oh, simple thing
This one is for aliassmith, who asked for a prequel to In Everything But Blood. You light up my life.
Title: The First Night (that Arthur crawled in bed with Eames)
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Unrequited Arthur/Eames
Wordcount: 1,781
Rating: PG
Summary: Eames follows him down the hall to Arthur's bedroom and doesn't balk when Arthur closes the door in his face, because the lock on his door doesn't work and it's not as if locks have ever kept either of them out of each others business.
Notes: So, aliassmith, you totally gave me an excuse to write more for this verse (where Eames' best friend is an escort and Eames Doesn't Approve). Who loves you, baby? Might even open this one up a little more, now that my fingers are itching.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Damnit.
Eames is there when he gets home, waiting on the couch with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His expression is tight as he stares at the muted television.
Arthur closes the door quietly and stands in front of the side table for a full minute, staring at his profile in the mirror. He takes his time pulling out his wallet and putting it and his keys in the little metal bowl. They clang loudly against Eames' own keys and he watches his friends jaw clench.
He makes his way to the kitchen and stands in the middle of the room, staring at the cabinets, trying to buy himself some time to think. He's not even hungry. His client paid for a ridiculously lavish dinner that Arthur had been too nervous to really eat, so Kavan had smiled at him and asked the waiter to box the leftovers. Later, in his hotel suite, he pulled out the styrofoam box and they shared the rest of his meal over the satin sheets and passed a bottle of champagne back and forth.
Kavan had smiled and blushed prettily at him and when he kissed Arthur goodbye his lips tasted like butter and salt.
Arthur stares blankly at the handle on the refrigerator door. It was easy, so easy, to do what he had done. He had, essentially, gone on a lovely date with an attractive man. A man who, had he not been getting paid for it, Arthur would probably have slept with anyway. If they met any other way, if they had bumped into each other on the street, if one of them spilled his drink on the other, Arthur would have talked to him.
Actually, Arthur would have flirted his ass off, Kavan would've smiled and blushed and maybe, in some parallel universe, it would've been the beginning of something. Only in this one Arthur was getting paid for this and Kavan was actually some kind of an actor, or a married doctor or whatever, a rich closeted man that his society wouldn't accept. Arthur will probably never see again after tonight.
Arthur pulls the fridge door open and stares down at a plastic covered cheeseburger on a plate. Suddenly he gets so angry he slams the door and whirls around. Of course, Eames is lounging against the doorframe as though it's holding him up and Arthur fights down the urge to hit him in the face.
"Not going to eat?" Eames asks. He's smiling and his hands are on either side of the frame, but his white knuckles betray the anger simmering just under the surface.
Arthur yanks off the loose tie around his neck and stalks past him, pushing his arm out of the way. He gives Eames a dark look when his friend smirks at him.
"What, you're ignoring me now?" Eames follows him down the hall to Arthur's bedroom and doesn't balk when Arthur closes the door in his face, because the lock on his door doesn't work and it's not as if locks have ever kept either of them out of each others business. He just opens the door back up and follows him in.
Arthur shoots a glare over his shoulder as he unbuttons his shirt. He whips the shirt off angrily and tenses when he hears Eames suck in his breath. Kavan had been very hands on and he was sure there were angry red lines down his back. He ignores the impulse to turn around and fling his shirt in Eames' face. Instead he opens a drawer and pulls out his faded I'm With Stupid t-shirt and pulls it on, feeling mean.
When he turns around Eames rolls his eyes so hard it has to hurt. "Oh, that's mature."
"Oh, like you pitching a hissy fit in the middle of Costco was mature?"
"Arthur," Eames begins and Arthur grinds his teeth. They've already had this conversation for a full week and Arthur's made it very clear that Eames is not his fucking father and he has no say in this. "Don't be dumb. This is a stupid decision."
"This stupid decision just paid the rent for the rest of the year, Eames." Arthur sighs and flops backward onto his bed. It squeaks loudly, and the welts on his back protest so he pushes himself up on his elbows. "It's my decision, end of story."
"Everything's always 'end of story' with you, Arthur," Eames says. He walks over to the bed and sits on Arthur's feet. Arthur kicks out until Eames ass falls between his legs, his feet dangling off the end of the bed. "Back during homecoming, and that trip to Greece, and let's not forget the Lincoln Tunnel fiasco. I don't need to bring up Isabella, do I?"
"Bastard," Arthur hisses. He shifts just enough to jab Eames in the face. "You said you wouldn't ever mention her again!"
