Inception - Quiet In My Town (2/6)
Title: Quiet In My Town (2/6)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Word Count: 4,393
Pairings/Character: ArthurxEames, OC
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Warnings: language, mentions of death, mentions of sex
Summary: When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.
2.
Arthur spent most of the day on the computer or rifling through paperwork. He was apparently working more than one job at the same time just to have something to occupy his time that wasn't Owen-related. It was worrisome to watch when Eames knew that Arthur was (or at least used to be) a firm believer that working with two separate marks on two separate jobs was extremely dangerous.
Owen kept to himself and kept to his room most of the time, probably to avoid Arthur's wrath. Eames could tell he was on edge by the sharp line of his shoulders and of his mouth, and he began to believe that perhaps Arthur too was guilty of getting upset over seemingly nothing. Perhaps Owen and Arthur were too similar, and that was why they butted heads so much. He did wish the boy would attempt to speak to him at least though. At least then they could fight with their words and less stuff would be broken.
He wasn't about to mention it to Arthur though. He was clearly just waiting for something to give him a reason to go off. A wick waiting for a fire.
Eames was not going to be that fire. Fuck that.
Instead, he went out and got a pizza for dinner, and all three of them sat around the table in silence, listening to the others chew. Arthur worked while he ate. Owen didn't look up from the table and only managed to eat one slice before getting up to go back to his room.
"Wait," Eames said, catching him by the wrist, and the boy looked at him like he'd smacked him. "I have films." Eames lifted up some rented DVDs he'd picked up on the way back home, waving them at the boy.
The boy looked at them and then at Eames and then detoured to the couch, folding up in the corner of it with his knees to his chest.
Arthur actually looked up from his work then, expression unreadable which was the closest it had come to not being mad or exhausted since Eames had gotten there, and Eames just smiled lightly and settled in on the couch with the boy to watch Blade Runner.
He of course didn't say a word through the movie, but Eames considered it a personal victory that his eyes were glued to the screen the entire time. When he glanced over the edge of the couch to look at Arthur at the kitchen table and saw the point man quickly duck his head back down to pretend he wasn't watching it, he was sure it was a victory.
The little victory had long since been forgotten about when, during the middle of the night, he was shattered out of sleep to the sound of screaming.
Arthur had mentioned that he screamed in his sleep sometimes. Eames only now remembered that as he caught himself from falling off of the couch. He managed to get to his feet without a panicked injuring of himself and made his way down the hall towards Owen's room.
Arthur was already awake, leaning against the doorway with his arms hugged around his chest. If Eames didn't know him better, he would have sworn he was on the brink of tears… but he did know better. Arthur never cried. He didn't even cry at Mal's funeral.
Eames opened the door to find the boy thrashing in his bed, battling imaginary ghosts and screaming, screaming, screaming.
"Hey, now," Eames said gently, and he could feel Arthur's presence had moved from the doorway of his own room to the doorway of Owen's room.
Eames took a seat at the edge of the bed and cradled him, not sure what else to do. He certainly couldn't just leave him screaming, and he was pretty sure shouting at him to shut up would likely agitate the situation. The only thing he could think of was to try to soothe the nightmares the way his mother had done for him after his father died all those years ago.
"It's all right, you're all right, you're safe," Eames said. He wondered if it would do any good. He didn't even know what the boy was dreaming about. "Everything's all right."
After a few minutes, he seemed to relax, dropping his arms and silencing his screaming to just breathe haggardly.
"You back with us then?" Eames asked after a moment and was caught by surprise when the boy threw his arms around his neck and whimpered into his shirt. He looked to Arthur and again his expression was unreadable, like he was trying to read something in a language he didn't understand. "Everything's okay now."
Eames stayed with the boy, awkwardly rocking him back and forth until his breathing evened out, and he fell asleep. Eames tucked him in and even smoothed the hair on his forehead the way his mother always did.
He missed her. He wished she was still alive.
"Eames," Arthur said when Eames quietly shut the door. He was still hunched there in the hallway, clearly awake now. "Why-"
"I had to do something," Eames replied simply. "Did you ever think that maybe being gentle was the way to go?" He wasn't accusing Arthur of anything, merely making a suggestion, but he feared that he might have been allowing himself to be the fire to his wick after all.
Instead, Arthur said, "I did… I… he um… he wouldn't let me touch him. He punched me and I… I just gave up on it after that."
"I don't remember you ever being a quitter, Arthur," Eames said, smiling at him a little. He'd never admit it out loud, but Arthur was borderline precious when he had bedhead and was wearing his baggy pajama pants and shirt. No, no, that would be the fire to the wick. That would be the bullet in Eames's head.
Arthur rubbed at his eyes, sighing. "I know… I know that, but… fuck…"
Eames had a sudden urge to reach out and run his hands through Arthur's tangled mess of hair, but he resisted it. Instead he followed Arthur into the living room and sat with him, smoking.
"I only went to bed an hour ago," Arthur said with a huff when he saw the time on the stereo. Arthur was the only person Eames knew who would actually set the clocks on his things. "I've been struggling with trying to figure out the work schedule of one of the marks I'm working on… People don't just do nine-to-five stuff anymore apparently. It's going to be difficult to find a time to take her under. She has no medical appointments, no plans to leave the country, nothing. It's really…" Arthur ran his hands over his hair in an eerily Cobb-like fashion. "It's really frustrating."
