Inception Fic: Recipe for Disaster (Arthur/Eames) (7 of 7)
Title: Recipe for Disaster
Type: Slash + ensemble, AU (culinary school).
Word Count: ~55k
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames and Ariadne, plus Yusuf, Mal Cobb, Dom Cobb, Saito, and Fischer
Warnings some swearing (in multiple languages), eventual sexual relationship (see characters & pairings), including oral sex.
Summary: Arthur's known since he was young that he has a knack for cooking and baking, and beginning culinary school only makes him more certain. But no matter how good he is, it seems Eames is better - which does not endear him to Arthur in the slightest. Eames, however, is quite determined to get Arthur to open up and stop being so uptight and prickly by any means necessary. While each hones his skill in the culinary arts (and Arthur desperately tries to convince Ariadne that the desired structural integrity of her cakes violates basic laws of physics), they increasingly find themselves drawn together, inside the classroom and out. Given such close quarters in the kitchen, and the amount of sensory stimulation involved with preparing all manner of food, it starts to become difficult for Arthur to retain his customary level of distance and detachment. And, as Arthur will find, when it comes to unsatisfied appetites, hunger is often the best sauce of all.
Start with Part One
OR
View the Master Post
Given how Arthur had been for the first few months they'd known each other, Eames supposed he really shouldn't be surprised things had taken such a drastic turn so quickly. What the hell had made him think that things with Arthur had even a snowball's chance in hell of working out, that Arthur would be okay with being open and sharing things and loosening up? Eames should have known from the very beginning that the whole endeavor was fated to be an utter disaster, and going after Arthur, in any capacity, was just asking for trouble.
But no matter how many times Eames told himself those things, beating himself up mentally for letting himself get so invested in Arthur and then just accepting his decision to back things up or end them or whatever he'd actually decided, he couldn't help feeling that he had been right, and it was Arthur who was wrong.
True, it had only been a week, but things had seemed to be going so well up until the very moment Arthur had gone ballistic on him. Eames had spent the last week feeling lighter than he had in a very long time, positive he'd found the place where he belonged, that urge to keep searching gone for now, content with what he had and anxious to explore it further, the good and the bad, until he knew the corners and contours of it by feel alone. The fact that he and Arthur had seemed to have such amazing physical chemistry had simply been a bonus, and not one he'd taken lightly. They hadn't done anything more risqué than a few long snogging sessions since the day Arthur had come over to work on his project and very unexpectedly given Eames a fantastic blow job out of nowhere, but really, it had just served to make Eames feel that when they finally did get around to doing more than snogging and a bit of light groping, it would only be all the better.
Now, of course, that was never going to happen.
And yet, Eames couldn't quite shake the feeling that there might be a shred of hope left somewhere in the mess of what Arthur had left him with. Never once had he said he didn't want what they had - only that he couldn't do it. Still. the end result was the same in any case, and Eames was not only disappointed and generally upset, but hurt, though he wasn't going to let Arthur see that, if he could help it. It was part of the reason he was so dreading Monday morning - because however well he could act and mimic when the moment called for it, he wasn't certain he could keep Arthur from seeing just how much it hurt to be tossed aside as if he were a distraction and not even a possible priority or thing of any worth, whatsoever.
"Look," he muttered to himself outside the door to the classroom. "Just focus on your own work and leave Arthur the hell alone, like he wants." Saying it out loud made it seem more authoritative, almost like something he could do. He managed to get towards the edge of the classroom, not far from where the knives and cutting boards were kept, without acknowledging Arthur at all, which was really a fair bit of success, all things considered.
"You have thirty minutes to get started," Cobb finally said, having given them all a review of the evaluation process, including when they were dismissed and when they could expect to have their results. Turning to glance at the clock, Eames caught a glimpse of Arthur from across the room. Even from this distance, Eames could see how absolutely awful he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, his face was pale, and his posture, normally so straight and confident, was drooping and listless. He looked like a man defeated before he'd even begun, and it made Eames want to go over and give the prickly bastard a hug or cuddle him, stupid as that was. He wouldn't do that, especially given what Arthur had decided on Friday.