"Ow!" Eames pushes Arthur back, roughly, and reaches down and pinches his thigh. Hard. Arthur hisses. "You think you can just shut down a conversation all of the time without trying to resolve what is it we're fighting about. Bloody hell, Arthur. I won't let you prostitute yourself for me. This is the dumbest argument we've had in a long time, and I'm counting that one about the astronauts and cavemen here."
"If the cavemen can have weapons, so can the astronauts," Arthur grumbles under his breath. Eames moves his hand to the inside of Arthur's thigh and pinches him again. Arthur slaps his hand away as he glares up at him.
"Don't try to change the subject." Eames stares down at his friend for a moment. The smudge on Arthur's neck is barely there, but it's visible enough. "Anything could happen, Arthur. This is a dangerous business to get yourself into. Forgive me for caring about my best friends welfare."
"Eames..." Arthur trails off and sighs heavily. He brings both hands to his face, dragging them down it roughly. The hand that had been happily pinching him moments before falls to his knee and rubs it gently.
"Please, Arthur." Something in Eames' tone makes Arthur pull his hands back and stare up at him. "Don't do this again. I was out of my mind all night thinking something awful was going to happen to you."
"It's just sex, Eames," Arthur says. "It was just a lonely guy who wanted someone to make him feel good for a night. That's all."
Eames sighs, looking up towards the ceiling fan as though it's somehow going to help him in this fight.
"I still don't like it," Eames tells the ceiling fan. "You're being careless, Arthur."
"I'll be fine," Arthur reassures him. "Better than fine, actually. I had a great time tonight, and I got paid a shitload of cash to do it."
"I don't like it."
Arthur is about to kick Eames off of his bed when Eames stands of his own accord.
"But it's your life. You're right. I don't really have a say in it." Eames reaches forward and tousles Arthur's hair gently. "You're my best friend, you little shite. Don't get mad that I love you and want to take care of you, okay?"
"Quit acting like my father and I won't." Arthur slaps Eames' hand away again, but he throws his legs over the side of the bed and sits up straight. "And I'm not mad. Just annoyed. You've done so much for me these past few years. Let me do this for you. For us."
"I don't think I'll ever be happy with this decision, Arthur," Eames warns. Arthur opens his mouth but Eames keeps talking. "But I'll do my best to shut up about it."
Arthur nods, grateful. Eames gives him a little smile and nudges his shoulder. "There's food in the fridge if you get hungry later."
"Thanks, but I just want to get some sleep."
"Okay. Goodnight."
"Night."
Eames leaves, pulling the door shut behind him, and Arthur falls backwards again.
He knows the issue isn't settled. He knows, the next time he comes home after a job, Eames will act the same way; ridiculous and stupid and angry at Arthur's 'carelessness'.
Arthur also knows, somewhere inside of him, that if his parents could see him now they wouldn't even be able to look him in the eye.
He turns on his side, wincing when the bedclothes rub against his sore back, and closes his eyes.
Fifteen minutes later Arthur opens his eyes and huffs at the wall. He's laying on his front, head turned to the window so he can glare at the tree right outside. It's been windy lately, and the branches are screeching against the glass loudly. Damn Eames and his window that faces the bay.
Arthur grabs for his iPod and sticks the buds in, scrolling through to his Beethoven playlist. He's halfway through his favorite, the third movement of Moonlight Sonata, when he sighs in frustration.
Arthur rolls onto his back and grunts quietly. Then he stops his music, throws his covers back, and stands. It only takes a few seconds to move down the hall normally, but trying to tiptoe and avoid the creaky floorboards slows him down quite a bit.
It takes about four minutes for him to reach the door, and another two to navigate the piles of clothes on the floor in the dim light coming through the window. Arthur very nearly trips over a pile of beer bottles next to the bed and sends them crashing. He manages to avoid it, barely, and the next thing he knows he's pulling back the covers and climbing into Eames' bed.
Eames barely moves, the lug that he is, when Arthur shifts close. He just grunts into his pillow and hugs it closer. Arthur pulls the covers down enough to slide his legs under it and holds back a sigh when the heat hits his body full force. Eames has always run hot and Arthur is grateful for that. He turns on his side, pressing his sore back up against Eames' side and closes his eyes.
Within minutes he's asleep.
Eames turns his head to the side, staring through the darkness at the back of Arthur's head. He pulls one hand out from under the pillow and presses the back of it against Arthur's neck.
