040.
Title: Of Italian Suits and French Macarons
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Warning/Spoiler: May cause you to make lots tea and crave French pastries. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.
Note: A super duper late (i.e. 25 days D:) birthday present for my bbcakes, the Eames to my Arthur, kristannuccia . I'm so sorry for the tardiness. But have the boys! :D A big thank you to my ninja!beta renrenren3 who distracted me with suit porn and shares my great love for tea. Any other mistake has my name stamped on it.
Summary: When Eames disappeared he comes back bearing gifts.
Disclaimer: Pshhht. Not mine. This is made out of love and not for profit.
Word Count: 1500 words
“What happened exactly?”
“He left. I don’t know where he is now. I have people tracking him down but to no avail.”
The man on the other line sighs. “And he just up and left? Just like that? For no reason at all?”
“Well, we had a small argument but-”
“Arthur!”
“But he’s never fled before! He has never been gone for more than a few days without telling me ever since-”
“I know.”
There is silence on both ends of the telephone for some time before Arthur whispers. “I’m worried about him, Dom.”
“Okay, I’ll call some contacts and see if they know anything. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.”
“Thank you.” Arthur is about to end the call when,
“Arthur, did you call his mother?” The Point Man can hear the smile in Cobb’s voice.
“Third person I called when he didn’t come back on the fourth day. Nothing. But she did invite me for tea, so I guess I will be making a visit soon.”
Cobb chuckles and then they end the call. Arthur sits back down on their bed and cups his face in both hands, wondering where in the fucking hell is Eames, and how he is so going to kill him when he gets back.
-
Arthur jolts awake at the sound of the phone ringing. He quickly scans the room, his hand already finding the Glock G21 pistol from under his pillow. Satisfied that there isn’t any immediate threat, he stands up and makes his way towards the dresser where he left the cordless telephone.
“Hello?” he answers, voice still gruff from sleep. He rubs his face with his free hand.
“Hey-did I wake you up?” the woman on the other line asks.
“No, it’s fine. I’m up,” Arthur answers. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, great,” Ariadne comments. “So listen, I heard about Eames-”
“What?” he suddenly interrupts. “What did you hear?”
“Calm down, Arthur. We have a sighting in Paris. One of my former classmates from university saw him walking along Champs-Elysées a few days ago.”
“How few?” he asks, taking deep calming breathes. What is Eames doing in Paris? Did he accept a job without telling Arthur?
“About three days, European time.”
“And your friend is sure it was him?”
“His pink and green paisley shirt was hard to miss, apparently. He stands out from the Parisian crowd.”
“Right,” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Ari. I owe you one.”
“You do. I’ll go now. I only took a short break from working on this new project I have.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“And Arthur?”
“Yeah?”
“Good luck and take it easy on him.” With that, Ariadne ends the call.
-
“Sorry, sir, he left Paris today on a private airline. Location is undisclosed.”
“How can it be fucking undisclosed? It’s a plane, for crying out loud. Don’t you have protocols for these things?” Arthur paces back and forth in his living room, telephone firmly pressed against his ears as he tries to locate Eames.
“The owner wishes for his flight activities to be known to authorised personnel only.”
“Get the owner on the line, will you?” Arthur asks in a dangerously calm voice.
“Mr. Saito is currently in flight and does not wish to be disturbed.”
Fuck.
-
Eames comes back a day after Ariadne’s call. Arthur is in the living room, stacks of paper surrounding him like a makeshift fort. He is intently typing on his laptop, only looking away to take small sips from his slowly cooling tea. He sharply turns when hears the sound of the doorknob being turned and then the jingling of keys. His heart is already beating faster in anticipation, his hand fumbling to find the handgun he always has nearby.
The knob turns, the door opens slowly, and Arthur is already on his feet and hiding himself behind a pillar, stance ready to fight or fly, whichever the situation requires.
“Darling, I’m home!” someone calls out loudly. Arthur’s brain goes on hyperdrive, recognising the voice. On the one hand, it’s Eames so he shouldn’t shoot. On the other hand, it’s Eames which somehow makes Arthur want to shoot.
