Fic: Walsingham (5 of 5)
Title: Walsingham
Authors: agaryulnaer86 and myself
Pairing/Character(s): Arthur/Eames, and Ariadne
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence and disturbing imagery, the foulest of language, adult situations and sexual content, and an adorable kitten. But just the one.
Summary: Ariadne, Eames and Arthur work a job over the holidays. Hijinks ensue, including but not limited to: chicken soup, a stray kitten, avoidance of the casting couch, a clown, and a job gone a bit sideways. Also, Chrismukkah.
Author's Notes: Written for the promts messy blowjobs and exploring dreamshare and canonverse.
master post
part one
part two
part three
part four
----
The next day, Christmas Eve, is a lazy one compared to the past couple of weeks, even taking Eames' illness into consideration. They meet Ariadne for lunch, and Arthur drives her out to JFK, where her flight is waiting to take her to Toronto and her parents' for Christmas. And taking into account that it is the afternoon of Christmas Eve and he is driving on Long Island, he sits in traffic for pretty much the entirety of his trip, both getting her to her flight and on his way back. By the time he makes it back into Manhattan, grumbling very seriously about not just putting Ariadne on the subway and having done with it.
Of course, he doesn't mean it. Mostly. The hug she'd given him as she'd gotten out of the car had more or less been worth it.
He is, however, a bit wary of having left Eames to his own devices in the apartment for the entirety of the afternoon, since their lunch with Ariadne. He'd texted when he'd finally left JFK, letting Eames know it would be a while, but it's after dark before he pulls through the gate and up to the front of his building, paper bag of Chinese food steaming in the passenger seat.
It's tradition for him, has been ever since he was a kid, eating Chinese food on Christmas Eve and getting drunk and watching football on Christmas Day. It's not even because he's Jewish, or not really. At this point, it's just because he can, because if he wants to eat Chinese food and play Madden all night, he damned well will.
Or, you know, other things. With Eames. Whatever Eames wants to do, really, not that Arthur would ever tell him that. Ever.
He'd expected that the apartment might be a disaster area. He'd anticipated maybe a spill, probably some things strewn here and there, and definitely kitty litter tracked across the foyer from Wally's cat box, set on the linoleum next to the door because Arthur refuses to have it in the bathroom.
Well, the kitty litter is there. It'd been there when they'd left for lunch. However, there are a number of new additions.
For one, there is a tree. Possibly the spindliest tree in the world, in point of fact, propped up in the corner and still in its burlap sack of dirt, not even cut down (which Arthur actually approves of; he's all for saving the environment, never mind that he often works for the companies responsible for destroying it. He never claimed not to be a hypocrite) and covered in more than its weight in blue Christmas lights. There is silver tinsel over every surface and on much of the floor (Wally's doing, undoubtedly). And there is an Eames in the middle of said floor, sprawled on his back in what has to be the most hideous sweater Arthur has ever seen.
Wally is sprawled out next to him, on his back with all four paws splayed, Eames' necklace still caught in his teeth even while asleep. Said necklace consists of blinking Christmas lights.
For a long moment, Arthur just stares, trying his damnedest not to laugh and at least mostly succeeding. And then he slowly steps over the two of them to set the bag of Chinese food down on the coffee table. "I brought dinner...."
Eames turns his head just enough not to disturb Wally to watch Arthur pass, grinning tiredly up at him. He’d been more than half asleep himself; once the kitten had passed out, Eames would have felt bad removing the necklace from him, and so had stayed where he was, and then soon enough… well, the rest is history. And now Arthur is here, and Eames is glad it took him all day to drive Ariadne to the airport and get food because he certainly looks surprised.
“Happy Christmas!” the forger says, good cheer not even a little bit faked. He’s starting to wake up again, but Wally is not, and so Eames doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. From here, he can see the tree, with its blue lights, and the tinsel everywhere, and the blinking lights from his necklace… and, over on Arthur’s desk, the last addition to his holiday decorating.
For this, Eames manages to lift his arm, pointing so that Arthur will see the last bit. “Also Hanukkah.” Naturally, Eames is well aware that Arthur is more or less Jewish. More or less because he doesn’t seem to actually practice religion in any noticeable way. But Eames doesn’t go to church on Sundays unless he has it forced upon him or he is feeling particularly guilty, and he’s still more or less Catholic, so. That would explain the small menorah sitting on Arthur’s desk, glowing a cheerful blue to match the lights on the tree- because, as had been explained to him at the store, the blue lights are Hanukkah colors- plugged into his computer.
Eames had considered an actual menorah, but for one thing, he doesn’t actually understand how many you light or what it is you do at all, and for another… well, he thinks the little LED menorah is a bit adorable. Arthur opens his mouth, and Eames shushes him. “I know it’s partially over, we’re celebrating now. It’s Christmakkah! We’re festive.” He pauses, glances down at his sweater with its woven Christmas tree and snowflakes of varying colors, and then at Arthur’s immaculate-as-always dress shirt. “Well, I’m festive. You’ll be needing some Christmas lights, or at least some tinsel, love.”
Arthur's eyes widen, and he backs away slightly. "No, that's okay, I don't need a sweater," he says, looking wary.
Well, the room is certainly... festive. He'll give Eames that. Looking down at his shirt, which is clean but feels dirty after all day in the car, he sighs loudly and goes to change... and while he's in the bedroom, he gives up on fighting back his smile.
He has it mostly smothered again when he reappears in jeans, of all things, real jeans, not designer ones, made for comfort and less so for style, and a soft, worn red henley. It's Christmas-colored, at least, and it's the best Eames is going to get, so there had better not be any arguing. Without a word, he goes to grab plates, and finds the egg nog in the fridge. That and glasses come back with him, and he plops down onto the couch, grabbing the remote. "In the spirit of the season, allow me to introduce you to National Lampoon's Christmas, even though I'm sure it's going to give you bad ideas- "
He stops mid-sentence, however, because when he clicks on the television, the evening news appears, and the story they're showing is rather relevant to their mutual interests.
Until Arthur had walked back into the room, Eames had been very distracted by a quickly-waking Wally, who was immediately interested in attacking his Christmas light necklace once more. Then, Eames had for a moment totally forgotten Wally’s entire existence by the sight of Arthur, wearing nothing but jeans and… a shirt. A red shirt.
