fic: better than a kick, arthur/eames
better than a kick, eames/arthur, inception.
The first time Arthur runs into Eames after the Cobol job is in a spray of bullets. Or also, 'the one where Arthur rescues Eames stupid ass, and then rides him through the mattress.'
This is all gasmsinc's fault, blame her, she's the worst etc etc. I WAS WRITING 40'S ERA HIPPIES THEN THIS HAPPENED.
BETTER THAN A KICK
The first time Arthur runs into Eames after the Cobol job is in a spray of bullets. Arthur is on his knees in a split second, ducking as the wall above his head is peppered with rounds, and when Eames turns his giant stupid head towards him with an incredulous expression, Arthur laughs.
They’re technically not avoiding one another; the dreamshare business is so incestuous that even before Dom had recruited them they had worked together dozens of times with varying degrees of success. They’re both the best at what they do, so it’s only inevitable that they would run into each other on a job.
From where Arthur is kneeling on the floor, one arm raised protectively over his face on instinct, he can see Eames has a bullet wound to the back of his thigh, bleeding sluggishly and clotting, and his mouth is smeared red where a ringed fist connected with lips. They’re not working the job together, it’s Eames’ job really, but they outsourced for a quick consult to the world’s most efficient point man, which explains why Arthur has splinters digging into the back of his shirt from the blown apart wall.
The tilt of Eames’ mouth says he’s pleased to see Arthur, however grudgingly. Arthur untucks his shirt to get to his gun, (normally he would’ve had one strapped to his thigh, but this was a neutral area and they were paying him good money) and stands silently.
The two thugs that were the main cause of the destruction of the job are on either side of Eames. One has his hand twisted in Eames’ hair, pulling his head back to bare the vulnerable column of his throat, a knife over his pulse. From where Arthur is standing he can see his tan lines.
“Ah, Arthur. Lovely of you to join us.” The knife-wielder croons, mouth forming precisely around the words as if he’d been waiting a while to say them. “We didn’t know when to expect you. I assume your trip was pleasant?”
Arthur’s mother taught him to never talk to bullies, but they have Eames and Arthur’s never really had a weak spot before. Thrown by his realization, Arthur doesn’t even respond to the henchman. Eames is more of a canker sore, if he’s being honest.
“It was bearable,” Arthur replies, hands held awkwardly still beside his body. “Never can stand to be in a plane for so long, however.”
“The recycled air tends to run on the side of nosebleeds for me,” Eames comments as if this were a Sunday outing, a business meeting, a picnic, rather than a well concealed hostage situation.
Eames, looking as if he were ready to continue rambling into the ether, falls silent as the knife digs more sharply into his skin. A thin trickle of blood worms its way into the white of his collar.
Eames looks like hell. His face is framed by at least two days’ worth of unshaven stubble, and his skin is a myriad of bruises and cuts. He is grinning though, the same grin Arthur has seen through hundreds of jobs, handfuls of women, crates of beer, his face lit up like the night in New York on the edge of the Statue of Liberty as he hung from the railing and laugh as police cars gathered below. They’d had to shoot their way out of that one, and it looks like they’re going to shoot their way out of this one too.
“Now that we’re all here, why don’t you hand us over those documents, Arthur?”
He can barely resist the urge to roll his eyes, realizing the stupidity of the situation. He can only assume they managed to grab Eames when he was completely at a loss for attention, and knowing his colleague’s predilection for naps he can paint the picture well enough.
He shoots them both in the kneecaps. He would kill them, but he honestly doesn’t have the time or patience required for disposing of bodies.
“You oaf, how have you managed to fuck up such an easy job?” He asks Eames as he slides his pocketknife under the ropes binding his wrists.
“Oh darling, as always your words soothe my ragged edges.” Eames huffs, conceding wordlessly that he cannot walk by his own self, and leaning on Arthur’s side. “They got me in the shower.”
"At least they had the decency to allow you to clothe yourself.”
* *
As they walk down the stairs Eames regales the story of how they ambushed him and used him as bait to draw Arthur in, needing the client’s financial documents for their employer. Once back at the safe house Arthur has procured, Arthur burns the pages while Eames is in the shower.
Eames comes back out in a black button down and hideous canary blue boxers. Blood is still trailing down his thigh. Arthur is scraping the gravel out of the ridges of his boots with a knife for lack of better things to do, and when Eames groans his way into lying face down on the bed, he lets his boot drop with a dense thunk.
