Prompt Post No. 13
Welcome to Round 13 of the Inception Kink Meme. This post will be closed to new prompts once it reaches five thousand comments.
New Prompting System
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- Forty-eight hours ( Read more... )
“How pleasant to see a hard-working CEO,” observes the man, voice merry but face unmoved, his gaze assessing and rather cold.
Arthur wants to splutter out I only just put them up there-- or maybe You're the one who's late but he realizes playing it cool is the way to go.
“I'm technically not a CEO,” he replies inanely, and takes a sip of his espresso. That sip turns out to be the last, though, as the strange tickle in his throat finally emerges as a full cough and Arthur almost spits out the coffee. He drags his feet off the desk (much less lithely than he'd put them up), hacking and trying to find a place to put his cellphone and cup down. There are tears in his eyes and through them the world looks water-painted but that means he can't fucking make out the harsh edge of the desk in front of him, instead futilely groping around.
Arthur, having had enough, stands up to continue his coughing attack and wipes at his tears with the hands holding his cellphone. He's tries to breath through his nose but it's stopped up like aid to Palestine so the vicious cycle continues for a few more seconds before a blob with a strange English accent says in a put-upon voice, “No more of this, now. Head back, eyes closed.”
For some reason Arthur concedes, figuring he has nothing to lose. He closes his eyes and they are gently wiped with (mother of god!) what must be the only tissue in all of New York. He opens them and looks at the man, his bodyguard -- his very attractive, very nice-smelling bodyguard - and tries to pull his head away.
The man only gently cups Arthur's face in his hand and pulls him back. Arthur can't help noticing the warmth of his palm or it's hidden strength.
With the hand that isn't caressing Arthur's chin and cheek bone the man pulls another tissue out of thin air and affixes it to Arthur's nose much like his now-dead mother used to.
“Blow,” he orders softly, full, plush lips forming the B so crisply...his lips are pillows Arthur wants to play and jump around on. What a funny thought, thinks Arthur fuzzily, the severity of his sickness finally hitting him.
Arthur obediently blows, but he's so stuffed up it doesn't seem to be helping.
“Harder,” orders the man, voice more commanding, his fingers tightening around Arthur's face, Arthur's skin flushing red.
Arthur gives it all he's got, scrunching up his face with effort and wondering why he feels so...hot.
The man lets go of Arthur. “There we go,” he says, satisfied, opening the tissue for confirmation.
“That's disgusting,” observes Arthur as soon as he can breathe, Then he looks down, nausea hitting him like he's on the open seas, and mumbles, “I think I may be sick.”
Against all odds the man laughs. “Do you think so, darling?” With the hand not holding a dirty tissue he tests Arthur's forehead and clucks disappointedly, all former traces of coldness gone, at least to Arthur's eye.
“'Suppose I'll have to force you to get enough shut-eye, feed you oranges, and make sure you swallow down the right tube if I'm to keep you alive,” sighs the man. “And you are burning up. Me thinks a ride home is in order, hmm?”
Arthur can't even respond, his brain hitching on the words go down the right tube before the man is turning to leave. Arthur stops him. “Wait, I didn't get your” he coughs and it tastes like espresso and sickness “--your name.”
“Ah, of course. Shameful of me,” and shame is the last emotion in that proud voice, “Eames Pankhurst-Fearnley the III, at your service.” Arthur almost expects a bow, but of course there isn't one. “And you are Arthur.” Eames grins, a mini-Cheshire.
Trying to keep his hold on both consciousness and professionalism (he doesn't even let Ariadne call him 'Arthur' when other people may see) Arthur objects, “I'm Mr. Malone.”
“You refer to yourself as Mr. Malone?” Eames studies him as if Arthur is an unfortunate retarded creature he's just discovered on a safari before muttering, ostensibly to himself, “How very strange.”
Then he's gone.
~
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“Fiona?”
