*because I make you the way you are
INCEPTION; ARTHUR x EAMES FANFIC; originally written for a prompt at inception_kink. "Arthur is slowly turning into a cat lady (he brings home strays, knits, gets angry if he misses his soaps, etc). Eames is horrified that this turns him on." It was too whacky to not write.
because I make you the way you are
By hipokras
Arthur has a mid-life crisis, and Eames is delighted to have a good laugh at his expense. Until he is horrified to realise how much this new Arthur turns him on.
It started at James's birthday party, when Philippa smeared her little brother's face with cake and ran away laughing. All Dom did was watch and chuckle, as his daughter scampered across the lawn. Only Arthur noticed Eames surreptitiously high-five the little girl by the hedges.
"You're going to be the worst uncle that girl could ever have," he told Eames firmly, leaning closer to whisper to the forger as they stood in line for the food. His scowl only made the laughter lines around Eames's eyes deepen. "Don't you have any sense of responsibility?"
"On the contrary, darling," murmured Eames, dipping his head to whisper into Arthur's ear, "it's my responsibility to ensure Cobb's kids don't grow up to be a stick-in-the-mud like their Uncle Arthur."
"You're setting the worst possible example, with your reckless lifestyle and your inability to utter a sentence without pissing off everyone in a three-mile vicinity."
"And you're just jealous, darling." With that answering smirk, tilting his chin in that insufferably smug look, Eames ambled away, balancing a plate of birthday cake.
Over the years, Arthur had built a wall of indifference to Eames's baiting, taunting, goading, jibing, ribbing, nettling, bad pick-up lines, and superiority complex. There was no plausible reason why those three words (you're just jealous) should shatter his armour.
Because Eames was, as he was so apt at doing, bullshitting. Arthur was exponentially smarter, cleverer, more experienced, and better-looking than that Limey con man who didn't know how to keep it in his pants. He, Arthur, was completely insured against jealousy because he didn't care about doing the things Eames did: living recklessly, banging sluts, blowing things up... living his life to the fullest.
Dammit. Eames was not going to crawl into his head and mess with his brains like this. Arthur knew he was happy the way he was. Yes, he was satisfied. It worked for him. He was not missing out on a thing-
"You look preoccupied, darling," were the first words he heard, breaking through his reverie, before a foot lashed out, kicking the legs of the chair out under him, dumping Arthur on the ground.
"What the hell was that for?" he growled, glaring up at Eames as he climbed to his feet. Against the white walls of the warehouse, the paisley of Eames's shirt stood out twice as starkly. "And what the hell are you wearing?"
"Don't you like it, darling?" asked the forger in mock-concern, eyes wide. "I know it's not half as poncey as what you're wearing, but I woke up this morning, thinking I had to show up at work, not a funeral."
"At least I'm not wearing colours that could make babies cry."
"Touché, darling, you've really wounded me this time." He glanced down at his chest, as though he saw something. "I can feel the sword cutting through my heart."
"Don't you have work to do?" sighed Arthur wearily. If only the other man's professionalism had a chink for him to exploit.
"I could get to work on you," began Eames, arching a suggestive eyebrow. "Loosening all that stress from that old man's body."
"Excuse me?" spluttered Arthur. His physique and stamina in a fight were what he was proud of the most; they were invaluable when picking up women and staying alive long enough to finish a job. He enjoyed doing both immensely.
Eames made a show of raking his eyes over Arthur's body, though he wouldn't admit the straight- laced point man was as visually pleasing a poolside of women in wet shirts. In short, very. "Yeah," he said aloud condescendingly, "all I see is a beaten-down old man who couldn't even beat me at arm-wrestling. Look at you; you're falling asleep in your chair at work."
Arthur bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that his work required him to fall asleep in his chair and dream. Instead, the primal schoolboy instinct in him rose to Eames's bait. "I could thrash you to the floor at arm-wrestling."
Fifteen minutes later, he wished he hadn't underestimated Eames's inner pugilist, which was a fearsome entity when paired with a tattooed arm that bulged with pure muscle. All of his well-honed sinew lasted as long as five minutes against Eames's calculated and pinpointed pressure against Arthur's palm, slowly, irresistibly edging his opponent's hand towards the table. Eames spent the next five minutes sitting firmly in his chair, making smartass remarks, while his hands remained inconspicuously criss-crossed across his lap.
What Arthur hadn't noticed was that Eames's arm wasn't the only thing bulging.
*
The bedraggled, scrawny cat cowering under his front steps hissed feebly when Arthur bent down under the stairwell to take a closer look. "Hey, there, squatter," he called out to the little feline that shrank further in the dark. Its white fur shone like a beacon, and a quick glimpse was enough to learn that this squatter was a he.
"Where's your mum?" he asked, a little rhetorically, since the cat was too old to be a kitten and yet too young to be a feline orphan. "Left with you the nanny, who lost you, huh? Where's your girlfriend? Got an old missus with a litter of brats somewhere?"