“Let me see your leg,” Arthur says, more of a warning than anything, before his palm slides solidly down Eames’ thigh.
The wound is a dark, ragged thing where the bullet did a little more than graze him. Eames bitches loudly, looking over his shoulder with eyes nothing but pupil, ringed with color and blown wide by endorphins and pain. His mouth is almost stained red from where he worried it with his teeth, lacerations striping across his lower lip from where it split from a solid punch. Arthur is thoroughly struck still by the wide fan of his eyelashes and the realization that he’s never been close enough to Eames to see them.
“Darling?” Eames questions, brow furrowing as he twists uncomfortably to glance at where Arthur’s hands have stopped. “I’m not going to die, am I?”
“Of course not.” Arthur snaps, returning to his task of dressing the wound.
When he’s done, Eames flops onto his back and groans heavily, sagging back into the mattress and throwing an arm over his face. Arthur lets himself look as much as he wants, then, knowing he can’t be caught for it. He’s always fascinated by how solid Eames’ body is, compact with muscle. He’s sure even Eames’ bones are thick.
From where his arm is thrown over his eyes Arthur can barely see the lush mouth that interrupts his face, solid jaw line hidden by the sudden curve of a steely bicep. Arthur longs to bite him, sink his teeth into the deft chunkiness of Eames’ body, spread his thighs and hold them there until they start to quake under his palms. So he does.
God help him he does, finds his salvation in the startled sound Eames makes as Arthur climbs onto the bed to straddle him, the startled fluttering of his pulse before it settles into a thump Arthur can feel as he bites down Eames’ neck. When Eames groans, he can feel it where his mouth is pressed to Eames’ as he licks his way inside.
“Darling,” Eames voice rumbles up in a laugh as Arthur leans back from him, “I do insist you buy me dinner first.”
"Damn your dinner,” Arthur laughs, surging back down and gasping as Eames meets him halfway.
It’s a knock-down drag-out fight of a kiss, all teeth and tongue and fuck him, Arthur can feel goosebumps ghosting up the back of his arms and thighs. Then it switches when Eames turns them over, switching their positions. Eames mouth tastes like the coppery leftover of blood, but his hand cradles Arthur’s face like he’s something delicate. Arthur is going to ride him until neither of them can walk.
As Eames grinds against him slowly, Arthur pants against his neck in sharp little lungfuls. Arthur pulls Eames’ shirt over his head, presses his hand over the edge of a bruise and pushes steadily until Eames shudders and lets Arthur get undressed.
They meet back in the middle of the small hotel bed, Arthur parting Eames thighs and reverently running his palms against the soft hair on his thighs. Eames cups his ass in two large hands and forces him to straddle his torso, letting Arthur curl over him as he works two slick but blunt fingers inside of him. Arthur stops him at three, wants to feel the burn and stretch tomorrow when his briefs slide against his abused asshole.
Arthur slides down onto Eames’ thick cock, trembling over him and feeling the strength behind Eames’ arms as he slides one soothingly down Arthur’s back. For all of his posturing, Eames is completely focused in bed, almost sweet in the way he fucks Arthur. It isn’t what Arthur was imagining at all and yet exactly the same.
It must come from the steady familiarity they’ve built up over the years, but they find a steady rhythm easily, knocking the cheap headboard into the wall as Arthur arches his back. The temp in the room is high, the August heat curling around their bodies, and Arthur has Eames’ sweat under his fingernails as he combs his fingers almost lovingly through Eames’ shaggy hair.
Arthur’s orgasm is almost punched out of him, a delicious headrush that has him weak against Eames chest and pliant as Eames fucks up into him once, twice before coming inside him.
Eames hair tickles against his ear but he’s too tired to move, days of travelling and jobs catching up to him. But however terrible he feels he knows Eames feels worse, so he climbs off of him and stumbles to the bathroom for a washcloth. He freezes in the doorway on the way back, because Eames looks thoroughly fucked. Hair in his face, bites on his neck, a sticky sweaty mess kind of fucked. He is gentle when he cleans Eames up, making him roll over so he can make sure they haven’t agitated his wound, and when he leans over Eames to turn out the light Eames catches him by the upper arm.
“Why darling, I do believe you care after all.” His grin can be seen in the streetlights.
Arthur, laying his head on Eames chest, grins wide as Eames hand curls around his shoulder. “Go to sleep Mr. Eames.”