But he couldn't do nothing.
With a sigh, Eames crossed over to the shelving units and picked up a sixth-pan from the shelf above Arthur's head, grazing Arthur's arm with his elbow. "Hey," he murmured softly in Arthur's ear as they were pressed in around by a dozen other students. "You've got this. I know you do. You'll be fine." He pressed just a little closer. "Show Cobb how it's done." And before he could open his mouth any more to say anything even more ill-advised, Eames ducked away, wondering whether Arthur would hate him even more for that potential distraction.
x X x
No matter what he did, from a long shower to drinking warm milk or herbal tea or pruning his spearmint and rosemary plants or even watching Alton Brown, Arthur could not get himself to a place that made sleep possible, come Sunday night.
He lay in bed, tossing and turning and thoroughly failing to find a comfortable position. Even worse was the prospect of getting his mind to shut off and leave him alone. Without fail, every time he closed his eyes, he would either hear Cobb's voice in his head, demanding an answer he couldn't give, or ordering him to chop faster, cut more evenly, and stir more vigorously, or he would see Eames behind his eyelids. Sometimes he saw the stony expression on his face when he'd walked away from Arthur near the parking garage on Friday, and that made him feel awful, because he knew within ten seconds that he'd made the wrong choice somehow. More often than not, however, he'd see the soft grin on Eames's face when they spotted each other between classes, or the gentle smile after he'd leaned in to kiss Arthur, or even the lust-hazed expression on his face when Arthur had pulled him in and sighed into his mouth for the first time, sharing himself in a way even he hadn't seen coming. And that, more than anything else, hurt.
Breaking things off - or backing away, because Arthur had said both, but he wasn't really sure which they were going with - had been a stupid decision, because all it guaranteed was that he was thinking about Eames even more than before, only this time with the added distraction of pain and regret. It had only been a week, but Arthur missed the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the way he'd smirk so naturally in response to everything. He missed the effortless, automatic way Eames would simply initiate physical contact, his hand coming up to lightly caress Arthur's back or arm, the way his fingers would trail over the back of Arthur's hand, or even the way they would slip inside his and give them a light squeeze, and the way Eames would grin when just that simple of an act would make him smile.
He'd really fucked this up.
He dragged himself into Cobb's class with effort after a grand total of ninety minutes of broken sleep, feeling beaten already. He had a dull headache, and he felt shaky - from the lack of sleep; the lack of dinner or breakfast; nerves and a general feeling of fear of incompetency; or some combination of all of those things. And to top it off, he was going to have to deal with Eames, who would not only be in the classroom, probably wishing Arthur would fail, so he would get what he deserved, but who would also be performing perfectly, with absolutely no effort. It was almost more than he could deal with.
As Cobb was giving them their final directions, Arthur glanced up to see Eames looking at him, considering him, an unreadable expression on his face. The expression made him feel worse, actually, because it might have been barely-concealed contempt, and in all the time they'd known each other, he'd never gotten a look like that.
"You have thirty minutes to get started," Cobb said with a wave of his hand, dismissing them all. Arthur felt something like panic slam into him, and though he'd felt pressure in the kitchen before, this was entirely new, this level of anxiety and certainty that he was about to undo every positive impression Cobb had ever had of him, was going to bomb the practical, and was going to flunk out of culinary school and have to go back to the career he hated.
Someone bumped into him near the racks of hotel pans and plastic containers, and that only made Arthur feel more out of place, something he'd never felt in a kitchen before; he wondered whether this was some form of mild anxiety attack, and if he could plead his case in front of the dean after the exam results posted.
"Hey," a voice said softly in his ear as the crowd of other students swarmed the equipment wall, pressing everyone close, and Arthur shivered slightly. He knew that accent, the richness of that voice. "You've got this. I know you do. You'll be fine." Eames pressed into him a little more, reaching up over their heads to grab a container. "Show Cobb how it's done." And before Arthur could say anything in response, he wandered off, leaving Arthur to work out exactly what had happened.
