Fic: Blood, Ink, and Almond Sugar (Inception)
Title: Blood, Ink, and Almond Sugar (Inception)
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13, or very soft R
Word Count: 4764
Warnings: None
Summary: 2 prompts - "Eames finally has Arthur, but I want him to be skeptical and reluctant and make Arthur work for his affections for once. I want a fic where Arthur actually puts in effort." + "5x Arthur took care of Eames -- Arthur is ridic in love with Eames and woos him and is a good boyfriend. In which Eames is skeptical and sounds like sex, and Arthur spills blood, ink, and almond sugar to convince him he's serious.
A/N: Thank you to brit and neve for the beta, and gwen for looking it over <3
He let himself smile slightly at him, and Eames looked wildly startled, before he rolled his eyes, like he just realized that Arthur was kind of coming on to him, like it was such a big secret, what with the umbrella-holding and the tea-fetching and the massive in-dream bleeding.
1.
The architect in Senegal sounded dark and annoyed over the phone. "No one's hiring that chemist again; he messed up the job in Dakar, and their forger was seriously poisoned-"
"What?" Arthur said; his heart stuttered to a stop.
*
The job was a corporate espionage requested by a former client which required a few months of research-straightforward, with no tail risk and a large payoff, the type of job that attracted Cobb out of retirement. But some of the marks were ex-CIA, and they needed a forger to make it work. Arthur found an apartment in New York with nice closets, opened up the warehouse, and said hello to the team the next day. They got to work fast, with Arthur taking neat notes, Cobb and Eames talking about strategy, and the architect drawing mazes on the whiteboard.
"You alright?" their architect asked Eames, later on.
"Just had a little run-in. I'll be fine in a few weeks," Eames said lightly. His voice was low and husky and soft, a fucking bedroom voice the entire day, nothing like his usual sly, crisp vowels.
("What's wrong with his voice?" Cobb had asked when they got in that day. "He sounds terrible."
"Lung infection from the Dakar job," Arthur said shortly.
Cobb shook his head in disgust. "Heard they almost got killed in Dakar. He looks better than you'd expect."
"Right," Arthur said, glad that Eames wasn't able to hear them.)
Later, as he was drying his hands in the bathroom, he looked in the mirror. "So, by the way, Cobb, Eames and I have been sleeping together for a while, and it's gotten to the point where it might-compromise the-" It sounded dumb even in his head. He threw the crumpled paper into the bin and went back to work.
Eames had been gone for that deep undercover role in Dakar and Arthur hadn't seen him in months; he looked a little exhausted now, and he no longer gave Arthur those amused looks that usually preceded trying to pull another prank on him. Arthur told himself he should be grateful for Eames letting him alone and being professional for once, but he couldn't help but remember the Fischer job-Eames smirking at him and calling him "darling", knocking over his chair, playfully competitive, giving him furtive half-smiles across the room.
The way Eames looked at him now, you would never have guessed that four months ago Arthur had been wrestling with him in a hotel in San Francisco, that he had stolen a strawberry tart from Arthur in Lyons and made him work for it back, that three months ago they had kissed, tipsy and relaxed, in a dark hallway on the first floor of a shabby prewar Parisian apartment. Arthur had pulled back then, and stared at him, his jaw working, thinking not for the first time that this on-off casual thing he had with Eames in a half dozen cities across the world might be something more.
At drinks after work that night, Eames was oddly serious; his eyes were wistful, and his hair stuck up in tufts; it occurred to Arthur how rarely he saw him this way-not hiding behind a smile or an acerbic joke or a forgery. After Cobb and their architect left, Arthur slid in next to him at the bar. Eames looked at him, reserved; in the dim light, his gray eyes looked intensely blue.
"Let me get you a cab," Arthur found himself saying.
It was raining hard outside, in the driving, intense way that New York could be. Arthur opened an umbrella and held it over Eames, who squinted up at him.
"You're getting soaked, Arthur; you shouldn't do that to your jacket."
"Guess we'll have to share," Arthur deadpanned. He ducked under the umbrella and slid one arm around Eames', brushing his hand; Eames twisted and looked up at him, resisting a little.
"You've never," he said; he sounded a little skeptical. Arthur hesitated, then forced his voice to be light and even. "No, it's alright. Let's grab the cab at that corner--do you still have that place on 54th?"
2.
Eames let him into his apartment. The light in the hallway had burned out, and it was pitch-dark and quiet. The door banged against Arthur's knee, and on the way to the lamp in the living room he tripped over in succession a brass bell, a stuffed plush dragon, suitcases, and a few billiards cues. Eames was next to him, saying, "Are you actually this clumsy or-" when Arthur tripped over a tuba and knocked him over onto the carpet.
"Sorry," said Arthur. He didn't move. Eames felt thinner and a little ticklish under him. Arthur couldn't help it; he touched his throat softly, tender, then wrapped one hand on the back of his neck. Eames ducked his head and moved to get up; he kissed Arthur's cheek diffidently; Arthur turned his head and kissed him on the mouth.
Eames resisted for a moment before saying, "Oh, alright," and kissing him back.
"Wait, maybe we should talk about this-" Arthur said, but his voice was muffled; it was hard to walk in the dark; they stumbled into the hallway, and Arthur kept banging into old radios, a footstool, tottering stacks and piles of copy paper, all those artifacts of a life on a run-of all the people Eames had known and charmed, who had been charmed by him. Arthur hit his shin against another bejeweled end table before finally managing to open the bedroom door.
"It's just--you keep leaving, and it's kind of vastly annoying, and maybe we should-" said Eames, but he was taking off Arthur's jacket, running warm hands around his waist.
"I did try to stay last time; I left a note in Paris, didn't you see it?" Arthur answered. Eames shifted away, saying, "Look, really not necessary to say that," but Arthur followed him. His cell phone rang, twice. Three times. He blindly leaned over and silenced it, not letting go, and kissed Eames on the jaw. Eames closed his eyes and Arthur stammered, "Shh, don't talk... just... just let me." All Arthur could think about was how he wanted to take care of him, to hold him here and not let go, to take away all his uncertainty and the way he trembled with faint reproach, still.