"Now, I'm not normally one to tell anyone how to do their job, especially when they're better at it than I am," Eames said, unabashedly staring at one of the moles on Arthur's neck. He had kissed there in Germany. "I can't tell you much of anything about being on point really because looking after people was never my strong point, understanding them was… but, if I may be so bold, I do believe you may be working yourself a bit too hard, don't you think?"
Arthur looked at him as if he was an idiot, the warm light from his cigarette just barely reaching to flicker across the line of his face, and Eames was going back to that night in Germany again and had to stop himself. "It's just hard to maintain things from a distance," Arthur said. "If I could have tailed her, I would have had the information within three days."
"That's precisely the point, isn't it?" Eames offered and then blew smoke rings. "You're making things harder on yourself. You're bloody torturing yourself, locking yourself up in this apartment with the sprog."
"You think I never should have taken him in."
"Not at all," Eames replied lightly, lowering his cigarette and looking at Arthur fondly. "I'm just impressed by you is all. Despite your reservations, and despite your agitations, despite the difficulties you faced in work and with living with another person and committing to a life changing decision, you still stood by your choice. It's admirable, yeah?"
"Owen doesn't seem to think so," Arthur said, and he was looking tired again.
"Well, you haven't handled things perfectly by any means, darling… ah, no offense… but I do think you're both trying. I think you're both just going about it the wrong way."
"The wrong way?" Arthur asked flatly, a smirk threatening to make its way onto his lips.
"Yeah, you know… the yelling and the throwing things. That boy has some hang-ups, Arthur, and well… he bloody hates you. I don't know why, but he does. I do think you could help prevent that if you made him feel a bit more welcome though, don't you think? Let him get some things for his room or some new clothes. Speak nicely to him and let him get away with some things."
"I'm not good with people," Arthur replied awkwardly. "I just… I can't get him to do anything. I don't have to say anything to set him off, and he just frustrates me and I can't… I…" He sighed again, dropping his head.
Eames felt the urge to place a hand between his shoulder blades, and this time he didn't manage to suppress it. He rubbed Arthur's back sympathetically, enjoying the warmth emanating through the back of his shirt.
"Why are you still here, Eames?" Arthur asked then, not going to remove the hand but not relaxing into the touch either.
"I told you I would help you," Eames replied, smoothing the wrinkles on Arthur's shirt unconsciously. "I don't go back on a promise unless I have a bloody good reason."
"You don't make promises unless you have a 'bloody good reason' either. Why promise me anything?"
"Would it be insulting if I told you I enjoyed the idea of the challenge since I've been working non-stop and like taking a break to work on a new 'project'?"
Arthur snorted and managed to smile a little, letting only one dimple reveal itself. "Thanks… Eames."
"Don't thank me yet. Let's see what happens first," Eames said.
He did resist the urge to kiss his cheek.
When Eames woke up the next morning, it was because he was hearing the sound of the television, albeit with the volume down low. When he opened his eyes, he saw Owen sitting up close to the set so that he could hear, and the movie Blade Runner playing again on the screen. He'd gotten about halfway through it.
"All right there, sprog?" Eames asked sleepily, and the boy flailed, scrambling into the corner, clearly frightened out of his wits at the sudden voice. Eames rose, scratching his head and said, "Now, now, no need for that. It's just me."
The boy seemed to relax then, sinking in his corner like a ragdoll that had been thrown against the wall.
Eames looked at the clock. It was only six in the morning. He hummed, scrubbing his neck with his palm and then said, "Breakfast?"
Owen stared in confusion.
"We get dressed. We go out. We get breakfast?" Eames offered again, more slowly as if the boy didn't know the process.
Owen bit down on his bottom lip, looking at the floor for a moment and then slowly got to his feet. He was still in the same clothes.
"How about you shower first, and then I'll shower, and then we'll go?" he paused. "Actually, does Arthur have a shower in his room?"
Owen shrugged. Eames realized that he'd probably never been in there, what with his habit for breaking things.
"You go shower. I shall also do the same," Eames said, digging a fresh pair of clothes out of his suitcase at the end of the couch.
Owen slumped off to do as he was told, and really Eames knew that Arthur would be jealous if he knew how easily the boy listened to him.
Eames meanwhile, slipped into Arthur's room, and of course he had a master bath (Eames vaguely thought that Arthur's apartment was entirely too nice to be an apartment). He walked across the floor, overstepping some of the scattered clothing he'd left about in his haste to get to sleep, and set his clothing on the counter in the bathroom.
He ventured a glance back at Arthur who was mumbling and turning over, but Eames knew he was still asleep. His hair had gotten (if possible) more crazed during the night, and he'd kicked the sheets down around his waist, revealing where his shirt had been hiked up to his chest on one side. It was almost unfair that he could be a proverbial 'Sleeping Beauty' even when he looked like that.
Eames shut the bathroom door quietly and started the shower. After stripping down and checking the water with his hand, he stepped inside and sighed in relief as the heat hit the bones on his sore back. He really needed to find some other place to sleep than that couch (and Arthur's queen-sized bed sure did look comfortable).