Arthur took a deep breath and grabbed the container he needed, heading for an empty spot at one of the tables. He hadn't expected Eames to say anything, especially after the first look he'd given him, but the fact that he had, and had whispered words of encouragement, sort of jolted Arthur out of his swamp of panic. "Okay," he murmured to himself, setting up his station. "He wouldn't have said that if he hated me." Somehow, just knowing that, and knowing that Eames thought he could handle things, that he actually believed in him, made Arthur feel a hundred times better.
Eames was right. He could do this. He knew what the fuck he was doing, he'd studied his ass off, and he had the skills and technique necessary to pass the practical. No matter what Cobb asked him to do - make a perfect hollandaise or beurre blanc, break down a chicken, make a potato soup that didn't taste or feel starchy, or fry or even have to flip something like les pommes darphin in a pan, something he'd yet to completely master - Arthur could do it, and do it passibly. He had four hours, and no one to rely upon or blame but himself.
He had this. He could prove that he did belong here.
And immediately after this practical was over, he was going to find Eames, and he was going to tell him he was sorry and that he'd make a mistake. Because it was perfectly clear he had, and it really hadn't taken more than a few seconds to realize that, though his stubborn sense of pride had not wanted to admit to it, because he was someone who stuck to his convictions.
Cobb hovered around Arthur's station for a few moments not much later, probably jotting notes on Arthur's station set-up and technique in breaking down a whole chicken, but Arthur was so focused that he put all that out of his mind. He'd found the zone, and not even the frustration of a non-cooperative Madeira sauce could yank him out of it. He'd built in enough time to give it another go, as long as he waited for the first stage of the sauce to reduce enough. He was even confident that should he have to slice and hold his chicken, risking dryness, the extra effort on the second version of the sauce would make it worthwhile.
By the end of the exam period, Arthur stood next to his plated dishes, waiting impatiently for Chef Cobb, assisted by Chef Cobol, to make their way to his station. He caught Ariadne's eye just as they left her station, and she looked a bit shaky, but pleased. He watched her take her plates over to the students who were doing dishes and clean-up duty and sneak back around to stand behind him. "My damned potatoes were a little underdone, but everything else was pretty good," she murmured. "Really high marks on my Beef Wellington. At the very least, I passed. Your stuff looks perfect, though." Cobb approached Arthur just then, and Ariadne pinched him lightly just above the elbow before stepping back. "Good luck.'
It was the most nerve-wracking four minutes Arthur'd ever spent in class: having Cobb and Cobol dissect his dishes, taste everything slowly, and then throw a dozen questions at him about his decisions and alternatives he might have considered, but other than a small ding for too-subtle flavor in his potato, leek, and bacon soup (a lot more leek next time, and maybe larger bits of bacon), Cobb's assessment was favorable, and even Cobol seemed impressed in a way she definitely hadn't been the night of the fundraiser.
"Wow, even Cobol liked you," Ariadne said as Arthur gathered his messenger bag. "That's amazing. How do you feel about it?"
Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "Honestly, it hasn't sunk in yet. Listen, I have something I have to do. Have you seen Eames?"
Ariadne raised her eyebrows. "He was one of the first people evaluated. He's been gone for...I dunno... twenty minutes? Why?"
"I just need to tell him something I realized."
"And gloat a bit?"
"No. Wait, gloat?"
"Yeah. You had to have done at least as well as he did, if not better. He had something go wrong with his protein, I think. Or at least not as well as he wanted. He didn't really say."
"Do you know where he went?"
Stuffing her chef's hat into her bag, Ariadne shook her head. "Nope. This was the only class any of us had today, and I'm pretty sure he's skipping the optional review session for Mediterranean Cuisine in an hour, so he probably just headed home."
Shit. "All right. Thanks, Ariadne. Sorry to run, but I'll call you later, okay? Maybe see about going out for coffee before the practical in Cakes and Confections?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm going to go inhale some food before the review session. Call me after eight, but before midnight, okay?"
