[Inception fic] Embraceable You
Arthur/Eames, for this prompt on the kink meme: community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/4946.html
Title: Embraceable You
Fandom: Inception
Disclaimer: All Inception characters, settings, and things of that ilk aren't mine.
Author: saintdogstreet
Pairings/Warnings: Arthur/Eames. Unbelievable schmoop and a snippet of sexual content
Summary: Five times Arthur was forced to hug Eames, and one time he did it all on his own.
05
"Hug me."
"Go away," Arthur doesn't look up from his notebook. Eames doesn't move. He folds his arms and sticks out his lower lip in that special kind of pout it took him years to perfect, but Arthur still doesn't look at him and the effect is completely wasted.
"We're celebrating, Arthur. Celebrating the sheer exhilarating joy of making it out of a complete cock-up scott-free. Isn't it a wonderful thing to be as alive and good-looking as we are? It is. It really is." Eames says. Arthur writes something, crosses it out, and ignores him completely.
Eames continues, "Do you know what normal people do when they've made it through something together, Arthur dear? They hug. It's quite nice, actually. Human contact. You should really try it, love."
"I'll schedule it in sometime," Arthur says in a clipped voice. Eames takes a drink.
"Honestly. I can't allow you to let such a joyous occasion pass without even a single chip in your composure. And by "composure," I mean "stick-up-your-arse.""
"I assure you, Mr. Eames, I am celebrating. In my mind. There's an entire party going on up here," Arthur taps his pen against his temple and then goes back to whatever the hell it is he's doing.
Eames snorts. "Ha. Very ha. I'm sure it's a blast."
"It is. You're not there."
"You wound me, darling," Eames says, clutching his chest dramatically and nearly spilling his drink on his shirt. It'd really only be an improvement, in Arthur's opinion. "You know what will make me feel better?"
"A one-way ticket to Mozambique?"
"A hug."
"No."
"Just one."
"No."
". . . Please?"
"No, thank you."
"Hug me."
"You're not going away, are you?"
"No. Hug me. Hugmehugmehugmehugme--"
"Oh, all right!" Arthur snaps, crisply slamming his notebook closed. His chair scrapes across the floor noisily. He stands up and places his arms stiffly around Eames, holding him as loosely as he possibly can, who grabs him before he can wriggle away and squeezes. Arthur stands rigidly, trapped in the heady beer-sandalwood-Eames smell and the warm pressure of Eames' paisley-clad arms.
He steps away as soon as Eames lets him go, smoothing out his suit. He gives the forger an icy glare.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Yes. Now go away."
"Aw, c'mon, sweetheart. One more for the road?"
"Don't make me hit you."
**
04
"Hug me," Eames demands.
"I'll pass, thanks," Arthur says, slapping another clip into the bottom of his gun. He twists behind a wall as a quick shower of bullets carves up the ground a foot away from them.
"Arthur, darling, unless you're planning on making the jump in that--" Eames gestures towards Arthur's ruined harness, still smoldering. "I suggest you remove whatever crawled up your arse and hug me."
Arthur quickly calculates whether he'd rather stay here and be slowly torn apart by projections or forced into close contact with Eames. The numbers are close.
"You've got about three seconds to get over here, love," Eames snaps, double-checking the buckles on his harness and giving the rope an experimental tug. The "love" is mostly drowned out by the sounds of gunfire.
Arthur slips his gun around the corner and fires off a round. A projection splays his arms as he's hit and crumples to the ground.
"Arthur, dammit, get over here and fuckin' hug me!" Eames is standing at the edge now, arms out and gesturing angrily towards him.
"Coming!" Arthur says, firing off the last of his shots. Two more projections go down and Arthur's already turning and running.
He skids to a halt in front of Eames, who doesn't waste another second and pulls him close. He smells like gunpowder and sweat and he's holding Arthur tight enough to hurt.
Arthur peers over his shoulder and looks down. The city street is an impossible number of stories below them.
He swallows once and wraps his arms around Eames' waist, pressing the lengths of their bodies together and winding his fingers into the back of his jacket and gripping hard.