"Keep living that dream," he mumbled to himself with a chuckle as he poured some of Arthur's coconut shampoo into his hand and scrubbed it through his hair. The smell practically punched him in the face with the memory of Arthur crying out beneath him. He'd smelled so much like coconut. He'd never changed shampoos.
Eames swallowed thickly and tried hard to banish the thought, and with some effort, he did. Afterwards however, he was still unsettled by the fact that it had been there at all, whether or not Arthur was in his immediate vicinity. Now that he had some time to think (and Eames always thought best in the shower, provided that he was alone in the shower), he came to the realization that he had not thought of previous flings and trysts quite as much as he had thought about his flings and trysts with Arthur. He could have just passed it off as a 'smashing good time' (if he wanted to be stereotypical), but the problem was… well…
The sex hadn't been that good. Sure, it had been good, but Eames had had better sex. It was never quite as good when one party, or both parties rather, were sloppily drunk… and they had been sloppily drunk during both events (especially Arthur on that second one-the man absolutely could not hold his liquor). Still, he'd hung on to those nights, remembered them fondly, and fantasized about them on occasion (and those occasions seemed to be getting more often, apparently). He didn't know why.
He didn't know why he remembered the exact way Arthur smiled against his chest, the way his eyelashes had fluttered and the way his fingers had bruised his arms when he'd held on as if he was going to go tumbling off into nothingness, like he was afraid to let go. Eames tried to convince himself that these ideas only sprung forth in his mind specifically because everything that had happened was so un-Arthur-like that it was borderline bizarre.
He wasn't sure of how effective that convincing was.
Eames scrubbed himself down with soap, telling himself to focus on the task at hand, to stop thinking about Arthur when he was standing in Arthur's shower, and for the moment it worked.
He was just about to shut off the water when he heard the bathroom door open. "Eames, what are you doing in my shower?" Arthur asked in annoyance.
"Showering," Eames replied simply, turning off the water and pushing back the door. It wasn't like Arthur hadn't seen him naked before. "Why, what do you do when you're in the shower?"
Arthur grunted in response, splashing water on his face to get rid of the eye gunk. "At least put a towel on, you barbarian," he grumbled.
"Oh, please, you and I both know I'm bloody gorgeous, like a Greek God," Eames teased, toweling off his hair before wrapping it around his waist. "Shower's free now, if you'd like. Make it quick and you can come with me and Owen to get breakfast."
Arthur was tugging his shirt over his head, revealing milky white skin underneath. "I'm not much of breakfast eater," he mumbled, dropping the shirt on the floor and sliding out of his pants and underwear at the same time. Eames pretended he wasn't looking. "Do whatever you want." He started the shower and climbed inside.
Rather than leave, Eames instead lathered his face up with Arthur's shaving cream and started shaving with his razor.
"I don't remember giving you permission to use my things," Arthur said.
"I don't remember you not giving me permission," Eames replied blithely.
Arthur sighed but didn't say anything else about it.
By the time he'd finished shaving and started getting dressed, Arthur was finished showering. Eames couldn't help but look when he got out, dripping wet and gleaming. He looked absolutely delicious.
Eames decided he really needed to get laid so he could stop daydreaming.
"Don't get any dumb ideas," Arthur mumbled, drying off his face before working the towel down his shoulders and chest. "I'd say take a picture because it would last longer, but knowing you, you'd actually go through with it."
"I was just thinking you're too skinny. You need to eat more. You should come get breakfast with us," Eames said, buttoning his shirt. "Don't just assume I'm having naughty thoughts about you, love. I'm not that much of a pervert."
"Forgive me if your past has pointed to the contrary," Arthur replied, almost smirking.
Eames chuckled and smacked shaving cream onto Arthur's cheek.
"Do you think you're funny?" Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Sometimes," Eames replied, slathering the shaving cream over his jaw.
Arthur seemed to be at a loss for words while Eames finished lathering up his jaw and started shaving him.
"I know how to shave my own face," Arthur said after a moment.
"You're useless before your coffee, darling, and you've had, what… four hours of sleep?"
"I've functioned just fine on less," Arthur said but tilted his chin back to let him shave his neck.
"You haven't shaved in at least three days," Eames said. "I just thought I'd make sure you didn't add a fourth day to that list."
"You make it sound like I'm on my way to a breakdown just because I chose not to shave for a few days," Arthur mumbled, trying to sound as if Eames was being ridiculous, but there was a grain of truth there, a sliver of admittance that sneaked through.
"I'm not saying anything of the sort. You just have such a pretty jawline is all."
Arthur snorted.
Apparently he didn't believe Eames was being completely serious. Eames didn't try to inform him otherwise, instead wiping off his jaw for him. "I used to work in a barbershop as a boy. It appears I've still got it."
"Is that even true?" Arthur asked, checking his reflection in the mirror.
"That's for me to know and you to find out," Eames replied and left him to dress.
Arthur didn't go with them to breakfast.
Owen followed behind Eames, dressed in a slightly better fitting t-shirt and some equally holey jeans. He looked marginally better when he was freshly washed, short dark hair curling along his forehead as it dried in the L.A. sunlight.
He clearly didn't get out much. He was less familiar with the L.A. streets than Eames was, and he was very noticeably uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people.
"So, what do you like to eat?" Eames asked, slowing his pace so that Owen could catch up to him. "Arthur's not around, so you can talk."