He leaves his hand where it is and goes back to sleep.
Title: The First Night (that Arthur crawled in bed with Eames)
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Unrequited Arthur/Eames
Wordcount: 1,781
Rating: PG
Summary: Eames follows him down the hall to Arthur's bedroom and doesn't balk when Arthur closes the door in his face, because the lock on his door doesn't work and it's not as if locks have ever kept either of them out of each others business.
Notes: So, aliassmith, you totally gave me an excuse to write more for this verse (where Eames' best friend is an escort and Eames Doesn't Approve). Who loves you, baby? Might even open this one up a little more, now that my fingers are itching.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Damnit.
Eames is there when he gets home, waiting on the couch with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His expression is tight as he stares at the muted television.
Arthur closes the door quietly and stands in front of the side table for a full minute, staring at his profile in the mirror. He takes his time pulling out his wallet and putting it and his keys in the little metal bowl. They clang loudly against Eames' own keys and he watches his friends jaw clench.
He makes his way to the kitchen and stands in the middle of the room, staring at the cabinets, trying to buy himself some time to think. He's not even hungry. His client paid for a ridiculously lavish dinner that Arthur had been too nervous to really eat, so Kavan had smiled at him and asked the waiter to box the leftovers. Later, in his hotel suite, he pulled out the styrofoam box and they shared the rest of his meal over the satin sheets and passed a bottle of champagne back and forth.
Kavan had smiled and blushed prettily at him and when he kissed Arthur goodbye his lips tasted like butter and salt.
Arthur stares blankly at the handle on the refrigerator door. It was easy, so easy, to do what he had done. He had, essentially, gone on a lovely date with an attractive man. A man who, had he not been getting paid for it, Arthur would probably have slept with anyway. If they met any other way, if they had bumped into each other on the street, if one of them spilled his drink on the other, Arthur would have talked to him.
Actually, Arthur would have flirted his ass off, Kavan would've smiled and blushed and maybe, in some parallel universe, it would've been the beginning of something. Only in this one Arthur was getting paid for this and Kavan was actually some kind of an actor, or a married doctor or whatever, a rich closeted man that his society wouldn't accept. Arthur will probably never see again after tonight.
Arthur pulls the fridge door open and stares down at a plastic covered cheeseburger on a plate. Suddenly he gets so angry he slams the door and whirls around. Of course, Eames is lounging against the doorframe as though it's holding him up and Arthur fights down the urge to hit him in the face.
"Not going to eat?" Eames asks. He's smiling and his hands are on either side of the frame, but his white knuckles betray the anger simmering just under the surface.
Arthur yanks off the loose tie around his neck and stalks past him, pushing his arm out of the way. He gives Eames a dark look when his friend smirks at him.
"What, you're ignoring me now?" Eames follows him down the hall to Arthur's bedroom and doesn't balk when Arthur closes the door in his face, because the lock on his door doesn't work and it's not as if locks have ever kept either of them out of each others business. He just opens the door back up and follows him in.
Arthur shoots a glare over his shoulder as he unbuttons his shirt. He whips the shirt off angrily and tenses when he hears Eames suck in his breath. Kavan had been very hands on and he was sure there were angry red lines down his back. He ignores the impulse to turn around and fling his shirt in Eames' face. Instead he opens a drawer and pulls out his faded I'm With Stupid t-shirt and pulls it on, feeling mean.
When he turns around Eames rolls his eyes so hard it has to hurt. "Oh, that's mature."
"Oh, like you pitching a hissy fit in the middle of Costco was mature?"
"Arthur," Eames begins and Arthur grinds his teeth. They've already had this conversation for a full week and Arthur's made it very clear that Eames is not his fucking father and he has no say in this. "Don't be dumb. This is a stupid decision."
"This stupid decision just paid the rent for the rest of the year, Eames." Arthur sighs and flops backward onto his bed. It squeaks loudly, and the welts on his back protest so he pushes himself up on his elbows. "It's my decision, end of story."
"Everything's always 'end of story' with you, Arthur," Eames says. He walks over to the bed and sits on Arthur's feet. Arthur kicks out until Eames ass falls between his legs, his feet dangling off the end of the bed. "Back during homecoming, and that trip to Greece, and let's not forget the Lincoln Tunnel fiasco. I don't need to bring up Isabella, do I?"
"Bastard," Arthur hisses. He shifts just enough to jab Eames in the face. "You said you wouldn't ever mention her again!"