"Sure," Arthur said, already walking away, wondering where in the hell he could find Eames. He wasn't in the cafeteria, or the parking garage, or any other place Arthur could think to look. Arthur pulled his phone out of his pocket. Almost five. He pulled up his contacts and stared at Eames's number for several moments. He needed to talk to him, but the possibility that Eames didn't want to hear whatever he had to say kept him from dialing. Besides, Arthur didn't want to leave something so important for a phone call, which was too impersonal and hid the subtleties of body language and facial expression.
Arthur turned back towards the parking garage with a sigh. As long as he was home and the security code hadn't been changed in the last week and a half, Eames was just going to have to slam the door in his face if he really didn't want to hear Arthur's apology.
His luck, added by the bit of confidence Eames had managed to restore to him, held. He drove up the driveway of Eames's friend's place and parked, glad to see Eames' car also parked. Taking a moment to gather himself, Arthur took a few deep breaths and rang the bell, hoping that if Eames did have one of those closed-circuit television systems, he either didn't use it, or was curious enough to open up anyway.
"Arthur?" Eames stood in the doorway, a white half-apron tied around his waist. Arthur could see one single light green stripe across one thigh, almost as if Eames had wiped a knife there after slicing through something like bell pepper or spinach. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you'd decided we were done. Or did you just come for something you might have left last weekend?"
"I need to talk to you about something."
Eames looked at him and shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the door frame. "All right. Talk. I'll listen. You took the trouble to drive all the way over here, so it must be important."
"I've been an ass," he said simply. The direct route was usually the best, wasn't it?
Eames looked startled for a moment, and the hint of a smile flashed across his face before disappearing again. "Well, you won't exactly get an argument from me on that one. Sometimes, it's a part of your charm, but you've sort of gone above and beyond."
"Yeah, I know. Look, Eames. I'm aware I was a complete dick on Friday. I just...I'd told myself I was in school to learn, and I wasn't going to let anything interfere with showing everyone just how good I could be. But I did. I let myself get caught up in what we...what we were, because it was new and it was unexpected, and it was really, really good." God, it had been good, even aside from the lusty make-out sessions. "I just wanted you to know I was sorry. Even if you don't want to give me another shot, do you think we could please put this behind us?" Eames didn't say anything, and just stood there looking mildly surprised. "Please?" God, he hated to beg, and this was close enough, but fuck, he had been a dick to Eames, who had never done anything worse than tease him.
"You're sorry?" Eames asked after another moment of silence, and there was something in his voice that made Arthur look up, aware that he might not have fucked up so badly that they couldn't even be friends, after all. "How sorry?" The corner of his mouth quirked up just a little and Arthur groaned internally, because he knew that Eames knew he hated this sort of thing. But fuck, he deserved it, and if a little humility was all it took to make Eames willing to speak to him, maybe even spend time together talking music or movies or exchanging fucking recipes like a couple of old women, then fine, Arthur would suffer through it.
"Really sorry. I don't know what you want me to say. I've felt like shit about this since the minute you walked away on Friday. I was worked up, I lashed out, and I made a stupid decision. Fuck it, I'll just say it: I miss you, and I hate knowing I fucked up what could have been a good relationship, or, at the very least, a really good friendship."
Eames stood up straight and moved closer. "Do you, really?" he whispered, and there was so much in that question that it made Arthur shiver. "You wouldn't give up on this a second time, if I was interested in forgetting this whole thing?"
"Not a chance in hell," Arthur whispered, his chest tightly, achingly hopeful.
Eames looked at him a very long time, and then he was moving forwards, his hand cupping the back of Arthur's neck as he tugged him up to stand in the doorway, and then his mouth was on Arthur's, hot and sweet and firm. He pulled away after several moments, smirking at Arthur. "Well, then. Get your arse inside and help me make dinner."
Arthur grinned, feeling twice as good as he had after getting his evaluation this afternoon. "That, I think I can do."
Chuckling, Eames pulled Arthur inside. "Excellent. And if you're good later, we can see about dessert."
