i can't shake the thought of you [inception]
Title: i can't shake the thought of you
Fandom: Inception
Summary: Arthur doesn't understand Christmas. He's Jewish.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Notes: For 25 days of fic.
Arthur doesn't understand Christmas. He's Jewish, he's never celebrated it like some people have. Like Eames has. Arthur watches with mild curiosity as Eames hauls a box into the house, stirring milk into his coffee. "Couldn't help, could you love?"
"You seem to be getting along all right." Eames laughs and takes Arthur's coffee mug from his hands and replaces it with a long, twiggy piece of plastic. "Start sorting."
"I'm sorry? Sorting what?"
"The tree pieces. God, I've had this thing for ages, but it's been too long since I put it up."
"What is it?" Eames stares at him blankly for a moment, then shakes his head, hauling more branches out of the box and tossing them onto the floor, throwing fake, little plastic needles all over the carpet. Arthur groans and moves closer to help. "Darling, if you don't put up a tree, then I can't put your present under it."
"Don't get me anything," Arthur snaps, putting the branch with a red label in one pile and a branch with a blue label in another. Eames scowls at him and adds another branch to the red pile, then takes out the center of the tree and sets it on its base. "I'm serious."
"Well, tough. I've already bought you something." Arthur sighs and shakes his head. "And that's orange, not red."
"It's red Eames. There are no orange branches."
"Yes, there are, Arthur. Right here." He shows him what Arthur believes is clearly another red branch and tosses it into a different pile.
"No wonder you can't dress yourself properly," Arthur says. "You're colorblind."
"Hilarious. Really."
It takes three hours to get the tree up, mostly because Arthur continues to insist that the orange-labeled branches are actually red and that half the greens have been mislabeled and are actually blue because there just aren't enough blues to make a proper sized middle section.
Eventually, Eames puts in the last branch and stands back. Arthur is looking sadly at his floor, but the smile on Eames's face makes up for the three more hours of vacuuming he'll do later. "It's a bit sad looking," he says, staring at the little plastic tree."
"It's lightless." Eames reaches into another box that Arthur hadn't noticed before and pulls out a tangle of white and colored lights. "Shall we?" Sighing, Arthur relents and takes one end of the strand and attempts to find some semblance of an opposite end. Eames promptly abandons the project and goes into the kitchen. "Do we have chocolate?" he yells.
"No. You ate it all."
"Well. Hell." Arthur hums in agreement and finally finds the end of one of the colored strands. Eames begins to wrap it around the tree with expert precision as Arthur watches. "Impressed, darling?"
"As usual." He gives Eames a rare smile and finishes untangling the rest of the lights. Eames, it turns out, is old hat at this tree decorating business. Arthur, apparently, isn't any good at it. He doesn't know that the red ornaments never go next to the blue ones and the gold ones never go next to the green ones. And you're definitely not allowed to put up the Star Wars decorations ("Why, Eames? Just why?" Arthur had wondered out loud.) before you put up the decorations his grandmother made.
There are rules.
Arthur understands rules. These are just a bit ridiculous.
But when it's all said and done, when Eames finally plugs in all the lights and pulls Arthur back, the tree doesn't look so pathetic anymore. And really, he can't even notice the loose plastic needles that have scattered all over his carpet. It doesn't matter. It's all sort of beautiful and warm.
"Where's the menorah?" Arthur asks, poking Eames in the side.
"Ah, yes, I forgot you were so devoted to your faith, Arthur. I'll be sure to pick one up tomorrow."
"I'm late anyway."
"Well, we thought about it."
"And that's what counts." Eames grins wickedly and pulls Arthur in close and kisses him. If Arthur had thought putting up a tree and untangling lights and fighting over how to make hot chocolate was going to change the way they fucked, then he was wrong. Eames has the clumsiest hands in the world and Arthur is always the one who finishes undressing them, because Eames, just like anything else he does, gets distracted and starts fumbling with a belt and then a button and then his hands are in Arthur's hair and then they're under his shirt and then his teeth are at Arthur's neck, like he just can't settle. "You're awful at this," Arthur mutters, stripping off his pants in one swift movement. Eames cackles.