The first time Arthur runs into Eames after the Cobol job is in a spray of bullets. Or also, 'the one where Arthur rescues Eames stupid ass, and then rides him through the mattress.'
This is all gasmsinc's fault, blame her, she's the worst etc etc. I WAS WRITING 40'S ERA HIPPIES THEN THIS HAPPENED.
BETTER THAN A KICK
The first time Arthur runs into Eames after the Cobol job is in a spray of bullets. Arthur is on his knees in a split second, ducking as the wall above his head is peppered with rounds, and when Eames turns his giant stupid head towards him with an incredulous expression, Arthur laughs.
They’re technically not avoiding one another; the dreamshare business is so incestuous that even before Dom had recruited them they had worked together dozens of times with varying degrees of success. They’re both the best at what they do, so it’s only inevitable that they would run into each other on a job.
From where Arthur is kneeling on the floor, one arm raised protectively over his face on instinct, he can see Eames has a bullet wound to the back of his thigh, bleeding sluggishly and clotting, and his mouth is smeared red where a ringed fist connected with lips. They’re not working the job together, it’s Eames’ job really, but they outsourced for a quick consult to the world’s most efficient point man, which explains why Arthur has splinters digging into the back of his shirt from the blown apart wall.
The tilt of Eames’ mouth says he’s pleased to see Arthur, however grudgingly. Arthur untucks his shirt to get to his gun, (normally he would’ve had one strapped to his thigh, but this was a neutral area and they were paying him good money) and stands silently.
The two thugs that were the main cause of the destruction of the job are on either side of Eames. One has his hand twisted in Eames’ hair, pulling his head back to bare the vulnerable column of his throat, a knife over his pulse. From where Arthur is standing he can see his tan lines.
“Ah, Arthur. Lovely of you to join us.” The knife-wielder croons, mouth forming precisely around the words as if he’d been waiting a while to say them. “We didn’t know when to expect you. I assume your trip was pleasant?”
Arthur’s mother taught him to never talk to bullies, but they have Eames and Arthur’s never really had a weak spot before. Thrown by his realization, Arthur doesn’t even respond to the henchman. Eames is more of a canker sore, if he’s being honest.
“It was bearable,” Arthur replies, hands held awkwardly still beside his body. “Never can stand to be in a plane for so long, however.”
“The recycled air tends to run on the side of nosebleeds for me,” Eames comments as if this were a Sunday outing, a business meeting, a picnic, rather than a well concealed hostage situation.
Eames, looking as if he were ready to continue rambling into the ether, falls silent as the knife digs more sharply into his skin. A thin trickle of blood worms its way into the white of his collar.
Eames looks like hell. His face is framed by at least two days’ worth of unshaven stubble, and his skin is a myriad of bruises and cuts. He is grinning though, the same grin Arthur has seen through hundreds of jobs, handfuls of women, crates of beer, his face lit up like the night in New York on the edge of the Statue of Liberty as he hung from the railing and laugh as police cars gathered below. They’d had to shoot their way out of that one, and it looks like they’re going to shoot their way out of this one too.
“Now that we’re all here, why don’t you hand us over those documents, Arthur?”
He can barely resist the urge to roll his eyes, realizing the stupidity of the situation. He can only assume they managed to grab Eames when he was completely at a loss for attention, and knowing his colleague’s predilection for naps he can paint the picture well enough.
He shoots them both in the kneecaps. He would kill them, but he honestly doesn’t have the time or patience required for disposing of bodies.
“You oaf, how have you managed to fuck up such an easy job?” He asks Eames as he slides his pocketknife under the ropes binding his wrists.
“Oh darling, as always your words soothe my ragged edges.” Eames huffs, conceding wordlessly that he cannot walk by his own self, and leaning on Arthur’s side. “They got me in the shower.”
"At least they had the decency to allow you to clothe yourself.”
* *
As they walk down the stairs Eames regales the story of how they ambushed him and used him as bait to draw Arthur in, needing the client’s financial documents for their employer. Once back at the safe house Arthur has procured, Arthur burns the pages while Eames is in the shower.
Eames comes back out in a black button down and hideous canary blue boxers. Blood is still trailing down his thigh. Arthur is scraping the gravel out of the ridges of his boots with a knife for lack of better things to do, and when Eames groans his way into lying face down on the bed, he lets his boot drop with a dense thunk.