Fin.
Type: Slash + ensemble, AU (culinary school).
Word Count: ~55k
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames and Ariadne, plus Yusuf, Mal Cobb, Dom Cobb, Saito, and Fischer
Warnings some swearing (in multiple languages), eventual sexual relationship (see characters & pairings), including oral sex.
Summary: Arthur's known since he was young that he has a knack for cooking and baking, and beginning culinary school only makes him more certain. But no matter how good he is, it seems Eames is better - which does not endear him to Arthur in the slightest. Eames, however, is quite determined to get Arthur to open up and stop being so uptight and prickly by any means necessary. While each hones his skill in the culinary arts (and Arthur desperately tries to convince Ariadne that the desired structural integrity of her cakes violates basic laws of physics), they increasingly find themselves drawn together, inside the classroom and out. Given such close quarters in the kitchen, and the amount of sensory stimulation involved with preparing all manner of food, it starts to become difficult for Arthur to retain his customary level of distance and detachment. And, as Arthur will find, when it comes to unsatisfied appetites, hunger is often the best sauce of all.
Start with Part One
OR
View the Master Post
Given how Arthur had been for the first few months they'd known each other, Eames supposed he really shouldn't be surprised things had taken such a drastic turn so quickly. What the hell had made him think that things with Arthur had even a snowball's chance in hell of working out, that Arthur would be okay with being open and sharing things and loosening up? Eames should have known from the very beginning that the whole endeavor was fated to be an utter disaster, and going after Arthur, in any capacity, was just asking for trouble.
But no matter how many times Eames told himself those things, beating himself up mentally for letting himself get so invested in Arthur and then just accepting his decision to back things up or end them or whatever he'd actually decided, he couldn't help feeling that he had been right, and it was Arthur who was wrong.
True, it had only been a week, but things had seemed to be going so well up until the very moment Arthur had gone ballistic on him. Eames had spent the last week feeling lighter than he had in a very long time, positive he'd found the place where he belonged, that urge to keep searching gone for now, content with what he had and anxious to explore it further, the good and the bad, until he knew the corners and contours of it by feel alone. The fact that he and Arthur had seemed to have such amazing physical chemistry had simply been a bonus, and not one he'd taken lightly. They hadn't done anything more risqué than a few long snogging sessions since the day Arthur had come over to work on his project and very unexpectedly given Eames a fantastic blow job out of nowhere, but really, it had just served to make Eames feel that when they finally did get around to doing more than snogging and a bit of light groping, it would only be all the better.
Now, of course, that was never going to happen.
And yet, Eames couldn't quite shake the feeling that there might be a shred of hope left somewhere in the mess of what Arthur had left him with. Never once had he said he didn't want what they had - only that he couldn't do it. Still. the end result was the same in any case, and Eames was not only disappointed and generally upset, but hurt, though he wasn't going to let Arthur see that, if he could help it. It was part of the reason he was so dreading Monday morning - because however well he could act and mimic when the moment called for it, he wasn't certain he could keep Arthur from seeing just how much it hurt to be tossed aside as if he were a distraction and not even a possible priority or thing of any worth, whatsoever.
"Look," he muttered to himself outside the door to the classroom. "Just focus on your own work and leave Arthur the hell alone, like he wants." Saying it out loud made it seem more authoritative, almost like something he could do. He managed to get towards the edge of the classroom, not far from where the knives and cutting boards were kept, without acknowledging Arthur at all, which was really a fair bit of success, all things considered.
"You have thirty minutes to get started," Cobb finally said, having given them all a review of the evaluation process, including when they were dismissed and when they could expect to have their results. Turning to glance at the clock, Eames caught a glimpse of Arthur from across the room. Even from this distance, Eames could see how absolutely awful he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, his face was pale, and his posture, normally so straight and confident, was drooping and listless. He looked like a man defeated before he'd even begun, and it made Eames want to go over and give the prickly bastard a hug or cuddle him, stupid as that was. He wouldn't do that, especially given what Arthur had decided on Friday.