Arthur kissed his ticklish collarbone, his neck; Eames' hand stroking up the small of his back felt shockingly intimate, and Arthur moved forward and kissed him openmouthed, slow and sweet. Eames shivered and pressed back into him, slipping up the buttons of his shirt.
There was another ring, this time from Eames' phone, and the vibration made them both tense and jump apart. Eames let out a huff of frustration and fell back against the headboard; Arthur jerked away, already getting stressed out and frustrated. It had to be Cobb; no one else would call them twice at this hour.
Eames gave him a look, and after a short pause, he picked up the phone. "Hello, Cobb." A long pause. "Oh." Another pause as Arthur shifted off him and sat in frustrated indignance next to him, their shoulders touching.
Eames ended the call after a few minutes.
"What is it?"
"Mark's on the run," Eames said shortly. "Cobb's tracking him now."
"Oh. He said something like that might happen. He'll want us to follow the satellite imagery and the beacon you put on his car a few days ago. Do you have a computer?"
They went into the study, and after the initial high speed chase, Eames settled in next to him to watch the data points scrolling in and the movements across the monitor.
Arthur couldn't help but look at him in the dim light. "I'm going to go downstairs," Arthur said after a few moments; Eames nodded without looking at him, tilting his head back.
Eames' apartment was above an all-night cafe; Arthur came back up with two cups of tea, one a decaffeinated honey and lemon blend, which he offered to Eames wordlessly. He sat down next to him and started telling him about the chemist and architect he had worked with on his last job, the chemist mixing up combinations and the architect creating paradoxes based on them with a kind of creativity that made the job complicated and dangerous and breathlessly fun.
"Automated multi-level kicks, that must be amazing," Eames said dreamily. His voice sounded better already. "Thank you for the tea, by the way."
"I just wish you would take care of yourself," said Arthur, staring at the satellite imagery flickering across the laptop. As an afterthought, he slipped Eames a little more warm milk, and looked at him. "All the other men I've been with would have at least known not to overdose on a basic compound," he said softly; he felt oddly tender, certain that everything was on his face.
"I'm pretty sure all the other men you've been with can now only communicate by blinking one eye, so that's a bit hard to confirm," Eames said, not even looking at him.
"And they weren't as mouthy, either," Arthur said.
3.
"Hi, Eames," Arthur said, the next morning, right behind him; Eames almost jumped out of his chair. "Christ! Arthur, I didn't even hear you," he said.
"Sorry," Arthur said. "I'm going to run across the street and grab some coffee. Would you like anything?"
"I'd appreciate it if we could put a cat bell on you," said Eames.
*
He'd thought the feeling might go away in the dream, when they were on the job, when Eames didn't sound like a fucking high-end prostitute in the middle of it. It didn't.
On the second level as a side extraction, Eames forged a blonde in a wraparound dress. Arthur found himself always on edge and watching out for a slender girlish figure, slightly more trigger-sensitive than usual.
The job went dangerous almost immediately. The safe and the mark were in the building, but the architecture wavered until the entire front of the building's glass facade shattered. The projections narrowed in on them, hostile and confrontational. He grabbed Eames' arm. "Come on, let's go this way."
"Arthur, there's glass everywhere-"
It might not have worked if Eames hadn't been wearing thin slippers, but in any case it seemed like a good occasion to pick her up and lift her bodily across the broken glass.
"Arthur," Eames said, and clung to him. She was just the right size for his arms. Her heartbeat was fast against her shoulder. The dress was silky smooth and thin, almost a negligee, pressed against him, and she smelled vaguely like magnolia. "Don't you dare drop me."
"That's kind of interfering with the mood I'm trying to set up here," Arthur said, and placed her gently down on the railing. He held her eyes, then smiled slightly. "Better?"
"Yes," she said, after a pause, looking up at him.
"Good luck," Arthur added sincerely. He was gone in a heartbeat.
Later, they were running from about ten gunmen on motorcycles, Arthur gripping his jacket on his arm where it was getting soaked through with blood. They ducked into an abandoned farmhouse and climbed up on the rafters. Two minutes till the kick.
"I can't believe you just shot all those people for me," Eames said, sounding slightly breathless, on the edge of flirtatious-like this was a game, like this was just another round.
Arthur efficiently ripped the cloth and staunched his bloodied arm. "Save it for the mark," he said.
*
As pleasant as it was to see Eames distracting the mark as a frankly really hot woman, there was nothing, Arthur thought, like Eames slouching casually into the warehouse at ten o'clock the next morning, spinning and lounging lazily in a desk chair, lackadaisical clothing, a five o'clock shadow.
*
"Oh-excuse me," said Eames, bumping into him just as Arthur stepped in his way and pulled out the chair.
"Sorry," Arthur said, while Cobb gave them a curious look and took a seat across from them at the restaurant. "Take the other chair." He let himself smile slightly at him, and Eames looked wildly startled, before he rolled his eyes, like he just realized that Arthur was kind of coming on to him, like it was such a big secret, what with the umbrella-holding and the tea-fetching and the massive in-dream bleeding.
The thing was, Eames knew he was flirting, so it was rather harmless, he thought. And Arthur liked it-smiling at Eames when no one was looking, offering him his coat when they were in the dreams and Eames was woefully underdressed in slips and negligees, fetching him tea at the warehouse and making him jump almost every time.
4.
Yusuf was in New York, seeing the sights and occasionally stopping by to design some compounds for Cobb. The first time he heard Eames' low, husky , bedroom voice in the warehouse, he whistled and said with a laugh, "Hey, Eames, how much are they paying extra for that on the street?"
"More than you'll ever have," Eames said easily, switching off the audio recording he was listening to.
"Yusuf," Arthur said, tense in warning. Yusuf raised an eyebrow at him and ducked his head in apology, saying, "Alright, alright, back to this lovely compound."
