Inception: Of Lipstick Smudges and Fancy Dress
Title: Of Lipstick Smudges and Fancy Dress
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,662
Warnings: Slight use of homophobic language
Summary: The story of Eames. Start, middle, and restart.
A/N: Written for i-reversebang
Bit hard to believe this is all finished at last! Thanks go to quinn-ster and Tony jumping into the line of fire by assuming cheerleader positions. And, of course,check out chibifukurou for the art that inspired this.
It starts-if there has to be a start-when Eames discovers his sister’s makeup collection. At six years old he is already fascinated by the process the women in his family undergo when getting ready for any sort of event. He’s young enough that he can get away with sitting on the end of the bed, ogling all the brightly colored bottles and tubes spread out across the vanity table.
But it’s all always packed away after, going a place Eames can never locate. Until his sister takes up dance lessons. Each Thursday Harriet gets whisked away with their mother in the car and Eames uses the time that their away to scour his sister’s room. (Mummy’s room is off limits according to the maid who shooed him out the first time he tried.)
He finally finds it on the fifth day.
It feels like every inch of his small body is vibrating with excitement as he digs through what seems like a treasure trove. He has no idea what to try first, so he winds up trying a bit of everything. He knows what to do after watching his mother and sister so often, but it’s more difficult to pull off with his little hands.
He has an easier time with the lipstick, fascinated by all the different colors it comes in. He’s trying on an interesting shade of purple when his sister bounds through the door. He drops the lipstick at about the same time her jaw drops.
“Eames!” Harriet marches over to the vanity, frowning down at him as she gathers up the makeup. “What are you doing in my stuff?”
“I just wanted to try it out,” Eames protests. He snatches up the tube of lipstick, feeling tears prick in the back of his eyes as Harriet tries to tug it out of his hands. “Please, Harry, I’m sorry!”
“Whatever,” Harriet mutters. “You shouldn’t even be messing about with this stuff anyway.”
That confuses Eames. “But I like it,” he said. “Why can’t I do it if I like it?”
And just like that Harriet stops. She’s staring at him now, but her gaze is curious, not hostile. “You like it?” she asks.
“Yeah.” Eames sniffles. “But I don’t wanna if it’s bad.”
“Oh, Eames, it’s not bad.” Harriet kneels down on the floor next to the stool he’s perched on, plucking up some tissues. “But that color doesn’t suit your skin tone at all.” Her touch is soft as she starts to wipe away his work. “Why don’t you let me help make you up, yeah?”
She finishes just in time for them both to bound downstairs for dinner. Eames all but struts into the dining hall, wiggling his way up into his usual seat. He feels almost ridiculously pretty, like those pictures of the people he sees photos of in magazines.
His father clears his throat more than a bit awkwardly before the first course is even served. “Is Eames wearing makeup?” he asks.
Harriet fixes their father with an unwavering stare. “He likes it.” Her tone is firmed, as though to inform Father that she will rip to shreds anything she finds fault with.
The table is silent for a second before Father smiles at Eames’, the warmth in his eyes showing that it’s a true one. “Well then Eames, is there anything else you like?”
Eames fiddles with his fork, feeling uncharastically shy. “I might wanna try a dress.” Then, because he’s been given the chance at last, “And maybe some heels.”
“The heels might have to wait until you’re older,” Mummy says, “but I can make an appointment with Marguerite first thing tomorrow. You can go over designs for different dresses with her.”
Looking back on it, Eames knows he’s lucky.
---
Things got harder when he went to school, but perhaps that was to be expected. His mother chartered for him to make most of his earlier lessons at home where none of his tutors so much as batted an eye at his choice in fashion. His French teacher had even devoted a whole lesson to Paris fashions while the lovely lady who taught him Math let him paint her nails.
But then Eames hits eleven and the probing questions start to roll in.
Lady Helen, taking her tea in the drawing room with his mother, should be no more remarkable than any of the others, but, as it so happens, she arrives just late enough into it to be the straw on the camel’s back.
She stirs the cream into her tea with one of the dainty silver spoons, barely waiting until all that polite talk about the weather and such is out of the way before she pounces. “It’s not that I mean to pry-” Except she definitely does. Almost all high-class women are terrible gossips. “-but Eames has been kept at home for so long! It must get lonely for him with no other children to play with. Even his sister is away at school for most of the day.” That, in and of itself, is a pointed reminder that the
Countess never acted like this with her first child.
The woman in question, of course, ignores this attempted maneuver entirely. “We don’t try to restrict Eames’ play time,” she says, “but his studies are important as well.”
“So surely you’ll be sending him to join Harriet at St. Thomas’s this year,” Helen says. “Why your husband himself told me it was the best school in the region!” She hides her victorious smile behind the rim of her teacup as Eames’ mother flounders for a moment before shifting the conversation towards a different topic.
So St. Thomas’s it is.
Eames has to get fitted for the uniform and no matter how much his mother tries to talk up the stylish cut he still hates it. The suit is far too neutral for him, a dark blue that might as well be black, and when the tailor holds up a gray tie he actually flinches.
Harriet sweeps past the poor man, cutting off a stream of stuttering apologies. “They don’t actually dictate what kind of ties we wear, you know. So I don’t anyone will kick up a fuss if you go with this one.”
She holds up a red silk tie with golden paisley designs and Eames falls in love with it instantly. He knows she can see from the way she grins.
Their mother must realize it too because she sends the tailor off to fetch the full collection of ties. The man looks relieved to finally be able to do something what will please them.
Harriet waits until he’s nose deep in the racks to step forward with a sly look in her face. “Mum and I thought you might want this too.” She winks as she slides the lip gloss tube into Eames’ pocket. “And there’s more at home.”
---
His first few years of sixth form aren’t exactly what he’d call torturous, per say. He has Harriet still, who will reach for her cricket bat if she thinks someone’s messing with her little brother.
It's not something she has to do all that often, though, since the other kids don't actually bother him all that often. They can't, really, when they have no idea what to make of him. He baffles them with the way he defies all the typical teenage niches set in place, fitting in seamlessly with whatever group he chooses. He can be seen in the lunchroom, having in depth discussions with the rest of the drama club about whatever play they're doing, and then be spotted out in the quad, wrestling other blokes down to the grass during a game of rugby.
In the usually complex tumble that is teenage hood, Eames sets himself up as sort of an anomaly in how unruffled he appears, unaffected by the regular drama of the school hierarchy.