"…I don't know… I'll eat whatever…" he said awkwardly. "I don't really have any money-"
"Don't even worry about it," Eames said, slapping his shoulder playfully. "I offered."
They ended up stopping at a McDonald's, and Eames ordered them both hot cakes and sausage and orange juice.
"Mr. Eames," Owen said when they were halfway through their breakfast, "I wanted to say I was sorry about last night. I um… I just get like that sometimes…"
Eames sipped at his orange juice before responding. "Do you always remember?"
"…no… sometimes I do… sometimes I don't…"
"Did you remember doing it when you punched Arthur?"
He hesitated for a long moment. "I… I didn't really… I mean… I knew he was there, but I didn't know it was him until after."
"So, you didn't mean to hurt him?" Eames asked. "I would have thought you wanted to, being that you hate him and all."
"…I didn't meant to hit him," was all Owen said, sipping at his orange juice and shoving a bite of sausage into his mouth.
It was then that Eames came to the conclusion that Owen didn't hate Arthur after all.
He wasn't about to pry, however, because he doubted Owen would admit to anything. The boy barely talked as it was, and he certainly wasn't going to admit that he wasn't completely done with Arthur.
Really though, it left Eames more curious than anything. Why did he show so much disdain for Arthur when, by the way he'd said he didn't mean to hit him, he clearly felt guilty? He couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the night terrors themselves. He'd studied dreams extensively when he'd joined up in the mind crime business, and he knew for a fact that generally night terrors only presented in children. In teenagers and adults they were usually trauma-related.
Then again, both parents dying could definitely be a good cause for trauma.
…but Eames didn't think that was it.
He didn't know why, but he didn't think that was it.
He bought a cup of McDonald's coffee on the way out to take back to Arthur.
As they were walking back to the apartment, Owen spoke up again. "So… why are you staying at Arthur's place anyway?"
"Ah-" Eames paused, trying to formulate an answer because he didn't actually have one. "Well, he and I work together. I'm helping him on a project."
"You can't do that from your place?"
"It's ah… easier for us to work on it together what with the time difference and all."
"What exactly do you guys even do?"
Eames dug into his arsenal of fake jobs and easily supplied, "Investment banking."
"You don't look like an investment banker."
"I believe in challenging stereotypes."
Owen smiled a little.
"If you're investment bankers, then why don't you guys have an office? Why doesn't Arthur ever leave the apartment?"
Eames hesitated just long enough to reveal he'd been caught in a lie.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Owen said. "If it's something you don't want me to know, I… I understand. Nobody tells me anything anyways."
"It's complicated to explain," Eames admitted, shoulders slumping in defeat. The boy was more intuitive than he'd given him credit for. He'd make sure to remember he was Arthur's brother and to remember to not underestimate him again. "I help him out because he's my mate. I'm telling you, he's really not so bad once you get to know him… at least most of the time he isn't so bad."
"Is that coffee for him?"
"Ah, yeah," Eames replied, and he wasn't sure why he felt nervous when the fact was brought up. Friends bought friends coffee. That wasn't weird. "He likes his coffee, and I figured I ought to bring him something back since we went without him."
"Oh," Owen said.
Eames cocked an eyebrow at him. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"
"What? I just said 'oh'."
"No, no, you didn't say 'oh', you said 'oh'," Eames said accusatorily.
"What's the difference?" Owen asked, and the cheeky bastard was actually smiling as if he was challenging Eames.
"I don't know, you tell me," Eames said, and he wasn't pouting, he wasn't.
"I didn't mean anything by it. All that shit is in your head, Mr. Eames."
He sounded just like Arthur when he said Mr. Eames. Eames was pretty sure he shouldn't have noticed that. People didn't just notice things like that, forgers or not.
"Ah, I see what you're getting at," Eames said with a smirk. "I get it. I know what you're thinking."
"Do you," Owen said, watching his feet. "Enlighten me."
"Stop talking like that. You sound like Arthur."
Owen frowned, displeased, apparently done playing the game when Eames was fighting dirty. The kid didn't know anything about fighting dirty of course.
"Why is that such an insult to you?" Eames asked. "I was just teasing. Arthur uses words like 'enlighten' and 'specificity' is all."
"Specificity?" Owen said, raising an eyebrow.
It reminded Eames of the first night in Amsterdam when Eames showed Arthur just how 'specific' he could be.
He cleared his throat, and Owen noticed.
"Oh, sick!" he shouted, and it was the loudest Eames had ever heard him. He didn't even recognize the voice.
"What? What?" Eames asked as the boy bolted up into the lobby of the apartment complex and took the stairs two at a time, a look of disgust on his face.
"Ugh, I was just kidding. Ugh, really? Sick, sick!"
"Don't go making assumptions about things you don't understand! What the fuck are you on about?" Eames asked, trying to keep up, but he wasn't as young as the boy.
Arthur opened the front door just as Owen grabbed the knob.
"Uh… hi?" he asked, noticing the heavy breathing and the storming by.
"You didn't even tell me you were a faggot, Arthur!" Owen shouted and slammed the door to his room behind him.
"Ah… I can explain," Eames said awkwardly, even though he really couldn't. Really, what had just happened?
"He just spoke to me," Arthur said, stunned.
"Oh," Eames said, equally stunned when he realized it was true. "Well then… that's progress, isn't it?"