Mouth stretching open in a yawn. The cat had decided by now that Arthur wasn't a threat, just a big looming presence that didn't move, didn't stop talking, or didn't seem to want to hurt him.
"I thought so too. What girl would have time to settle down with men like us? Bet you have the scars to prove it."
He thought of Ariadne, pressing his mouth over hers on the Fischer job in the fastest, most impulsive kiss. She'd been too shocked to push him away, and too unmoved to reciprocate.
"You're coming home with me," Arthur found himself saying, as he straightened up again. "You can be my new roommate," he added seriously to the shocked, protesting, squirming animal in his arms. "I could use your help in paying the rent."
*
"Yeah and then so what goes on is-"
Eames sauntered past the water cooler, wiping his hands on his pants, to hear the distant sound of Arthur's voice. While Cobb and Yusuf were testing the strength of sedatives, the resident stick-in-the-mud sounded really engrossed in conversation with Ariadne.
And of course, when someone is so caught up in their own world to be oblivious to everything else, the situation usually reeks with blackmail fodder. With this intent in mind, Eames crept down the corridor, careful to plaster himself against the wall and remain out of sight. He heard the names "Brian and Justin" and wondered who they were and why Arthur was so interested.
"I can't believe you weren't there for it!" squealed Ariadne, her voice carrying down the hallway in uncharacteristic deviation from the usual spunky, self-contained architect he was used to.
Eames pricked his ears, wondering if Arthur had botched a mission, and if he could use this to ridicule the point man until the end of time. But when Arthur said something suspiciously like "TiVo not being the same," he wanted to groan aloud and thunk his head against the wall.
What the hell? Was the guy really sounding so aggravated over something on the telly?
"Hello, Eames," interrupted someone politely.
"Aargh!" he yelped, starting in surprise and whipping around to face... "Dammit, Cobb. Stop doing that."
"What're you doing?" asked Cobb innocently, staring un-innocently at Eames cringing against the wall.
"Just checking the décor of this place," he found himself saying, with as much conviction as he could muster. "Looks alright to me." Willing his shoulders to not shake or slouch, he walked straight-backed past the grinning Cobb with the remnants of his dignity.
*
Their personal lives were something that never figured into their work equation. Even Cobb, who openly adored and spoiled his children, didn't keep photo-frames of them in the warehouse. That was probably why it felt like such an acute invasion of his privacy when Ariadne found the pictures of the cats on Arthur's phone.
In all honesty, it had started out with a cat. Just the one, the raggedy tomcat he'd named Bobby, after the Fischer job. Truth be told, he liked Bobby much better than he liked his namesake, the imperious, dangerous Robert with the piercing eyes and the storm troopers in his head.
"Arthur, you live with seven cats? Seven?" Ariadne was shaking her head in wide-eyed incredulity. "Where do you sleep with seven cats in that house of yours?"
How he'd picked up Dom, James, Philippa, Ariadne, Mr. Charles, and Eames Jr. along the way had been a matter of fate. "They were strays," he found himself telling the younger girl, a little too defensively. "I couldn't exactly leave them to die in the gutter."
"They look like they're dying in your care, anyway," she pointed out. While Bobby had filled out and fattened up since he'd met Arthur, one of the cats refused to put on weight. She peered at the screen of his phone, unerringly pointing that cat out to Arthur.
"That's Eames Jr." he told Ariadne sourly. "He's fast as lightning and strong as a bull, and yet no one will believe I feed him right. Twice as much as the others, even."
"And you think he does it on purpose to make you look bad?"
He glanced up in surprise, at how accurately she'd pinned the problem, before he recognised the incredulous glint in her eye and the sarcasm in his voice.
"Did someone mention me?" called out a singsong voice, its owner being the last person Arthur really wanted to see. That was a bit hard, given that Eames worked in the same building, on the same floor as he did, but a bloke could always dream.
"Arthur's turned into a crazy cat lady," announced a still unimpressed Ariadne. Thankfully, she handed him his phone back before Eames could catch a glimpse and use it as more anti-Arthur material.
"Is that right?" the forger murmured, leaning over the table deliberately to crowd Arthur's personal space. "Always been a cat person myself. Got any pictures to show?"
"He's done one better," said Ariadne, and Arthur glared at her. She met it head-on with a sweet smile, and turned the look on Eames as well. "He's named one of his cats after you."
Whatever Eames had been expecting to hear, this was not it. Arthur's satisfaction at seeing the other man rendered speechless was short-lived, when the latter let out a throaty chuckle. "Well, well, well," he said, hooking upwards that knowing eyebrow. But that was all he managed to say, and this time Ariadne noticed how Eames seemed to self-consciously cross his legs where he stood.
After a few awkward seconds, he didn't even try to come up with a pithy insult, but walked away as hastily as his ego would allow. She didn't miss either how he headed straight for the men's bathroom, even though that was where he had emerged from only minutes ago.