"What's wrong with you?" Eames asked Arthur, later; "We were just joking around." Arthur stared at him. Eames added, "Seriously, if you can't make a joke about dying from a painful infection in a place with below-average medical facilities and people trying to kill you, what can you joke about?"
"Please stop talking," said Arthur, pained.
"You do realize most people think this voice is rather fetching," Eames said, still looking insufferably smug across the lab table, even though Arthur was pretty sure Yusuf had told them those beakers contained explosives.
"I liked your normal voice," Arthur snapped. Eames' hoarse, soft voice right now made him want to put the covers over him, wrap him in a woolly scarf, give him Swiss lemon cough drops.
He settled for grabbing him and moving him away from the beakers.
*
"How about Friday evening," said Eames, when Arthur asked him whether they could meet later that week.
"Um," Arthur said. Cobb and Eames would be in meetings that day, but he had already promised to help their architect extract from the senior vice-president overlooking the patents they were investigating; the meeting time kept being moved later and later into the night.
On Friday, by the time Arthur kicked out and the chemist had replenished the sedative multiple times over, even the architect was a little shaky. The extraction had taken hours longer than it should have; the mark had an architectural background and kept manipulating the dreamspace. Arthur had to pull some absolutely crazy stunts; they went through the hotel room and packed up fast, then left with the information, the architect shaking her shoulder in phantom pain.
Arthur was already fifteen minutes late when he managed to get back to his apartment; Eames was walking south on 6th Ave when he arrived, and Arthur ran and caught up with him.
"Hi," Eames said, and checked the time. "So, my dear... white rabbit in a waist coat..."
"Sorry I'm late," Arthur said. Eames was wearing a stupid shirt that was simultaneously blue, purple, red, and brown. He looked really hot. It must have been on his face because Eames gave him a look, annoyed, astonished, and a little flattered.
*
They stumbled through Arthur's apartment, kissing; they bumped into walls and fell through the folding closet doors and spent brief moments making out against soft cashmere coats and sweaters ("Ow! Are these color-sorted? How many closets do you even have in here, Arthur? Am I your personal closet opener-" "I don't know; a lot, okay,") and Arthur pressed him against the window, Manhattan lights blinking hopefully up at them; he thought he never wanted to kiss anyone else again.
"I thought this was another closet," Eames said, as Arthur opened the bedroom door.
"We can go to a closet if you want, whatever," Arthur said, his breath caught a little, he didn't even know what he was saying anymore, "Whatever you want."
"Just, kiss me again there," Eames said, his voice already ridiculously low, sexy, and Arthur kissed his neck and slid to his knees.
Afterwards, they went back in the living room and opened a window, sat at the counter on bar stools. Arthur dimmed the lights, lit candles in the cramped bar area over the kitchen, and poured two glasses of wine. "So, my neighbor made some chili," he said, trying to sound conversational. "And I picked up food on the way here. I was thinking we could... eat it."
"Wow, this is really fancy," said Eames. Arthur suspected he was making fun of him. Eames eyed the counter.
"What are you thinking," Arthur said softly.
Eames said, "I'm thinking you've done so much research that this is probably going to be the best wine experience of my life." He was definitely making fun of him.
"Here," Arthur said hastily, handing him the bottle.
The thing was, Arthur didn't even want to buy wine. For all Eames could act so sleazy sometimes, Arthur was pretty sure he had been sleeping with that pretentious architect a few years back who would habitually scowl at the dreamspace Cobb created and say things like, "redesign this restaurant, that '67 Domaine de la Romanee-Conti is an unbelievable steal at 500 dollars" while Eames cracked up behind him; Eames had talked to one mark about fine wines for almost an hour in a Californian winery dreamscape they designed; he had dismissed his father's collection saying he'd sell it all, but Arthur thought he'd seen there maybe aged Ducru-Beaucaillou, gutsy American Heitz, Sauternes and rare Zinfandels and grand old Bordeaux. He felt a rush of sick nervousness; when he looked back Eames was studying the label.
Arthur sneaked a glance at him.
"How on earth did you find a '86 Ausone?" Eames finally asked, looking up. His eyes were warm and kind of a brilliant dark gray, and Arthur thought it was worth it all just to be able to surprise him for once in his life.
"Just luck," he lied.
"Come over here for a moment," Eames said slowly, and then he pressed Arthur against the counter and knocked his wrist back.
They toppled some of the candles.
5.
The job brought them to London and various cities in Europe, hopping on and off trains and airlines. Eames took a reconnaissance role in Paris for five days, which was how Arthur found himself holding Eames' key, in his ancient and cluttered London flat. There were so many carefully dusted knick-knacks thrown around, and things that looked older than time-a sailing boat in a glass, old paintings, plush armchairs, Persian carpets, stuffed deer, hanging antlers and carved ivory. In the center of the room was a battered Steinway grand, and a cat was sleeping on top of it.
"Oh," Ariadne said, dropping her purse and walking towards the piano, "Eames told me about his sister's Persian that he was keeping in their family's flat. Hey Lovelace, you silly kitty!" The cat yowled and shied away. "Wow," she said, laughing, "She's pretty cranky, huh. And you're going to petsit for him while he's away?"
"Just for five days," said Arthur. The piano was in tune and had a soft action, keys worn from age and use. The sound was gentle and mellow and a little creamy, notes like pearls slipping off a string; Arthur was suddenly inexplicably reminded of Paris, and he wished Eames were here.
Ariadne tilted her head at him and when she spoke, her voice was a little knowing. "Do you even like animals?"
"Of course I do," Arthur said defensively. "I like... tigers." The cat gave him a suspicious look and leapt onto the windowsill with her back facing them, turning occasionally to make sure they were still looking.
*
Eames sat on the edge of the bed in his apartment in Paris.
Three months ago, Arthur had been on this bed; Arthur had kissed his forearms leisurely, had whispered "I'm really drunk," and "I think I'm in love with you a little." He had been gone when Eames had woken up the following morning, and there had been no note, nothing to show that he had ever been there.