Author: osaki_nana_707
Word Count: 4,393
Pairings/Character: ArthurxEames, OC
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Warnings: language, mentions of death, mentions of sex
Summary: When Arthur falls off the grid, Eames finds him taking care of a teenage boy that apparently is his brother.
2.
Arthur spent most of the day on the computer or rifling through paperwork. He was apparently working more than one job at the same time just to have something to occupy his time that wasn't Owen-related. It was worrisome to watch when Eames knew that Arthur was (or at least used to be) a firm believer that working with two separate marks on two separate jobs was extremely dangerous.
Owen kept to himself and kept to his room most of the time, probably to avoid Arthur's wrath. Eames could tell he was on edge by the sharp line of his shoulders and of his mouth, and he began to believe that perhaps Arthur too was guilty of getting upset over seemingly nothing. Perhaps Owen and Arthur were too similar, and that was why they butted heads so much. He did wish the boy would attempt to speak to him at least though. At least then they could fight with their words and less stuff would be broken.
He wasn't about to mention it to Arthur though. He was clearly just waiting for something to give him a reason to go off. A wick waiting for a fire.
Eames was not going to be that fire. Fuck that.
Instead, he went out and got a pizza for dinner, and all three of them sat around the table in silence, listening to the others chew. Arthur worked while he ate. Owen didn't look up from the table and only managed to eat one slice before getting up to go back to his room.
"Wait," Eames said, catching him by the wrist, and the boy looked at him like he'd smacked him. "I have films." Eames lifted up some rented DVDs he'd picked up on the way back home, waving them at the boy.
The boy looked at them and then at Eames and then detoured to the couch, folding up in the corner of it with his knees to his chest.
Arthur actually looked up from his work then, expression unreadable which was the closest it had come to not being mad or exhausted since Eames had gotten there, and Eames just smiled lightly and settled in on the couch with the boy to watch Blade Runner.
He of course didn't say a word through the movie, but Eames considered it a personal victory that his eyes were glued to the screen the entire time. When he glanced over the edge of the couch to look at Arthur at the kitchen table and saw the point man quickly duck his head back down to pretend he wasn't watching it, he was sure it was a victory.
The little victory had long since been forgotten about when, during the middle of the night, he was shattered out of sleep to the sound of screaming.
Arthur had mentioned that he screamed in his sleep sometimes. Eames only now remembered that as he caught himself from falling off of the couch. He managed to get to his feet without a panicked injuring of himself and made his way down the hall towards Owen's room.
Arthur was already awake, leaning against the doorway with his arms hugged around his chest. If Eames didn't know him better, he would have sworn he was on the brink of tears… but he did know better. Arthur never cried. He didn't even cry at Mal's funeral.
Eames opened the door to find the boy thrashing in his bed, battling imaginary ghosts and screaming, screaming, screaming.
"Hey, now," Eames said gently, and he could feel Arthur's presence had moved from the doorway of his own room to the doorway of Owen's room.
Eames took a seat at the edge of the bed and cradled him, not sure what else to do. He certainly couldn't just leave him screaming, and he was pretty sure shouting at him to shut up would likely agitate the situation. The only thing he could think of was to try to soothe the nightmares the way his mother had done for him after his father died all those years ago.
"It's all right, you're all right, you're safe," Eames said. He wondered if it would do any good. He didn't even know what the boy was dreaming about. "Everything's all right."
After a few minutes, he seemed to relax, dropping his arms and silencing his screaming to just breathe haggardly.
"You back with us then?" Eames asked after a moment and was caught by surprise when the boy threw his arms around his neck and whimpered into his shirt. He looked to Arthur and again his expression was unreadable, like he was trying to read something in a language he didn't understand. "Everything's okay now."
Eames stayed with the boy, awkwardly rocking him back and forth until his breathing evened out, and he fell asleep. Eames tucked him in and even smoothed the hair on his forehead the way his mother always did.
He missed her. He wished she was still alive.
"Eames," Arthur said when Eames quietly shut the door. He was still hunched there in the hallway, clearly awake now. "Why-"
"I had to do something," Eames replied simply. "Did you ever think that maybe being gentle was the way to go?" He wasn't accusing Arthur of anything, merely making a suggestion, but he feared that he might have been allowing himself to be the fire to his wick after all.
Instead, Arthur said, "I did… I… he um… he wouldn't let me touch him. He punched me and I… I just gave up on it after that."
"I don't remember you ever being a quitter, Arthur," Eames said, smiling at him a little. He'd never admit it out loud, but Arthur was borderline precious when he had bedhead and was wearing his baggy pajama pants and shirt. No, no, that would be the fire to the wick. That would be the bullet in Eames's head.
Arthur rubbed at his eyes, sighing. "I know… I know that, but… fuck…"
Eames had a sudden urge to reach out and run his hands through Arthur's tangled mess of hair, but he resisted it. Instead he followed Arthur into the living room and sat with him, smoking.
"I only went to bed an hour ago," Arthur said with a huff when he saw the time on the stereo. Arthur was the only person Eames knew who would actually set the clocks on his things. "I've been struggling with trying to figure out the work schedule of one of the marks I'm working on… People don't just do nine-to-five stuff anymore apparently. It's going to be difficult to find a time to take her under. She has no medical appointments, no plans to leave the country, nothing. It's really…" Arthur ran his hands over his hair in an eerily Cobb-like fashion. "It's really frustrating."