Or at least that's what he appears to everyone else. It's Eames' first lesson in how to throw up a different persona, something that can deflect people from what's really going on. He gets through school with the near constant feeling that there's an itch somewhere that he just can't scratch. It's soothed a little bit when he gets to slip a fresh layer of gloss over his lips in the privacy of the bathroom or talk about the latest fashion trends with the gaggle of girls that flock around Harriet. But he never fully feels at peace until he's at home, finally able to exchange his stuffy uniform for a lacy frock or full, swirling skirt, his heels feeling much more comfortable than his dress shoes ever could.
It might not be the best sort of arrangement, but it works. Right up until he’s fourteen to Harriet’s eighteen and she has to leave for university.
She hugs Eames tight when she goes, promises to call almost everyday and visit whenever she can, but both of them know it won’t be the same.
With Harriet gone, it becomes all too clear just how much of Eames’ life was wrapped up in hers. Being the only one left refreshes his novelty, makes people look at him with a renewed interest.
It probably wouldn’t be such a big deal except Eames is about to discover just how much of a bitch fate can be after he knocks into one of the other guys in the hall, the contents of his bag going everywhere.
“Bloody hell, man. Watch where you’re going.”
Eames didn’t bother to reply or even look up from snatching his things up from the floor, shoving them into his bag. He doesn’t think there’s anything odd in the silence that follows until he stands up, readjusting his bag on his shoulder to see the other kid holding his tube of lip gloss.
Oh, fuck.
“What the hell is this shit?” the guy demands.
Eames doesn’t even bother trying to explain himself, just holds out his hand. “Give it back.” He tries to make a grab for it when the guy doesn’t hand it over, but the kid yanks his hand back out of reach.
“What you want this?” Which is a stupid question to ask because yes Eames wants it and he’d like it before the crowd of people staring gets even bigger. “So you can wander off and get all dolled up for your man?” He tugs on Eames’ bag. “Got a full kit of the stuff in there, huh?”
Eames jerked back from the guy, glaring at him. “Piss off,” he snapped.
“Ooh.” And the guy looks far too pleased with himself. “Did I upset the little fairy?”
When asked about it later, slouched over in the principal’s office, Eames won’t really remember launching himself at the guy. He will, however, look out at the guy waiting outside, sporting a black eye and clutching a whole mass of tissues to his nose, and smirk.
Nothing, apparently, shows people’s true colors than something like this. The sport players start to edge away from Eames in the hallway until the drama club presents a united front.
“Well obviously the lip gloss belonged to me.” Mary was lounging against a locker as she talked to one of her friends, yet she was making sure to let her voice carry.
Her friend, Lucy, stares at her open mouthed. “Really?” she says.
“Of course.” Mary flipped her strawberry blond hair off over her shoulder. “I would have said as much if anyone actually bothered to ask.”
The rumors don’t stop all at once, but it doesn’t really matter. So long as Eames doesn’t have to deal with getting knocked around everyday than he’s fine. Or, rather, knocking other guys around. It’d probably get trying after a while.
---
The rest of his school career passes pretty easily after that. The days seem to drag on forever right up until they don’t and Eames is suddenly faced with the decision of what he wants to do with his life.
Let it be said that he tried to do the proper thing at first. He went to one of the universities his parents swore by and started learning about art because he thought it was interesting.
The turning point didn’t come until his second year when he’s sitting in one of the seedier bars in London and one of the better dressed shady men in their slides up to him.
“Hey, I’ve seen your work. Real good stuff, I swear. But have you ever thought of…ah…reproducing some pieces?”
There’s no turning back after that.
---
Eames joins the army on a lark, a way of hiding out while the blowout from his latest con plays out. Surprisingly, it actually turns out to be pretty good for him. It isn’t easy by any means. He hates that he has to wear a uniform every day and he mouths off to his superiors almost every day.
But it takes all his scrawny, potential muscle and molds into something more like the Eames that’s around nowadays, all broad shoulders and thick frame.
It takes only two years for him to get signed onto Project Somnacin and he takes to it like a duck to water. When the Cobbs announce their intentions to keep going with dream sharing even after the military pulls the plug, Eames follows them without a second thought.
It has nothing to do with Arthur, the Cobbs’ gorgeous and startlingly efficient point man. Nope, not at all.
---
When it comes to jobs, Eames tends to leave his kit at home. It’s not that he’s ashamed of the way he dresses--no one will ever manage to make him feel that way--but he just doesn’t see the point. He works with a bunch of people who are pretty much hired for their ability to lie through their teeth. Nothing about it has anything to do with trust.
Over jobs he channels his need for something else into odd designs over bright fabrics and his trusty lip gloss. The true rush comes when he gets to go under, slipping into a whole other form and dressing it up however he likes.
He ignores the calls from Harriet that tend to come in during these times because they’re usually filled with things like, “God, Eames, I can’t even… It’s like being back in school all over again, don’t you… Oh, don’t you dare hang up on me!” (He always does.)
It isn’t until after Inception is actually pulled off that things start to change because it’s hard to pull off a thing as seemingly impossible as that and not come away with some sort of camaraderie.
Or, well, there’s also the fact that Ariadne now refuses to work with anyone in the business she deems to be “sub-par” which kind of narrows the pool a bit. And, besides, he can’t say he hasn’t grown fond of her.
So they wind up as a team, of sorts, sometimes with Cobb tagging along and sometimes not. When he is there Eames manages to keep his eye rolling at a minimum and flips over to being an extractor when Cobb decides the kids need him more.
Arthur, of course, is a near constant but that doesn’t come as a surprise to Eames.
He’s always to their workspaces early, lounging around in his latest bespoke suit while making his own distaste over Eames’ own clothes plain.
It makes him wonder just how Arthur would react if he actually saw how Eames dresses on a regular basis. Not that he ever expects such a thing to happen.
But because Eames tends to forget just how much of a bitch fate can be (really, you’d think he’d have learned by now) it happens anyway.
---
London will never be at a want for nightclubs. The sort Eames loves, however, aren’t the elegant, classy ones set up to lure in tourists. It probably goes without saying that he favors are those tucked away places that even some of the locals give an odd eye to.
No one really thinks twice about what Eames shows up in, in places like that. All they care about is that he’s an attractive bloke with a charming smile. Which is why it’s no surprise that when Eames returns to his flat in the early hours of the morning, he’s wobbling around in a way that has nothing to do with his heels and more to do with the pleasant ache between his legs.
The real surprise comes in finding Arthur draped across his couch.
“Arthur?” Eames doesn’t screech but it’s a near thing. “What the utter fuck are you doing here?”
Arthur just groans at him, clutching a hand to his head. “Ugh, Eames, could you please not right now?” Then his eyes open and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
Eames jabs a finger at him before he can so much as open his mouth. “Not a word,” he bit out. “You’re the one who broke in to bleed all over my couch.”
