Halcyon Days
It began in Paris. Of course it began in Paris. The City of Lights was the ideal place for an unexpected romance to occur.
Opposite to what the dreamshare community at large thought, Arthur met Eames first, not Cobb. Before Eames, Arthur knew Mal, and that was how they met. Arthur walked into the studio they were using for the job--Arthur's first--to find Mal arguing with a handsome Englishman. They were locked in a voracious battle of words over how to approach the mark.
"Your way takes too long, why can't you just seduce him, if you're so damn good at disguises?!" she argued passionately. The man shook his head.
"Because no matter who I look like, if the man isn't convinced I'm real it all goes to shite, and while I am an excellent actor, seduction isn't subtle enough to do the job."
"Seduction is very subtle--if you do it right," Mal threw back. The Englishman raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"The right way would also--what did you say?--take too long," he pointed out. Mal balled her fist and ground her teeth. She seemed ready to take a swing at the man, and although Mal had a vicious hook, the man she was aiming her rage at looked buff enough to be a boxer. Arthur decided it was time for him to step in.
"What seems to be the problem?" he asked, stepping forward and making his presence known. If he happened to step in a direction that placed him between Mal and the other man, well, that was coincidence.
Mal whirled to face Arthur as if she'd known he was there and was just waiting for him to speak up. Perhaps she had.
"This oaf thanks that in order to snare Morrisson, we need to approach him with a business offer--tell him it would be easier to seduce the man to get the information," she commanded Arthur.
Arthur met the Englishman's stare, whose gaze swept over him in pleased assessment and with not a little heat.
"Go on, Arthur," he purred, the way he lengthened the vowels of his name sending a shiver down Arthur's spine. Arthur resisted the urge to tell the man where to go, even as he did his own little assessment.
The man was Arthur's height, but far bulkier, the muscles in his arms straining against the material of his business shirt. His waist was thick but clearly fit, and from what Arthur could see, his trousers outlined the bubble shape of his butt excellently.
"You're Eames?" he asked. A smirk graced the man's generous lips, and his hazel eyes sparkled with a smile.
"I am," he answered. "Who might you be, gorgeous?" Arthur opened his mouth to answer, but was momentarily speechless at the blandishment.
"Arthur," he replied shortly. He turned to Mal quickly, in part to hide the blush he felt rising--no one had ever called him gorgeous before--and in part to move the day along.
"I know how you feel about entrapment, Mal, but if he's going to work with us, we need to let him do his job," he told her. Mal scoweled fiercely, crossing her elegant arms over her chest.
"But that man--" Arthur cut her off before she could begin to rant. Mal's rants were famous for being long and ferocious.
"I know he's English, but for the sake of this job, you need to move past it," he said, humor picking up the corner of his mouth. Mal tried to hold her scowl a minute longer, but she couldn't resist Arthur's amused eyes.
"Fine," she said, huffing even as she answered his smile. "Just for you, Arthur." Arthur squeezed her arm, and then turned back to Eames. He was watching them with curious and vaguely laughing eyes.
"Do I get to do anything just for you, Arthur?" he said, the innocence of his tone belying the lasciviousness of his words and teasing tilt of his mouth. All of a sudden, Arthur felt the blush that had just faded come rushing back.
"No," he said firmly, and shoved past Eames before his reaction showed.
Arthur and Eames worked together a few more times, and while the man's professionalism left something to be desired--literally--his work was flawless. Nearly three years after their first meeting, they ended up on a job in Paris that fell through, and they were at loose ends. Eames invited Arthur to his hotel for drinks, and since the job wasn't happening, Arthur saw no reason to turn him down.
"What's next for you?" Eames asked as he poured him a malt scotch on the rocks. Arthur shrugged as he accepted the glass, sipping and savoring the taste. Eames had good taste, though something told Arthur that he probably preferred beer.
"Dunno. Thought I might stick around and see the city. I've only been here on business before, never had time to take it in." Eames turned around, surprise evident on his face.
"You've never experienced Paris?" he said incredulously. "Darling, we are going to have so much fun." Arthur raised his eyebrows, struggling to hide his response to Eames' throwaway endearment. He was certain it was a common, thoughtless thing Eames did with people he liked. After three years, Arthur was sure that Eames liked him; he had seen how Eames treated people he didn't like--polite and professional, as he never was around Arthur, and as distant as the fucking moon.
"Is that so?" he said, trying to suppress a smile at Eames' enthusiasm. Eames grinned, pointing his finger at Arthur while the rest wrapped around a glass of whiskey.
"Yes, that is so. I am going to show you Paris. Trust me, Arthur, you will love it." He was so earnest that Arthur believed him. He didn't say that he knew anyway, because he always enjoyed the time he spent with Eames. That would have been ... not the way they worked. They teased and poked and argued, and sometimes Arthur flirted back to Eames by accident, but they weren't sentimental.
Paris was the start.