"Hold on tight, love," Eames murmurs in his ear, and they fall of the edge of the world.
**
03
"Hug me," Eames hisses, not bothering to wait for Arthur to protest and just throwing his arms around him.
"Oof," Arthur says, pulled off balance. His hands are trapped somewhere between them and he struggles, hitting Eames once in the floating rib so that he jerks against him with a curse, until they're free.
"What the hell?" Arthur demands, as Eames doesn't let go but just tightens his grip. He manhandles Arthur until his back's against the brick wall of an alleyway. Arthur tries not to think about what's happening to his suit.
"Those are Heller's mooks," Eames whispers, tilting his head back towards them. Arthur tries to peer over his shoulder and catches a quick glimpse of two men with roughly the builds of eighteen-wheelers in awful black suits.
"No, don't look," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's chin and twisting it back around. He leans in, forehead pressing against Arthur's, and at this angle they're close enough they could be kissing.
"Just act natural," Eames suggests. His breath flutters against Arthur's lips, smelling like tea and cigarettes.
"Natural? It is not natural for me to be hugging men in alleys," Arthur growls.
"Oh, calm down, darling. Just for a minute, pretend that you don't hate me." Eames shifts, readjusting Arthur in his grasp.
". . .I don't," Arthur says quietly.
"What?"
"Hate you. I don't hate you."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
There's long moment of silence as they stand together, breathing in each other's warmth.
"I think they're gone," Arthur says eventually, craning his neck to scan the street.
"Yeah?" Eames asks.
Arthur nods, chin brushing against Eames' shoulder.
Neither of them move.
**
02
"Arthur?" Eames calls out into the darkened room. He pads inside, flicking on the light-switch as he does so the fluorescents flicker and then glow shadowless in the quiet room. "You in here?"
Arthur squints harshly in the sudden light, throwing up a hand in front of his eyes.
"Oh, Arthur," Eames says. He walks over and crouches down to where Arthur is huddled on the ground, knees brought up to his chest.
"Are you all right?" Eames asks quietly. Arthur takes a trembling breath and doesn't say a word. He's staring at his hands, clean and neat and whole, ten fingers and all and not a spot of blood, and it's not real, it's just a dream, and he knows that, knows he's unbruised and all together and just fine and--
"Easy, darling," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's shoulder. Arthur flinches beneath his touch. "Easy. It's okay."
"Breathe, love," he encourages, lowering himself into sitting as Arthur shivers next to him. "It'll be all right."
Arthur bites his lip and doesn't look at him.
"Come here," Eames says, holding out his arms. Arthur shakes his head and shifts away and tries to get control of himself.
"Hey, look," Eames says. "This is the real world, all right? This is all real, and you're here all right and you're with me. You're not alone, darling, and you're not with them. It's just me. Let me help you."
Arthur's fingers twist in the fabric of his trousers and he swallows hard.
"For once in your life, Arthur," Eames' voice is soft, "Just let me help you."
His arms are still open in invitation. Arthur peels his gaze from the concrete floor and looks at him, stares into the forger's eyes and studies what he sees there.
Eames nods.
Arthur moves, sliding closer and leaning in, and Eames' arms go up around him. Solid and impenetrable and not going anywhere. Arthur breathes in his sandalwood smell and the tang of his leather jacket and his breath hitches in a way that's almost a sob.
"It's okay," Eames murmurs. "Just breathe, darling. Just sit there and hug me and you'll be okay."
Arthur closes his eyes. He buries his face in Eames' shoulder and winds his arms around him and holds on tightly to Eames, to reality, and breathes.
**
01
"Arthur, darling, jesus," Eames says, or at least tries to. It comes out mostly as a moan. His neck is craned back, eyes closed and oblivious to the ceiling above him. His fingers twist in Arthur's short hair, ruining his perfectly slicked-back style.
Arthur does something with his tongue that Eames can't describe but which, if pressed, he would gladly swear up and down is the best thing since liquor or sunshine or REM sleep.