Eames has never seen Arthur anything but dressed up, before. Well, aside from various levels of undressed, of course, or in what goes for pajamas. But this… this is… he doesn’t know. Arthur looks about five years younger, he looks like just some normal guy sitting down to eat in front of the telly, he looks… he looks amazing, actually, and Eames spends a few moments too long convincing himself not to get up and immediately divest him of the shocking clothing.
But then Arthur turns the telly on, and the story jolts him out of his fit of staring. -screenwriter and author of hits including Death’s Door and Roller Coaster has been arrested on six counts of murder. We don’t have many details right now, but a source says that the murders span over a decade, several states, and that the victims were all young to middle-aged men. The FBI has not released a statement, and Walker’s agent could not be reached, but it is surely a shock to the horror film industry that-
Eames tunes out after that, turning his stare from the screen to Arthur just as the picture on the screen switches from police cars in front of a familiar apartment building to the newscaster. Eames doesn’t need to hear anything more, not yet. Something has already eased inside him, knowing that Walker is behind bars, that he’ll pay for what he’d done… and won’t have the chance to carry out what he might have. He would be lying to say he hadn’t thought about this, while Arthur was gone, that he hadn’t considered not leaving the apartment for fear of… something happening. But in the end, the forger had picked himself up and gone out, just another day as usual.
Walker’s in jail, he didn’t kill Eames, he wasn’t going to kill Eames, and all of that was just a dream. Just a dream that got them both a significant payday, and Arthur’s got the nutter thrown in jail, and now it’s nearly Christmas, and Eames cannot think of a single place he would rather be than here. “How did you know exactly what I wanted?” he asks, cheeky even though his expression isn’t even a little joking. At least not until he begins eyeing Arthur again. Which he does slowly, and with a great deal of precision. “And again. You’re like Saint Nicholas, but infinitely sexier.”
"And I'm even wearing red," Arthur says, his voice dry as the Sahara. "Glad I could be of assistance, although I'm pretty sure I wouldn't count as a saint." He smiles slightly. "For multiple reasons."
With that, he grabs the remote and clicks to the movie he'd wanted, setting it to play and starting to dish out the Chinese food. "This is a Christmas tradition of mine. It's usually followed by getting duck at the Chinese place on the corner and having the chefs sing "Deck The Halls" to me as I cut off its head."
Eames is looking at him as though he's gone crazy. Arthur blinks right back at him. "Okay, so we need to expand your education, grasshopper."
Eames’ expression turns thoughtful, which is, of course, never a particularly good sign. “All right,” he says, slowly, as Wally makes a flying leap for his Christmas light necklace, hits his arm, and then falls over to land next to Eames with a meep.
Distractedly, the forger picks the kitten up and rights him so that he can go on attacking at will, all the while eyeing Arthur. Then, quite straight-faced, he adds, “But as you’re Santa, perhaps that could wait until after I’ve sat on your lap.”
That is enough to drag Arthur's attention from Chevy Chase's hunt for a Christmas tree; he turns his head to look at Eames, eyeing him right back, and then one corner of his mouth quirks up. "Well then hurry up," he drawls, sitting back on the couch and abandoning the food for the moment, in favor of more important things. "Come tell me what you want for Christmas, little boy."
Not shockingly, this half-tease, half-taunt is effective, because a few seconds later he has an Eames on his lap, blinking necklace discarded on the floor for Wally to attack. Physically Arthur might have an inch on Eames, but Eames has a good twenty or thirty pounds of muscle on him, and probably a lot more than that; he's never been good at gauging that sort of thing. But regardless, what their difference in weight and in build means is that he is currently virtually surrounded by Eames, who is staring at him expectantly.
Arthur grins at him, lounging back into the soft leather couch cushion. "Well? What else would you like for Christmas, laddy buck?" The last is said with a fair attempt at mimicking Eames' accent.
Obviously impressed, Eames is nevertheless not derailed from his mission. He might recall, later, that Arthur had shown some ability to sound like anything other than an uncouth American poking fun at the British, and might even suspect that he normally murders the accent quite horribly on purpose. But right now, he settles for a pause to show his appreciation, and then makes a great show of considering what he wants for Christmas.
Normally he might ask for a pony, but he’s a bit put off of ponies, right now. He supposes he could ask for horribly unhealthy food, because Arthur hates it so much. Or tea. Proper tea, which you have to make yourself to get in America, if you can get the right sort to begin with. He’s already got a kitten… so many choices. Eames makes certain to think about all of them while he sneaks his hands under Arthur’s shirt.
Or he could just ask for what he really wants, as they both know he’s going to. Eames’ smirk widens a bit as he leans in to bite at Arthur’s neck, hands working his shirt up a little. “I suppose that depends. There’s the whole naughty list bit to consider, as we both know I’m on that. So if I ask for what I really want, you might make sure not to allow me to have it.”
Entirely distracted for at least a minute by Eames' hands on his stomach and his sides, Arthur manages a moment later, "Reverse psychology. Ask me for the opposite of what you want." It should be noted that his voice is more than a little strained as he says it. "I'm a contrary bastard, too. Not that that's a commentary on Santa's being born out of wedlock."
He has no idea what he's even saying, and so gives up, returning Eames' gesture by slipping his own hands beneath that horrible granny sweater and sliding them up the forger's spine, tracing where he knows Eames' tattoos are located, his fingernails feather light on the sensitive skin. "Then again, I could be feeling generous. Or maybe Santa likes naughty boys."
Then he pauses, his hands stilling on Eames' back. "Actually, that sentence just made me feel dirty."
There is a pause, and then, unable to help it, Eames barks a laugh. He’s not sure if this is poor dirty talk or just ridiculous, but either way it’s rather hilarious, and it takes the forger a few moments to calm himself down. Arthur makes a horrible Santa Claus, proper or dirty, but Eames doesn’t mind as long as he gets to sit on Arthur’s lap because of it.
“All right, then,” he says, in between attempts to stop laughing. Laughing doesn’t seem to deter his hands, though, as they begin tugging on Arthur’s shirt. “For Christmas, I would like this shirt to come off.” He pauses, obviously not sure how to properly ask. “Or not to come off. Your directions are lacking in specificity, Your Saintliness.”
