delivery guy to vacate the house. He's fairly certain that calzone deliveries aren't supposed to take this long, and he's toying with the idea that the car in the driveway is actually a cover for some sort of assassin. He's been smoking for about five minutes without hearing any kind of struggle, though--if it was an assassin, Arthur's clearly already taken care of him.
He considers smoking another cigarette, decides that hiding outside his home is probably pathetic, and makes his way inside. He finds Arthur at the dining room table, chatting with a kid in a Cali Zone uniform. Eames coughs, interrupting them.
"Well, look who's gotten over himself enough to come home," Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. There are lines around his mouth, around his eyes--enough to say he's still angry, but not so many that Eames has to worry about being thrown out.
"Look who's managed not to burn the house down," Eames returns, a little sharper than he means to. Arthur smiles at him, tense but not entirely without affection.
"I've learned it's better to order out when I'm pissed at you," he says, lightly enough.
"Do delivery orders require the personal touch now?" Eames asks, gesturing at the kid currently occupying his favorite seat at the table. "Or is this some kind of add-on? Pay extra to complain sort of thing?"
"He never pays me extra to complain," the kid grumbles good-naturedly, standing and holding out a hand. "I'm Aaron."
"Eames," Eames returns, shaking. "And while I'm glad to have a name, I'm still a bit confused as to why--"
"Wait," Aaron says, "you're Eames?"
"You were expecting someone less dashing?"
Aaron casts a sidelong look at Arthur, who is starting to go very faintly red, and then looks Eames up and down. "Uh, sorry, bra. I just kind of thought he'd made you up."
SORRY THESE AREN'T REAL STORIES, butterflythread, BUT I HOPE THAT SIDEWAYS RAIN GOES THE FUCK AWAY SOONER RATHER THAN LATER. ♥
So basically I was like LOL YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE HILARIOUS IS IF ARTHUR SLEEPWALKED and then I got distracted, SORRY THIS IS ONLY LIKE 300 WORDS
"So," Arthur says, apropos of nothing on the second day of the job, "I'm going off my meds."
Eames looks up from the room service menu, which hadn't been yielding him much in the way of acceptable choices anyway, opens his mouth, and shuts it again. It's not often he's at a loss for words, but then again, it's not often Arthur serves him up a punchline on a silver platter, either. There are so many potentially hilarious responses that his brain short circuits a little.
He settles on "Pardon?" and promptly wants to kick himself for wasting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Arthur scowls at him anyway, because that's how Arthur is, and waves a hand. "My meds. I can't take them; Yusuf says they'll interfere with the compound. I have a…sleeping thing, and since we've been forced to share a room, I thought it would be better that you know."
"A sleeping thing," Eames repeats. "Care to elaborate?"
"It's called REM sleep behavior disorder," Arthur snaps, as though the fact that they're having this conversation is Eames' fault. "It's a parasomnia."
"And now again," Eames says. "But in English this time, if you don't mind."
Arthur narrows his eyes into a glare that suggests he knows very well that Eames understood him the first time. To be fair, Eames did understand him the first time, but he's not one to pass up two fantastic opportunities in as many minutes. He raises Arthur a cocked head and a contrived expression of innocence, and Arthur sighs heavily and looks away.
"I sleepwalk," he bites out, and Eames notes with some satisfaction that that sentence was exactly as amusing as he'd imagined it to be.
It's less amusing six hours later, when he wakes up to a loud clattering noise and discovers that Arthur is attempting to climb the entertainment set like a monkey.
ROMANOV HISTORY IS NOTHING LIKE THIS
(No, really, it's absolutely nothing like this. It's not really much like the Disney 20th Centry Fox movie either, to be honest. But basically what's happening here is I'm going off of the Disney 20th Centry Fox version of history, kind of, but switching Anastasia for her brother Alexei, and Rasputin for Mal, and the Dowager Empress for...er...Cobb? I APOLOGIZE FOR THIS MADNESS.)
Alexei is eight years old when the world ends.
“Come on,” his grandfather screams, “Alexei, come on.” They are running through the palace gardens, the signet ring heavy in his pocket, all the more reminder of the pocket watch he’s left behind. Behind them are the sounds of the rising mob, the sick high-pitched roil of Rasputina’s laugh, and Alexei knows he shouldn’t be worrying about the pocket watch.
But it fell-it fell from his hand while that kitchen boy was leading them through the servant’s quarters, his grandfather’s watch, his watch. He promised to take care of it and now his home is crumbling behind him and it’s lost, it’ll always be lost.
“Grandpere,” he says, as they’re running for the train. He wants to apologize, but his breath is too short, his heart pounding out choked beats in panic. He says “Grandpere,” and nothing else, and then he falls from the back of the train, too slow to escape his fate after all.