Eames had fallen back and watched the early dawn filter dreamily through the curtains, thinking about Arthur-Arthur, who was so bitter and sleek and sharp and so proud, always. He was gorgeous, and Eames had fallen for him before he even knew it-but waking up that morning, he had thought, watching Arthur leave again and again, this wasn't even anything beautiful anymore, it was just awful and a little heartbreaking.
Eames moved his nightstand, searching for something; stuck and hidden between the wall and the edge of the drawer was a page that looked like it had been ripped out of a moleskine notebook, dated three months back.
It said,
I had to catch an early flight to New York. I didn't want to wake you.
I don't think I was that drunk as I said I was, last night.
Try not to kiss anyone until I come back.
- A.
*
It was apparently not that hard to take care of a cat. The days slipped by; the job was a lot and a lot of waiting-with training exercises in mazes, reconnaissance, and chemical testing in between. Arthur took out a library edition of Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook (Swensen and Meagher); he borrowed a ball of yarn from Cobb and pulled it around on the carpet, letting her pounce on it. He came home at night and Lovelace was there, purring, on his suitcase, nosing curiously at his cufflinks and rolling around blissfully in Arthur's favorite merino wool sweaters.
At one point Yusuf came by with another shipment of rare and expensive chemicals; they did some rather ill-advised shots on the counter after one very close call with the mark, and one thing led to another and all of the sudden it was Thursday night and there was a horrific crash and suddenly he and Yusuf were staring at a cat that was entirely soaked in a rare and expensive-
in-
"It's just amaretto extract," Yusuf said hastily.
"What the hell?" Arthur said. "Why did you put amaretto extract in with the rest of the PASIV chemicals?" Lovelace yowled and tried to dash away, but Arthur grimly stood up and grabbed her with a towel.
"It's not for the PASIV, it's for-baking- Ariadne likes the smell, okay," Yusuf said. "Shit. This is really bad."
Lovelace was drenched in spots with the nutty, sugary liquid. He could smell it from across the room; when he stepped closer, it was deep and deeply fragrant, permeating on and on.
"What? What's the matter?"
"Well," Yusuf said slowly, sounding a little odd, "It's strong almond-flavored sugar water-and Eames hates almonds."
"He does?" Arthur asked.
"Yeah," said Yusuf. "Something about his father. He'll flip out when he sees the cat. Possibly go mental. Can we rub it off with a towel?"
That just made it worse. They both smelled faintly like amaretto extract the next day, and Cobb looked at them, bewildered.
*
Saturday dawned bright and sunny. Arthur was in Eames' flat again with Lovelace; she hopped out of the carrier and strolled around the kitchen as if she owned the place. Arthur checked his watch. There was enough time to put away supplies, water the plants, and wash off the almond smell--it was still extremely strong, like Lovelace was an almond macaroon in the shape of a cat.
When he finished everything on his list but the last, he rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the other side of the kitchen.
"Hey Lovelace," Arthur said, picking her up easily without struggle. He put a bowl of warm water in the sink, dipped the cat in the water, and squirted her with the shampoo.
Little did he know that he had just begun the most vicious 40 seconds of his life.
Completely soaked thirty seconds in and bleeding from many slight wounds, he chased the dripping wet cat and managed to catch her, knocking some alcohol off the counter in the process.
At this junction, he heard the lock in the front door click. Eames stepped inside the kitchen, tossing the keys on the counter. Arthur swallowed. Eames looked-really good-well rested, bright-eyed. He had shaved, and he had cut his hair, and he was quite casually wearing a suit under his sleek gray coat.
There was silence for a long moment. Eames took in the liquor, the basin, the soaked clothes, and the annoyed but distinctly unsmelly cat that Arthur had just managed to catch on the ground, now clinging to his arm.
"Arthur? Did you... wash my counters? And water my plants? And... did you just try to... to give my cat a bath?"
"You really weren't supposed to come back until five," Arthur said, slowly getting off the floor. There were puddles all over the ground.
"I took an earlier flight," Eames said, staring at him. Arthur suddenly uncomfortably remembered the deadpan way Yusuf had said, "Eames hates almonds," and the sketchy way he avoided eye contact.
Eames cleared his throat. "Arthur, you never thought an experiment that-um... appears to involve a sink, a wet cat, and butterscotch schnapps... would go well?" His tone was cool, but he looked like he was suppressing a smile, amazed and taken off guard.
"I was working on wrong information," Arthur snapped. Oh god, what was he saying.
Eames only cracked up laughing, threw his jacket casually over a chair-where it rumpled instantly and which, Arthur distractedly noted, would account for a lot of things-and walked towards him. Arthur was looking around for a towel when Eames turned his head, pulled him down, and kissed him. The cat made a discontented yowl and jumped out from between them, shaking in indignance.
*
"So, that was the funniest thing I've seen in a while," Eames said cheerfully, after they had gotten Lovelace toweled off and allowed her to dash outside. The last hint of roughness was gone from his voice.
"And now you get to make fun of me for it forever," Arthur said.
"For-" Eames paused, looking thoughtful. "I guess I could. Forever, I mean," he said quietly. Arthur's heart skipped a beat, then several more, in quick succession. Eames turned to the sink and began to put away the soap. "I got the note that you left for me in Paris."
"Did you," said Arthur. "What, did it get lost in the mail, or-"
"Shut up," said Eames. "Look, I'm sorry I thought you were coldhearted and uncaring."
"Because petsitting someone's cat is normal for me," Arthur said. "It's something I do all the time."
"I'm sorry, but in my defense-" Eames began.
"But you're forgiven," Arthur said quickly. Eames just smiled up at him. He ran a hand around Arthur's shoulder, his hair, coming up with a ribbon that had fallen off Lovelace's neck when Arthur was chasing her around the room. Arthur obediently stood still as he slipped it around him.
Eames looked at him and said, with a barely suppressed, mischievous smile, "So, do you know you're wearing a cat bell? You look pretty ridiculous."
