Fic: Picking Locks
Eames surveys his surroundings, taking in every last detail that he can. The stacks upon stacks of old magazines, the sink full of dirty coffee mugs, the meticulously folded laundry piled high on the couch. He takes it in, relishing in moments of Arthur. The last moments he’ll ever get.
He shouldn’t be here, he knows this. Knows Arthur would consider this a gross violation of his privacy, another line on a long list of Grievances Against Eames.
But he can’t help it. The apartment smells of bergamot, and sandalwood, and stale coffee. Eames runs a finger along the neglected bookcase, clearing a path along the dusty shelf. He breathes in deeply, just once, then turns to leave, locking the door to Arthur’s world as if he’d never entered.
--------------------------------
“Eames,” Arthur sighs. “Can’t you just focus for one minute on the job at hand?”
Arthur is exasperated, at his wit’s end, and it’s not entirely Eames’s fault. He does provide the perfect scapegoat, however, and normally Eames plays right into the scenario.
Instead, Eames looks slightly wounded. An act, decides Arthur. Merely another level in their game.
“It’s just dinner. You have to eat sometime.” Eames looks hopeful, and Arthur can’t for the life of him understand why.
“My choice,” Arthur states, leading the way out of the warehouse.
In the end, they never make it to dinner.
Arthur pushes Eames into a dirty alley, back against a brick wall. He slides his leg in between Eames’s, and the forger groans. “Fuck.”
Arthur laughs, biting at his neck. “You’ve got the idea.”
Eames knows, somewhere far, far back in his mind, that this is a bad idea. But, oh, Arthur’s marking his neck, and that can’t be all bad, right?
He grinds himself against Arthur’s leg, desperate for more, harder, anything. He fists his hand in his hair, mussing it, shoving his tongue into the heat of Arthur’s mouth. He’s rough, almost frantic, quickly shoving his hand into his pocket, feeling for his totem.
Arthur pulls back abruptly, lips bruised, cheeks flushed, and that’s all it takes for Eames to succumb to his desires.
--------------------------------
It hadn’t been a good idea, that’s for certain. Eames had fallen, hard, and Arthur had barely even noticed his presence. He’d been on his best behavior, trying not to be any trouble, any burden.
Every night they’d spent together, Eames had carefully slept near the edge of the bed, making sure not to disturb. Every morning he’d woken up early, made coffee, made sure to stay out of Arthur’s way. There were no kisses except during sex, and even then they were sparse.
He wanted more, of course, but he was careful not to suggest it.
He figures their relationship, or lack thereof, was the greatest forge of his life.
--------------------------------
Eames pants, Arthur deep inside him, and it’s like every other time, except that it’s never the same. He clings to him, short fingernails leaving small crescents on biceps that Arthur pretends not to notice.
He cries out, arching his back as Arthur moves faster. His breath is hot in Eames’s ear, and the forger lets himself go, just for these few moments. In this minute, he can be happy, because in this minute, he is what Arthur wants.
He closes his eyes, and pretends this minute doesn’t have to end.
“Arthur…”
Whatever emotion is in Eames’s voice, Arthur chooses to respect it, just this once. He cradles him just that bit closer, kisses him a little softer, and he realizes this will be their last time together like this.
Eames breaks, calling out Arthur’s name. He looks up, giving a sad smile at the familiar face above him. He commits to memory the look of concentration, the cocoa brown of his eyes, the tiny beads of sweat along his hairline.
Arthur comes not too long after, filling Eames with fleeting warmth. He lies as still as possible, hoping against hope that he doesn’t disturb the point man. He feels him start to shift, and Eames goes as far as holding his breath.
Just this once, he silently pleads. If he could have just this one night more, that might be enough.
The younger man seems to consider something for a few seconds, then settles against Eames’s side. He exhales in relief, and succumbs to dreamless sleep.
--------------------------------
In the end, Eames was the one who snuck out before dawn, refusing to look back.
They spent the next two years moving in concentric circles, always cautiously gathering information about each other, never speaking. They’d run into each other once, in Rome, but both men merely gave a familiar nod over the Trevi Fountain.
This is why the phone call takes him by such surprise. Arthur calling… Eames picks up on the first ring.
Arthur is coughing roughly, and Eames realizes instantly that this is the worst moment of his life. “Eames…”
“Arthur, love, what’s happened?” Eames sits up, feeling as though he’s been punched in the gut. It can’t be happening, not this way, not so soon.
“I’ve been shot…” More coughing, probably the worst sound Eames has ever heard. “I’m dying.”
And it’s out there now, and Eames can’t hold back a sob. “Eames, I need you to…my apartment…”
Eames laughs bitterly, and it’s a mournful sound. “Of course. Same address as before?”
He can do this, it’s all routine, a business transaction. Arthur needs him to erase the evidence, erase his very existence to spare his associates any trouble. Eames is only getting this call because Arthur trusts him, and that has to count for something.
“Eames?” Arthur’s voice is exhausted, questioning, and Eames realizes he must have missed what he was saying.
He tries to think of the right things to say, something that could somehow make Arthur’s last moments more tolerable, but he isn’t able to come up with much. He settles for what he wants to say instead. “I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” He can hear a smirk in voice, pictures Arthur on his best days, tries not to imagine what he must look like now. “Do you think-“
“Sshhh. Don’t worry about that now. I’m here.” Eames talks to him for eight minutes and forty-three seconds, mostly meaningless things, some memories of their brief times together.
Arthur breathes his last, shuddering breath in some unknown part of the world, but it’s Eames’s heart that stops that evening.
--------------------------------
He thinks of their almost-love story, if you could even call it that, as he lights the match. He drops it down onto the floor in front of the door, followed by a gasoline soaked rag. He turns to pull the fire alarm, refusing to glance back behind.