But he couldn't do nothing.
With a sigh, Eames crossed over to the shelving units and picked up a sixth-pan from the shelf above Arthur's head, grazing Arthur's arm with his elbow. "Hey," he murmured softly in Arthur's ear as they were pressed in around by a dozen other students. "You've got this. I know you do. You'll be fine." He pressed just a little closer. "Show Cobb how it's done." And before he could open his mouth any more to say anything even more ill-advised, Eames ducked away, wondering whether Arthur would hate him even more for that potential distraction.
x X x
No matter what he did, from a long shower to drinking warm milk or herbal tea or pruning his spearmint and rosemary plants or even watching Alton Brown, Arthur could not get himself to a place that made sleep possible, come Sunday night.
He lay in bed, tossing and turning and thoroughly failing to find a comfortable position. Even worse was the prospect of getting his mind to shut off and leave him alone. Without fail, every time he closed his eyes, he would either hear Cobb's voice in his head, demanding an answer he couldn't give, or ordering him to chop faster, cut more evenly, and stir more vigorously, or he would see Eames behind his eyelids. Sometimes he saw the stony expression on his face when he'd walked away from Arthur near the parking garage on Friday, and that made him feel awful, because he knew within ten seconds that he'd made the wrong choice somehow. More often than not, however, he'd see the soft grin on Eames's face when they spotted each other between classes, or the gentle smile after he'd leaned in to kiss Arthur, or even the lust-hazed expression on his face when Arthur had pulled him in and sighed into his mouth for the first time, sharing himself in a way even he hadn't seen coming. And that, more than anything else, hurt.
Breaking things off - or backing away, because Arthur had said both, but he wasn't really sure which they were going with - had been a stupid decision, because all it guaranteed was that he was thinking about Eames even more than before, only this time with the added distraction of pain and regret. It had only been a week, but Arthur missed the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the way he'd smirk so naturally in response to everything. He missed the effortless, automatic way Eames would simply initiate physical contact, his hand coming up to lightly caress Arthur's back or arm, the way his fingers would trail over the back of Arthur's hand, or even the way they would slip inside his and give them a light squeeze, and the way Eames would grin when just that simple of an act would make him smile.
He'd really fucked this up.
He dragged himself into Cobb's class with effort after a grand total of ninety minutes of broken sleep, feeling beaten already. He had a dull headache, and he felt shaky - from the lack of sleep; the lack of dinner or breakfast; nerves and a general feeling of fear of incompetency; or some combination of all of those things. And to top it off, he was going to have to deal with Eames, who would not only be in the classroom, probably wishing Arthur would fail, so he would get what he deserved, but who would also be performing perfectly, with absolutely no effort. It was almost more than he could deal with.
As Cobb was giving them their final directions, Arthur glanced up to see Eames looking at him, considering him, an unreadable expression on his face. The expression made him feel worse, actually, because it might have been barely-concealed contempt, and in all the time they'd known each other, he'd never gotten a look like that.
"You have thirty minutes to get started," Cobb said with a wave of his hand, dismissing them all. Arthur felt something like panic slam into him, and though he'd felt pressure in the kitchen before, this was entirely new, this level of anxiety and certainty that he was about to undo every positive impression Cobb had ever had of him, was going to bomb the practical, and was going to flunk out of culinary school and have to go back to the career he hated.
Someone bumped into him near the racks of hotel pans and plastic containers, and that only made Arthur feel more out of place, something he'd never felt in a kitchen before; he wondered whether this was some form of mild anxiety attack, and if he could plead his case in front of the dean after the exam results posted.
"Hey," a voice said softly in his ear as the crowd of other students swarmed the equipment wall, pressing everyone close, and Arthur shivered slightly. He knew that accent, the richness of that voice. "You've got this. I know you do. You'll be fine." Eames pressed into him a little more, reaching up over their heads to grab a container. "Show Cobb how it's done." And before Arthur could say anything in response, he wandered off, leaving Arthur to work out exactly what had happened.