He moans again, muscles shivering, and then Arthur is--
"Love, I'm going to--" he warns, and then there's a minor supernova in his mind as entire mental galaxies explode. His fingers curl into Arthur's hair and his hips buck and oh christ where the hell did he learn to do that? and then he's gasping for air.
He opens his eyes and looks down in time to see Arthur swallowing, pulling away from his slowly, far enough that he can clean him with his tongue. Eames bites his lip and muffles the noise in his mouth before it can escape.
Arthur licks his lips like a cat. His eyes are narrowed and satisfied and he settles back on his heels, straightening his tie. He looks up at Eames and gives a tiny quirk of his lips when he sees his expression. Eames breathes out in a whoosh and runs a hand through his air, leaving it sticking up wildly.
Eames offers down a hand and helps Arthur to his feet. Arthur runs his hands down his chest, smoothing down his suit, tugging the jacket until it's up to his standards.
"Hey," Eames says. "Thanks."
Arthur shrugs, eyes flicking away.
"Didn't know you had it in you," Eames says, resting a hand on Arthur's upper arm.
Arthur shrugs it off.
"Guess I'm full of surprises," he says. His words are brisk and he turns to go.
"Wait, come on," Eames says, stepping after him. "'Least give me a parting hug, eh?"
He moves closer to him and slings an arm over Arthur's shoulders. Arthur stiffens beneath his touch. Eames freezes.
"What?" he asks. "You can suck me off but you can't give me a hug?"
Arthur shakes his head, sidestepping neatly out of Eames' reach.
"No," he says. "It's not. . ."
"Did I fuck up somehow?" Eames asks quietly.
"No," Arthur shakes his head again. "No, nothing. You didn't do anything, Eames. I'm just. . . afraid I've overestimated my own fortitude when it comes to. . . this."
"Uh-huh," Eames nods. "And what the bloody hell does that mean, exactly?"
Arthur looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not cut out for this kind of arrangement, unfortunately. I'm sorry, I thought this relationship would. . . I thought I could. . ." he trails off. "I'm sorry."
"Relationship?" Eames snorts. "Arthur, we don't have a sodding relationship. We're just. . ." he gestures at the room, back at the spot where Arthur had just been on his knees blowing him. "Just this."
"I know," Arthur nods stiffly.
He continues before Eames can say anything else. "Look, thank you, for all this. Really. I. . . I enjoyed it. But I can't do it anymore. I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Eames says, nodding. "You said."
"I have to go," Arthur says choppily, and heads for the door in a pace just controlled enough to not be a sprint. Eames watches him go with an open mouth.
What the hell was that?
He and Arthur had been doing fine, lately. Work and sex and hell, even friendship. It was all working nicely, he had thought. He had thought it was working great. Sometimes even Arthur looked like he had something great. And sure, hell, maybe Eames had wanted a little more, but this was Arthur they were talking about. Arthur who wouldn't know something more if it hit him in the face. Arthur who didn't trust people farther than he could throw them -- fuck, less than that, Arthur could throw people pretty far. Arthur who wouldn't have known how to ask for a relationship if he wanted it-- Oh.
Oh.
"Oh, you stupid bastard!" Eames exclaims. He takes off at a run for the door.
"Arthur!" he yells, searching the street. "Arthur, you tosser, where are you?"
He scans wildly around, checking and dismissing the sluggishly churning crowd.
Finally, he spots the impeccable lines of a familiar suit, perfectly tailored and dusty at the knees.
Eames dodges through the crowd until he gets to him, yanking him by the shoulders.
"You twat," he pants. "You great bloody idiot."
Arthur jerks back, surprised and confused and offended.
"Eames--" he begins, and said Eames cuts him.
"You stupid thick-headed emotionally-stunted beautiful bastard, if you wanted something more than "just this" why the fuck didn't you just ask?" Eames growls.
Arthur stares. "I-- what--"
"Fuck. I want a relationship, love, is what I'm saying. An actual relationship." Eames says. "And I'm pretty sure you do, too."