“Alexei,” he hears, and then “Alexei!” and then, blissfully, nothing at all.
#
The thing about coming up with the perfect con, Eames muses bitterly, is that your own genius is rarely matched by those around you. It had seemed brilliant when he’d pulled it together, planning frantically with Yusuf over the fire-find a guy to play the lost Tsarevich, take him to Paris, collect the reward money. Straightforward and easy, he and Yusuf had agreed; their ticket out of St. Petersburg, their ticket to a new life.
If he’d known what he was going to be subjected to in the damn auditions, he’d never have bothered holding them to begin with.
“Interpretive dance,” he snorts, picking at his dinner. “Interpretive dance, I mean, honestly, does that seem particularly princely to you?”
“Now, now,” Yusuf says, “he may not have been right for the part, but you needn’t have been so hard on him.”
“He deserved it.”
“He wept,” Yusuf says sternly. “I know things are looking a little dire, but I hardly think it’s necessary to-“
He’s interrupted by a crash in the distance; they both freeze, looking towards the door. Looters are a regular enough hazard of living in the burned-out remains of the imperial palace, if a less-than-pleasant reminder of the reality of their situation, but there’s always the chance that it’s the police this time. Silently, Eames grabs the length of metal piping he keeps for emergencies, knowing without looking that Yusuf is behind him with a candlestick.
“Who’s there?” he calls, walking out towards the direction of the crash. No one answers, but he hears footsteps and follows them, breaking into a run without really knowing why. It would probably be better to allow whoever it is to leave unseen, but Eames can’t help but hold some attachment to this place, can’t help but feel that looters are violating a sacred trust. On some level-some long-since buried level, obviously-he’s still Dimitri the kitchen boy, staring out at the ballroom with wide-eyed wonder.
He's squatting here, of course, but that’s different. He’s earned it.
“Oi!” he cries, catching sight of his quarry. It’s a guy, tattered clothes, dark hair-Eames can’t see his face yet, but he’s certainly fit enough from behind, in a ragamuffin kind of way. He feels his cock jump a little in interest, and ignores it. “What’re you doing in here?”
“Shit,” the guy mutters, and turns around.
And here’s the thing: if he’d stopped anywhere else, if he’d turned around in any other spot, Eames probably wouldn’t have seen it. He’d probably have looked the guy over and thought nothing of him-well, no, okay, he is, just on an empirical level, very attractive, that might have given him pause-but if it hadn’t been for the portrait behind him, Eames would have let him go. He’d spent so much time looking for Alexei that he’d become almost numb to it, the parade of not-quite-look-alikes, and so without the jolt of his face right next to the Tsarevich’s, Eames would probably have missed it entirely.
As it is…
“Yusuf,” Eames whispers, “look.”
“I see it,” Yusuf says, equally soft. “My god, of course I see it, it’s uncanny.”
“Uh,” says the man-and really that’s the wrong word for him, he can’t be much over 18, which is perfect, he’s perfect-“I’m sorry, I was. Uh. Well, I’m looking for a Mr. Eames?”
“Well, then,” Eames drawls, nearly beside himself in excitement, “today is your lucky day.”
The man looks him over, doubt written in every crevice of his face, and then sighs his determination out through his nose. Haughty, Eames thinks gleefully, oh, god, it’s a goldmine walked right into my house.
“Right,” the man says, sticking out his hand, “I’m Arthur.”
Oh, domesticverse, someday I will stop being so fucking blocked on you
Eames recognizes, somewhere deep in his soul, that he can't actually blame himself for the thing with the mango. It's really Arthur's fault, if it's anyone's fault; rationality points to Arthur, and so does logic, and so does fact. If Arthur had seen it fit at any point in their professional or romantic relationship to say, "Hey, Eames, by the by, just so you know, in case you're worried about ever accidentally killing me or anything, I am deathly allergic to mango," none of it would ever have happened. More to the point, if Arthur had said, "Hey, Eames, what did you put in this smoothie," before he had a sip, the whole thing could have been averted.
So logic says it's Arthur's fault. Guilt, being a far stronger motivation than logic, pegs Eames himself--had some kind of instinct kicked in (which, by all rights, it should have) he would have used banana instead, neatly sidestepping disaster.
Of course, blame is not particularly relevant while watching a pale, sweating Arthur stab himself in the leg with a syringe he pulled hastily out of a yellow cardboard box. Luckily, relevance is not the kind of thing Eames brakes for.