“It’s not like it will actually make it any worse.” Arthur slumped a bit in the face of Eames’ glower. “I made sure to patch myself up before I actually got here.”
“Good.” Then Eames gives in to the urge to crouch down before the couch, pushing up Arthur’s shirt. He offers up an apology when Arthur hisses because he’s not a complete bastard. “Jesus Christ, how did you even get up here?”
“Through sheer force of will,” Arthur grits out. “Now please tell me you have some painkillers.”
Of course Eames has painkillers, ones he didn’t even have to steal since Harriet had the good sense to settle down with a doctor. Arthur swallows them all down greedily, barely even waiting for the glass of water to be brought to his lips.
He’s somewhere between drugged out of his mind and stumbling headlong into sleep when he catches Eames’ wrist and slurs out, “You know, you’re really pretty like this.”
Eames thinks it’s entirely unfair that he drops off to sleep before he can retort. Although, to be fair, he hasn’t the foggiest what he’d say.
---
The next day Eames finds himself reaching for the shirts and trousers he normally tugs on for work before he decides to fuck it. Arthur was the one who invaded his house, after all, and it isn’t like the man hadn’t gotten a taste of his style the other night.
When he delivers Arthur breakfast in a velvet blue baby doll dress, however, the other man’s eyebrows look like they’re trying for a repeat performance of what they accomplished last night.
Eames crosses his arms over his chest. “Is this going to be a problem, Arthur?” he asks. “Because if it is I can call in some favors to get you shipped off to another place.” It hurts him, more than he thought it would, to think that Arthur might not want to be with him like this. He’s dealt with people’s disapproval-and worse-plenty of times, but with Arthur it’s different; different because Arthur isn’t just anybody.
Something softens in Arthur’s face, as if he can tell just what is going through Eames’ mind. “No, it won’t be any problem,” he says. “I just wasn’t sure if it was only something you did when you were going out.” He looks Arthur over, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You look very nice today.”
Eames flops down into the nearby armchair with a huff. “Well don’t think I got all dolled up for you,” he says. “I don’t even have my makeup on.”
“You wear makeup?” There’s a hint of dimples showing in his cheeks now. “I think I’d like to see that.”
Eames resolutely ignores the way his stomach flops over at that and steals a piece of toast off Arthur’s plate.
---
Things don’t actually change or, at least, not in the way Eames had thought they might.
Arthur still treats him the same as ever, sniping at Eames in the same dry, cutting fashion he always has. And, from the similar standard reaction of the others at their next job, it becomes apparent that he hasn’t told anyone else either.
But there was something different to be sure. Like how Arthur stares at him now whenever he thinks Eames won’t notice it. He can feel himself being picked apart under the weight of each stare, can practically hear the gears turning rapidly in Arthur’s mind as he makes sense of whatever new detail he’s found.
It should feel intrusive but instead Eames finds it flattering. Arthur only pays this kind of attention to the things that interest him, after all.
And he learns just what sort of interest Arthur has in him when he finds a note tucked into the pocket of his trousers once the job is finished. There’s no mistaking Arthur’s neat, precise handwriting (it’s among the first Eames learned to forge in dream-share).
Would you come over to my hotel room tonight if I asked? I’d like to see you before you skip out of town. I’ll even give you a chance to get dolled up.
-A
---
It takes a full hour (alright, an hour and a half) for Eames to head to Arthur’s hotel room (right down the hall from his own), but he could have been longer. He had brought only a few “just in case” outfits, after all, and had been right at the cusp of dashing out to buy something new. So, really, Arthur should be glad he came when it was still a reasonable hour.
Besides, he thinks he looks rather fetching, despite it all, in his slip dress of rosy silk and black peep toe heels. He even put on a pleasant layer of makeup and his dangling gold earrings match the bracelet on his wrist nicely.
There’s something in the way Arthur looks at him, though, which makes Eames want to puff up with even more pride than usual.
He wasn’t sure what to expect from Arthur after such an invitation, so he feels strangely touched when he sees the trolley layered with platters from room service. He is less surprised, however, to discover that Arthur knows his favorite meals. It’s the job of a point man to remember the details, after all, and Arthur is nothing if not the best.
The conversation passes almost astonishingly easy, their usual banter softened somehow. Arthur smiles more often, allowing himself to laugh even more, and at each flash of his dimples Eames found himself smiling to. (His stomach might also have been doing some pretty spectacular flips over the sparkle in Arthur’s eyes when he looked at him, but that’s neither here nor there.)
It wasn’t until over dessert, when Eames was lifting the last spoonful of crème brûlée tauntingly beyond Arthur’s reach, that Arthur finally leaned over and kissed him. The spoon tumbled to the floor to be forgotten, which Eames might have felt bad for if he didn’t know the cleaning staff was so good. Besides, he always tipped well.
The kisses somehow manage to get heated even with a table between them and then there isn’t one there at all because Arthur is actually ducking underneath it.
“Oi.” Eames knocks his foot into Arthur’s ribs, not enough to hurt but enough to tease. “Is this your way of showing me I’m easy?” It’s hard to complain, however, when he feels Arthur’s fingers tugging down the lacey underwear he wore (a lady always comes prepared).
“No,” Arthur says, “I’m telling you we both are.” He spares Eames from coming up with any sort of rebuttal for that, by swallowing Eames’ cock down almost to the root in one go.
Eames groans and it takes a full minute for him to become focused enough to reach under the table, tangling his fingers in Arthur’s hair. “Such a good boy.” He thought Arthur might rebel against such a thing, but the man only hums his approval around Eames’ cock before dipping down for more.
He doesn’t seem at all averse to letting Eames fuck into his mouth in slow, leisurely strokes and when Eames comes it’s enough to make his toes cruel in his heels. He drags Arthur up from under the table by his hair after, so he can show the man his gratitude with a bruising kiss.
Eames barely manages to get his hand inside Arthur’s trousers before the man comes apart at the brush of his fingers, shuddering through it all.
Arthur eases off Eames’ shoes before leading him over to the bed where he removed the dress with gentle hands, even going so far as to hang it up so it won’t wrinkle. Eames tries to have the same grace about taking off Arthur’s clothes, but in the end he just wants them off and Arthur laughs as he falls into bed with him, letting his clothes be tugged at without complaint.
There’s no real discussion of who’s topping, but Eames winds up slicked open and easing himself down onto Arthur’s cock anyway. It still feels like topping, though, from this position, especially when Arthur does little more then grip onto Eames’ hips and roll his own up when he can. He has a way of thrusting his head back against the pillows when the pleasure becomes too much and Eames takes full advantage of that to litter the gorgeous curve of his neck with love bites.