". . . You do?" Arthur asks quietly, ignoring the crowd around him and the people brushing against his shoulders, just staring at Eames.
Eames nods furiously.
"Well, why didn't you ask me then?" Arthur demands. "Why do I have to be the idiot here?"
"You're the idiot because you're the one who threw a hissy fit and walked out because you're so emotionally crippled and fragile you can't ask for what you want!" Eames politely explains.
"I am not fragile," Arthur argues.
"Are too."
"Am not."
"Are too. And are we going to do this fucking thing, or what?"
"Am not. And yes, dammit. Yes. I want. . . I want this, okay?"
"Yes, you idiot, okay. Christ. Was this so difficult?
"Bite me."
"Shut up," Eames snaps. "Shut up and hug me, you idiot."
"Fucker," Arthur mutters, and Eames flings his arms around him.
**
00
Eames sighs, scrubbing a hand down the side of his face and cursing quietly. He stares at the file of all the info they have on Neil Adams and curses again.
If it wasn't for bloody Mr. Adams and his impossible little dream-world he probably would've noticed the quiet footsteps coming up behind him, but as it were, the thin arms that snake their way around his waist catch him off guard.
At any rate, he recognizes the feel of Arthur almost instantly. Behind him, the point man hugs him lightly, resting his head on the back of Eames' shoulder.
Eames slides around in Arthur's grip until they're facing each other in a proper hug, pulling up his arms around him. He likes the feel of Arthur in his embrace, the weight and smell and warmth of him.
"What's all this, then?" he asks.
Arthur shrugs, making Eames' arms shift. "You looked like you needed it."
Eames nods in agreement. "Well, in that case, thanks. Feel free to trade this in for sexual favours later."
Arthur smiles slightly, just a little pull of his lips. He pauses.
"Eames, I. . ." Arthur hesitates, a rare delightful instance of him lost for words. Eames quirks an eyebrow.
"Yes, love?"
"I just. . ." Arthur stumbles, licking his lips nervously. "I wanted you to know. . . I lo-- I like hugging you."
Eames grins.
"Well, darling, I quite like hugging you too."
Title: Embraceable You
Fandom: Inception
Disclaimer: All Inception characters, settings, and things of that ilk aren't mine.
Author: saintdogstreet
Pairings/Warnings: Arthur/Eames. Unbelievable schmoop and a snippet of sexual content
Summary: Five times Arthur was forced to hug Eames, and one time he did it all on his own.
05
"Hug me."
"Go away," Arthur doesn't look up from his notebook. Eames doesn't move. He folds his arms and sticks out his lower lip in that special kind of pout it took him years to perfect, but Arthur still doesn't look at him and the effect is completely wasted.
"We're celebrating, Arthur. Celebrating the sheer exhilarating joy of making it out of a complete cock-up scott-free. Isn't it a wonderful thing to be as alive and good-looking as we are? It is. It really is." Eames says. Arthur writes something, crosses it out, and ignores him completely.
Eames continues, "Do you know what normal people do when they've made it through something together, Arthur dear? They hug. It's quite nice, actually. Human contact. You should really try it, love."
"I'll schedule it in sometime," Arthur says in a clipped voice. Eames takes a drink.
"Honestly. I can't allow you to let such a joyous occasion pass without even a single chip in your composure. And by "composure," I mean "stick-up-your-arse.""
"I assure you, Mr. Eames, I am celebrating. In my mind. There's an entire party going on up here," Arthur taps his pen against his temple and then goes back to whatever the hell it is he's doing.
Eames snorts. "Ha. Very ha. I'm sure it's a blast."
"It is. You're not there."
"You wound me, darling," Eames says, clutching his chest dramatically and nearly spilling his drink on his shirt. It'd really only be an improvement, in Arthur's opinion. "You know what will make me feel better?"
"A one-way ticket to Mozambique?"
"A hug."
"No."
"Just one."
"No."
". . . Please?"
"No, thank you."
"Hug me."
"You're not going away, are you?"