"Probably," Arthur said; he felt ridiculous too; he was trying not to smile, but it was still breaking out in his voice, beaming and vibrant. He leaned forward and kissed him, feeling the bell chime lightly against his neck.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13, or very soft R
Word Count: 4764
Warnings: None
Summary: 2 prompts - "Eames finally has Arthur, but I want him to be skeptical and reluctant and make Arthur work for his affections for once. I want a fic where Arthur actually puts in effort." + "5x Arthur took care of Eames -- Arthur is ridic in love with Eames and woos him and is a good boyfriend. In which Eames is skeptical and sounds like sex, and Arthur spills blood, ink, and almond sugar to convince him he's serious.
A/N: Thank you to brit and neve for the beta, and gwen for looking it over <3
He let himself smile slightly at him, and Eames looked wildly startled, before he rolled his eyes, like he just realized that Arthur was kind of coming on to him, like it was such a big secret, what with the umbrella-holding and the tea-fetching and the massive in-dream bleeding.
1.
The architect in Senegal sounded dark and annoyed over the phone. "No one's hiring that chemist again; he messed up the job in Dakar, and their forger was seriously poisoned-"
"What?" Arthur said; his heart stuttered to a stop.
*
The job was a corporate espionage requested by a former client which required a few months of research-straightforward, with no tail risk and a large payoff, the type of job that attracted Cobb out of retirement. But some of the marks were ex-CIA, and they needed a forger to make it work. Arthur found an apartment in New York with nice closets, opened up the warehouse, and said hello to the team the next day. They got to work fast, with Arthur taking neat notes, Cobb and Eames talking about strategy, and the architect drawing mazes on the whiteboard.
"You alright?" their architect asked Eames, later on.
"Just had a little run-in. I'll be fine in a few weeks," Eames said lightly. His voice was low and husky and soft, a fucking bedroom voice the entire day, nothing like his usual sly, crisp vowels.
("What's wrong with his voice?" Cobb had asked when they got in that day. "He sounds terrible."
"Lung infection from the Dakar job," Arthur said shortly.
Cobb shook his head in disgust. "Heard they almost got killed in Dakar. He looks better than you'd expect."
"Right," Arthur said, glad that Eames wasn't able to hear them.)
Later, as he was drying his hands in the bathroom, he looked in the mirror. "So, by the way, Cobb, Eames and I have been sleeping together for a while, and it's gotten to the point where it might-compromise the-" It sounded dumb even in his head. He threw the crumpled paper into the bin and went back to work.
Eames had been gone for that deep undercover role in Dakar and Arthur hadn't seen him in months; he looked a little exhausted now, and he no longer gave Arthur those amused looks that usually preceded trying to pull another prank on him. Arthur told himself he should be grateful for Eames letting him alone and being professional for once, but he couldn't help but remember the Fischer job-Eames smirking at him and calling him "darling", knocking over his chair, playfully competitive, giving him furtive half-smiles across the room.
The way Eames looked at him now, you would never have guessed that four months ago Arthur had been wrestling with him in a hotel in San Francisco, that he had stolen a strawberry tart from Arthur in Lyons and made him work for it back, that three months ago they had kissed, tipsy and relaxed, in a dark hallway on the first floor of a shabby prewar Parisian apartment. Arthur had pulled back then, and stared at him, his jaw working, thinking not for the first time that this on-off casual thing he had with Eames in a half dozen cities across the world might be something more.
At drinks after work that night, Eames was oddly serious; his eyes were wistful, and his hair stuck up in tufts; it occurred to Arthur how rarely he saw him this way-not hiding behind a smile or an acerbic joke or a forgery. After Cobb and their architect left, Arthur slid in next to him at the bar. Eames looked at him, reserved; in the dim light, his gray eyes looked intensely blue.
"Let me get you a cab," Arthur found himself saying.
It was raining hard outside, in the driving, intense way that New York could be. Arthur opened an umbrella and held it over Eames, who squinted up at him.
"You're getting soaked, Arthur; you shouldn't do that to your jacket."
"Guess we'll have to share," Arthur deadpanned. He ducked under the umbrella and slid one arm around Eames', brushing his hand; Eames twisted and looked up at him, resisting a little.
"You've never," he said; he sounded a little skeptical. Arthur hesitated, then forced his voice to be light and even. "No, it's alright. Let's grab the cab at that corner--do you still have that place on 54th?"
2.
Eames let him into his apartment. The light in the hallway had burned out, and it was pitch-dark and quiet. The door banged against Arthur's knee, and on the way to the lamp in the living room he tripped over in succession a brass bell, a stuffed plush dragon, suitcases, and a few billiards cues. Eames was next to him, saying, "Are you actually this clumsy or-" when Arthur tripped over a tuba and knocked him over onto the carpet.
"Sorry," said Arthur. He didn't move. Eames felt thinner and a little ticklish under him. Arthur couldn't help it; he touched his throat softly, tender, then wrapped one hand on the back of his neck. Eames ducked his head and moved to get up; he kissed Arthur's cheek diffidently; Arthur turned his head and kissed him on the mouth.
Eames resisted for a moment before saying, "Oh, alright," and kissing him back.
"Wait, maybe we should talk about this-" Arthur said, but his voice was muffled; it was hard to walk in the dark; they stumbled into the hallway, and Arthur kept banging into old radios, a footstool, tottering stacks and piles of copy paper, all those artifacts of a life on a run-of all the people Eames had known and charmed, who had been charmed by him. Arthur hit his shin against another bejeweled end table before finally managing to open the bedroom door.
"It's just--you keep leaving, and it's kind of vastly annoying, and maybe we should-" said Eames, but he was taking off Arthur's jacket, running warm hands around his waist.
"I did try to stay last time; I left a note in Paris, didn't you see it?" Arthur answered. Eames shifted away, saying, "Look, really not necessary to say that," but Arthur followed him. His cell phone rang, twice. Three times. He blindly leaned over and silenced it, not letting go, and kissed Eames on the jaw. Eames closed his eyes and Arthur stammered, "Shh, don't talk... just... just let me." All Arthur could think about was how he wanted to take care of him, to hold him here and not let go, to take away all his uncertainty and the way he trembled with faint reproach, still.