"What the bloody fuck, Arthur?" he cries, rooted to the spot in their living room. The smoothie, which Arthur had dropped in his haste to get to the bathroom, is spilled across the hardwood, trickling into the cracks; Eames is torn between watching its progress and staring at the ceiling, anything to avoid looking at Arthur.
"Give me…a fucking…minute," Arthur pants, pressing the syringe down. He bends double, pulling the needle out of his leg and breathing heavily. He apparently has enough breath left to add a, "Jesus Christ, Eames," though, which is more than a little aggravating.
"You can't have a minute," Eames snaps. "You wouldn't have had one, anyway, if you'd died just now--"
Arthur holds up a hand. "Wasn't…going to--"
"Oh, like hell you weren't--"
"For fuck's sake," Arthur gasps, lifting his head to glare, "could I have my fucking…anaphylactic shock…in peace, please?"
"Once I'm sure you're not dead I'm going to murder you myself," Eames growls, and storms into the kitchen. He has a quick mental debate--the vase Rachel sent for Christmas has sentimental value, but the coffee pot is more essential to Arthur's existence--before picking up the half-full blender and hurling it into the wall.
"Mature," Arthur snaps, having apparently regained enough control to raise his voice.
"You're one to talk about maturity," Eames yells back, narrowing his eyes in satisfaction at the mess on the wall. "Give me a call if there's anything else you want to fucking share, yeah?"
He grabs his coat and slams out of the house before Arthur can respond.
--
"You want to tell me why we're here?" Yusuf asks, nursing a beer at the bar down the street from his apartment half an hour later. "Not that it isn't a pleasure to see you, but Ariadne and I have plans."
"It's appalling how whipped you've become," Eames snaps, which is unnecessary and below the belt, but he's in that kind of mood. Yusuf just rolls his eyes and takes a long pull from his beer.
"You're one to talk about whipped," he says, raising his eyebrows. "I seem to recall a year of you moping about my shop in Mombasa, and that was well before you and Arthur even--"
"Could you not mention his name?" Eames groans. "For the foreseeable future, say?"
"Ah," Yusuf says. "You've had a row, then."
"No, I dragged you out to the bar because things are going swimmingly." He runs his face over his hand and takes a sip of his tequila, wincing. "Remind me again why I decided to involve myself with the most irritating, reticent, bloody stubborn--"
"Character assassination isn't going to help me suss this out in the next--" Yusuf pauses, checks his watch, and sighs, "twenty minutes. And as fond as I am of you, mate, I have no intention of standing Ariadne up."
"There's a saying," Eames growls. "Something about bros and hos and which come first?"
"If you're calling Ariadne a ho it's going to go very hard for you," Yusuf says lightly. "Quite aside from the fact that I control the chemicals entering your body on a daily basis, she has a very powerful right hook."
"Beating you, is she?"
"Can we get to your problem, please?" Yusuf snaps, having apparently reached the end of his rope. Eames feels a little guilty about that--the end of Yusuf's rope is generally fairly difficult to reach. He must be particularly insufferable tonight. "Out with it, I haven't got all night."
"As you've made very clear," Eames mutters, just to be impossible. Yusuf levels a glare at him and he sighs, running his hand over his face again. "Fine, fine. If you must know, Arthur let me poison him this evening, which has left a rather sour taste in my mouth."
"Let you poison him," Yusuf repeats dubiously. "Given his survival instincts, I find that unlikely at best. Care to elaborate?"
"Apparently," Eames says, waving a hand, "he is allergic to mango. Which I did not know, and which I don't think I would have known if I hadn't, you know, nearly killed him an hour ago."
"You're angry because Arthur had an allergic reaction?" Yusuf asks, raising an eyebrow. "Even for you, Eames, that's a little--"
"I'm angry because he had the bloody epipen hidden in a secret compartment in the bathroom," Eames snaps. "I'm angry because when he asked what was in the damn drink he didn't even seem surprised, just got up and stumbled his way into part of my bloody house he'd never so much as bothered to--"
"Ahhh," Yusuf says, realization dawning on his face. "This is about the thing with the mortgage payments last month, isn't it?"
"No," Eames says at once. And then, with considerable suspicion, "How did you even know about that?"
"You should stop whining about your secret worries to Ariadne if you want them to stay secret," Yusuf advises him, his tone kind. "She's not inclined towards allowing you to be an idiot, and also it's pathetic. For all I know, she's told Arthur as well."
"Well," Eames spits, "that's just smashing," and he downs the rest of his drink in one go.
