[December 16th] Clemency
Clemency
PG-13
Author : recrudescence | Artist : fanlay
It's a nice, safe plan: ringing in the new year at the Cobbs', the perfect wholesome topping on Dom's wholesome-as-apple-pie life. Having to touch down in Podunk, Canada due to inclement weather is not part of that plan, but Eames rolls with the punches and books them a cottage for the night.
“This isn't a cottage,” Arthur is quick to point out once he's off the phone. “This is a hovel.”
“I take it Cobb forgives our lateness?”
“Dom said we could tell ghost stories and have a snowball fight to kill time.” He sighs. “This is what happens when domesticity goes too far.”
Eames can't help himself. “You don't like snowballing?”
Arthur throws one at him, as expected. It misses. “What is it with you and snow?”
“Boarding school,” Eames says. “Taking advantage of snow days is an art. I had excellent study habits.”
Arthur looks at him with those unreadable eyes. “I just bet.”
“Wait. You've never let loose enough to play in the snow? Even in a dream?”
“Nothing fit for your tender ears.”
“Says the man whose weapon of choice these days is a thesaurus.” The work Arthur's been doing lately is practically administrative compared to his normal fare. Cobb going straight must have shaken him up more than he lets on.
“At least I'm not the man who says things because they sound clever instead of actually being accurate.”
Eames shrugs affably. “You've certainly proved your point with such an unclever statement. Bravo.”
When he moves back towards the car for his bags, the snowball catches him on the side of the head.
And Arthur-too-skinny-for-the-cold, supposedly-born-and-bred-in-Florida Arthur-is grinning at him.
Very slowly, Eames pockets the keys. “Above the neck? Unfair.”
It only takes moments to show Arthur how it's done.
The first two explode over the front of his peacoat. The third one has him darting behind a tree for cover , behaving like any sensible soldier would whilst under siege.
“You can't radio for backup, you know,” Eames calls.
“We could've just gotten a hotel,” Arthur yells back, aggrieved.
Eames joins him under the tree, kicking aside a hastily constructed stockpile of snowballs and draping an arm around Arthur's hunched shoulders. “You need to broaden your horizons, princess.”
“You suck,” Arthur mutters. He's sitting with his knees drawn up, cheeks wind-nipped pink, scarf unknotting, looking as young as he sounds. There's no one around to notice when Eames brushes snow from his back and Arthur kisses him, right there in the open.
Nuzzling against his cheek, hair thick with snow, mouth too hot, gloves too cold. He can feel the icy points of leather-covered fingertips against his jaw and catches one between his teeth for a moment. “Take your gloves off.”
He does.
Eames almost feels bad about slipping a handful of snow down the back of his coat while he's doing it.