"Now, I'm not normally one to tell anyone how to do their job, especially when they're better at it than I am," Eames said, unabashedly staring at one of the moles on Arthur's neck. He had kissed there in Germany. "I can't tell you much of anything about being on point really because looking after people was never my strong point, understanding them was… but, if I may be so bold, I do believe you may be working yourself a bit too hard, don't you think?"
Arthur looked at him as if he was an idiot, the warm light from his cigarette just barely reaching to flicker across the line of his face, and Eames was going back to that night in Germany again and had to stop himself. "It's just hard to maintain things from a distance," Arthur said. "If I could have tailed her, I would have had the information within three days."
"That's precisely the point, isn't it?" Eames offered and then blew smoke rings. "You're making things harder on yourself. You're bloody torturing yourself, locking yourself up in this apartment with the sprog."
"You think I never should have taken him in."
"Not at all," Eames replied lightly, lowering his cigarette and looking at Arthur fondly. "I'm just impressed by you is all. Despite your reservations, and despite your agitations, despite the difficulties you faced in work and with living with another person and committing to a life changing decision, you still stood by your choice. It's admirable, yeah?"
"Owen doesn't seem to think so," Arthur said, and he was looking tired again.
"Well, you haven't handled things perfectly by any means, darling… ah, no offense… but I do think you're both trying. I think you're both just going about it the wrong way."
"The wrong way?" Arthur asked flatly, a smirk threatening to make its way onto his lips.
"Yeah, you know… the yelling and the throwing things. That boy has some hang-ups, Arthur, and well… he bloody hates you. I don't know why, but he does. I do think you could help prevent that if you made him feel a bit more welcome though, don't you think? Let him get some things for his room or some new clothes. Speak nicely to him and let him get away with some things."
"I'm not good with people," Arthur replied awkwardly. "I just… I can't get him to do anything. I don't have to say anything to set him off, and he just frustrates me and I can't… I…" He sighed again, dropping his head.
Eames felt the urge to place a hand between his shoulder blades, and this time he didn't manage to suppress it. He rubbed Arthur's back sympathetically, enjoying the warmth emanating through the back of his shirt.
"Why are you still here, Eames?" Arthur asked then, not going to remove the hand but not relaxing into the touch either.
"I told you I would help you," Eames replied, smoothing the wrinkles on Arthur's shirt unconsciously. "I don't go back on a promise unless I have a bloody good reason."
"You don't make promises unless you have a 'bloody good reason' either. Why promise me anything?"
"Would it be insulting if I told you I enjoyed the idea of the challenge since I've been working non-stop and like taking a break to work on a new 'project'?"
Arthur snorted and managed to smile a little, letting only one dimple reveal itself. "Thanks… Eames."
"Don't thank me yet. Let's see what happens first," Eames said.
He did resist the urge to kiss his cheek.
When Eames woke up the next morning, it was because he was hearing the sound of the television, albeit with the volume down low. When he opened his eyes, he saw Owen sitting up close to the set so that he could hear, and the movie Blade Runner playing again on the screen. He'd gotten about halfway through it.
"All right there, sprog?" Eames asked sleepily, and the boy flailed, scrambling into the corner, clearly frightened out of his wits at the sudden voice. Eames rose, scratching his head and said, "Now, now, no need for that. It's just me."
The boy seemed to relax then, sinking in his corner like a ragdoll that had been thrown against the wall.
Eames looked at the clock. It was only six in the morning. He hummed, scrubbing his neck with his palm and then said, "Breakfast?"
Owen stared in confusion.
"We get dressed. We go out. We get breakfast?" Eames offered again, more slowly as if the boy didn't know the process.
Owen bit down on his bottom lip, looking at the floor for a moment and then slowly got to his feet. He was still in the same clothes.
"How about you shower first, and then I'll shower, and then we'll go?" he paused. "Actually, does Arthur have a shower in his room?"
Owen shrugged. Eames realized that he'd probably never been in there, what with his habit for breaking things.
"You go shower. I shall also do the same," Eames said, digging a fresh pair of clothes out of his suitcase at the end of the couch.
Owen slumped off to do as he was told, and really Eames knew that Arthur would be jealous if he knew how easily the boy listened to him.
Eames meanwhile, slipped into Arthur's room, and of course he had a master bath (Eames vaguely thought that Arthur's apartment was entirely too nice to be an apartment). He walked across the floor, overstepping some of the scattered clothing he'd left about in his haste to get to sleep, and set his clothing on the counter in the bathroom.
He ventured a glance back at Arthur who was mumbling and turning over, but Eames knew he was still asleep. His hair had gotten (if possible) more crazed during the night, and he'd kicked the sheets down around his waist, revealing where his shirt had been hiked up to his chest on one side. It was almost unfair that he could be a proverbial 'Sleeping Beauty' even when he looked like that.
Eames shut the bathroom door quietly and started the shower. After stripping down and checking the water with his hand, he stepped inside and sighed in relief as the heat hit the bones on his sore back. He really needed to find some other place to sleep than that couch (and Arthur's queen-sized bed sure did look comfortable).