The thing with the mortgage payments was--is--a stupid thing. Eames had long since entrusted Arthur with fiscal responsibility for the both of them, since paperwork makes him break out in hives and Arthur gets all twitchy around the eyes when Eames mentions tax fraud. He'd assumed, upon their eventual admission of cohabitation, that Arthur had started pulling mortgage payments from both of their accounts--certainly it hadn't occurred to him in the intervening years they'd been living together that Arthur was, in fact, paying for the damn place entirely on his own.
Eames knows, he does actually know, that it's ridiculous to be upset about it. It's completely ridiculous. Of course it's stupid--together they've enough to buy the house outright without even really noticing a dent, and Eames knows Arthur had only bothered to mortgage the place to begin with because he has some unholy obsession with his credit score. It's hardly a statement about…about balance, about ownership, about who would be throwing out whom in the worst case scenario. It's not that Eames imagines Arthur has some kind of--some kind of bloody backup plan for when Eames eventually cocks this up, because that's not the kind of thing Arthur would do, not now.
Except for how it's exactly the kind of thing Arthur would do, even now. Except for how it's painfully, achingly believable, the idea that Arthur has built himself a backdoor.
"You might consider talking to him about it," Yusuf says gently, clapping him on the shoulder. "Rather than dodging it entirely and then throwing a wobbly over an allergic reaction, I mean."
"I don't see why," Eames mumbles into his drink. "My way is so much easier."
"Look," Yusuf says, glancing at his watch again, "I'd offer up my couch, but frankly I think that would only be enabling you, and I'm supposed meet Ariadne in--"
"Four minutes ago," Ariadne says, stepping up next to them and giving Yusuf a quick kiss. "I saw the Lotus outside."
"I see you two have progressed to the public affection stage," Eames says, raising his drink to them.
"Well, it was getting embarrassing, having to watch Cobb try to figure it out," Ariadne says, shrugging. "So, what are you and Arthur fighting about?"
"He's going to feed you some bullshit about allergies," Yusuf says quickly, before Eames can even open his mouth. "But really I think he's worried Arthur's planning on doing a runner. It's better if you don't encourage him."
"Aren't you guys a little late in the game to be having basic trust issues?" Ariadne asks. "Ugh, no, nevermind, don't answer that."
"They're the late bloomers of the relationship world," Yusuf agrees, finishing the last of his beer and dropping a few bills on the table. "Get them in a firefight and they don't even look round to check their backs, but ask them to have a simple conversation…"
Eames drops his head into his hands and groans. "See if I help either of you when you get out of the honeymoon phase," he warns, looking at the table. "Just see."
Yusuf stands and claps him on the back. "If it's any comfort," he says, "he should have told you, you're not wrong for thinking that. You're as bad as each other, really."
"Just talk to him," Ariadne adds cheerfully. She reaches out and ruffles his hair, and Eames can't be bothered to snap at her for it. "You might be surprised. Or you two might shoot each other to avoid having to discuss your feelings, but it's a risk you're going to have to take."
"Either way you'll be out of our hair," Yusuf says. "Cheers, mate!"
"Cheers," Eames says morosely, and resumes staring into his drink as they exit the bar.
--
Two drinks and one probably inadvisable drive home later, Eames is loitering in his own driveway, smoking a cigarette and waiting for the calzone delivery guy to vacate the house. He's fairly certain that calzone deliveries aren't supposed to take this long, and he's toying with the idea that the car in the driveway is actually a cover for some sort of assassin. He's been smoking for about five minutes without hearing any kind of struggle, though--if it was an assassin, Arthur's clearly already taken care of him.
He considers smoking another cigarette, decides that hiding outside his home is probably pathetic, and makes his way inside. He finds Arthur at the dining room table, chatting with a kid in a Cali Zone uniform. Eames coughs, interrupting them.
"Well, look who's gotten over himself enough to come home," Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. There are lines around his mouth, around his eyes--enough to say he's still angry, but not so many that Eames has to worry about being thrown out.
"Look who's managed not to burn the house down," Eames returns, a little sharper than he means to. Arthur smiles at him, tense but not entirely without affection.
"I've learned it's better to order out when I'm pissed at you," he says, lightly enough.
"Do delivery orders require the personal touch now?" Eames asks, gesturing at the kid currently occupying his favorite seat at the table. "Or is this some kind of add-on? Pay extra to complain sort of thing?"
"He never pays me extra to complain," the kid grumbles good-naturedly, standing and holding out a hand. "I'm Aaron."
"Eames," Eames returns, shaking. "And while I'm glad to have a name, I'm still a bit confused as to why--"
"Wait," Aaron says, "you're Eames?"
"You were expecting someone less dashing?"
Aaron casts a sidelong look at Arthur, who is starting to go very faintly red, and then looks Eames up and down. "Uh, sorry, bra. I just kind of thought he'd made you up."