Arthur kissed his ticklish collarbone, his neck; Eames' hand stroking up the small of his back felt shockingly intimate, and Arthur moved forward and kissed him openmouthed, slow and sweet. Eames shivered and pressed back into him, slipping up the buttons of his shirt.
There was another ring, this time from Eames' phone, and the vibration made them both tense and jump apart. Eames let out a huff of frustration and fell back against the headboard; Arthur jerked away, already getting stressed out and frustrated. It had to be Cobb; no one else would call them twice at this hour.
Eames gave him a look, and after a short pause, he picked up the phone. "Hello, Cobb." A long pause. "Oh." Another pause as Arthur shifted off him and sat in frustrated indignance next to him, their shoulders touching.
Eames ended the call after a few minutes.
"What is it?"
"Mark's on the run," Eames said shortly. "Cobb's tracking him now."
"Oh. He said something like that might happen. He'll want us to follow the satellite imagery and the beacon you put on his car a few days ago. Do you have a computer?"
They went into the study, and after the initial high speed chase, Eames settled in next to him to watch the data points scrolling in and the movements across the monitor.
Arthur couldn't help but look at him in the dim light. "I'm going to go downstairs," Arthur said after a few moments; Eames nodded without looking at him, tilting his head back.
Eames' apartment was above an all-night cafe; Arthur came back up with two cups of tea, one a decaffeinated honey and lemon blend, which he offered to Eames wordlessly. He sat down next to him and started telling him about the chemist and architect he had worked with on his last job, the chemist mixing up combinations and the architect creating paradoxes based on them with a kind of creativity that made the job complicated and dangerous and breathlessly fun.
"Automated multi-level kicks, that must be amazing," Eames said dreamily. His voice sounded better already. "Thank you for the tea, by the way."
"I just wish you would take care of yourself," said Arthur, staring at the satellite imagery flickering across the laptop. As an afterthought, he slipped Eames a little more warm milk, and looked at him. "All the other men I've been with would have at least known not to overdose on a basic compound," he said softly; he felt oddly tender, certain that everything was on his face.
"I'm pretty sure all the other men you've been with can now only communicate by blinking one eye, so that's a bit hard to confirm," Eames said, not even looking at him.
"And they weren't as mouthy, either," Arthur said.
3.
"Hi, Eames," Arthur said, the next morning, right behind him; Eames almost jumped out of his chair. "Christ! Arthur, I didn't even hear you," he said.
"Sorry," Arthur said. "I'm going to run across the street and grab some coffee. Would you like anything?"
"I'd appreciate it if we could put a cat bell on you," said Eames.
*
He'd thought the feeling might go away in the dream, when they were on the job, when Eames didn't sound like a fucking high-end prostitute in the middle of it. It didn't.
On the second level as a side extraction, Eames forged a blonde in a wraparound dress. Arthur found himself always on edge and watching out for a slender girlish figure, slightly more trigger-sensitive than usual.
The job went dangerous almost immediately. The safe and the mark were in the building, but the architecture wavered until the entire front of the building's glass facade shattered. The projections narrowed in on them, hostile and confrontational. He grabbed Eames' arm. "Come on, let's go this way."
"Arthur, there's glass everywhere-"
It might not have worked if Eames hadn't been wearing thin slippers, but in any case it seemed like a good occasion to pick her up and lift her bodily across the broken glass.
"Arthur," Eames said, and clung to him. She was just the right size for his arms. Her heartbeat was fast against her shoulder. The dress was silky smooth and thin, almost a negligee, pressed against him, and she smelled vaguely like magnolia. "Don't you dare drop me."
"That's kind of interfering with the mood I'm trying to set up here," Arthur said, and placed her gently down on the railing. He held her eyes, then smiled slightly. "Better?"
"Yes," she said, after a pause, looking up at him.
"Good luck," Arthur added sincerely. He was gone in a heartbeat.
Later, they were running from about ten gunmen on motorcycles, Arthur gripping his jacket on his arm where it was getting soaked through with blood. They ducked into an abandoned farmhouse and climbed up on the rafters. Two minutes till the kick.
"I can't believe you just shot all those people for me," Eames said, sounding slightly breathless, on the edge of flirtatious-like this was a game, like this was just another round.
Arthur efficiently ripped the cloth and staunched his bloodied arm. "Save it for the mark," he said.
*
As pleasant as it was to see Eames distracting the mark as a frankly really hot woman, there was nothing, Arthur thought, like Eames slouching casually into the warehouse at ten o'clock the next morning, spinning and lounging lazily in a desk chair, lackadaisical clothing, a five o'clock shadow.
*
"Oh-excuse me," said Eames, bumping into him just as Arthur stepped in his way and pulled out the chair.
"Sorry," Arthur said, while Cobb gave them a curious look and took a seat across from them at the restaurant. "Take the other chair." He let himself smile slightly at him, and Eames looked wildly startled, before he rolled his eyes, like he just realized that Arthur was kind of coming on to him, like it was such a big secret, what with the umbrella-holding and the tea-fetching and the massive in-dream bleeding.
The thing was, Eames knew he was flirting, so it was rather harmless, he thought. And Arthur liked it-smiling at Eames when no one was looking, offering him his coat when they were in the dreams and Eames was woefully underdressed in slips and negligees, fetching him tea at the warehouse and making him jump almost every time.
4.
Yusuf was in New York, seeing the sights and occasionally stopping by to design some compounds for Cobb. The first time he heard Eames' low, husky , bedroom voice in the warehouse, he whistled and said with a laugh, "Hey, Eames, how much are they paying extra for that on the street?"
"More than you'll ever have," Eames said easily, switching off the audio recording he was listening to.
"Yusuf," Arthur said, tense in warning. Yusuf raised an eyebrow at him and ducked his head in apology, saying, "Alright, alright, back to this lovely compound."
"What's wrong with you?" Eames asked Arthur, later; "We were just joking around." Arthur stared at him. Eames added, "Seriously, if you can't make a joke about dying from a painful infection in a place with below-average medical facilities and people trying to kill you, what can you joke about?"