"No. Hug me. Hugmehugmehugmehugme--"
"Oh, all right!" Arthur snaps, crisply slamming his notebook closed. His chair scrapes across the floor noisily. He stands up and places his arms stiffly around Eames, holding him as loosely as he possibly can, who grabs him before he can wriggle away and squeezes. Arthur stands rigidly, trapped in the heady beer-sandalwood-Eames smell and the warm pressure of Eames' paisley-clad arms.
He steps away as soon as Eames lets him go, smoothing out his suit. He gives the forger an icy glare.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Yes. Now go away."
"Aw, c'mon, sweetheart. One more for the road?"
"Don't make me hit you."
**
04
"Hug me," Eames demands.
"I'll pass, thanks," Arthur says, slapping another clip into the bottom of his gun. He twists behind a wall as a quick shower of bullets carves up the ground a foot away from them.
"Arthur, darling, unless you're planning on making the jump in that--" Eames gestures towards Arthur's ruined harness, still smoldering. "I suggest you remove whatever crawled up your arse and hug me."
Arthur quickly calculates whether he'd rather stay here and be slowly torn apart by projections or forced into close contact with Eames. The numbers are close.
"You've got about three seconds to get over here, love," Eames snaps, double-checking the buckles on his harness and giving the rope an experimental tug. The "love" is mostly drowned out by the sounds of gunfire.
Arthur slips his gun around the corner and fires off a round. A projection splays his arms as he's hit and crumples to the ground.
"Arthur, dammit, get over here and fuckin' hug me!" Eames is standing at the edge now, arms out and gesturing angrily towards him.
"Coming!" Arthur says, firing off the last of his shots. Two more projections go down and Arthur's already turning and running.
He skids to a halt in front of Eames, who doesn't waste another second and pulls him close. He smells like gunpowder and sweat and he's holding Arthur tight enough to hurt.
Arthur peers over his shoulder and looks down. The city street is an impossible number of stories below them.
He swallows once and wraps his arms around Eames' waist, pressing the lengths of their bodies together and winding his fingers into the back of his jacket and gripping hard.
"Hold on tight, love," Eames murmurs in his ear, and they fall of the edge of the world.
**
03
"Hug me," Eames hisses, not bothering to wait for Arthur to protest and just throwing his arms around him.
"Oof," Arthur says, pulled off balance. His hands are trapped somewhere between them and he struggles, hitting Eames once in the floating rib so that he jerks against him with a curse, until they're free.
"What the hell?" Arthur demands, as Eames doesn't let go but just tightens his grip. He manhandles Arthur until his back's against the brick wall of an alleyway. Arthur tries not to think about what's happening to his suit.
"Those are Heller's mooks," Eames whispers, tilting his head back towards them. Arthur tries to peer over his shoulder and catches a quick glimpse of two men with roughly the builds of eighteen-wheelers in awful black suits.
"No, don't look," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's chin and twisting it back around. He leans in, forehead pressing against Arthur's, and at this angle they're close enough they could be kissing.
"Just act natural," Eames suggests. His breath flutters against Arthur's lips, smelling like tea and cigarettes.
"Natural? It is not natural for me to be hugging men in alleys," Arthur growls.
"Oh, calm down, darling. Just for a minute, pretend that you don't hate me." Eames shifts, readjusting Arthur in his grasp.
". . .I don't," Arthur says quietly.
"What?"
"Hate you. I don't hate you."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
There's long moment of silence as they stand together, breathing in each other's warmth.
"I think they're gone," Arthur says eventually, craning his neck to scan the street.
"Yeah?" Eames asks.
Arthur nods, chin brushing against Eames' shoulder.
Neither of them move.
**
02
"Arthur?" Eames calls out into the darkened room. He pads inside, flicking on the light-switch as he does so the fluorescents flicker and then glow shadowless in the quiet room. "You in here?"
Arthur squints harshly in the sudden light, throwing up a hand in front of his eyes.
"Oh, Arthur," Eames says. He walks over and crouches down to where Arthur is huddled on the ground, knees brought up to his chest.