*
Rationally thinking, Cobb would be the best person to understand what Arthur was presently going through. Arthur knew a mid-life crisis when he saw one, but he was mildly insulted that he was having one. For god's sake, he was young enough to be Cobb's nephew, not the old man's golf buddy.
Then when Ariadne called him a crazy cat lady, he knew that he wasn't so good at hiding it anymore. He certainly needed the help. He was lonely, disillusioned, and losing faith in himself, and he was definitely not old enough to have these feelings in the first place. It was his own goddamned fault, letting Eames get to him.
Yes, that was the problem, obviously. Eames. Not Arthur himself.
He was not petty or cruel enough to take it out on Eames Jr., he reminded himself, as he filled the latter's milk bowl. Never mind that the cat was obviously some spawn of Satan. The thought made him want a shower or a hot water bath... both being places that a cat obviously wouldn't follow him.
"Hah, I'm smarter than you," he informed Eames Jr., setting down the milk bowl. He was too depressed to appreciate the irony of the situation.
Flicking on the heater to turn up the water to a nice toasty temperature, Arthur had shrugged out of his suit and was about to step into the shower when the doorbell rang. Aargh, he was obviously not going to be allowed to enjoy even this. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it securely around himself and went to answer the door.
The last person he wanted to see stood on the other side. "Shit," was all he said, the door involuntarily slipping out of his stunned grasp and slamming closed in Eames's face.
*
If there was a god up there, it was a cruel one. Eames didn't even remember anymore what he was doing, standing out there, but the sight of Arthur in a towel made the bloodrush difficult to ignore. Every inappropriate thought he'd was converging on him, swallowing him in a tidal wave. He stumbled forward, banging his fist on the door, absolutely sure that if he didn't see Arthur he was going to spontaneously implode.
The door flew open, a red-faced Arthur glaring at him. The constricted sensation rose up Eames's throat once more, as he met those angry, confused eyes. He stopped thinking with a brain that refused to obey him, and simply did what his body willed.
He stepped forward and kissed Arthur.
*
Desperate, fumbling lips pressed against him, without the practised ease he'd always expected of Eames. Hands against the wall on either side of Arthur's head for support, while Eames's body was angled to trap him in the kiss. Arthur was completely unprepared for the jolt of electricity that sliced through him, but the alienness of the sensation intruded, and he found himself pushing Eames off.
"Stop," he yelled, his hands feebly holding Eames at bay. It was unnecessary, the forger stood like a rock, and Arthur could feel his stare, but couldn't meet his eye. Angry yowling from the kitchen punctuated the awkward silence. "That'll be Eames Jr.," muttered Arthur, dodging the cat's namesake, one hand gripping the towel of which he was overly self-conscious.
"You named your cat after me?" asked Eames with poorly-disguised delight, following Arthur into the kitchen. He stood to the side, leaning against the doorway, watching the irritated point man placate the irritable cat. "I'm flattered, you know. Never thought this day would come. Tantamount to you naming your first-born after me, and all that."
Arthur glanced up, pinning Eames with an unamused glare. "We can talk about the white elephant in the room," he said coldly, "or you could leave. Don't pretend we're friends."
Something shifted in Eames's flinty eyes, and he leaned his weight against the door, lips drawing upwards in a smirk. "Alright. We can talk. Like the fact that I'm like your cat and you're catnip."
"There's no way in hell you're attracted to me," snapped Arthur. He nudged Eames Jr. out the open kitchen window.
Eames arched a disbelieving eyebrow. "I thought calling you darling was a dead giveaway."
"I thought it was part of your master plan to drive me up the wall."
"Oh, but I do want you up against a wall. I want you up against the wall, on the floor, over the table, in my bed. I'm not exactly picky."
Eye contact is the first thing one needed to hold one's ground, and win the silent battle. Holding Eames's unashamed gaze made Arthur falter, his knees buckling under him. He sank to the ground, shocked by his body's traitorous physical weakness. He crumpled like paper, not sure how fast Eames had moved to catch him before he fell.
When Eames kissed him this time, it was harder to resist. The forger's fingers were tracing a five-point trail of fire down Arthur's midriff, drifting closer to the flimsy knot of the towel. The first sound of a protest debated making itself heard in Arthur's throat, but it came out as a garbled sound of encouragement instead. Somewhere, elsewhere, he heard the low purr of his cats, or maybe it was the sound Eames made when he was happy.
*
When Eames stepped out of the lift and into the lobby of Arthur's building, there was a spring in his step. His shirt hung untucked out of his rumpled trousers, but nothing could keep the smirk off his face.
For one thing, the insatiable itch inside him was gone. He wouldn't even have to worry about popping wood at the most inappropriate times around Arthur. It had been a ball on a chain around his ankle, and now someone had cut him free.
He paused on the street, glancing upwards over his shoulder to Arthur's window. He saw a flash of tawny fur, Eames Jr. basking in the sun on the dangerous precipice of the sill. He imagined for a second, that it was Arthur's face at the window, though he didn't know why he was dreaming like a soppy romantic.
- finis -