Deciding that he's far above responding verbally to this blatant goading, Arthur chooses actions over words, reaching back over his head and yanking his shirt up over his head in response, tossing it to the side. It hits the carpet, and although neither of them is particularly paying attention, Wally immediately crawls into it and lies down, kneading little holes into the cotton. Arthur will surely be annoyed by this later, but neither could give a fuck at the moment.
Right now, though, he's busy eyeing Eames, who is still wearing said ridiculous sweater even though Arthur is now shirtless, his nipples hardening and his chest covered in gooseflesh in the chilly apartment. "Seems to me there should be some quid pro quo here," he drawls, sliding his hands down over Eames' back and beneath the waistband of his pants, groping his ass in a very satisfactory manner-satisfactory to them both, as it happens. "Lose the monstrosity. Please."
Eames looks visibly wounded by this offense to his sweater, which he pauses to look down at, eyes wide. Yes, he is aware that it is a very loud Christmas sweater, but it’s warm and hand-knitted with love and so he likes it. It’s not a monstrosity; Arthur is just a snob when it comes to clothing. Which Eames doesn’t actually mind, as it means fitted trousers… on task, Eames.
“This was a gift, darling,” he sniffs. “No need to insult my festive spirit.” Notably, though, this does not stop Eames from removing the sweater, or the shirt that had been beneath it. Very little will get in the way of Eames when he’s on his way to getting naked with Arthur. Frankly, Arthur could be honestly insulting him and England and the Queen and Eames would just accept it as long as Arthur was losing clothing.
Later, though. Later he will be quite hurt. Provided he remembers, which seems very unlikely, especially when he throws the sweater and shirt across the room and crawls as far as he can onto Arthur’s lap in order to kiss him. It’s cold in here without his sweater. Have to warm it up. Obviously.
Arthur groans when Eames' front is suddenly almost plastered to his, although he's certainly not complaining. Instead, he runs his hands up and over hard muscles and broad shoulders, would want to see the tattoos he can nearly trace with his eyes closed if he wasn't busy mouthing and then biting at Eames' jaw. Unerringly, his teeth bite down on that particular spot that drives Eames mad, and he grins as the forger shudders in his arms.
He tilts his head up for another kiss, and Eames obliges him immediately, slinging his leg over Arthur's hips so he's astride the point man and putting their hard-ons right up against each other. With that, it's Arthur's turn to shudder.
It’s this movement that convinces Eames that the trousers need to go, as well, although it takes some time before the thought makes it to his brain and then for him to work up any ability to do something about it. Arthur’s tongue is, unsurprisingly, quite distracting.
Arthur’s tongue… amongst other things. Like his hips moving to meet Eames’, just enough to be tantalizing rather than allow any real relief.
Eames finally manages to convince his hands to move from Arthur’s torso- all lean muscle that Eames would pretty much be happy just touching, preferably with his tongue, for the rest of his life- down to his jeans. It’s then that Eames recalls how horrifically difficult jeans can be to get off from this position as he tries to undo the button what feels like eighty times, and fails. Until he finally pulls back, making a frustrated noise somewhere between a growl and a whine, and employs two hands to try, almost violently, hoping Arthur will get the point.
But alas, Arthur is generally a contrary sort of person, and despite the fact that he's about as desperate as Eames to get rid of the layers between them, he doesn't try to help at all, completely preoccupied with Eames' own torso at the moment.
It's not until Eames nearly rips the button from his fly that he laughs quietly, biting just below the other man's ear and reaching down between them to undo the button and zipper with deceptively slender fingers. He undoes Eames' trousers as well, and then, in a very impressive show of strength for such a lean man, he gets his arms wrapped under Eames' ass and manages to lift him with a grunt, getting his feet under him and then dumping them both sideways so they can lie on the couch, this time with him on top of the forger. "Hah," he manages, breathless now for other reasons than arousal. Eames weighs a good bit more than he does, and it's all muscle. He's actually pretty damn impressed with himself.
Or he would be, if he wasn't preoccupied, lying on top of the other man. But while Eames is still in shock from that little maneuver, he slides out of the other man's grip and almost slithers backwards, moving Eames' trousers and pants out of the way and lowering his mouth onto the forger's cock.
Immediately, Eames forgets all about his mission to keep Arthur up next to him, his head falling back almost violently onto the couch with a quiet gasp. He forgets all about that and the fact that Arthur had just picked him up as well, swearing as his fingers scramble to find something to hold onto (nothing but expensive couch), his back arching of its own volition.
The strangled “fuck,” comes out more of a groan than an actual word, but Eames doesn’t notice, never notices how loud he is, especially not with Arthur’s mouth on him.
Arthur chuckles around Eames' cock, and the vibrations prompt an even louder and less coherent curse from the other man. One of his hands finally finds purchase, his fingers digging into Arthur's no-longer-neat hair, and Arthur would smirk if his mouth wasn't far too busy at the moment.
He pulls off with a pop, saliva dripping from his mouth before he swipes it away, a bit disgusted by that as always, until he sees the half-lidded look Eames is sending him. Now the smirk appears, and he takes a deep breath before returning to what he'd been doing, relaxing his throat and taking Eames as far as he can. He can't quite take all of him, it's been a while since he's tried, but his hand slides up to take care of what he can't reach.
It's been a long few weeks, and Eames doesn't take long at all, his fingers tightening in Arthur's hair as his hips start to jerk upward. Recognizing that quite well, however, Arthur hums. Eames very nearly goes hoarse with the yell Arthur sucks out of him, and then he's coming. Arthur swallows about half before pulling back suddenly on a whim, letting Eames come on his face. He's always swallowed for cleanliness' sake, before, but the expression on Eames' face when he opens his eyes is even better than it had been before.
Eames nearly chokes, swearing breathlessly; he practically collapses a moment later but then is up, tackling Arthur back in the other direction on the couch with a burst of energy. Energy, he thinks, he’s sure he wouldn’t be exhibiting if he hadn’t just witnessed the most absurdly sexy thing he’s ever seen in his bloody life.
But he had, and Eames is sure that that image will keep him up nights. In more ways than one, and happily so.