"Are you all right?" Eames asks quietly. Arthur takes a trembling breath and doesn't say a word. He's staring at his hands, clean and neat and whole, ten fingers and all and not a spot of blood, and it's not real, it's just a dream, and he knows that, knows he's unbruised and all together and just fine and--
"Easy, darling," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's shoulder. Arthur flinches beneath his touch. "Easy. It's okay."
"Breathe, love," he encourages, lowering himself into sitting as Arthur shivers next to him. "It'll be all right."
Arthur bites his lip and doesn't look at him.
"Come here," Eames says, holding out his arms. Arthur shakes his head and shifts away and tries to get control of himself.
"Hey, look," Eames says. "This is the real world, all right? This is all real, and you're here all right and you're with me. You're not alone, darling, and you're not with them. It's just me. Let me help you."
Arthur's fingers twist in the fabric of his trousers and he swallows hard.
"For once in your life, Arthur," Eames' voice is soft, "Just let me help you."
His arms are still open in invitation. Arthur peels his gaze from the concrete floor and looks at him, stares into the forger's eyes and studies what he sees there.
Eames nods.
Arthur moves, sliding closer and leaning in, and Eames' arms go up around him. Solid and impenetrable and not going anywhere. Arthur breathes in his sandalwood smell and the tang of his leather jacket and his breath hitches in a way that's almost a sob.
"It's okay," Eames murmurs. "Just breathe, darling. Just sit there and hug me and you'll be okay."
Arthur closes his eyes. He buries his face in Eames' shoulder and winds his arms around him and holds on tightly to Eames, to reality, and breathes.
**
01
"Arthur, darling, jesus," Eames says, or at least tries to. It comes out mostly as a moan. His neck is craned back, eyes closed and oblivious to the ceiling above him. His fingers twist in Arthur's short hair, ruining his perfectly slicked-back style.
Arthur does something with his tongue that Eames can't describe but which, if pressed, he would gladly swear up and down is the best thing since liquor or sunshine or REM sleep.
He moans again, muscles shivering, and then Arthur is--
"Love, I'm going to--" he warns, and then there's a minor supernova in his mind as entire mental galaxies explode. His fingers curl into Arthur's hair and his hips buck and oh christ where the hell did he learn to do that? and then he's gasping for air.
He opens his eyes and looks down in time to see Arthur swallowing, pulling away from his slowly, far enough that he can clean him with his tongue. Eames bites his lip and muffles the noise in his mouth before it can escape.
Arthur licks his lips like a cat. His eyes are narrowed and satisfied and he settles back on his heels, straightening his tie. He looks up at Eames and gives a tiny quirk of his lips when he sees his expression. Eames breathes out in a whoosh and runs a hand through his air, leaving it sticking up wildly.
Eames offers down a hand and helps Arthur to his feet. Arthur runs his hands down his chest, smoothing down his suit, tugging the jacket until it's up to his standards.
"Hey," Eames says. "Thanks."
Arthur shrugs, eyes flicking away.
"Didn't know you had it in you," Eames says, resting a hand on Arthur's upper arm.
Arthur shrugs it off.
"Guess I'm full of surprises," he says. His words are brisk and he turns to go.
"Wait, come on," Eames says, stepping after him. "'Least give me a parting hug, eh?"
He moves closer to him and slings an arm over Arthur's shoulders. Arthur stiffens beneath his touch. Eames freezes.
"What?" he asks. "You can suck me off but you can't give me a hug?"
Arthur shakes his head, sidestepping neatly out of Eames' reach.
"No," he says. "It's not. . ."
"Did I fuck up somehow?" Eames asks quietly.
"No," Arthur shakes his head again. "No, nothing. You didn't do anything, Eames. I'm just. . . afraid I've overestimated my own fortitude when it comes to. . . this."
"Uh-huh," Eames nods. "And what the bloody hell does that mean, exactly?"
Arthur looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not cut out for this kind of arrangement, unfortunately. I'm sorry, I thought this relationship would. . . I thought I could. . ." he trails off. "I'm sorry."