“Arthur!” There's rummaging on the other end of the line, like Fiona is clearing a desk. “I heard you headed home to rest?” She says it innocently enough but Arthur can hear the laughter in her voice, evil wrapped in satin.
“I was kidnapped, Fiona, I had no choice,” grits out Arthur.
“Well, I chose him for a reason. Isn't he nice on the eyes? And so...capable, too. I may have heard a thing or two about the way he swings...” Fiona dangles the information in front of Arthur like she's playing with a kitten.
Arthur knows she'll tell him eventually, but he doesn't feel up to batting her string around for the next ten minutes. Also, it's embarrassing the way he flushes when she even hints at Eames' orientation, so it's better to not have confirmation for now. Eames' slow grip against his chin had given him an idea, anyway.
“He's an employee, Fiona. Anyway, there's a problem with him,” he explains.
Fiona immediately sobers. “What is it?”
“You didn't tell me that he'd be living with me, and now I think he's getting suspicious about us not being 'us',” whispers Arthur.
“I thought we said we wouldn't talk about that over the phone, Arthur?” snaps Fiona, her voice icy.
A tinge of shock curls around Arthur. Fiona never uses that voice with him, and a silence gapes in the conversation.
Fiona sighs and Arthur can see her in his mind's eye rubbing her forehead and frowning. “Sorry, sorry.” She breathes. “He offered to move in, said he didn't have a place to live yet. And you know we've been getting threats; I'm worried about you being alone. After we watch his mail for a few months we can tell him the whole story.”
“Watch his mail? Are you-how would you even do that?” snaps Arthur, incredulous. He doesn't give Fiona a chance to answer. “Never mind. I may have to come over--”
A knock interrupts him.
“One second!” Arthur calls out. To the phone he says, “We'll talk later,” and ignores any response in favor of thrusting the iPhone under his pillow.
“Arthur?” asks a deep voice.
“Yes?”
“I heard voices. Are you all right?” The door opens a sliver and a blond head pokes in to look at Arthur.
“I'm fine, thank y-why are you coming into my room?” sputters Arthur.
Arthur's bedroom is clean lines and clean surfaces, every horizontal space clutter-free and sparkling. His bookshelves are hidden from view using wooden panels-the right side next to the armoir houses books in Farsi, with Spanish next to them; behind his bed lays a larger collection in Arabic and a handful in French that tend to center on Lebanon or Algeria--though Les Mots et les choses by Foucault is well-loved. A lonely gathering of English books, new and old alike, sit hidden under his bed. Going off to college had meant abandoning much of his little library at his parent's house in upstate New York but the pang of separation has lessened over the years. He keeps meaning to go up and get them but sometimes he feels like a tumbleweed instead of a force of nature. His new bodyguard doesn't necessarily help with this.
Looking around Eames quips, “My mother always said a clean room was a sign of a dull mind.”
“Well I guess your mother never had enough money for maids, then,” rejoinders Arthur, feeling defensive. Only after he's said it does he realize it's a quite cruel thing to say to someone.
Eames doesn't look bothered though, only taken-aback. “True enough.”
No one talks for a few seconds as Arthur grapples with what to say. Dark coils of shame work their way up Arthur's throat, slimy and sour.
“Eames, I'm--”
“I'll just tell the maid to fetch you another glass of water, then, Mr. Malone,” interrupts Eames, face inscrutable.
He shuts the door on the way out.
~
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At least his nominal boss seems a complete buffoon. It should be easy to play him, as proved a few seconds ago when a prod or two had made Arthur feel bad for Eames; now Eames can focus on creating the illusion of indebtedness and soon enough Eames will get a blank cheque to do as he pleases in the house. The clincher is that, though he's not yet sure, Eames suspects pretty little Arthur is bisexual at least, maybe even gay.
He knows he figuratively has the chance to fuck an illegal arms dealer up the ass; now he hopes he gets the chance to literally fuck one, too.
This job may be a punishment from the agency but he just might have some fun with it after all.