"Keep living that dream," he mumbled to himself with a chuckle as he poured some of Arthur's coconut shampoo into his hand and scrubbed it through his hair. The smell practically punched him in the face with the memory of Arthur crying out beneath him. He'd smelled so much like coconut. He'd never changed shampoos.
Eames swallowed thickly and tried hard to banish the thought, and with some effort, he did. Afterwards however, he was still unsettled by the fact that it had been there at all, whether or not Arthur was in his immediate vicinity. Now that he had some time to think (and Eames always thought best in the shower, provided that he was alone in the shower), he came to the realization that he had not thought of previous flings and trysts quite as much as he had thought about his flings and trysts with Arthur. He could have just passed it off as a 'smashing good time' (if he wanted to be stereotypical), but the problem was… well…
The sex hadn't been that good. Sure, it had been good, but Eames had had better sex. It was never quite as good when one party, or both parties rather, were sloppily drunk… and they had been sloppily drunk during both events (especially Arthur on that second one-the man absolutely could not hold his liquor). Still, he'd hung on to those nights, remembered them fondly, and fantasized about them on occasion (and those occasions seemed to be getting more often, apparently). He didn't know why.
He didn't know why he remembered the exact way Arthur smiled against his chest, the way his eyelashes had fluttered and the way his fingers had bruised his arms when he'd held on as if he was going to go tumbling off into nothingness, like he was afraid to let go. Eames tried to convince himself that these ideas only sprung forth in his mind specifically because everything that had happened was so un-Arthur-like that it was borderline bizarre.
He wasn't sure of how effective that convincing was.
Eames scrubbed himself down with soap, telling himself to focus on the task at hand, to stop thinking about Arthur when he was standing in Arthur's shower, and for the moment it worked.
He was just about to shut off the water when he heard the bathroom door open. "Eames, what are you doing in my shower?" Arthur asked in annoyance.
"Showering," Eames replied simply, turning off the water and pushing back the door. It wasn't like Arthur hadn't seen him naked before. "Why, what do you do when you're in the shower?"
Arthur grunted in response, splashing water on his face to get rid of the eye gunk. "At least put a towel on, you barbarian," he grumbled.
"Oh, please, you and I both know I'm bloody gorgeous, like a Greek God," Eames teased, toweling off his hair before wrapping it around his waist. "Shower's free now, if you'd like. Make it quick and you can come with me and Owen to get breakfast."
Arthur was tugging his shirt over his head, revealing milky white skin underneath. "I'm not much of breakfast eater," he mumbled, dropping the shirt on the floor and sliding out of his pants and underwear at the same time. Eames pretended he wasn't looking. "Do whatever you want." He started the shower and climbed inside.
Rather than leave, Eames instead lathered his face up with Arthur's shaving cream and started shaving with his razor.
"I don't remember giving you permission to use my things," Arthur said.
"I don't remember you not giving me permission," Eames replied blithely.
Arthur sighed but didn't say anything else about it.
By the time he'd finished shaving and started getting dressed, Arthur was finished showering. Eames couldn't help but look when he got out, dripping wet and gleaming. He looked absolutely delicious.
Eames decided he really needed to get laid so he could stop daydreaming.
"Don't get any dumb ideas," Arthur mumbled, drying off his face before working the towel down his shoulders and chest. "I'd say take a picture because it would last longer, but knowing you, you'd actually go through with it."
"I was just thinking you're too skinny. You need to eat more. You should come get breakfast with us," Eames said, buttoning his shirt. "Don't just assume I'm having naughty thoughts about you, love. I'm not that much of a pervert."
"Forgive me if your past has pointed to the contrary," Arthur replied, almost smirking.
Eames chuckled and smacked shaving cream onto Arthur's cheek.
"Do you think you're funny?" Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Sometimes," Eames replied, slathering the shaving cream over his jaw.
Arthur seemed to be at a loss for words while Eames finished lathering up his jaw and started shaving him.
"I know how to shave my own face," Arthur said after a moment.
"You're useless before your coffee, darling, and you've had, what… four hours of sleep?"
"I've functioned just fine on less," Arthur said but tilted his chin back to let him shave his neck.
"You haven't shaved in at least three days," Eames said. "I just thought I'd make sure you didn't add a fourth day to that list."
"You make it sound like I'm on my way to a breakdown just because I chose not to shave for a few days," Arthur mumbled, trying to sound as if Eames was being ridiculous, but there was a grain of truth there, a sliver of admittance that sneaked through.
"I'm not saying anything of the sort. You just have such a pretty jawline is all."
Arthur snorted.
Apparently he didn't believe Eames was being completely serious. Eames didn't try to inform him otherwise, instead wiping off his jaw for him. "I used to work in a barbershop as a boy. It appears I've still got it."
"Is that even true?" Arthur asked, checking his reflection in the mirror.
"That's for me to know and you to find out," Eames replied and left him to dress.
Arthur didn't go with them to breakfast.
Owen followed behind Eames, dressed in a slightly better fitting t-shirt and some equally holey jeans. He looked marginally better when he was freshly washed, short dark hair curling along his forehead as it dried in the L.A. sunlight.
He clearly didn't get out much. He was less familiar with the L.A. streets than Eames was, and he was very noticeably uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people.
"So, what do you like to eat?" Eames asked, slowing his pace so that Owen could catch up to him. "Arthur's not around, so you can talk."