His second orgasm is as good as his first and when Arthur comes gritting his teeth around a hiss of pleasure, Eames kind of wishes he could feel Arthur filling him up.
Maybe another time, he thinks, as Arthur brackets his arms around him and rolls him back down to the bed.
---
Things went on that way for a few months. Usually it would happen whenever their work schedules conceded, which was often enough as it was.
Arthur had a bit of a rule about shagging on the job, but Eames had already learned just how to make him break it. The most effective one he’d learned was wearing lingerie under his work clothes and making sure Arthur knew about it. That had managed to get him hauled off to the warehouse bathroom.
Sometimes, though, Eames would head off to Arthur’s apartment in New York City. He tends to avoid calls from Harriet during those times because of the one time Arthur had answered his mobile for him. He already has to face enough questions about his “darling new American” now without having to do so when he wants to relax.
Then, just at the start of their fourth month, Arthur arrives outside his London flat. He overs up a sheepish smile while Eames boggles at him. “Um, hi,” he says. “Sorry for just showing up like this, but I… Well I missed you.”
Eames doesn’t bother to come up with a proper response for that. He’s pretty sure the way he drags Arthur into his flat by the tie probably shows just how pleased he is to see him.
Their days are spent lounging around in bed or out on the streets of London where Eames gives Arthur his own version of a tour. Halfway through the week, Eames wakes up to realize Arthur isn’t in his bed and almost has a heart attack until the man wanders through the bedroom door, freshly showered and doing up the buttons of his shirt.
He doesn’t offer any reasoning for being up so early (ten in the morning is still early by Eames’ count) just says, “I want to take you out.”
Eames realizes he really will have to wake up proper now, sitting up in bed with a large yawn. “And where are you taking me?” he asks, rubbing at an eye with the heel of his hand.
“Can’t tell you,” Arthur says. “It’s a surprise.” He shoots a considering look at Eames’ closet. “But you shouldn’t dress down.”
That makes Eames raise his eyebrows, but he does as Arthur says. Or, well, not entirely because Eames in a contrary bastard by nature so he dons a paisley patterned sundress. The print alone would be enough to make Arthur rebel, but the pink is a shade Arthur would deem “eye searing” as well.
Eames bats his eyes innocently when Arthur raises his eyebrows at his outfit. “I wanted to match my new heels,” he says, sticking out his foot. It’s half true anyway because the strappy sandals do wonders for his legs.
Arthur just snorts before turning to fetch the car. “Whatever you say, Eames.”
---
Eames tries to pry questions out of Arthur the whole way there, but Arthur refuses to budge. He agrees to give one hint, which makes Eames excited until what comes is,
“You’ll like it.” Arthur only laughs when Eames smacks him upside the head.
It isn’t until they actually arrive there that Eames sees that Arthur was right-he does like it.
The town isn’t one of those large, bustling places you’d expect from somewhere close to London. It’s actually almost what you would call quaint. Yet Eames can tell from a glance that it’s full to the brim with shops and boutiques of all varieties.
“Do you like it?” Arthur asks, coming up at Eames’ side.
“Like it?” Eames reaches out to cling at Arthur’s arm. “Darling, if we weren’t in public I would be snogging you senseless.”
“Don’t lie,” Arthur laughs, “you’d still do it then.”
“Alright,” Eames amends, “if there wasn’t so much shopping to be had.”
“That’s the spirit,” Arthur grins.
---
Arthur is a surprisingly good sport about being dragged from place to place, although perhaps that shouldn’t be so surprising given his own often elite fashion tastes. In fact, Eames isn’t above cratering to Arthur today too. Or, considering what he picks out, maybe he’s catering to himself more.
“Eames,” Arthur says after the waistcoat has been thrust into his hands.
“Not another word, darling.” Eames pushes Arthur off into the dressing room. “It will suit the dove gray of your shirt perfectly. Besides, I’ve already paid for it.”
Arthur might grumble about it a bit at first, but, honestly, Eames could have picked a far worse shade than black to go along with the paisley. And, besides, it’s not like he doesn’t catch Arthur smiling at him the whole time.
When they’re loading the (very many) bags into the back of the car, Eames really does seize Arthur and kiss him, even if it wasn’t quite the snog he’d promised. Because it was obvious now that this wasn’t something Arthur had just decided on at last minute.
He’d put a good deal of thought into it, in finding a place where Eames could feel comfortable just being himself.
“Thank you,” he says. He almost wants to say, “Love you,” too, but from the way Arthur beamed at him he might as well have.
---
Eames doesn’t tell Arthur when he’s going to do it. In fact, he doesn’t even tell Arthur that he is. Instead he feigns sleep in the morning to let Arthur go in early, which is such a regular occurrence that Arthur doesn’t do much else besides drop a kiss to the top of his head.
It isn’t until he hears the front door click that he slips out of bed to put on the outfit he planned out last night. The dress flows gracefully around him in floating coral layers, cinched at the waist with a sparkly silver belt, and his white flats have only a touch of heel. He’s proud of the way that his hand doesn’t tremble as he applies his makeup or slips on his jewelry.
He gets some looks, walking down the Parisian streets but it’s no more than he’s used to. Besides, he’s fairly sure at least some of them are admiring and that serves to make his stride all the more confident as he walks into the warehouse.
Arthur jolts straight up in his chair when he sees Eames, eyes darting around to look at everyone else. As Eames does the same, however, he finds there isn’t much to worry about. Dom is about the only one who seems thunderstruck, although Ariadne’s eyebrows are fast approaching her hairline.
Then Yusuf breaks the moment by lifting his cup of coffee in greeting. “Nice of you to join us, Eames. Did Arthur let you sleep in again? You lucky git.”
Eames is smiling before he even realizes it. “Not my fault I have such a lovely boyfriend.” He laughs when he hears Arthur choking on his coffee. It’s the first time he’s ever called Arthur that.
“Huh.” Ariadne tips her head to the side before smiling warmly. “Does that mean you’re awake enough to look over my drafts?” she asked. “There are a few kinks I want to work out.”
“Better test him first,” Dom said. “Last time he hobbled in half asleep and suggested you make a pirate ship because pirates are ‘cool’.”
“But not as cool as ninjas,” Arthur says. And he smirks when Dom throws his hands up in the air.
Eames heads over to Arthur first to grab the coffee that’s there waiting for him. He isn’t too surprised by the way Arthur catches his wrist when he does so. “You’re not angry are you?” he asks.
“Course not.” Arthur rubs his thumb across the inside of Eames’ wrist. “But if you’ve already told the team does this mean I can meet your family?”
Eames thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe,” he says. “Just give me some time to mentally prepare myself for it.”
Arthur laughs right into the kiss he’s given.