~
Saturday's dawn light hazily drifts in the windows of Arthur's sad perfect room, its watery reflections playing across the floor. He groans. If the light has started coming in it's late already.
A wet cough bubbles up and Arthur reaches for tissues - but no, he ran out last night. What must be green slimy stuff hangs off his uvula and he can feel it slide, slippery, across his tongue. There is no choice: he vaults out of bed, his bare feet slap-slap-slapping the hardwood floor as he races to his bathroom. He hocks up a lugie and looks up at his own wan face in the mirror.
Still sick.
~
“Eames?” calls Arthur, tentatively.
The kitchen is empty; so is the room Eames claimed last night. Arthur fetches his laptop and begins to do what catch-up he can from home, wishing he'd thought to buy coffee and tissues.
~
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I almost died a little when Eames made him blow his nose. It shouldn't be hot in the slightest, but Eames makes it so.
A million hearts in my eyes <3
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thank you for commenting <3
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and yes, oh, Arthur...
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A short time later Eames comes in the door with several plastic bags in hand. He's dressed in black jeans and a pullover rip-riot of red and blue. It's actually rather fetching and makes Arthur self-conscious in his threadbare sleep-pants and shirt.
“Where'd you go?” asks Arthur suspiciously.
Eames looks up from where he's toeing off his red leather boots. “Store,” he replies shortly before walking over to Arthur and rummaging in a bag. “I thought you might need some of these.” A box of Kleenex (added lotion and aloe vera) rests in Arthur's hands a second later.
“This isn't part of your job,” observes Arthur, voice unsure.
“Well then, my apologies.”
Abashed, Arthur steels himself to look up to where Eames is putting away groceries. “No-I mean, I meant to apologize for last night. What I said was. Was rude.”
Eames simply turns around and regards Arthur detachedly.
The cool scrutiny and pure awareness in Eames’ gaze disgruntles Arthur briefly, though the sensation leaves as soon as it comes.
“What I said was rather rude, too, Mr. Malone.”
Arthur doesn't know why but it feels like a balloon has popped in his chest when he hears the Mr. “I see,” replies Arthur stiffly.
Eames slowly approaches Arthur at the table straight on, padding silently in socked-feet along the floor. He stops only a foot away from Arthur, who's forced to look up to meet Eames' eyes.
“What I meant was apology accepted.” Eames searches Arthur's face and then laughs quietly, raising a careful hand to Arthur's cheek. “Oh dear. You have sleep lines here.”
Arthur's heart abruptly speeds up, dancing the tarantella at the coolness of Eames' hand on his cheek. Eames shifts closer and Arthur catches a whiff of whatever he wears, sweet molasses and something darker.
The hand on his cheek moves to cup his face, a rough reverence. Eames' thumb brushes ever so lightly over Arthur's bottom lip and the image of a hooked fish, helpless to get away while flailing and thrashing in vain for freedom, suddenly comes to Arthur. He glares and pulls away.
Eames drops his hand and steps back smoothly. “I hope you don't come to expect this every day, but seeing as you're sick what would you like for breakfast?”
It's as if it never happened.
~
“Right now I'm protecting you from germs and sickness, so you aren't to be working,” reprimands Eames.
At the kitchen table Arthur scowls. “I'm not. I'm just catching up on news.”
Eames humfs in disbelief and makes a grab for the laptop. He turns it around before Arthur can comment or take it back.
An expression Arthur' has never seen crawls its way over Eames' face like a slow dawn.
“Didn't know you speak Arabic,” Eames observes neutrally.
“Fiyye behki ya haywan, wa iza ma beddak ayye mishkileh maai, ta'tni laptopi hella’! [I can speak it, you animal, and if you don't want any problems with me you'll give me back my laptop now]” says Arthur.
“Habibi, afwan. La ustatia an etakellam bil Arabii mithlak, [Love, sorry. I am not able to speak like you in Arabic]” Eames replies, slowly.
There is a silence over the table. “I'm guessing you learned Arabic in, what, the military?” observes Arthur, his hand still outstretched for his computer.