"Please stop talking," said Arthur, pained.
"You do realize most people think this voice is rather fetching," Eames said, still looking insufferably smug across the lab table, even though Arthur was pretty sure Yusuf had told them those beakers contained explosives.
"I liked your normal voice," Arthur snapped. Eames' hoarse, soft voice right now made him want to put the covers over him, wrap him in a woolly scarf, give him Swiss lemon cough drops.
He settled for grabbing him and moving him away from the beakers.
*
"How about Friday evening," said Eames, when Arthur asked him whether they could meet later that week.
"Um," Arthur said. Cobb and Eames would be in meetings that day, but he had already promised to help their architect extract from the senior vice-president overlooking the patents they were investigating; the meeting time kept being moved later and later into the night.
On Friday, by the time Arthur kicked out and the chemist had replenished the sedative multiple times over, even the architect was a little shaky. The extraction had taken hours longer than it should have; the mark had an architectural background and kept manipulating the dreamspace. Arthur had to pull some absolutely crazy stunts; they went through the hotel room and packed up fast, then left with the information, the architect shaking her shoulder in phantom pain.
Arthur was already fifteen minutes late when he managed to get back to his apartment; Eames was walking south on 6th Ave when he arrived, and Arthur ran and caught up with him.
"Hi," Eames said, and checked the time. "So, my dear... white rabbit in a waist coat..."
"Sorry I'm late," Arthur said. Eames was wearing a stupid shirt that was simultaneously blue, purple, red, and brown. He looked really hot. It must have been on his face because Eames gave him a look, annoyed, astonished, and a little flattered.
*
They stumbled through Arthur's apartment, kissing; they bumped into walls and fell through the folding closet doors and spent brief moments making out against soft cashmere coats and sweaters ("Ow! Are these color-sorted? How many closets do you even have in here, Arthur? Am I your personal closet opener-" "I don't know; a lot, okay,") and Arthur pressed him against the window, Manhattan lights blinking hopefully up at them; he thought he never wanted to kiss anyone else again.
"I thought this was another closet," Eames said, as Arthur opened the bedroom door.
"We can go to a closet if you want, whatever," Arthur said, his breath caught a little, he didn't even know what he was saying anymore, "Whatever you want."
"Just, kiss me again there," Eames said, his voice already ridiculously low, sexy, and Arthur kissed his neck and slid to his knees.
Afterwards, they went back in the living room and opened a window, sat at the counter on bar stools. Arthur dimmed the lights, lit candles in the cramped bar area over the kitchen, and poured two glasses of wine. "So, my neighbor made some chili," he said, trying to sound conversational. "And I picked up food on the way here. I was thinking we could... eat it."
"Wow, this is really fancy," said Eames. Arthur suspected he was making fun of him. Eames eyed the counter.
"What are you thinking," Arthur said softly.
Eames said, "I'm thinking you've done so much research that this is probably going to be the best wine experience of my life." He was definitely making fun of him.
"Here," Arthur said hastily, handing him the bottle.
The thing was, Arthur didn't even want to buy wine. For all Eames could act so sleazy sometimes, Arthur was pretty sure he had been sleeping with that pretentious architect a few years back who would habitually scowl at the dreamspace Cobb created and say things like, "redesign this restaurant, that '67 Domaine de la Romanee-Conti is an unbelievable steal at 500 dollars" while Eames cracked up behind him; Eames had talked to one mark about fine wines for almost an hour in a Californian winery dreamscape they designed; he had dismissed his father's collection saying he'd sell it all, but Arthur thought he'd seen there maybe aged Ducru-Beaucaillou, gutsy American Heitz, Sauternes and rare Zinfandels and grand old Bordeaux. He felt a rush of sick nervousness; when he looked back Eames was studying the label.
Arthur sneaked a glance at him.
"How on earth did you find a '86 Ausone?" Eames finally asked, looking up. His eyes were warm and kind of a brilliant dark gray, and Arthur thought it was worth it all just to be able to surprise him for once in his life.
"Just luck," he lied.
"Come over here for a moment," Eames said slowly, and then he pressed Arthur against the counter and knocked his wrist back.
They toppled some of the candles.
5.
The job brought them to London and various cities in Europe, hopping on and off trains and airlines. Eames took a reconnaissance role in Paris for five days, which was how Arthur found himself holding Eames' key, in his ancient and cluttered London flat. There were so many carefully dusted knick-knacks thrown around, and things that looked older than time-a sailing boat in a glass, old paintings, plush armchairs, Persian carpets, stuffed deer, hanging antlers and carved ivory. In the center of the room was a battered Steinway grand, and a cat was sleeping on top of it.
"Oh," Ariadne said, dropping her purse and walking towards the piano, "Eames told me about his sister's Persian that he was keeping in their family's flat. Hey Lovelace, you silly kitty!" The cat yowled and shied away. "Wow," she said, laughing, "She's pretty cranky, huh. And you're going to petsit for him while he's away?"
"Just for five days," said Arthur. The piano was in tune and had a soft action, keys worn from age and use. The sound was gentle and mellow and a little creamy, notes like pearls slipping off a string; Arthur was suddenly inexplicably reminded of Paris, and he wished Eames were here.
Ariadne tilted her head at him and when she spoke, her voice was a little knowing. "Do you even like animals?"
"Of course I do," Arthur said defensively. "I like... tigers." The cat gave him a suspicious look and leapt onto the windowsill with her back facing them, turning occasionally to make sure they were still looking.
*
Eames sat on the edge of the bed in his apartment in Paris.
Three months ago, Arthur had been on this bed; Arthur had kissed his forearms leisurely, had whispered "I'm really drunk," and "I think I'm in love with you a little." He had been gone when Eames had woken up the following morning, and there had been no note, nothing to show that he had ever been there.