And, maybe, this is where it all starts anew.
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,662
Warnings: Slight use of homophobic language
Summary: The story of Eames. Start, middle, and restart.
A/N: Written for i-reversebang
Bit hard to believe this is all finished at last! Thanks go to quinn-ster and Tony jumping into the line of fire by assuming cheerleader positions. And, of course,check out chibifukurou for the art that inspired this.
It starts-if there has to be a start-when Eames discovers his sister’s makeup collection. At six years old he is already fascinated by the process the women in his family undergo when getting ready for any sort of event. He’s young enough that he can get away with sitting on the end of the bed, ogling all the brightly colored bottles and tubes spread out across the vanity table.
But it’s all always packed away after, going a place Eames can never locate. Until his sister takes up dance lessons. Each Thursday Harriet gets whisked away with their mother in the car and Eames uses the time that their away to scour his sister’s room. (Mummy’s room is off limits according to the maid who shooed him out the first time he tried.)
He finally finds it on the fifth day.
It feels like every inch of his small body is vibrating with excitement as he digs through what seems like a treasure trove. He has no idea what to try first, so he winds up trying a bit of everything. He knows what to do after watching his mother and sister so often, but it’s more difficult to pull off with his little hands.
He has an easier time with the lipstick, fascinated by all the different colors it comes in. He’s trying on an interesting shade of purple when his sister bounds through the door. He drops the lipstick at about the same time her jaw drops.
“Eames!” Harriet marches over to the vanity, frowning down at him as she gathers up the makeup. “What are you doing in my stuff?”
“I just wanted to try it out,” Eames protests. He snatches up the tube of lipstick, feeling tears prick in the back of his eyes as Harriet tries to tug it out of his hands. “Please, Harry, I’m sorry!”
“Whatever,” Harriet mutters. “You shouldn’t even be messing about with this stuff anyway.”
That confuses Eames. “But I like it,” he said. “Why can’t I do it if I like it?”
And just like that Harriet stops. She’s staring at him now, but her gaze is curious, not hostile. “You like it?” she asks.
“Yeah.” Eames sniffles. “But I don’t wanna if it’s bad.”
“Oh, Eames, it’s not bad.” Harriet kneels down on the floor next to the stool he’s perched on, plucking up some tissues. “But that color doesn’t suit your skin tone at all.” Her touch is soft as she starts to wipe away his work. “Why don’t you let me help make you up, yeah?”
She finishes just in time for them both to bound downstairs for dinner. Eames all but struts into the dining hall, wiggling his way up into his usual seat. He feels almost ridiculously pretty, like those pictures of the people he sees photos of in magazines.
His father clears his throat more than a bit awkwardly before the first course is even served. “Is Eames wearing makeup?” he asks.
Harriet fixes their father with an unwavering stare. “He likes it.” Her tone is firmed, as though to inform Father that she will rip to shreds anything she finds fault with.
The table is silent for a second before Father smiles at Eames’, the warmth in his eyes showing that it’s a true one. “Well then Eames, is there anything else you like?”
Eames fiddles with his fork, feeling uncharastically shy. “I might wanna try a dress.” Then, because he’s been given the chance at last, “And maybe some heels.”
“The heels might have to wait until you’re older,” Mummy says, “but I can make an appointment with Marguerite first thing tomorrow. You can go over designs for different dresses with her.”
Looking back on it, Eames knows he’s lucky.
---
Things got harder when he went to school, but perhaps that was to be expected. His mother chartered for him to make most of his earlier lessons at home where none of his tutors so much as batted an eye at his choice in fashion. His French teacher had even devoted a whole lesson to Paris fashions while the lovely lady who taught him Math let him paint her nails.
But then Eames hits eleven and the probing questions start to roll in.
Lady Helen, taking her tea in the drawing room with his mother, should be no more remarkable than any of the others, but, as it so happens, she arrives just late enough into it to be the straw on the camel’s back.
She stirs the cream into her tea with one of the dainty silver spoons, barely waiting until all that polite talk about the weather and such is out of the way before she pounces. “It’s not that I mean to pry-” Except she definitely does. Almost all high-class women are terrible gossips. “-but Eames has been kept at home for so long! It must get lonely for him with no other children to play with. Even his sister is away at school for most of the day.” That, in and of itself, is a pointed reminder that the
Countess never acted like this with her first child.
The woman in question, of course, ignores this attempted maneuver entirely. “We don’t try to restrict Eames’ play time,” she says, “but his studies are important as well.”
“So surely you’ll be sending him to join Harriet at St. Thomas’s this year,” Helen says. “Why your husband himself told me it was the best school in the region!” She hides her victorious smile behind the rim of her teacup as Eames’ mother flounders for a moment before shifting the conversation towards a different topic.
So St. Thomas’s it is.
Eames has to get fitted for the uniform and no matter how much his mother tries to talk up the stylish cut he still hates it. The suit is far too neutral for him, a dark blue that might as well be black, and when the tailor holds up a gray tie he actually flinches.
Harriet sweeps past the poor man, cutting off a stream of stuttering apologies. “They don’t actually dictate what kind of ties we wear, you know. So I don’t anyone will kick up a fuss if you go with this one.”
She holds up a red silk tie with golden paisley designs and Eames falls in love with it instantly. He knows she can see from the way she grins.
Their mother must realize it too because she sends the tailor off to fetch the full collection of ties. The man looks relieved to finally be able to do something what will please them.
Harriet waits until he’s nose deep in the racks to step forward with a sly look in her face. “Mum and I thought you might want this too.” She winks as she slides the lip gloss tube into Eames’ pocket. “And there’s more at home.”
---
His first few years of sixth form aren’t exactly what he’d call torturous, per say. He has Harriet still, who will reach for her cricket bat if she thinks someone’s messing with her little brother.
It's not something she has to do all that often, though, since the other kids don't actually bother him all that often. They can't, really, when they have no idea what to make of him. He baffles them with the way he defies all the typical teenage niches set in place, fitting in seamlessly with whatever group he chooses. He can be seen in the lunchroom, having in depth discussions with the rest of the drama club about whatever play they're doing, and then be spotted out in the quad, wrestling other blokes down to the grass during a game of rugby.
In the usually complex tumble that is teenage hood, Eames sets himself up as sort of an anomaly in how unruffled he appears, unaffected by the regular drama of the school hierarchy.
Or at least that's what he appears to everyone else. It's Eames' first lesson in how to throw up a different persona, something that can deflect people from what's really going on. He gets through school with the near constant feeling that there's an itch somewhere that he just can't scratch. It's soothed a little bit when he gets to slip a fresh layer of gloss over his lips in the privacy of the bathroom or talk about the latest fashion trends with the gaggle of girls that flock around Harriet. But he never fully feels at peace until he's at home, finally able to exchange his stuffy uniform for a lacy frock or full, swirling skirt, his heels feeling much more comfortable than his dress shoes ever could.