Arthur is still holding the gun up, Eames’ heart at shooting range. Eames suddenly drops his things when he sees Arthur, caught between surprise and delight.
“You bastard,” Arthur hisses. “Where the fuck did you go?”
Eames’ hands are already up in (mock) surrender, a huge grin forming on his face. Arthur notes the black leather jacket over the fitting v-neck shirt and low-slung jeans. If he wasn’t so livid at the thought of Eames disappearing for three weeks- three fucking weeks without any call or text or even fucking messenger pigeon to assure Arthur that he has not been kidnapped by the Italian Mafia and is already making acquaintance with worms and maggots six feet under- he would have wanted to just tear his clothes away from his body and take him then and there. Three weeks without sex is also torture, Arthur thinks.
“Keep calm, darling. I’m here now. There is no need for that gun. You can put it down, love.” Eames cautiously takes a few steps forward toward Arthur, arms still up. Arthur just glares at him, not really making any protests at Eames’ approach.
When Eames manages to get a hold of the gun and successfully take it from Arthur’s hand, he puts it down on the counter top nearby, the barrel facing away from either of them. He then takes Arthur in his arms and envelopes him in a tight hug.
Arthur holds on tighter, inhaling Eames scent deeply.
-
“So where did you go?”
Arthur and Eames are settled in bed, Arthur with his back to Eames as the Englishman lazily cards his hands through Arthur’s post-sex hair.
“Must you know everything, darling?”
Arthur huffs. Eames chuckles at that and then feigns a huge sigh before replying,
“To many different places.” Arthur tilts his head back, eyebrows raised at Eames. “First I went to Italy to commission Mr. Garavani to create for you a custom suit. I’m going to have to fly you there to get fitted. Valentino does not fool around, pet. Then I went to Valencia to eat some paella. They are divine. I would have brought you some but then I thought, I’d just bring you there! Then after that I went back home for a bit. I would have come back sooner but the duchess insisted I stay longer. She told me you called. Really, Arthur, you and my mother? Well anyway, she got you those packed tea from Harrods you love so much. Then obviously I couldn’t not go to Paris. I love that city. But mainly I went there to get you your favourite Ladurée macarons.”
Arthur gives Eames an amused look so Eames asks, “What?”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“Why did you go on a mini European trip to get me those things?”
“And why not?” Eames grins at him. “It may also be some sort of peace offering?”
“All you have to do is ask and you will be forgiven,” Arthur says honestly, taking Eames’ lips to his. "But I'm not gonna say no to some macarons."
-
“Call your mother and thank her for the tea,” Arthur shouts from their bedroom as he enjoys his Earl Grey. When Eames doesn’t reply, Arthur is forced to put his cup down and go to the kitchen where he hears clattering. “What are you doing?” he asks when he sees the mess.
“Making macarons. I’m trying out some of the tips Lerouet taught me while I was in the shop,” Eames replies distractedly, his tongue stuck out slightly as he painstakingly pipes macaron mix on a huge baking sheet. They all come out in even uniformed domes. Eames is only wearing a pair of boxers and his torso completely bare if not for the apron he is wearing.
“You met Michel Lerouet?” Arthur cannot keep the awe in his voice.
“Yeah. His wife is my cousin from my mum’s side.” Eames is still concentration on his macaron shells. It isn’t until Arthur smacks his arm that he puts down the piping bag and looks at the other man.
“What is it, love?”
“You couldn’t have told me that you know Michel Lerouet, the one responsible for those heavenly macarons you brought in?”
“Do you fancy him?”
“I would marry his pastries if I could, but no, I don’t fancy him.” Arthur says 'fancy' in a mock British accent.
“Good, ‘cos then I wouldn’t let you meet him the next time.”
Arthur just scoffs at that then steals a raspberry macaron from the finished tray and sits on the barstool. He watches Eames while he makes French pastries (half naked, mind you) and sighs. He could live with this. He really could.
fin.
+ comments are much appreciated