Eames had fallen back and watched the early dawn filter dreamily through the curtains, thinking about Arthur-Arthur, who was so bitter and sleek and sharp and so proud, always. He was gorgeous, and Eames had fallen for him before he even knew it-but waking up that morning, he had thought, watching Arthur leave again and again, this wasn't even anything beautiful anymore, it was just awful and a little heartbreaking.
Eames moved his nightstand, searching for something; stuck and hidden between the wall and the edge of the drawer was a page that looked like it had been ripped out of a moleskine notebook, dated three months back.
It said,
I had to catch an early flight to New York. I didn't want to wake you.
I don't think I was that drunk as I said I was, last night.
Try not to kiss anyone until I come back.
- A.
*
It was apparently not that hard to take care of a cat. The days slipped by; the job was a lot and a lot of waiting-with training exercises in mazes, reconnaissance, and chemical testing in between. Arthur took out a library edition of Cat Owner's Home Veterinary Handbook (Swensen and Meagher); he borrowed a ball of yarn from Cobb and pulled it around on the carpet, letting her pounce on it. He came home at night and Lovelace was there, purring, on his suitcase, nosing curiously at his cufflinks and rolling around blissfully in Arthur's favorite merino wool sweaters.
At one point Yusuf came by with another shipment of rare and expensive chemicals; they did some rather ill-advised shots on the counter after one very close call with the mark, and one thing led to another and all of the sudden it was Thursday night and there was a horrific crash and suddenly he and Yusuf were staring at a cat that was entirely soaked in a rare and expensive-
in-
"It's just amaretto extract," Yusuf said hastily.
"What the hell?" Arthur said. "Why did you put amaretto extract in with the rest of the PASIV chemicals?" Lovelace yowled and tried to dash away, but Arthur grimly stood up and grabbed her with a towel.
"It's not for the PASIV, it's for-baking- Ariadne likes the smell, okay," Yusuf said. "Shit. This is really bad."
Lovelace was drenched in spots with the nutty, sugary liquid. He could smell it from across the room; when he stepped closer, it was deep and deeply fragrant, permeating on and on.
"What? What's the matter?"
"Well," Yusuf said slowly, sounding a little odd, "It's strong almond-flavored sugar water-and Eames hates almonds."
"He does?" Arthur asked.
"Yeah," said Yusuf. "Something about his father. He'll flip out when he sees the cat. Possibly go mental. Can we rub it off with a towel?"
That just made it worse. They both smelled faintly like amaretto extract the next day, and Cobb looked at them, bewildered.
*
Saturday dawned bright and sunny. Arthur was in Eames' flat again with Lovelace; she hopped out of the carrier and strolled around the kitchen as if she owned the place. Arthur checked his watch. There was enough time to put away supplies, water the plants, and wash off the almond smell--it was still extremely strong, like Lovelace was an almond macaroon in the shape of a cat.
When he finished everything on his list but the last, he rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the other side of the kitchen.
"Hey Lovelace," Arthur said, picking her up easily without struggle. He put a bowl of warm water in the sink, dipped the cat in the water, and squirted her with the shampoo.
Little did he know that he had just begun the most vicious 40 seconds of his life.
Completely soaked thirty seconds in and bleeding from many slight wounds, he chased the dripping wet cat and managed to catch her, knocking some alcohol off the counter in the process.
At this junction, he heard the lock in the front door click. Eames stepped inside the kitchen, tossing the keys on the counter. Arthur swallowed. Eames looked-really good-well rested, bright-eyed. He had shaved, and he had cut his hair, and he was quite casually wearing a suit under his sleek gray coat.
There was silence for a long moment. Eames took in the liquor, the basin, the soaked clothes, and the annoyed but distinctly unsmelly cat that Arthur had just managed to catch on the ground, now clinging to his arm.
"Arthur? Did you... wash my counters? And water my plants? And... did you just try to... to give my cat a bath?"
"You really weren't supposed to come back until five," Arthur said, slowly getting off the floor. There were puddles all over the ground.
"I took an earlier flight," Eames said, staring at him. Arthur suddenly uncomfortably remembered the deadpan way Yusuf had said, "Eames hates almonds," and the sketchy way he avoided eye contact.
Eames cleared his throat. "Arthur, you never thought an experiment that-um... appears to involve a sink, a wet cat, and butterscotch schnapps... would go well?" His tone was cool, but he looked like he was suppressing a smile, amazed and taken off guard.
"I was working on wrong information," Arthur snapped. Oh god, what was he saying.
Eames only cracked up laughing, threw his jacket casually over a chair-where it rumpled instantly and which, Arthur distractedly noted, would account for a lot of things-and walked towards him. Arthur was looking around for a towel when Eames turned his head, pulled him down, and kissed him. The cat made a discontented yowl and jumped out from between them, shaking in indignance.
*
"So, that was the funniest thing I've seen in a while," Eames said cheerfully, after they had gotten Lovelace toweled off and allowed her to dash outside. The last hint of roughness was gone from his voice.
"And now you get to make fun of me for it forever," Arthur said.
"For-" Eames paused, looking thoughtful. "I guess I could. Forever, I mean," he said quietly. Arthur's heart skipped a beat, then several more, in quick succession. Eames turned to the sink and began to put away the soap. "I got the note that you left for me in Paris."
"Did you," said Arthur. "What, did it get lost in the mail, or-"
"Shut up," said Eames. "Look, I'm sorry I thought you were coldhearted and uncaring."
"Because petsitting someone's cat is normal for me," Arthur said. "It's something I do all the time."
"I'm sorry, but in my defense-" Eames began.
"But you're forgiven," Arthur said quickly. Eames just smiled up at him. He ran a hand around Arthur's shoulder, his hair, coming up with a ribbon that had fallen off Lovelace's neck when Arthur was chasing her around the room. Arthur obediently stood still as he slipped it around him.
Eames looked at him and said, with a barely suppressed, mischievous smile, "So, do you know you're wearing a cat bell? You look pretty ridiculous."
"Probably," Arthur said; he felt ridiculous too; he was trying not to smile, but it was still breaking out in his voice, beaming and vibrant. He leaned forward and kissed him, feeling the bell chime lightly against his neck.