It might not be the best sort of arrangement, but it works. Right up until he’s fourteen to Harriet’s eighteen and she has to leave for university.
She hugs Eames tight when she goes, promises to call almost everyday and visit whenever she can, but both of them know it won’t be the same.
With Harriet gone, it becomes all too clear just how much of Eames’ life was wrapped up in hers. Being the only one left refreshes his novelty, makes people look at him with a renewed interest.
It probably wouldn’t be such a big deal except Eames is about to discover just how much of a bitch fate can be after he knocks into one of the other guys in the hall, the contents of his bag going everywhere.
“Bloody hell, man. Watch where you’re going.”
Eames didn’t bother to reply or even look up from snatching his things up from the floor, shoving them into his bag. He doesn’t think there’s anything odd in the silence that follows until he stands up, readjusting his bag on his shoulder to see the other kid holding his tube of lip gloss.
Oh, fuck.
“What the hell is this shit?” the guy demands.
Eames doesn’t even bother trying to explain himself, just holds out his hand. “Give it back.” He tries to make a grab for it when the guy doesn’t hand it over, but the kid yanks his hand back out of reach.
“What you want this?” Which is a stupid question to ask because yes Eames wants it and he’d like it before the crowd of people staring gets even bigger. “So you can wander off and get all dolled up for your man?” He tugs on Eames’ bag. “Got a full kit of the stuff in there, huh?”
Eames jerked back from the guy, glaring at him. “Piss off,” he snapped.
“Ooh.” And the guy looks far too pleased with himself. “Did I upset the little fairy?”
When asked about it later, slouched over in the principal’s office, Eames won’t really remember launching himself at the guy. He will, however, look out at the guy waiting outside, sporting a black eye and clutching a whole mass of tissues to his nose, and smirk.
Nothing, apparently, shows people’s true colors than something like this. The sport players start to edge away from Eames in the hallway until the drama club presents a united front.
“Well obviously the lip gloss belonged to me.” Mary was lounging against a locker as she talked to one of her friends, yet she was making sure to let her voice carry.
Her friend, Lucy, stares at her open mouthed. “Really?” she says.
“Of course.” Mary flipped her strawberry blond hair off over her shoulder. “I would have said as much if anyone actually bothered to ask.”
The rumors don’t stop all at once, but it doesn’t really matter. So long as Eames doesn’t have to deal with getting knocked around everyday than he’s fine. Or, rather, knocking other guys around. It’d probably get trying after a while.
---
The rest of his school career passes pretty easily after that. The days seem to drag on forever right up until they don’t and Eames is suddenly faced with the decision of what he wants to do with his life.
Let it be said that he tried to do the proper thing at first. He went to one of the universities his parents swore by and started learning about art because he thought it was interesting.
The turning point didn’t come until his second year when he’s sitting in one of the seedier bars in London and one of the better dressed shady men in their slides up to him.
“Hey, I’ve seen your work. Real good stuff, I swear. But have you ever thought of…ah…reproducing some pieces?”
There’s no turning back after that.
---
Eames joins the army on a lark, a way of hiding out while the blowout from his latest con plays out. Surprisingly, it actually turns out to be pretty good for him. It isn’t easy by any means. He hates that he has to wear a uniform every day and he mouths off to his superiors almost every day.
But it takes all his scrawny, potential muscle and molds into something more like the Eames that’s around nowadays, all broad shoulders and thick frame.
It takes only two years for him to get signed onto Project Somnacin and he takes to it like a duck to water. When the Cobbs announce their intentions to keep going with dream sharing even after the military pulls the plug, Eames follows them without a second thought.
It has nothing to do with Arthur, the Cobbs’ gorgeous and startlingly efficient point man. Nope, not at all.
---
When it comes to jobs, Eames tends to leave his kit at home. It’s not that he’s ashamed of the way he dresses--no one will ever manage to make him feel that way--but he just doesn’t see the point. He works with a bunch of people who are pretty much hired for their ability to lie through their teeth. Nothing about it has anything to do with trust.
Over jobs he channels his need for something else into odd designs over bright fabrics and his trusty lip gloss. The true rush comes when he gets to go under, slipping into a whole other form and dressing it up however he likes.
He ignores the calls from Harriet that tend to come in during these times because they’re usually filled with things like, “God, Eames, I can’t even… It’s like being back in school all over again, don’t you… Oh, don’t you dare hang up on me!” (He always does.)
It isn’t until after Inception is actually pulled off that things start to change because it’s hard to pull off a thing as seemingly impossible as that and not come away with some sort of camaraderie.
Or, well, there’s also the fact that Ariadne now refuses to work with anyone in the business she deems to be “sub-par” which kind of narrows the pool a bit. And, besides, he can’t say he hasn’t grown fond of her.
So they wind up as a team, of sorts, sometimes with Cobb tagging along and sometimes not. When he is there Eames manages to keep his eye rolling at a minimum and flips over to being an extractor when Cobb decides the kids need him more.
Arthur, of course, is a near constant but that doesn’t come as a surprise to Eames.
He’s always to their workspaces early, lounging around in his latest bespoke suit while making his own distaste over Eames’ own clothes plain.
It makes him wonder just how Arthur would react if he actually saw how Eames dresses on a regular basis. Not that he ever expects such a thing to happen.
But because Eames tends to forget just how much of a bitch fate can be (really, you’d think he’d have learned by now) it happens anyway.
---
London will never be at a want for nightclubs. The sort Eames loves, however, aren’t the elegant, classy ones set up to lure in tourists. It probably goes without saying that he favors are those tucked away places that even some of the locals give an odd eye to.
No one really thinks twice about what Eames shows up in, in places like that. All they care about is that he’s an attractive bloke with a charming smile. Which is why it’s no surprise that when Eames returns to his flat in the early hours of the morning, he’s wobbling around in a way that has nothing to do with his heels and more to do with the pleasant ache between his legs.
The real surprise comes in finding Arthur draped across his couch.
“Arthur?” Eames doesn’t screech but it’s a near thing. “What the utter fuck are you doing here?”
Arthur just groans at him, clutching a hand to his head. “Ugh, Eames, could you please not right now?” Then his eyes open and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
Eames jabs a finger at him before he can so much as open his mouth. “Not a word,” he bit out. “You’re the one who broke in to bleed all over my couch.”
“It’s not like it will actually make it any worse.” Arthur slumped a bit in the face of Eames’ glower. “I made sure to patch myself up before I actually got here.”