"…I don't know… I'll eat whatever…" he said awkwardly. "I don't really have any money-"
"Don't even worry about it," Eames said, slapping his shoulder playfully. "I offered."
They ended up stopping at a McDonald's, and Eames ordered them both hot cakes and sausage and orange juice.
"Mr. Eames," Owen said when they were halfway through their breakfast, "I wanted to say I was sorry about last night. I um… I just get like that sometimes…"
Eames sipped at his orange juice before responding. "Do you always remember?"
"…no… sometimes I do… sometimes I don't…"
"Did you remember doing it when you punched Arthur?"
He hesitated for a long moment. "I… I didn't really… I mean… I knew he was there, but I didn't know it was him until after."
"So, you didn't mean to hurt him?" Eames asked. "I would have thought you wanted to, being that you hate him and all."
"…I didn't meant to hit him," was all Owen said, sipping at his orange juice and shoving a bite of sausage into his mouth.
It was then that Eames came to the conclusion that Owen didn't hate Arthur after all.
He wasn't about to pry, however, because he doubted Owen would admit to anything. The boy barely talked as it was, and he certainly wasn't going to admit that he wasn't completely done with Arthur.
Really though, it left Eames more curious than anything. Why did he show so much disdain for Arthur when, by the way he'd said he didn't mean to hit him, he clearly felt guilty? He couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the night terrors themselves. He'd studied dreams extensively when he'd joined up in the mind crime business, and he knew for a fact that generally night terrors only presented in children. In teenagers and adults they were usually trauma-related.
Then again, both parents dying could definitely be a good cause for trauma.
…but Eames didn't think that was it.
He didn't know why, but he didn't think that was it.
He bought a cup of McDonald's coffee on the way out to take back to Arthur.
As they were walking back to the apartment, Owen spoke up again. "So… why are you staying at Arthur's place anyway?"
"Ah-" Eames paused, trying to formulate an answer because he didn't actually have one. "Well, he and I work together. I'm helping him on a project."
"You can't do that from your place?"
"It's ah… easier for us to work on it together what with the time difference and all."
"What exactly do you guys even do?"
Eames dug into his arsenal of fake jobs and easily supplied, "Investment banking."
"You don't look like an investment banker."
"I believe in challenging stereotypes."
Owen smiled a little.
"If you're investment bankers, then why don't you guys have an office? Why doesn't Arthur ever leave the apartment?"
Eames hesitated just long enough to reveal he'd been caught in a lie.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Owen said. "If it's something you don't want me to know, I… I understand. Nobody tells me anything anyways."
"It's complicated to explain," Eames admitted, shoulders slumping in defeat. The boy was more intuitive than he'd given him credit for. He'd make sure to remember he was Arthur's brother and to remember to not underestimate him again. "I help him out because he's my mate. I'm telling you, he's really not so bad once you get to know him… at least most of the time he isn't so bad."
"Is that coffee for him?"
"Ah, yeah," Eames replied, and he wasn't sure why he felt nervous when the fact was brought up. Friends bought friends coffee. That wasn't weird. "He likes his coffee, and I figured I ought to bring him something back since we went without him."
"Oh," Owen said.
Eames cocked an eyebrow at him. "What the fuck do you mean by that?"
"What? I just said 'oh'."
"No, no, you didn't say 'oh', you said 'oh'," Eames said accusatorily.
"What's the difference?" Owen asked, and the cheeky bastard was actually smiling as if he was challenging Eames.
"I don't know, you tell me," Eames said, and he wasn't pouting, he wasn't.
"I didn't mean anything by it. All that shit is in your head, Mr. Eames."
He sounded just like Arthur when he said Mr. Eames. Eames was pretty sure he shouldn't have noticed that. People didn't just notice things like that, forgers or not.
"Ah, I see what you're getting at," Eames said with a smirk. "I get it. I know what you're thinking."
"Do you," Owen said, watching his feet. "Enlighten me."
"Stop talking like that. You sound like Arthur."
Owen frowned, displeased, apparently done playing the game when Eames was fighting dirty. The kid didn't know anything about fighting dirty of course.
"Why is that such an insult to you?" Eames asked. "I was just teasing. Arthur uses words like 'enlighten' and 'specificity' is all."
"Specificity?" Owen said, raising an eyebrow.
It reminded Eames of the first night in Amsterdam when Eames showed Arthur just how 'specific' he could be.
He cleared his throat, and Owen noticed.
"Oh, sick!" he shouted, and it was the loudest Eames had ever heard him. He didn't even recognize the voice.
"What? What?" Eames asked as the boy bolted up into the lobby of the apartment complex and took the stairs two at a time, a look of disgust on his face.
"Ugh, I was just kidding. Ugh, really? Sick, sick!"
"Don't go making assumptions about things you don't understand! What the fuck are you on about?" Eames asked, trying to keep up, but he wasn't as young as the boy.
Arthur opened the front door just as Owen grabbed the knob.
"Uh… hi?" he asked, noticing the heavy breathing and the storming by.
"You didn't even tell me you were a faggot, Arthur!" Owen shouted and slammed the door to his room behind him.
"Ah… I can explain," Eames said awkwardly, even though he really couldn't. Really, what had just happened?
"He just spoke to me," Arthur said, stunned.
"Oh," Eames said, equally stunned when he realized it was true. "Well then… that's progress, isn't it?"