At this particular moment, though, he’s sure Arthur is trying to kill him; his refractory period is not what it once was, as per in his teens, but it is certainly giving it a good go right now. Especially when he tackles Arthur to the couch and kisses him almost violently, groaning into the point man’s mouth and hazily trying to swim through the muddled mess that was once his brain to articulate the fact that this is a wonderful Christmas. In the end, Eames settles on leaning in and licking Arthur’s face clean very thoroughly.
Arthur would make a face and complain that Eames isn't a dog, he really would, but... well. He's a little busy right now.
Maybe later.
He's much more absorbed by how, once Eames finishes cleaning his face, he moves downward; Arthur lifts his hips without argument, now, letting Eames drag the denim down and off his legs, his socks going with it. And now he's completely unclothed beneath the other man, once Eames lowers himself back onto Arthur, while the forger is still half-dressed. Despite their having done this what feels like a hundred times, now, it's still a rush, and still such a ridiculous turn-on.
As is Eames' mouth, possibly even more so now than before they'd first fucked, because now Arthur knows exactly what it feels like wrapped around his cock, has memory rather than only imagination to help him. Said mouth is moving down over his chest, now, then over his stomach, and finally down to his cock. Eames swallows him down ridiculously easily, or at least outwardly so, and Arthur's back arches as his eyes close and he groans, his world suddenly narrowed to the impossibly hot, impossibly tight space that is Eames' mouth.
It feels like hours later when Eames finally crawls off of the couch (well, off of Arthur), climbing unsteadily to his feet and righting his trousers and pants. He wanders off in the direction of Arthur’s bedroom with a mumble about getting the point man a towel, so that perhaps he won’t feel the need to take a shower before eating dinner and watching… whatever it is they’d been talking about before.
It’s cold, without Arthur up against him (and lacking a shirt or sweater ), and so Eames hurries through the bedroom to the bathroom, grabbing the first towel he sees without regard for Arthur’s system (Eames does better at remembering Arthur’s systems when he isn’t dazed and tired from an amazing blowjob), getting part of it wet and leaving the rest dry. Really, he’s quite good at cleanup, he’s a pro at it, and as such figures that’s all they’ll need for now. At least until they shower. Which could very well be done together.
Eames is marginally more awake when he wanders through the dark bedroom, but not awake enough not to nearly kill himself when he trips over Arthur’s suitcase. Unpacked, amazingly, but then they were both a bit out of sorts the day before. Swearing a little, Eames rights himself and then, with only a bit of a grumble, Arthur’s suitcase as well… when he spots the book that had nearly fallen out of the front compartment when he’d kicked it down.
Slowly, Eames reaches down, intending to push it back inside… and then, because of all of his many flaws, curiosity has always caused him the most trouble, the forger yanks the book out of Arthur’s suitcase, squinting to read the cover in the darkness. He doesn’t know what he expects- The Hunchback of Notre Dame in French, maybe, or perhaps War and Peace or some other obnoxious book that would be very Arthur-like to carry about for fun- but it’s not what he finds.
The title reads Caring for Your New Kitten in sensible, yet cute block letters, and there’s a picture of a little orange tabby on the front, sleeping adorably.
Eames stares at the book for a long time before he automatically opens it to a random page, looking it over. There are sentences highlighted. And in the margins, notes in Arthur’s neat handwriting. Arthur has been taking notes about the best way to feed a new kitten, and what sorts of toys would be best for its development.
In shock, Eames stares at this for a long time. Too long, really, until he finally realizes he’s been doing so for a minute at least, and hurriedly shoves the book back where he’d found it. He doesn’t realize, as he does it, that a grin has broken out on his face, the sort of grin that is quite silly and maybe a bit sappy and altogether totally inappropriate to wear when returning from the bathroom with a towel… but maybe a bit more acceptable when finding out that Arthur has secretly adored Wally all along, and has just been showing it in his own, very Arthur-like, sort of fashion.
Arthur blinks at this grin from where he's still sprawled, naked, on the couch, arms and legs splayed, when Eames reappears. He appears to be completely unselfconscious, but does send Eames an odd look when the forger comes out from the bedroom with an enormous smile. "Did you find the happy pills I hid in there?" he asks dryly.
But Eames doesn't respond to the harassment, and Arthur is too tired to follow up on it, his head lolling back as Eames wipes him clean with the washcloth, first his belly and then his neck and his face. Well. What he hadn't cleaned before, anyway.
Arthur makes a grab for his boxers, at least, pulling them back on and sitting up with a yawn. The Chinese food is no longer steaming, but as soon as he has the energy he'll get up and nuke it all. At the moment, though, Eames plops down beside him, and Arthur leans against him with a yawn, his eyes closing all of their own accord.
"'S nice," he mumbles, tilting his head over to rest it on Eames' shoulder, just for a minute. Eames has nice shoulders to lean on.
Still smiling, probably a bit too widely, Eames’ “mmhmm” is more of a rumble than any actual words, but his agreement is a given. He can’t but help leaning on Arthur a bit, himself. It’s not really normal, for Arthur to do any sort of leaning, nor really for Eames, but it’s… really quite nice. It’s cold, after all. Nearly Christmas. Even Wally is curled up for warmth… in Arthur’s shirt.
Oh dear. Eames will keep that to himself, for now.
It's a little while later, while they're watching Chevy Chase attempt to cover his house in more Christmas lights than should be physically possible, that Arthur looks down and notes Wally still taking up residence on his shirt. He'd be mad, but he's wearing sweats now, and he's curled up in a ball at one end of the couch, stuffed full of Chinese food with Eames mostly sprawled on his front, the forger's head in his lap as he snickers at the movie.
Arthur really would be worried about the bad ideas the forger's getting from this... but that would take way too much energy right now.
Instead, he just smiles down at the sleeping Wally, also sprawled, on his back again with all four paws splayed, which seems to be becoming a favorite position. Arthur wonders if that's good for the kitten's spine, lying like that, and resolves to check in his book later on.
However, Wally's sleeping position does mean that some things are very visible on his belly and between his legs that usually are not. Or rather, some things are not visible that should be, on a kitten Wally's age....
"Eames," he says slowly, biting back laughter. The forger doesn't respond, so he pokes the other man's temple gently. "Eames."
"Mmhmm?"
"I think Wally's a girl."