“Good.” Then Eames gives in to the urge to crouch down before the couch, pushing up Arthur’s shirt. He offers up an apology when Arthur hisses because he’s not a complete bastard. “Jesus Christ, how did you even get up here?”
“Through sheer force of will,” Arthur grits out. “Now please tell me you have some painkillers.”
Of course Eames has painkillers, ones he didn’t even have to steal since Harriet had the good sense to settle down with a doctor. Arthur swallows them all down greedily, barely even waiting for the glass of water to be brought to his lips.
He’s somewhere between drugged out of his mind and stumbling headlong into sleep when he catches Eames’ wrist and slurs out, “You know, you’re really pretty like this.”
Eames thinks it’s entirely unfair that he drops off to sleep before he can retort. Although, to be fair, he hasn’t the foggiest what he’d say.
---
The next day Eames finds himself reaching for the shirts and trousers he normally tugs on for work before he decides to fuck it. Arthur was the one who invaded his house, after all, and it isn’t like the man hadn’t gotten a taste of his style the other night.
When he delivers Arthur breakfast in a velvet blue baby doll dress, however, the other man’s eyebrows look like they’re trying for a repeat performance of what they accomplished last night.
Eames crosses his arms over his chest. “Is this going to be a problem, Arthur?” he asks. “Because if it is I can call in some favors to get you shipped off to another place.” It hurts him, more than he thought it would, to think that Arthur might not want to be with him like this. He’s dealt with people’s disapproval-and worse-plenty of times, but with Arthur it’s different; different because Arthur isn’t just anybody.
Something softens in Arthur’s face, as if he can tell just what is going through Eames’ mind. “No, it won’t be any problem,” he says. “I just wasn’t sure if it was only something you did when you were going out.” He looks Arthur over, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You look very nice today.”
Eames flops down into the nearby armchair with a huff. “Well don’t think I got all dolled up for you,” he says. “I don’t even have my makeup on.”
“You wear makeup?” There’s a hint of dimples showing in his cheeks now. “I think I’d like to see that.”
Eames resolutely ignores the way his stomach flops over at that and steals a piece of toast off Arthur’s plate.
---
Things don’t actually change or, at least, not in the way Eames had thought they might.
Arthur still treats him the same as ever, sniping at Eames in the same dry, cutting fashion he always has. And, from the similar standard reaction of the others at their next job, it becomes apparent that he hasn’t told anyone else either.
But there was something different to be sure. Like how Arthur stares at him now whenever he thinks Eames won’t notice it. He can feel himself being picked apart under the weight of each stare, can practically hear the gears turning rapidly in Arthur’s mind as he makes sense of whatever new detail he’s found.
It should feel intrusive but instead Eames finds it flattering. Arthur only pays this kind of attention to the things that interest him, after all.
And he learns just what sort of interest Arthur has in him when he finds a note tucked into the pocket of his trousers once the job is finished. There’s no mistaking Arthur’s neat, precise handwriting (it’s among the first Eames learned to forge in dream-share).
Would you come over to my hotel room tonight if I asked? I’d like to see you before you skip out of town. I’ll even give you a chance to get dolled up.
-A
---
It takes a full hour (alright, an hour and a half) for Eames to head to Arthur’s hotel room (right down the hall from his own), but he could have been longer. He had brought only a few “just in case” outfits, after all, and had been right at the cusp of dashing out to buy something new. So, really, Arthur should be glad he came when it was still a reasonable hour.
Besides, he thinks he looks rather fetching, despite it all, in his slip dress of rosy silk and black peep toe heels. He even put on a pleasant layer of makeup and his dangling gold earrings match the bracelet on his wrist nicely.
There’s something in the way Arthur looks at him, though, which makes Eames want to puff up with even more pride than usual.
He wasn’t sure what to expect from Arthur after such an invitation, so he feels strangely touched when he sees the trolley layered with platters from room service. He is less surprised, however, to discover that Arthur knows his favorite meals. It’s the job of a point man to remember the details, after all, and Arthur is nothing if not the best.
The conversation passes almost astonishingly easy, their usual banter softened somehow. Arthur smiles more often, allowing himself to laugh even more, and at each flash of his dimples Eames found himself smiling to. (His stomach might also have been doing some pretty spectacular flips over the sparkle in Arthur’s eyes when he looked at him, but that’s neither here nor there.)
It wasn’t until over dessert, when Eames was lifting the last spoonful of crème brûlée tauntingly beyond Arthur’s reach, that Arthur finally leaned over and kissed him. The spoon tumbled to the floor to be forgotten, which Eames might have felt bad for if he didn’t know the cleaning staff was so good. Besides, he always tipped well.
The kisses somehow manage to get heated even with a table between them and then there isn’t one there at all because Arthur is actually ducking underneath it.
“Oi.” Eames knocks his foot into Arthur’s ribs, not enough to hurt but enough to tease. “Is this your way of showing me I’m easy?” It’s hard to complain, however, when he feels Arthur’s fingers tugging down the lacey underwear he wore (a lady always comes prepared).
“No,” Arthur says, “I’m telling you we both are.” He spares Eames from coming up with any sort of rebuttal for that, by swallowing Eames’ cock down almost to the root in one go.
Eames groans and it takes a full minute for him to become focused enough to reach under the table, tangling his fingers in Arthur’s hair. “Such a good boy.” He thought Arthur might rebel against such a thing, but the man only hums his approval around Eames’ cock before dipping down for more.
He doesn’t seem at all averse to letting Eames fuck into his mouth in slow, leisurely strokes and when Eames comes it’s enough to make his toes cruel in his heels. He drags Arthur up from under the table by his hair after, so he can show the man his gratitude with a bruising kiss.
Eames barely manages to get his hand inside Arthur’s trousers before the man comes apart at the brush of his fingers, shuddering through it all.
Arthur eases off Eames’ shoes before leading him over to the bed where he removed the dress with gentle hands, even going so far as to hang it up so it won’t wrinkle. Eames tries to have the same grace about taking off Arthur’s clothes, but in the end he just wants them off and Arthur laughs as he falls into bed with him, letting his clothes be tugged at without complaint.
There’s no real discussion of who’s topping, but Eames winds up slicked open and easing himself down onto Arthur’s cock anyway. It still feels like topping, though, from this position, especially when Arthur does little more then grip onto Eames’ hips and roll his own up when he can. He has a way of thrusting his head back against the pillows when the pleasure becomes too much and Eames takes full advantage of that to litter the gorgeous curve of his neck with love bites.
His second orgasm is as good as his first and when Arthur comes gritting his teeth around a hiss of pleasure, Eames kind of wishes he could feel Arthur filling him up.