Eames showed him the city, showed him the museums and galas and restaurants and shops and the riverwalk. He took Arthur to the most obscure places, haunts only a native Parisian (or the friend of one) would know. And Arthur did love it. The most fascinating thing to him, however, was Eames himself.
Eames was not secretive, but he had always posed a mystery and a juxtaposition to Arthur; his obvious high class upbringing and his job as a criminal, how he could tell you the most intimate details of a person with one look and yet never reveal a thing about himself, the way he could slip into a persona so completely and yet continue to be magnetic and larger than life as himself.
A week into their “holiday”, as Eames put it, they stopped renting separate rooms and got a suite instead. It worked well; they could support each other when stumbling back drunk, and when one of them needed to run back and get something (money, clothes, etc.) they didn't need to swap keys or get new ones. Of course, Arthur also appreciated the fact of Eames in the morning.
The first time Arthur woke up to the smell of coffee and breakfast, he wondered for a moment whether he was still dreaming. Then the feeling of realness, which everyone in the dreamshare business got very skilled at identifying, seeped in, and Arthur swayed out of his bedroom to find out what was going on.
He found Eames, a pot of coffe and a pot of tea, and eggs and bacon and toast laid out on the kitchen counter. Arthur stared at Eames, not quite believing his eyes, because the man was dressed casually in jeans and a checkered shirt, a dish towel slung over his shoulder while whistling away in front of the stove.
When he caught sight of Arthur, an instant grin spread over his face, and he winked cheekily.
“The bedhead is charming, Arthur, truly. I never thought I would get to see you so untucked.” Arthur ignored the comment, as usual, and instead got to the point-also as usual.
“What are you doing?” Eames raised an eyebrow as only Eames could: amused and slightly confused and implying that you're a bit of an idiot.
“I'm making breakfast, Arthur, can't you see? Wait, do you wear contacts?” Arthur glared and crossed his arms.
“I don't wear contacts. I just ... didn't know you could cook. Or that you would.” Eames chuckled, the sound warm and a little too sexy for this early in the morning.
“I can do a lot of things I bet you haven't imagined,” he said, waggling an eyebrow suggestively. “And I definitely would do them.”
Arthur got a cup of coffee. He needed it to have the mental fortitude to block out the images Eames put in his head.
Two minutes later he was sitting down at the counter, moaning around mouthfuls of food and declaring that if Eames cooked like this every day then Arthur would be at his service forever.
Despite his outward confidence, Eames was certain that Arthur would shut the idea down in a heartbeat. He had never gone along with Eames' crazy scemes before-but then he was, and Eames had six weeks with Arthur and Paris.
At first it was like a dream. He met up with Arthur every morning for breakfast, and then Eames would drag him to whatever idea Eames had come up with the night before. Then Arthur, casually, suggested they save money and time by sharing a suite instead of maintaining separate rooms. “It would be more efficient,” he said, and Eames could only too readily agree.
He soon found out that Arthur was not a morning person; he shuffled out of his bedroom after eight, his eyes bleary with sleep and his hair sticking up like a chicken's feathers, dressed in low slung sweatpants and a t-shirt. He looked edible, and Eames couldn't help himself from being flirty and suggestive with that in front of him. And then Arthur started eating like a porn star. Eames found he had to use the bathroom rather quickly, especially once Arthur made noises about 'servicing' him. He ejaculated to the fantasy of those soft-looking lips wrapped around his cock and making those noises for entirely different reasons.
Eames was familiar with the city, and spoke almost unaccented French; Arthur did as well, which made getting around a lot easier. As long as the French believed they weren't English or American, they were more welcome. The French weren't fans of tourists in general.
They went to every conceivable attraction Eames could come up with: museums, vineyards, churches, historical sites, river cruises, galas, concerts, art shows, famous restaurants, and more. At a wine tasting, the two of them got so drunk they barely had the werewithal to get a taxi back to their hotel and crawl up to their room. In the elevator, Arthur was draped against him, partly alseep already, and only came to when Eames pinched him. Getting into the room itself was a mite tricky, with how smashed they both were, but he managed. Knowing he wouldn't get as far as Arthur's bedroom, Eames dragged them both to his, and proceeded to pass out.
The morning sun woke him and immediately made him wish he were dead. The ache is his skull felt like he had played baseball with it-and his head was the bat. He groaned and rolled to his side, only to encounter something else in bed with him. Opening his eyes painfully, Eames was greeted with the sight of Arthur, still asleep, lain face down on the mattress with one arm flung over his head and drool dribbling out the corner of his mouth. His clothes from the night before were rumbled and his hair was as spiky as the spines of a porcupine.
He was still the most beautiful man Eames had ever known.
Wow. That sounded way too sappy for him, and especially him with a hangover. He should take it as a sign that he was in way over his head with Arthur and should promptly stop whatever he was doing with him. Which was stare at his drooling, hungover, sleeping face. Yep, time to get up.