"Relationship?" Eames snorts. "Arthur, we don't have a sodding relationship. We're just. . ." he gestures at the room, back at the spot where Arthur had just been on his knees blowing him. "Just this."
"I know," Arthur nods stiffly.
He continues before Eames can say anything else. "Look, thank you, for all this. Really. I. . . I enjoyed it. But I can't do it anymore. I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Eames says, nodding. "You said."
"I have to go," Arthur says choppily, and heads for the door in a pace just controlled enough to not be a sprint. Eames watches him go with an open mouth.
What the hell was that?
He and Arthur had been doing fine, lately. Work and sex and hell, even friendship. It was all working nicely, he had thought. He had thought it was working great. Sometimes even Arthur looked like he had something great. And sure, hell, maybe Eames had wanted a little more, but this was Arthur they were talking about. Arthur who wouldn't know something more if it hit him in the face. Arthur who didn't trust people farther than he could throw them -- fuck, less than that, Arthur could throw people pretty far. Arthur who wouldn't have known how to ask for a relationship if he wanted it-- Oh.
Oh.
"Oh, you stupid bastard!" Eames exclaims. He takes off at a run for the door.
"Arthur!" he yells, searching the street. "Arthur, you tosser, where are you?"
He scans wildly around, checking and dismissing the sluggishly churning crowd.
Finally, he spots the impeccable lines of a familiar suit, perfectly tailored and dusty at the knees.
Eames dodges through the crowd until he gets to him, yanking him by the shoulders.
"You twat," he pants. "You great bloody idiot."
Arthur jerks back, surprised and confused and offended.
"Eames--" he begins, and said Eames cuts him.
"You stupid thick-headed emotionally-stunted beautiful bastard, if you wanted something more than "just this" why the fuck didn't you just ask?" Eames growls.
Arthur stares. "I-- what--"
"Fuck. I want a relationship, love, is what I'm saying. An actual relationship." Eames says. "And I'm pretty sure you do, too."
". . . You do?" Arthur asks quietly, ignoring the crowd around him and the people brushing against his shoulders, just staring at Eames.
Eames nods furiously.
"Well, why didn't you ask me then?" Arthur demands. "Why do I have to be the idiot here?"
"You're the idiot because you're the one who threw a hissy fit and walked out because you're so emotionally crippled and fragile you can't ask for what you want!" Eames politely explains.
"I am not fragile," Arthur argues.
"Are too."
"Am not."
"Are too. And are we going to do this fucking thing, or what?"
"Am not. And yes, dammit. Yes. I want. . . I want this, okay?"
"Yes, you idiot, okay. Christ. Was this so difficult?
"Bite me."
"Shut up," Eames snaps. "Shut up and hug me, you idiot."
"Fucker," Arthur mutters, and Eames flings his arms around him.
**
00
Eames sighs, scrubbing a hand down the side of his face and cursing quietly. He stares at the file of all the info they have on Neil Adams and curses again.
If it wasn't for bloody Mr. Adams and his impossible little dream-world he probably would've noticed the quiet footsteps coming up behind him, but as it were, the thin arms that snake their way around his waist catch him off guard.
At any rate, he recognizes the feel of Arthur almost instantly. Behind him, the point man hugs him lightly, resting his head on the back of Eames' shoulder.
Eames slides around in Arthur's grip until they're facing each other in a proper hug, pulling up his arms around him. He likes the feel of Arthur in his embrace, the weight and smell and warmth of him.
"What's all this, then?" he asks.
Arthur shrugs, making Eames' arms shift. "You looked like you needed it."
Eames nods in agreement. "Well, in that case, thanks. Feel free to trade this in for sexual favours later."
Arthur smiles slightly, just a little pull of his lips. He pauses.
"Eames, I. . ." Arthur hesitates, a rare delightful instance of him lost for words. Eames quirks an eyebrow.
"Yes, love?"
"I just. . ." Arthur stumbles, licking his lips nervously. "I wanted you to know. . . I lo-- I like hugging you."
Eames grins.
"Well, darling, I quite like hugging you too."