Maybe another time, he thinks, as Arthur brackets his arms around him and rolls him back down to the bed.
---
Things went on that way for a few months. Usually it would happen whenever their work schedules conceded, which was often enough as it was.
Arthur had a bit of a rule about shagging on the job, but Eames had already learned just how to make him break it. The most effective one he’d learned was wearing lingerie under his work clothes and making sure Arthur knew about it. That had managed to get him hauled off to the warehouse bathroom.
Sometimes, though, Eames would head off to Arthur’s apartment in New York City. He tends to avoid calls from Harriet during those times because of the one time Arthur had answered his mobile for him. He already has to face enough questions about his “darling new American” now without having to do so when he wants to relax.
Then, just at the start of their fourth month, Arthur arrives outside his London flat. He overs up a sheepish smile while Eames boggles at him. “Um, hi,” he says. “Sorry for just showing up like this, but I… Well I missed you.”
Eames doesn’t bother to come up with a proper response for that. He’s pretty sure the way he drags Arthur into his flat by the tie probably shows just how pleased he is to see him.
Their days are spent lounging around in bed or out on the streets of London where Eames gives Arthur his own version of a tour. Halfway through the week, Eames wakes up to realize Arthur isn’t in his bed and almost has a heart attack until the man wanders through the bedroom door, freshly showered and doing up the buttons of his shirt.
He doesn’t offer any reasoning for being up so early (ten in the morning is still early by Eames’ count) just says, “I want to take you out.”
Eames realizes he really will have to wake up proper now, sitting up in bed with a large yawn. “And where are you taking me?” he asks, rubbing at an eye with the heel of his hand.
“Can’t tell you,” Arthur says. “It’s a surprise.” He shoots a considering look at Eames’ closet. “But you shouldn’t dress down.”
That makes Eames raise his eyebrows, but he does as Arthur says. Or, well, not entirely because Eames in a contrary bastard by nature so he dons a paisley patterned sundress. The print alone would be enough to make Arthur rebel, but the pink is a shade Arthur would deem “eye searing” as well.
Eames bats his eyes innocently when Arthur raises his eyebrows at his outfit. “I wanted to match my new heels,” he says, sticking out his foot. It’s half true anyway because the strappy sandals do wonders for his legs.
Arthur just snorts before turning to fetch the car. “Whatever you say, Eames.”
---
Eames tries to pry questions out of Arthur the whole way there, but Arthur refuses to budge. He agrees to give one hint, which makes Eames excited until what comes is,
“You’ll like it.” Arthur only laughs when Eames smacks him upside the head.
It isn’t until they actually arrive there that Eames sees that Arthur was right-he does like it.
The town isn’t one of those large, bustling places you’d expect from somewhere close to London. It’s actually almost what you would call quaint. Yet Eames can tell from a glance that it’s full to the brim with shops and boutiques of all varieties.
“Do you like it?” Arthur asks, coming up at Eames’ side.
“Like it?” Eames reaches out to cling at Arthur’s arm. “Darling, if we weren’t in public I would be snogging you senseless.”
“Don’t lie,” Arthur laughs, “you’d still do it then.”
“Alright,” Eames amends, “if there wasn’t so much shopping to be had.”
“That’s the spirit,” Arthur grins.
---
Arthur is a surprisingly good sport about being dragged from place to place, although perhaps that shouldn’t be so surprising given his own often elite fashion tastes. In fact, Eames isn’t above cratering to Arthur today too. Or, considering what he picks out, maybe he’s catering to himself more.
“Eames,” Arthur says after the waistcoat has been thrust into his hands.
“Not another word, darling.” Eames pushes Arthur off into the dressing room. “It will suit the dove gray of your shirt perfectly. Besides, I’ve already paid for it.”
Arthur might grumble about it a bit at first, but, honestly, Eames could have picked a far worse shade than black to go along with the paisley. And, besides, it’s not like he doesn’t catch Arthur smiling at him the whole time.
When they’re loading the (very many) bags into the back of the car, Eames really does seize Arthur and kiss him, even if it wasn’t quite the snog he’d promised. Because it was obvious now that this wasn’t something Arthur had just decided on at last minute.
He’d put a good deal of thought into it, in finding a place where Eames could feel comfortable just being himself.
“Thank you,” he says. He almost wants to say, “Love you,” too, but from the way Arthur beamed at him he might as well have.
---
Eames doesn’t tell Arthur when he’s going to do it. In fact, he doesn’t even tell Arthur that he is. Instead he feigns sleep in the morning to let Arthur go in early, which is such a regular occurrence that Arthur doesn’t do much else besides drop a kiss to the top of his head.
It isn’t until he hears the front door click that he slips out of bed to put on the outfit he planned out last night. The dress flows gracefully around him in floating coral layers, cinched at the waist with a sparkly silver belt, and his white flats have only a touch of heel. He’s proud of the way that his hand doesn’t tremble as he applies his makeup or slips on his jewelry.
He gets some looks, walking down the Parisian streets but it’s no more than he’s used to. Besides, he’s fairly sure at least some of them are admiring and that serves to make his stride all the more confident as he walks into the warehouse.
Arthur jolts straight up in his chair when he sees Eames, eyes darting around to look at everyone else. As Eames does the same, however, he finds there isn’t much to worry about. Dom is about the only one who seems thunderstruck, although Ariadne’s eyebrows are fast approaching her hairline.
Then Yusuf breaks the moment by lifting his cup of coffee in greeting. “Nice of you to join us, Eames. Did Arthur let you sleep in again? You lucky git.”
Eames is smiling before he even realizes it. “Not my fault I have such a lovely boyfriend.” He laughs when he hears Arthur choking on his coffee. It’s the first time he’s ever called Arthur that.
“Huh.” Ariadne tips her head to the side before smiling warmly. “Does that mean you’re awake enough to look over my drafts?” she asked. “There are a few kinks I want to work out.”
“Better test him first,” Dom said. “Last time he hobbled in half asleep and suggested you make a pirate ship because pirates are ‘cool’.”
“But not as cool as ninjas,” Arthur says. And he smirks when Dom throws his hands up in the air.
Eames heads over to Arthur first to grab the coffee that’s there waiting for him. He isn’t too surprised by the way Arthur catches his wrist when he does so. “You’re not angry are you?” he asks.
“Course not.” Arthur rubs his thumb across the inside of Eames’ wrist. “But if you’ve already told the team does this mean I can meet your family?”
Eames thinks about it for a moment. “Maybe,” he says. “Just give me some time to mentally prepare myself for it.”
Arthur laughs right into the kiss he’s given.
And, maybe, this is where it all starts anew.