Das Ende.
----
master post
Authors: agaryulnaer86 and myself
Pairing/Character(s): Arthur/Eames, and Ariadne
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence and disturbing imagery, the foulest of language, adult situations and sexual content, and an adorable kitten. But just the one.
Summary: Ariadne, Eames and Arthur work a job over the holidays. Hijinks ensue, including but not limited to: chicken soup, a stray kitten, avoidance of the casting couch, a clown, and a job gone a bit sideways. Also, Chrismukkah.
Author's Notes: Written for the promts messy blowjobs and exploring dreamshare and canonverse.
master post
part one
part two
part three
part four
----
The next day, Christmas Eve, is a lazy one compared to the past couple of weeks, even taking Eames' illness into consideration. They meet Ariadne for lunch, and Arthur drives her out to JFK, where her flight is waiting to take her to Toronto and her parents' for Christmas. And taking into account that it is the afternoon of Christmas Eve and he is driving on Long Island, he sits in traffic for pretty much the entirety of his trip, both getting her to her flight and on his way back. By the time he makes it back into Manhattan, grumbling very seriously about not just putting Ariadne on the subway and having done with it.
Of course, he doesn't mean it. Mostly. The hug she'd given him as she'd gotten out of the car had more or less been worth it.
He is, however, a bit wary of having left Eames to his own devices in the apartment for the entirety of the afternoon, since their lunch with Ariadne. He'd texted when he'd finally left JFK, letting Eames know it would be a while, but it's after dark before he pulls through the gate and up to the front of his building, paper bag of Chinese food steaming in the passenger seat.
It's tradition for him, has been ever since he was a kid, eating Chinese food on Christmas Eve and getting drunk and watching football on Christmas Day. It's not even because he's Jewish, or not really. At this point, it's just because he can, because if he wants to eat Chinese food and play Madden all night, he damned well will.
Or, you know, other things. With Eames. Whatever Eames wants to do, really, not that Arthur would ever tell him that. Ever.
He'd expected that the apartment might be a disaster area. He'd anticipated maybe a spill, probably some things strewn here and there, and definitely kitty litter tracked across the foyer from Wally's cat box, set on the linoleum next to the door because Arthur refuses to have it in the bathroom.
Well, the kitty litter is there. It'd been there when they'd left for lunch. However, there are a number of new additions.
For one, there is a tree. Possibly the spindliest tree in the world, in point of fact, propped up in the corner and still in its burlap sack of dirt, not even cut down (which Arthur actually approves of; he's all for saving the environment, never mind that he often works for the companies responsible for destroying it. He never claimed not to be a hypocrite) and covered in more than its weight in blue Christmas lights. There is silver tinsel over every surface and on much of the floor (Wally's doing, undoubtedly). And there is an Eames in the middle of said floor, sprawled on his back in what has to be the most hideous sweater Arthur has ever seen.
Wally is sprawled out next to him, on his back with all four paws splayed, Eames' necklace still caught in his teeth even while asleep. Said necklace consists of blinking Christmas lights.
For a long moment, Arthur just stares, trying his damnedest not to laugh and at least mostly succeeding. And then he slowly steps over the two of them to set the bag of Chinese food down on the coffee table. "I brought dinner...."
Eames turns his head just enough not to disturb Wally to watch Arthur pass, grinning tiredly up at him. He’d been more than half asleep himself; once the kitten had passed out, Eames would have felt bad removing the necklace from him, and so had stayed where he was, and then soon enough… well, the rest is history. And now Arthur is here, and Eames is glad it took him all day to drive Ariadne to the airport and get food because he certainly looks surprised.
“Happy Christmas!” the forger says, good cheer not even a little bit faked. He’s starting to wake up again, but Wally is not, and so Eames doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. From here, he can see the tree, with its blue lights, and the tinsel everywhere, and the blinking lights from his necklace… and, over on Arthur’s desk, the last addition to his holiday decorating.
For this, Eames manages to lift his arm, pointing so that Arthur will see the last bit. “Also Hanukkah.” Naturally, Eames is well aware that Arthur is more or less Jewish. More or less because he doesn’t seem to actually practice religion in any noticeable way. But Eames doesn’t go to church on Sundays unless he has it forced upon him or he is feeling particularly guilty, and he’s still more or less Catholic, so. That would explain the small menorah sitting on Arthur’s desk, glowing a cheerful blue to match the lights on the tree- because, as had been explained to him at the store, the blue lights are Hanukkah colors- plugged into his computer.
Eames had considered an actual menorah, but for one thing, he doesn’t actually understand how many you light or what it is you do at all, and for another… well, he thinks the little LED menorah is a bit adorable. Arthur opens his mouth, and Eames shushes him. “I know it’s partially over, we’re celebrating now. It’s Christmakkah! We’re festive.” He pauses, glances down at his sweater with its woven Christmas tree and snowflakes of varying colors, and then at Arthur’s immaculate-as-always dress shirt. “Well, I’m festive. You’ll be needing some Christmas lights, or at least some tinsel, love.”
Arthur's eyes widen, and he backs away slightly. "No, that's okay, I don't need a sweater," he says, looking wary.
Well, the room is certainly... festive. He'll give Eames that. Looking down at his shirt, which is clean but feels dirty after all day in the car, he sighs loudly and goes to change... and while he's in the bedroom, he gives up on fighting back his smile.
He has it mostly smothered again when he reappears in jeans, of all things, real jeans, not designer ones, made for comfort and less so for style, and a soft, worn red henley. It's Christmas-colored, at least, and it's the best Eames is going to get, so there had better not be any arguing. Without a word, he goes to grab plates, and finds the egg nog in the fridge. That and glasses come back with him, and he plops down onto the couch, grabbing the remote. "In the spirit of the season, allow me to introduce you to National Lampoon's Christmas, even though I'm sure it's going to give you bad ideas- "
He stops mid-sentence, however, because when he clicks on the television, the evening news appears, and the story they're showing is rather relevant to their mutual interests.
Until Arthur had walked back into the room, Eames had been very distracted by a quickly-waking Wally, who was immediately interested in attacking his Christmas light necklace once more. Then, Eames had for a moment totally forgotten Wally’s entire existence by the sight of Arthur, wearing nothing but jeans and… a shirt. A red shirt.