"Ow!" Eames pushes Arthur back, roughly, and reaches down and pinches his thigh. Hard. Arthur hisses. "You think you can just shut down a conversation all of the time without trying to resolve what is it we're fighting about. Bloody hell, Arthur. I won't let you prostitute yourself for me. This is the dumbest argument we've had in a long time, and I'm counting that one about the astronauts and cavemen here."
"If the cavemen can have weapons, so can the astronauts," Arthur grumbles under his breath. Eames moves his hand to the inside of Arthur's thigh and pinches him again. Arthur slaps his hand away as he glares up at him.
"Don't try to change the subject." Eames stares down at his friend for a moment. The smudge on Arthur's neck is barely there, but it's visible enough. "Anything could happen, Arthur. This is a dangerous business to get yourself into. Forgive me for caring about my best friends welfare."
"Eames..." Arthur trails off and sighs heavily. He brings both hands to his face, dragging them down it roughly. The hand that had been happily pinching him moments before falls to his knee and rubs it gently.
"Please, Arthur." Something in Eames' tone makes Arthur pull his hands back and stare up at him. "Don't do this again. I was out of my mind all night thinking something awful was going to happen to you."
"It's just sex, Eames," Arthur says. "It was just a lonely guy who wanted someone to make him feel good for a night. That's all."
Eames sighs, looking up towards the ceiling fan as though it's somehow going to help him in this fight.
"I still don't like it," Eames tells the ceiling fan. "You're being careless, Arthur."
"I'll be fine," Arthur reassures him. "Better than fine, actually. I had a great time tonight, and I got paid a shitload of cash to do it."
"I don't like it."
Arthur is about to kick Eames off of his bed when Eames stands of his own accord.
"But it's your life. You're right. I don't really have a say in it." Eames reaches forward and tousles Arthur's hair gently. "You're my best friend, you little shite. Don't get mad that I love you and want to take care of you, okay?"
"Quit acting like my father and I won't." Arthur slaps Eames' hand away again, but he throws his legs over the side of the bed and sits up straight. "And I'm not mad. Just annoyed. You've done so much for me these past few years. Let me do this for you. For us."
"I don't think I'll ever be happy with this decision, Arthur," Eames warns. Arthur opens his mouth but Eames keeps talking. "But I'll do my best to shut up about it."
Arthur nods, grateful. Eames gives him a little smile and nudges his shoulder. "There's food in the fridge if you get hungry later."
"Thanks, but I just want to get some sleep."
"Okay. Goodnight."
"Night."
Eames leaves, pulling the door shut behind him, and Arthur falls backwards again.
He knows the issue isn't settled. He knows, the next time he comes home after a job, Eames will act the same way; ridiculous and stupid and angry at Arthur's 'carelessness'.
Arthur also knows, somewhere inside of him, that if his parents could see him now they wouldn't even be able to look him in the eye.
He turns on his side, wincing when the bedclothes rub against his sore back, and closes his eyes.
Fifteen minutes later Arthur opens his eyes and huffs at the wall. He's laying on his front, head turned to the window so he can glare at the tree right outside. It's been windy lately, and the branches are screeching against the glass loudly. Damn Eames and his window that faces the bay.
Arthur grabs for his iPod and sticks the buds in, scrolling through to his Beethoven playlist. He's halfway through his favorite, the third movement of Moonlight Sonata, when he sighs in frustration.
Arthur rolls onto his back and grunts quietly. Then he stops his music, throws his covers back, and stands. It only takes a few seconds to move down the hall normally, but trying to tiptoe and avoid the creaky floorboards slows him down quite a bit.
It takes about four minutes for him to reach the door, and another two to navigate the piles of clothes on the floor in the dim light coming through the window. Arthur very nearly trips over a pile of beer bottles next to the bed and sends them crashing. He manages to avoid it, barely, and the next thing he knows he's pulling back the covers and climbing into Eames' bed.
Eames barely moves, the lug that he is, when Arthur shifts close. He just grunts into his pillow and hugs it closer. Arthur pulls the covers down enough to slide his legs under it and holds back a sigh when the heat hits his body full force. Eames has always run hot and Arthur is grateful for that. He turns on his side, pressing his sore back up against Eames' side and closes his eyes.
Within minutes he's asleep.
Eames turns his head to the side, staring through the darkness at the back of Arthur's head. He pulls one hand out from under the pillow and presses the back of it against Arthur's neck.
He leaves his hand where it is and goes back to sleep.