“Let me see your leg,” Arthur says, more of a warning than anything, before his palm slides solidly down Eames’ thigh.
The wound is a dark, ragged thing where the bullet did a little more than graze him. Eames bitches loudly, looking over his shoulder with eyes nothing but pupil, ringed with color and blown wide by endorphins and pain. His mouth is almost stained red from where he worried it with his teeth, lacerations striping across his lower lip from where it split from a solid punch. Arthur is thoroughly struck still by the wide fan of his eyelashes and the realization that he’s never been close enough to Eames to see them.
“Darling?” Eames questions, brow furrowing as he twists uncomfortably to glance at where Arthur’s hands have stopped. “I’m not going to die, am I?”
“Of course not.” Arthur snaps, returning to his task of dressing the wound.
When he’s done, Eames flops onto his back and groans heavily, sagging back into the mattress and throwing an arm over his face. Arthur lets himself look as much as he wants, then, knowing he can’t be caught for it. He’s always fascinated by how solid Eames’ body is, compact with muscle. He’s sure even Eames’ bones are thick.
From where his arm is thrown over his eyes Arthur can barely see the lush mouth that interrupts his face, solid jaw line hidden by the sudden curve of a steely bicep. Arthur longs to bite him, sink his teeth into the deft chunkiness of Eames’ body, spread his thighs and hold them there until they start to quake under his palms. So he does.
God help him he does, finds his salvation in the startled sound Eames makes as Arthur climbs onto the bed to straddle him, the startled fluttering of his pulse before it settles into a thump Arthur can feel as he bites down Eames’ neck. When Eames groans, he can feel it where his mouth is pressed to Eames’ as he licks his way inside.
“Darling,” Eames voice rumbles up in a laugh as Arthur leans back from him, “I do insist you buy me dinner first.”
"Damn your dinner,” Arthur laughs, surging back down and gasping as Eames meets him halfway.
It’s a knock-down drag-out fight of a kiss, all teeth and tongue and fuck him, Arthur can feel goosebumps ghosting up the back of his arms and thighs. Then it switches when Eames turns them over, switching their positions. Eames mouth tastes like the coppery leftover of blood, but his hand cradles Arthur’s face like he’s something delicate. Arthur is going to ride him until neither of them can walk.
As Eames grinds against him slowly, Arthur pants against his neck in sharp little lungfuls. Arthur pulls Eames’ shirt over his head, presses his hand over the edge of a bruise and pushes steadily until Eames shudders and lets Arthur get undressed.
They meet back in the middle of the small hotel bed, Arthur parting Eames thighs and reverently running his palms against the soft hair on his thighs. Eames cups his ass in two large hands and forces him to straddle his torso, letting Arthur curl over him as he works two slick but blunt fingers inside of him. Arthur stops him at three, wants to feel the burn and stretch tomorrow when his briefs slide against his abused asshole.
Arthur slides down onto Eames’ thick cock, trembling over him and feeling the strength behind Eames’ arms as he slides one soothingly down Arthur’s back. For all of his posturing, Eames is completely focused in bed, almost sweet in the way he fucks Arthur. It isn’t what Arthur was imagining at all and yet exactly the same.
It must come from the steady familiarity they’ve built up over the years, but they find a steady rhythm easily, knocking the cheap headboard into the wall as Arthur arches his back. The temp in the room is high, the August heat curling around their bodies, and Arthur has Eames’ sweat under his fingernails as he combs his fingers almost lovingly through Eames’ shaggy hair.
Arthur’s orgasm is almost punched out of him, a delicious headrush that has him weak against Eames chest and pliant as Eames fucks up into him once, twice before coming inside him.
Eames hair tickles against his ear but he’s too tired to move, days of travelling and jobs catching up to him. But however terrible he feels he knows Eames feels worse, so he climbs off of him and stumbles to the bathroom for a washcloth. He freezes in the doorway on the way back, because Eames looks thoroughly fucked. Hair in his face, bites on his neck, a sticky sweaty mess kind of fucked. He is gentle when he cleans Eames up, making him roll over so he can make sure they haven’t agitated his wound, and when he leans over Eames to turn out the light Eames catches him by the upper arm.
“Why darling, I do believe you care after all.” His grin can be seen in the streetlights.
Arthur, laying his head on Eames chest, grins wide as Eames hand curls around his shoulder. “Go to sleep Mr. Eames.”