Eames walks out of the building, his heart carrying the only reminder of a life now lost for good.
He shouldn’t be here, he knows this. Knows Arthur would consider this a gross violation of his privacy, another line on a long list of Grievances Against Eames.
But he can’t help it. The apartment smells of bergamot, and sandalwood, and stale coffee. Eames runs a finger along the neglected bookcase, clearing a path along the dusty shelf. He breathes in deeply, just once, then turns to leave, locking the door to Arthur’s world as if he’d never entered.
--------------------------------
“Eames,” Arthur sighs. “Can’t you just focus for one minute on the job at hand?”
Arthur is exasperated, at his wit’s end, and it’s not entirely Eames’s fault. He does provide the perfect scapegoat, however, and normally Eames plays right into the scenario.
Instead, Eames looks slightly wounded. An act, decides Arthur. Merely another level in their game.
“It’s just dinner. You have to eat sometime.” Eames looks hopeful, and Arthur can’t for the life of him understand why.
“My choice,” Arthur states, leading the way out of the warehouse.
In the end, they never make it to dinner.
Arthur pushes Eames into a dirty alley, back against a brick wall. He slides his leg in between Eames’s, and the forger groans. “Fuck.”
Arthur laughs, biting at his neck. “You’ve got the idea.”
Eames knows, somewhere far, far back in his mind, that this is a bad idea. But, oh, Arthur’s marking his neck, and that can’t be all bad, right?
He grinds himself against Arthur’s leg, desperate for more, harder, anything. He fists his hand in his hair, mussing it, shoving his tongue into the heat of Arthur’s mouth. He’s rough, almost frantic, quickly shoving his hand into his pocket, feeling for his totem.
Arthur pulls back abruptly, lips bruised, cheeks flushed, and that’s all it takes for Eames to succumb to his desires.
--------------------------------
It hadn’t been a good idea, that’s for certain. Eames had fallen, hard, and Arthur had barely even noticed his presence. He’d been on his best behavior, trying not to be any trouble, any burden.
Every night they’d spent together, Eames had carefully slept near the edge of the bed, making sure not to disturb. Every morning he’d woken up early, made coffee, made sure to stay out of Arthur’s way. There were no kisses except during sex, and even then they were sparse.
He wanted more, of course, but he was careful not to suggest it.
He figures their relationship, or lack thereof, was the greatest forge of his life.
--------------------------------
Eames pants, Arthur deep inside him, and it’s like every other time, except that it’s never the same. He clings to him, short fingernails leaving small crescents on biceps that Arthur pretends not to notice.
He cries out, arching his back as Arthur moves faster. His breath is hot in Eames’s ear, and the forger lets himself go, just for these few moments. In this minute, he can be happy, because in this minute, he is what Arthur wants.
He closes his eyes, and pretends this minute doesn’t have to end.
“Arthur…”
Whatever emotion is in Eames’s voice, Arthur chooses to respect it, just this once. He cradles him just that bit closer, kisses him a little softer, and he realizes this will be their last time together like this.
Eames breaks, calling out Arthur’s name. He looks up, giving a sad smile at the familiar face above him. He commits to memory the look of concentration, the cocoa brown of his eyes, the tiny beads of sweat along his hairline.
Arthur comes not too long after, filling Eames with fleeting warmth. He lies as still as possible, hoping against hope that he doesn’t disturb the point man. He feels him start to shift, and Eames goes as far as holding his breath.
Just this once, he silently pleads. If he could have just this one night more, that might be enough.
The younger man seems to consider something for a few seconds, then settles against Eames’s side. He exhales in relief, and succumbs to dreamless sleep.
--------------------------------
In the end, Eames was the one who snuck out before dawn, refusing to look back.
They spent the next two years moving in concentric circles, always cautiously gathering information about each other, never speaking. They’d run into each other once, in Rome, but both men merely gave a familiar nod over the Trevi Fountain.
This is why the phone call takes him by such surprise. Arthur calling… Eames picks up on the first ring.
Arthur is coughing roughly, and Eames realizes instantly that this is the worst moment of his life. “Eames…”
“Arthur, love, what’s happened?” Eames sits up, feeling as though he’s been punched in the gut. It can’t be happening, not this way, not so soon.
“I’ve been shot…” More coughing, probably the worst sound Eames has ever heard. “I’m dying.”
And it’s out there now, and Eames can’t hold back a sob. “Eames, I need you to…my apartment…”
Eames laughs bitterly, and it’s a mournful sound. “Of course. Same address as before?”
He can do this, it’s all routine, a business transaction. Arthur needs him to erase the evidence, erase his very existence to spare his associates any trouble. Eames is only getting this call because Arthur trusts him, and that has to count for something.
“Eames?” Arthur’s voice is exhausted, questioning, and Eames realizes he must have missed what he was saying.
He tries to think of the right things to say, something that could somehow make Arthur’s last moments more tolerable, but he isn’t able to come up with much. He settles for what he wants to say instead. “I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” He can hear a smirk in voice, pictures Arthur on his best days, tries not to imagine what he must look like now. “Do you think-“
“Sshhh. Don’t worry about that now. I’m here.” Eames talks to him for eight minutes and forty-three seconds, mostly meaningless things, some memories of their brief times together.
Arthur breathes his last, shuddering breath in some unknown part of the world, but it’s Eames’s heart that stops that evening.
--------------------------------
He thinks of their almost-love story, if you could even call it that, as he lights the match. He drops it down onto the floor in front of the door, followed by a gasoline soaked rag. He turns to pull the fire alarm, refusing to glance back behind.
Eames walks out of the building, his heart carrying the only reminder of a life now lost for good.