Arthur took a deep breath and grabbed the container he needed, heading for an empty spot at one of the tables. He hadn't expected Eames to say anything, especially after the first look he'd given him, but the fact that he had, and had whispered words of encouragement, sort of jolted Arthur out of his swamp of panic. "Okay," he murmured to himself, setting up his station. "He wouldn't have said that if he hated me." Somehow, just knowing that, and knowing that Eames thought he could handle things, that he actually believed in him, made Arthur feel a hundred times better.
Eames was right. He could do this. He knew what the fuck he was doing, he'd studied his ass off, and he had the skills and technique necessary to pass the practical. No matter what Cobb asked him to do - make a perfect hollandaise or beurre blanc, break down a chicken, make a potato soup that didn't taste or feel starchy, or fry or even have to flip something like les pommes darphin in a pan, something he'd yet to completely master - Arthur could do it, and do it passibly. He had four hours, and no one to rely upon or blame but himself.
He had this. He could prove that he did belong here.
And immediately after this practical was over, he was going to find Eames, and he was going to tell him he was sorry and that he'd make a mistake. Because it was perfectly clear he had, and it really hadn't taken more than a few seconds to realize that, though his stubborn sense of pride had not wanted to admit to it, because he was someone who stuck to his convictions.
Cobb hovered around Arthur's station for a few moments not much later, probably jotting notes on Arthur's station set-up and technique in breaking down a whole chicken, but Arthur was so focused that he put all that out of his mind. He'd found the zone, and not even the frustration of a non-cooperative Madeira sauce could yank him out of it. He'd built in enough time to give it another go, as long as he waited for the first stage of the sauce to reduce enough. He was even confident that should he have to slice and hold his chicken, risking dryness, the extra effort on the second version of the sauce would make it worthwhile.
By the end of the exam period, Arthur stood next to his plated dishes, waiting impatiently for Chef Cobb, assisted by Chef Cobol, to make their way to his station. He caught Ariadne's eye just as they left her station, and she looked a bit shaky, but pleased. He watched her take her plates over to the students who were doing dishes and clean-up duty and sneak back around to stand behind him. "My damned potatoes were a little underdone, but everything else was pretty good," she murmured. "Really high marks on my Beef Wellington. At the very least, I passed. Your stuff looks perfect, though." Cobb approached Arthur just then, and Ariadne pinched him lightly just above the elbow before stepping back. "Good luck.'
It was the most nerve-wracking four minutes Arthur'd ever spent in class: having Cobb and Cobol dissect his dishes, taste everything slowly, and then throw a dozen questions at him about his decisions and alternatives he might have considered, but other than a small ding for too-subtle flavor in his potato, leek, and bacon soup (a lot more leek next time, and maybe larger bits of bacon), Cobb's assessment was favorable, and even Cobol seemed impressed in a way she definitely hadn't been the night of the fundraiser.
"Wow, even Cobol liked you," Ariadne said as Arthur gathered his messenger bag. "That's amazing. How do you feel about it?"
Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "Honestly, it hasn't sunk in yet. Listen, I have something I have to do. Have you seen Eames?"
Ariadne raised her eyebrows. "He was one of the first people evaluated. He's been gone for...I dunno... twenty minutes? Why?"
"I just need to tell him something I realized."
"And gloat a bit?"
"No. Wait, gloat?"
"Yeah. You had to have done at least as well as he did, if not better. He had something go wrong with his protein, I think. Or at least not as well as he wanted. He didn't really say."
"Do you know where he went?"
Stuffing her chef's hat into her bag, Ariadne shook her head. "Nope. This was the only class any of us had today, and I'm pretty sure he's skipping the optional review session for Mediterranean Cuisine in an hour, so he probably just headed home."
Shit. "All right. Thanks, Ariadne. Sorry to run, but I'll call you later, okay? Maybe see about going out for coffee before the practical in Cakes and Confections?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm going to go inhale some food before the review session. Call me after eight, but before midnight, okay?"