Eames has never seen Arthur anything but dressed up, before. Well, aside from various levels of undressed, of course, or in what goes for pajamas. But this… this is… he doesn’t know. Arthur looks about five years younger, he looks like just some normal guy sitting down to eat in front of the telly, he looks… he looks amazing, actually, and Eames spends a few moments too long convincing himself not to get up and immediately divest him of the shocking clothing.
But then Arthur turns the telly on, and the story jolts him out of his fit of staring. -screenwriter and author of hits including Death’s Door and Roller Coaster has been arrested on six counts of murder. We don’t have many details right now, but a source says that the murders span over a decade, several states, and that the victims were all young to middle-aged men. The FBI has not released a statement, and Walker’s agent could not be reached, but it is surely a shock to the horror film industry that-
Eames tunes out after that, turning his stare from the screen to Arthur just as the picture on the screen switches from police cars in front of a familiar apartment building to the newscaster. Eames doesn’t need to hear anything more, not yet. Something has already eased inside him, knowing that Walker is behind bars, that he’ll pay for what he’d done… and won’t have the chance to carry out what he might have. He would be lying to say he hadn’t thought about this, while Arthur was gone, that he hadn’t considered not leaving the apartment for fear of… something happening. But in the end, the forger had picked himself up and gone out, just another day as usual.
Walker’s in jail, he didn’t kill Eames, he wasn’t going to kill Eames, and all of that was just a dream. Just a dream that got them both a significant payday, and Arthur’s got the nutter thrown in jail, and now it’s nearly Christmas, and Eames cannot think of a single place he would rather be than here. “How did you know exactly what I wanted?” he asks, cheeky even though his expression isn’t even a little joking. At least not until he begins eyeing Arthur again. Which he does slowly, and with a great deal of precision. “And again. You’re like Saint Nicholas, but infinitely sexier.”
"And I'm even wearing red," Arthur says, his voice dry as the Sahara. "Glad I could be of assistance, although I'm pretty sure I wouldn't count as a saint." He smiles slightly. "For multiple reasons."
With that, he grabs the remote and clicks to the movie he'd wanted, setting it to play and starting to dish out the Chinese food. "This is a Christmas tradition of mine. It's usually followed by getting duck at the Chinese place on the corner and having the chefs sing "Deck The Halls" to me as I cut off its head."
Eames is looking at him as though he's gone crazy. Arthur blinks right back at him. "Okay, so we need to expand your education, grasshopper."
Eames’ expression turns thoughtful, which is, of course, never a particularly good sign. “All right,” he says, slowly, as Wally makes a flying leap for his Christmas light necklace, hits his arm, and then falls over to land next to Eames with a meep.
Distractedly, the forger picks the kitten up and rights him so that he can go on attacking at will, all the while eyeing Arthur. Then, quite straight-faced, he adds, “But as you’re Santa, perhaps that could wait until after I’ve sat on your lap.”
That is enough to drag Arthur's attention from Chevy Chase's hunt for a Christmas tree; he turns his head to look at Eames, eyeing him right back, and then one corner of his mouth quirks up. "Well then hurry up," he drawls, sitting back on the couch and abandoning the food for the moment, in favor of more important things. "Come tell me what you want for Christmas, little boy."
Not shockingly, this half-tease, half-taunt is effective, because a few seconds later he has an Eames on his lap, blinking necklace discarded on the floor for Wally to attack. Physically Arthur might have an inch on Eames, but Eames has a good twenty or thirty pounds of muscle on him, and probably a lot more than that; he's never been good at gauging that sort of thing. But regardless, what their difference in weight and in build means is that he is currently virtually surrounded by Eames, who is staring at him expectantly.
Arthur grins at him, lounging back into the soft leather couch cushion. "Well? What else would you like for Christmas, laddy buck?" The last is said with a fair attempt at mimicking Eames' accent.
Obviously impressed, Eames is nevertheless not derailed from his mission. He might recall, later, that Arthur had shown some ability to sound like anything other than an uncouth American poking fun at the British, and might even suspect that he normally murders the accent quite horribly on purpose. But right now, he settles for a pause to show his appreciation, and then makes a great show of considering what he wants for Christmas.
Normally he might ask for a pony, but he’s a bit put off of ponies, right now. He supposes he could ask for horribly unhealthy food, because Arthur hates it so much. Or tea. Proper tea, which you have to make yourself to get in America, if you can get the right sort to begin with. He’s already got a kitten… so many choices. Eames makes certain to think about all of them while he sneaks his hands under Arthur’s shirt.
Or he could just ask for what he really wants, as they both know he’s going to. Eames’ smirk widens a bit as he leans in to bite at Arthur’s neck, hands working his shirt up a little. “I suppose that depends. There’s the whole naughty list bit to consider, as we both know I’m on that. So if I ask for what I really want, you might make sure not to allow me to have it.”
Entirely distracted for at least a minute by Eames' hands on his stomach and his sides, Arthur manages a moment later, "Reverse psychology. Ask me for the opposite of what you want." It should be noted that his voice is more than a little strained as he says it. "I'm a contrary bastard, too. Not that that's a commentary on Santa's being born out of wedlock."
He has no idea what he's even saying, and so gives up, returning Eames' gesture by slipping his own hands beneath that horrible granny sweater and sliding them up the forger's spine, tracing where he knows Eames' tattoos are located, his fingernails feather light on the sensitive skin. "Then again, I could be feeling generous. Or maybe Santa likes naughty boys."
Then he pauses, his hands stilling on Eames' back. "Actually, that sentence just made me feel dirty."
There is a pause, and then, unable to help it, Eames barks a laugh. He’s not sure if this is poor dirty talk or just ridiculous, but either way it’s rather hilarious, and it takes the forger a few moments to calm himself down. Arthur makes a horrible Santa Claus, proper or dirty, but Eames doesn’t mind as long as he gets to sit on Arthur’s lap because of it.
“All right, then,” he says, in between attempts to stop laughing. Laughing doesn’t seem to deter his hands, though, as they begin tugging on Arthur’s shirt. “For Christmas, I would like this shirt to come off.” He pauses, obviously not sure how to properly ask. “Or not to come off. Your directions are lacking in specificity, Your Saintliness.”