"Why should I have to be when you're so very good at it?" And then his body moves down and he takes Arthur's cock into his mouth. The lights are off except for the muted splash of red and blue and green and gold on the wall, bouncing off the decorations and casting awkward shadows on the wall. Arthur groans and digs his fingers into the carpet, feeling the tiny needles there. He'll have rug burn in the morning, but it's not the first time. That familiar coil winds in his gut and then Eames is fishing in his pants pocket, cursing until Arthur reaches for his own, pulling out a condom and shoving it into Eames's hand with that familiar ferocity he always has.
"Now, Eames." Eames says nothing. Just does as he's told and stretches Arthur with two fingers that send him reeling and shaking before it can even really start. "Fuck all, fuck, just-"
"Of course," Eames whispers and then he pushes in, quick and hard and Arthur's body isn't quite sure what to do. But it does what it always does and it reacts, reacts like clockwork, every single time Eames is buried inside of him, like it just knows. And maybe it does, Arthur thinks. Maybe it recognizes his touch and his feel. Arthur closes his eyes and feels that coil finally unwind and he groans, coming against Eames's chest and gripping his back. Eames, to his credit, always lasts a good two seconds longer because the sound of Arthur groaning into his own finish always sets him off.
Eames rolls off of Arthur and rests next to him, shaking his head and flicking one of the ornaments. It makes a high ringing sound through the room, and Arthur imagines playing the tree like a piano. Sex always gives him ridiculous thoughts. "Happy, love?"
"I hate stupid questions, you know that."
"Mmm, I do." Eames sighs and closes his eyes, still tapping the ornament softly. "I'm still getting you that present you know."
"It's okay. I'm getting you something, too."
"Oh really?"
"Yes. I don't know what. But I'll get you something."
"Well, I'll have you know, the mental image I'll be carrying around with me of you trying to figure out where to put the Yoda ornament will last for a couple more Christmases." Arthur laughs and sits up, pressing a quick kiss onto Eames's forehead and attempting to pick up his clothes, but finding himself increasingly distracted by the tree.
It's nice, he finally decides, to have something like this. Something they did together. It's really, really nice.
Fandom: Inception
Summary: Arthur doesn't understand Christmas. He's Jewish.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Notes: For 25 days of fic.
Arthur doesn't understand Christmas. He's Jewish, he's never celebrated it like some people have. Like Eames has. Arthur watches with mild curiosity as Eames hauls a box into the house, stirring milk into his coffee. "Couldn't help, could you love?"
"You seem to be getting along all right." Eames laughs and takes Arthur's coffee mug from his hands and replaces it with a long, twiggy piece of plastic. "Start sorting."
"I'm sorry? Sorting what?"
"The tree pieces. God, I've had this thing for ages, but it's been too long since I put it up."
"What is it?" Eames stares at him blankly for a moment, then shakes his head, hauling more branches out of the box and tossing them onto the floor, throwing fake, little plastic needles all over the carpet. Arthur groans and moves closer to help. "Darling, if you don't put up a tree, then I can't put your present under it."
"Don't get me anything," Arthur snaps, putting the branch with a red label in one pile and a branch with a blue label in another. Eames scowls at him and adds another branch to the red pile, then takes out the center of the tree and sets it on its base. "I'm serious."
"Well, tough. I've already bought you something." Arthur sighs and shakes his head. "And that's orange, not red."
"It's red Eames. There are no orange branches."
"Yes, there are, Arthur. Right here." He shows him what Arthur believes is clearly another red branch and tosses it into a different pile.
"No wonder you can't dress yourself properly," Arthur says. "You're colorblind."
"Hilarious. Really."
It takes three hours to get the tree up, mostly because Arthur continues to insist that the orange-labeled branches are actually red and that half the greens have been mislabeled and are actually blue because there just aren't enough blues to make a proper sized middle section.
Eventually, Eames puts in the last branch and stands back. Arthur is looking sadly at his floor, but the smile on Eames's face makes up for the three more hours of vacuuming he'll do later. "It's a bit sad looking," he says, staring at the little plastic tree."