"Sure," Arthur said, already walking away, wondering where in the hell he could find Eames. He wasn't in the cafeteria, or the parking garage, or any other place Arthur could think to look. Arthur pulled his phone out of his pocket. Almost five. He pulled up his contacts and stared at Eames's number for several moments. He needed to talk to him, but the possibility that Eames didn't want to hear whatever he had to say kept him from dialing. Besides, Arthur didn't want to leave something so important for a phone call, which was too impersonal and hid the subtleties of body language and facial expression.
Arthur turned back towards the parking garage with a sigh. As long as he was home and the security code hadn't been changed in the last week and a half, Eames was just going to have to slam the door in his face if he really didn't want to hear Arthur's apology.
His luck, added by the bit of confidence Eames had managed to restore to him, held. He drove up the driveway of Eames's friend's place and parked, glad to see Eames' car also parked. Taking a moment to gather himself, Arthur took a few deep breaths and rang the bell, hoping that if Eames did have one of those closed-circuit television systems, he either didn't use it, or was curious enough to open up anyway.
"Arthur?" Eames stood in the doorway, a white half-apron tied around his waist. Arthur could see one single light green stripe across one thigh, almost as if Eames had wiped a knife there after slicing through something like bell pepper or spinach. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you'd decided we were done. Or did you just come for something you might have left last weekend?"
"I need to talk to you about something."
Eames looked at him and shrugged, crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the door frame. "All right. Talk. I'll listen. You took the trouble to drive all the way over here, so it must be important."
"I've been an ass," he said simply. The direct route was usually the best, wasn't it?
Eames looked startled for a moment, and the hint of a smile flashed across his face before disappearing again. "Well, you won't exactly get an argument from me on that one. Sometimes, it's a part of your charm, but you've sort of gone above and beyond."
"Yeah, I know. Look, Eames. I'm aware I was a complete dick on Friday. I just...I'd told myself I was in school to learn, and I wasn't going to let anything interfere with showing everyone just how good I could be. But I did. I let myself get caught up in what we...what we were, because it was new and it was unexpected, and it was really, really good." God, it had been good, even aside from the lusty make-out sessions. "I just wanted you to know I was sorry. Even if you don't want to give me another shot, do you think we could please put this behind us?" Eames didn't say anything, and just stood there looking mildly surprised. "Please?" God, he hated to beg, and this was close enough, but fuck, he had been a dick to Eames, who had never done anything worse than tease him.
"You're sorry?" Eames asked after another moment of silence, and there was something in his voice that made Arthur look up, aware that he might not have fucked up so badly that they couldn't even be friends, after all. "How sorry?" The corner of his mouth quirked up just a little and Arthur groaned internally, because he knew that Eames knew he hated this sort of thing. But fuck, he deserved it, and if a little humility was all it took to make Eames willing to speak to him, maybe even spend time together talking music or movies or exchanging fucking recipes like a couple of old women, then fine, Arthur would suffer through it.
"Really sorry. I don't know what you want me to say. I've felt like shit about this since the minute you walked away on Friday. I was worked up, I lashed out, and I made a stupid decision. Fuck it, I'll just say it: I miss you, and I hate knowing I fucked up what could have been a good relationship, or, at the very least, a really good friendship."
Eames stood up straight and moved closer. "Do you, really?" he whispered, and there was so much in that question that it made Arthur shiver. "You wouldn't give up on this a second time, if I was interested in forgetting this whole thing?"
"Not a chance in hell," Arthur whispered, his chest tightly, achingly hopeful.
Eames looked at him a very long time, and then he was moving forwards, his hand cupping the back of Arthur's neck as he tugged him up to stand in the doorway, and then his mouth was on Arthur's, hot and sweet and firm. He pulled away after several moments, smirking at Arthur. "Well, then. Get your arse inside and help me make dinner."
Arthur grinned, feeling twice as good as he had after getting his evaluation this afternoon. "That, I think I can do."
Chuckling, Eames pulled Arthur inside. "Excellent. And if you're good later, we can see about dessert."
Fin.