Eames hands it over. “Yes. Wasn't allowed to start any dialect, though. You?”
Grudgingly Arthur answers, “Spent time in Damascus during college, then after graduation toured North Africa for awhile. Speaking's rusty but my reading is still good enough for newspapers.”
Once again a look Arthur hasn't seen on Eames' face before takes over. With a jolt Arthur realizes it is appreciation, maybe interest. Eames buries it down soon enough.
“So, pet, what's the news today?” he asks, staring at Arthur while sipping his tea.
“Really?”
Eames sets his cup down and scrapes his chair over the floor to Arthur's side, where his black jeans brush Arthur's thin pants and Arthur can't help a shiver.
“Really. Aloud, please, my reading is rusty,” orders Eames with a smile.
Arthur wants to grumble about who should be ordering who around but then he sees the Kleenex in front of him and swallows his complaint. When they finally finish hours later Eames has his hand slyly over the back of Arthur's chair and the sun is high in the sky, invading through the window.
~
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After the Friday that Eames abducts him Arthur makes a point of going into the office every day as usual, with Eames coming in the same car as Fiona and him to work. Eames rides in the front next to Fiona's bodyguard-driver, the pairs separated by sound-proof glass.
Arthur knows it's pathetic he keeps such a close eye on his own bodyguard, but he's always appreciated a man in a fitted suit. This is what he tells himself when he jacks off to memories of slate gray hugging sleek skin, black ink curling out of every shirt Eames owns, puffy lips ordering Arthur around.
He's raw for those first few days.
The cold relinquishes Arthur after two weeks, a guest that leaves behind a mess: a quick jog on his treadmill leaves him breathless and his skin is still a touch sallow and to top it all off Arthur's behind in his work. Exacerbating Arthur's drive to get back in shape is Eames, who often works out at Arthur's house, without fail choosing to walk into the workout room right after Arthur.
Befitting his status as vice-president Arthur has quite a lot of money that he doesn't know what to do with. Much of it is in stocks, some in bonds, some given away to his parents. His work-out room reflects the fact that he gave $50,000 to the designer when he'd moved in and said Make it livable and clean. There are dumbbells, work-out mats, boxing and fencing materials, state-of-the-art treadmills and dusty aerobics equipment all packed into Arthur's one-man room.
When he'd first shown it to Eames a vague sense of shame came over him, shame for not using what he'd bought or maybe just for having it in the first place. It's why he let's Eames do whatever he wants despite the fact that Arthur can't concentrate for shit when Eames is around - which is always.
It's distracting to glimpse from the corner of his eye the show of strength when Eames hits a punching bag, to see him run ten miles at six-thirty pace, or to watch him clench lift more than Arthur fucking weighs. It's strange, too, because Eames is anything but beefy: he's managed to keep a svelte look despite the muscle training, and Arthur, feeling like a nasty manager ogling his secretary, appreciates Eames' efforts.
The curve of muscle and dew of sweat even begin to follow Arthur into his dreams at night, making it increasingly hard for Arthur to meet his bodyguard's eyes during the day.
He's so fucked.
~
Arthur is in his office helping rank global anti-mining ordinances, which they are constantly reviewing and writing about, when a knock interrupts his sorting.
“Arthur,” calls Fiona from his doorway. “I'm heading off to Prague for that meeting we spoke about.”
Arthur looks up. “When're you back, again?”
Fiona purses her lips, and frowns a bit. “Not sure but it should only be a few days. I’m meeting with Gueteck and Holdings about expanding into Austria; if we can get that contract settled you and I will be headed to the Munich Security Conference.”
“You mean the one this May? In two months?” asks Arthur, bewildered. Hoping to let her down easy he slowly says, “Maybe next year, Fiona. We've only got five contracts, after all, and none with major governmental-organizations anywhere. Only businesses.”
At that Fiona's smile get harsher, a little liquid fire coming through in her eyes. “That's why I'm President,” she replies.
~
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