"It's lightless." Eames reaches into another box that Arthur hadn't noticed before and pulls out a tangle of white and colored lights. "Shall we?" Sighing, Arthur relents and takes one end of the strand and attempts to find some semblance of an opposite end. Eames promptly abandons the project and goes into the kitchen. "Do we have chocolate?" he yells.
"No. You ate it all."
"Well. Hell." Arthur hums in agreement and finally finds the end of one of the colored strands. Eames begins to wrap it around the tree with expert precision as Arthur watches. "Impressed, darling?"
"As usual." He gives Eames a rare smile and finishes untangling the rest of the lights. Eames, it turns out, is old hat at this tree decorating business. Arthur, apparently, isn't any good at it. He doesn't know that the red ornaments never go next to the blue ones and the gold ones never go next to the green ones. And you're definitely not allowed to put up the Star Wars decorations ("Why, Eames? Just why?" Arthur had wondered out loud.) before you put up the decorations his grandmother made.
There are rules.
Arthur understands rules. These are just a bit ridiculous.
But when it's all said and done, when Eames finally plugs in all the lights and pulls Arthur back, the tree doesn't look so pathetic anymore. And really, he can't even notice the loose plastic needles that have scattered all over his carpet. It doesn't matter. It's all sort of beautiful and warm.
"Where's the menorah?" Arthur asks, poking Eames in the side.
"Ah, yes, I forgot you were so devoted to your faith, Arthur. I'll be sure to pick one up tomorrow."
"I'm late anyway."
"Well, we thought about it."
"And that's what counts." Eames grins wickedly and pulls Arthur in close and kisses him. If Arthur had thought putting up a tree and untangling lights and fighting over how to make hot chocolate was going to change the way they fucked, then he was wrong. Eames has the clumsiest hands in the world and Arthur is always the one who finishes undressing them, because Eames, just like anything else he does, gets distracted and starts fumbling with a belt and then a button and then his hands are in Arthur's hair and then they're under his shirt and then his teeth are at Arthur's neck, like he just can't settle. "You're awful at this," Arthur mutters, stripping off his pants in one swift movement. Eames cackles.
"Why should I have to be when you're so very good at it?" And then his body moves down and he takes Arthur's cock into his mouth. The lights are off except for the muted splash of red and blue and green and gold on the wall, bouncing off the decorations and casting awkward shadows on the wall. Arthur groans and digs his fingers into the carpet, feeling the tiny needles there. He'll have rug burn in the morning, but it's not the first time. That familiar coil winds in his gut and then Eames is fishing in his pants pocket, cursing until Arthur reaches for his own, pulling out a condom and shoving it into Eames's hand with that familiar ferocity he always has.
"Now, Eames." Eames says nothing. Just does as he's told and stretches Arthur with two fingers that send him reeling and shaking before it can even really start. "Fuck all, fuck, just-"
"Of course," Eames whispers and then he pushes in, quick and hard and Arthur's body isn't quite sure what to do. But it does what it always does and it reacts, reacts like clockwork, every single time Eames is buried inside of him, like it just knows. And maybe it does, Arthur thinks. Maybe it recognizes his touch and his feel. Arthur closes his eyes and feels that coil finally unwind and he groans, coming against Eames's chest and gripping his back. Eames, to his credit, always lasts a good two seconds longer because the sound of Arthur groaning into his own finish always sets him off.
Eames rolls off of Arthur and rests next to him, shaking his head and flicking one of the ornaments. It makes a high ringing sound through the room, and Arthur imagines playing the tree like a piano. Sex always gives him ridiculous thoughts. "Happy, love?"
"I hate stupid questions, you know that."
"Mmm, I do." Eames sighs and closes his eyes, still tapping the ornament softly. "I'm still getting you that present you know."
"It's okay. I'm getting you something, too."
"Oh really?"
"Yes. I don't know what. But I'll get you something."
"Well, I'll have you know, the mental image I'll be carrying around with me of you trying to figure out where to put the Yoda ornament will last for a couple more Christmases." Arthur laughs and sits up, pressing a quick kiss onto Eames's forehead and attempting to pick up his clothes, but finding himself increasingly distracted by the tree.
It's nice, he finally decides, to have something like this. Something they did together. It's really, really nice.