Deciding that he's far above responding verbally to this blatant goading, Arthur chooses actions over words, reaching back over his head and yanking his shirt up over his head in response, tossing it to the side. It hits the carpet, and although neither of them is particularly paying attention, Wally immediately crawls into it and lies down, kneading little holes into the cotton. Arthur will surely be annoyed by this later, but neither could give a fuck at the moment.
Right now, though, he's busy eyeing Eames, who is still wearing said ridiculous sweater even though Arthur is now shirtless, his nipples hardening and his chest covered in gooseflesh in the chilly apartment. "Seems to me there should be some quid pro quo here," he drawls, sliding his hands down over Eames' back and beneath the waistband of his pants, groping his ass in a very satisfactory manner-satisfactory to them both, as it happens. "Lose the monstrosity. Please."
Eames looks visibly wounded by this offense to his sweater, which he pauses to look down at, eyes wide. Yes, he is aware that it is a very loud Christmas sweater, but it’s warm and hand-knitted with love and so he likes it. It’s not a monstrosity; Arthur is just a snob when it comes to clothing. Which Eames doesn’t actually mind, as it means fitted trousers… on task, Eames.
“This was a gift, darling,” he sniffs. “No need to insult my festive spirit.” Notably, though, this does not stop Eames from removing the sweater, or the shirt that had been beneath it. Very little will get in the way of Eames when he’s on his way to getting naked with Arthur. Frankly, Arthur could be honestly insulting him and England and the Queen and Eames would just accept it as long as Arthur was losing clothing.
Later, though. Later he will be quite hurt. Provided he remembers, which seems very unlikely, especially when he throws the sweater and shirt across the room and crawls as far as he can onto Arthur’s lap in order to kiss him. It’s cold in here without his sweater. Have to warm it up. Obviously.
Arthur groans when Eames' front is suddenly almost plastered to his, although he's certainly not complaining. Instead, he runs his hands up and over hard muscles and broad shoulders, would want to see the tattoos he can nearly trace with his eyes closed if he wasn't busy mouthing and then biting at Eames' jaw. Unerringly, his teeth bite down on that particular spot that drives Eames mad, and he grins as the forger shudders in his arms.
He tilts his head up for another kiss, and Eames obliges him immediately, slinging his leg over Arthur's hips so he's astride the point man and putting their hard-ons right up against each other. With that, it's Arthur's turn to shudder.
It’s this movement that convinces Eames that the trousers need to go, as well, although it takes some time before the thought makes it to his brain and then for him to work up any ability to do something about it. Arthur’s tongue is, unsurprisingly, quite distracting.
Arthur’s tongue… amongst other things. Like his hips moving to meet Eames’, just enough to be tantalizing rather than allow any real relief.
Eames finally manages to convince his hands to move from Arthur’s torso- all lean muscle that Eames would pretty much be happy just touching, preferably with his tongue, for the rest of his life- down to his jeans. It’s then that Eames recalls how horrifically difficult jeans can be to get off from this position as he tries to undo the button what feels like eighty times, and fails. Until he finally pulls back, making a frustrated noise somewhere between a growl and a whine, and employs two hands to try, almost violently, hoping Arthur will get the point.
But alas, Arthur is generally a contrary sort of person, and despite the fact that he's about as desperate as Eames to get rid of the layers between them, he doesn't try to help at all, completely preoccupied with Eames' own torso at the moment.
It's not until Eames nearly rips the button from his fly that he laughs quietly, biting just below the other man's ear and reaching down between them to undo the button and zipper with deceptively slender fingers. He undoes Eames' trousers as well, and then, in a very impressive show of strength for such a lean man, he gets his arms wrapped under Eames' ass and manages to lift him with a grunt, getting his feet under him and then dumping them both sideways so they can lie on the couch, this time with him on top of the forger. "Hah," he manages, breathless now for other reasons than arousal. Eames weighs a good bit more than he does, and it's all muscle. He's actually pretty damn impressed with himself.
Or he would be, if he wasn't preoccupied, lying on top of the other man. But while Eames is still in shock from that little maneuver, he slides out of the other man's grip and almost slithers backwards, moving Eames' trousers and pants out of the way and lowering his mouth onto the forger's cock.
Immediately, Eames forgets all about his mission to keep Arthur up next to him, his head falling back almost violently onto the couch with a quiet gasp. He forgets all about that and the fact that Arthur had just picked him up as well, swearing as his fingers scramble to find something to hold onto (nothing but expensive couch), his back arching of its own volition.
The strangled “fuck,” comes out more of a groan than an actual word, but Eames doesn’t notice, never notices how loud he is, especially not with Arthur’s mouth on him.
Arthur chuckles around Eames' cock, and the vibrations prompt an even louder and less coherent curse from the other man. One of his hands finally finds purchase, his fingers digging into Arthur's no-longer-neat hair, and Arthur would smirk if his mouth wasn't far too busy at the moment.
He pulls off with a pop, saliva dripping from his mouth before he swipes it away, a bit disgusted by that as always, until he sees the half-lidded look Eames is sending him. Now the smirk appears, and he takes a deep breath before returning to what he'd been doing, relaxing his throat and taking Eames as far as he can. He can't quite take all of him, it's been a while since he's tried, but his hand slides up to take care of what he can't reach.
It's been a long few weeks, and Eames doesn't take long at all, his fingers tightening in Arthur's hair as his hips start to jerk upward. Recognizing that quite well, however, Arthur hums. Eames very nearly goes hoarse with the yell Arthur sucks out of him, and then he's coming. Arthur swallows about half before pulling back suddenly on a whim, letting Eames come on his face. He's always swallowed for cleanliness' sake, before, but the expression on Eames' face when he opens his eyes is even better than it had been before.
Eames nearly chokes, swearing breathlessly; he practically collapses a moment later but then is up, tackling Arthur back in the other direction on the couch with a burst of energy. Energy, he thinks, he’s sure he wouldn’t be exhibiting if he hadn’t just witnessed the most absurdly sexy thing he’s ever seen in his bloody life.
But he had, and Eames is sure that that image will keep him up nights. In more ways than one, and happily so.
At this particular moment, though, he’s sure Arthur is trying to kill him; his refractory period is not what it once was, as per in his teens, but it is certainly giving it a good go right now. Especially when he tackles Arthur to the couch and kisses him almost violently, groaning into the point man’s mouth and hazily trying to swim through the muddled mess that was once his brain to articulate the fact that this is a wonderful Christmas. In the end, Eames settles on leaning in and licking Arthur’s face clean very thoroughly.
Arthur would make a face and complain that Eames isn't a dog, he really would, but... well. He's a little busy right now.
Maybe later.
He's much more absorbed by how, once Eames finishes cleaning his face, he moves downward; Arthur lifts his hips without argument, now, letting Eames drag the denim down and off his legs, his socks going with it. And now he's completely unclothed beneath the other man, once Eames lowers himself back onto Arthur, while the forger is still half-dressed. Despite their having done this what feels like a hundred times, now, it's still a rush, and still such a ridiculous turn-on.
As is Eames' mouth, possibly even more so now than before they'd first fucked, because now Arthur knows exactly what it feels like wrapped around his cock, has memory rather than only imagination to help him. Said mouth is moving down over his chest, now, then over his stomach, and finally down to his cock. Eames swallows him down ridiculously easily, or at least outwardly so, and Arthur's back arches as his eyes close and he groans, his world suddenly narrowed to the impossibly hot, impossibly tight space that is Eames' mouth.
It feels like hours later when Eames finally crawls off of the couch (well, off of Arthur), climbing unsteadily to his feet and righting his trousers and pants. He wanders off in the direction of Arthur’s bedroom with a mumble about getting the point man a towel, so that perhaps he won’t feel the need to take a shower before eating dinner and watching… whatever it is they’d been talking about before.
It’s cold, without Arthur up against him (and lacking a shirt or sweater ), and so Eames hurries through the bedroom to the bathroom, grabbing the first towel he sees without regard for Arthur’s system (Eames does better at remembering Arthur’s systems when he isn’t dazed and tired from an amazing blowjob), getting part of it wet and leaving the rest dry. Really, he’s quite good at cleanup, he’s a pro at it, and as such figures that’s all they’ll need for now. At least until they shower. Which could very well be done together.
Eames is marginally more awake when he wanders through the dark bedroom, but not awake enough not to nearly kill himself when he trips over Arthur’s suitcase. Unpacked, amazingly, but then they were both a bit out of sorts the day before. Swearing a little, Eames rights himself and then, with only a bit of a grumble, Arthur’s suitcase as well… when he spots the book that had nearly fallen out of the front compartment when he’d kicked it down.
Slowly, Eames reaches down, intending to push it back inside… and then, because of all of his many flaws, curiosity has always caused him the most trouble, the forger yanks the book out of Arthur’s suitcase, squinting to read the cover in the darkness. He doesn’t know what he expects- The Hunchback of Notre Dame in French, maybe, or perhaps War and Peace or some other obnoxious book that would be very Arthur-like to carry about for fun- but it’s not what he finds.
The title reads Caring for Your New Kitten in sensible, yet cute block letters, and there’s a picture of a little orange tabby on the front, sleeping adorably.
Eames stares at the book for a long time before he automatically opens it to a random page, looking it over. There are sentences highlighted. And in the margins, notes in Arthur’s neat handwriting. Arthur has been taking notes about the best way to feed a new kitten, and what sorts of toys would be best for its development.
In shock, Eames stares at this for a long time. Too long, really, until he finally realizes he’s been doing so for a minute at least, and hurriedly shoves the book back where he’d found it. He doesn’t realize, as he does it, that a grin has broken out on his face, the sort of grin that is quite silly and maybe a bit sappy and altogether totally inappropriate to wear when returning from the bathroom with a towel… but maybe a bit more acceptable when finding out that Arthur has secretly adored Wally all along, and has just been showing it in his own, very Arthur-like, sort of fashion.
Arthur blinks at this grin from where he's still sprawled, naked, on the couch, arms and legs splayed, when Eames reappears. He appears to be completely unselfconscious, but does send Eames an odd look when the forger comes out from the bedroom with an enormous smile. "Did you find the happy pills I hid in there?" he asks dryly.
But Eames doesn't respond to the harassment, and Arthur is too tired to follow up on it, his head lolling back as Eames wipes him clean with the washcloth, first his belly and then his neck and his face. Well. What he hadn't cleaned before, anyway.
Arthur makes a grab for his boxers, at least, pulling them back on and sitting up with a yawn. The Chinese food is no longer steaming, but as soon as he has the energy he'll get up and nuke it all. At the moment, though, Eames plops down beside him, and Arthur leans against him with a yawn, his eyes closing all of their own accord.
"'S nice," he mumbles, tilting his head over to rest it on Eames' shoulder, just for a minute. Eames has nice shoulders to lean on.
Still smiling, probably a bit too widely, Eames’ “mmhmm” is more of a rumble than any actual words, but his agreement is a given. He can’t but help leaning on Arthur a bit, himself. It’s not really normal, for Arthur to do any sort of leaning, nor really for Eames, but it’s… really quite nice. It’s cold, after all. Nearly Christmas. Even Wally is curled up for warmth… in Arthur’s shirt.
Oh dear. Eames will keep that to himself, for now.
It's a little while later, while they're watching Chevy Chase attempt to cover his house in more Christmas lights than should be physically possible, that Arthur looks down and notes Wally still taking up residence on his shirt. He'd be mad, but he's wearing sweats now, and he's curled up in a ball at one end of the couch, stuffed full of Chinese food with Eames mostly sprawled on his front, the forger's head in his lap as he snickers at the movie.
Arthur really would be worried about the bad ideas the forger's getting from this... but that would take way too much energy right now.
Instead, he just smiles down at the sleeping Wally, also sprawled, on his back again with all four paws splayed, which seems to be becoming a favorite position. Arthur wonders if that's good for the kitten's spine, lying like that, and resolves to check in his book later on.
However, Wally's sleeping position does mean that some things are very visible on his belly and between his legs that usually are not. Or rather, some things are not visible that should be, on a kitten Wally's age....
"Eames," he says slowly, biting back laughter. The forger doesn't respond, so he pokes the other man's temple gently. "Eames."
"Mmhmm?"
"I think Wally's a girl."
Das Ende.
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