Inception fic?!
title: Don't Think About Cuddling (And now you're thinking about it. See what I did there? Hurr hurr.)
pairing: Arthur/Eames (because I can't resist a pairing where one calls the other darling :3)
words: 1083
rating: PG
note: for the "cuddling by the fire" square for my schmoop_bingo card. Eames plants the idea of cuddling in Arthur's head.
Don't Think About Cuddling
The only sounds that can be heard in the warehouse on a cold winter's night are the blows of breath from Arthur's mouth against his numb fingers and the whisper of his palms rubbing together.
Ariadne had offered him her scarf before she left to get some sleep somewhere where her dreams would less likely to be invaded-not that Arthur would ever enter her dreams uninvited. Eames on the other hand, prone to boredom easily and a nosey son of a bitch sometimes (but only usually when Arthur is concerned) was more likely to intrude on her sleep. Arthur had declined Ariadne's scarf since it would have clashed terribly with his suit, but thanked her anyway.
"It's a bit nippy in here," someone says behind Arthur. He doesn't bother turning around since the owner of the voice will no doubt move and get up in his face, quite literally.
"Nothing gets past you, Eames," sighs Arthur, freezing his balls off. He supposes Eames is used to weather like this, being British. He listens to the thuds of Eames' shoes as he comes to stand in front of the chair Arthur is huddled in.
"Darling," Eames says, all sympathy and endearment. "You're shivering."
Growing weary of Eames continuing to point out the obvious, Arthur growls out, "No shit."
"I would say the cold puts you in a foul mood, but you're always grumpy," Eames remarks. "Life's too short to have a face like a smacked arse all the time."
"Kiss my smacked arse," Arthur says in a poor imitation of a British accent.
"Maybe later." Eames' gaze on Arthur is caring, as is his tone. "Would you like me to do something about the cold?"
Arthur quirks an eyebrow. "Unless you're the god of weather, I hardly think there's anything you can do."
"I don't know about weather," Eames starts to smirk, "but a god of sex could help warm you up."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm not having sex with you in this warehouse."
Eames raises his brow at him.
"Again," Arthur adds, forgetting the incident last Thursday.
Eames just laughs and pats Arthur's face fondly before walking off. Refusing to watch him walk away like some lovesick puppy, Arthur shuts his eyes and pictures he's in another place, far away from Eames where it's hot, or at least warm, laying on a beach somewhere or sitting cosily in front of a fire wrapped up in a blanket. But when he imagines both scenarios Eames is there, having his wicked way with him on the sand or on some Persian rug in front of a marble fireplace.
His subconscious fantasies embarrass him to say the least, and he's grateful when his reverie is broken by the noise of metal scraping against the floor. His eyes open with a start.
"What the hell are you doing?" Arthur asks, watching Eames drag a trash can across the ground a few feet away. He tosses a lit match inside the can and watches the trash ignite. "You're going to burn the place down. Not to mention attract homeless people."
"I've got it under control." Eames sticks his hands out in front of the fire. "Oh," he says in a voice like he just came in his pants, giving Arthur a look that could melt his clothes off. "That's lovely. Won't you join me, darling?"
"No, I'm fine here." Arthur's chattering teeth suggest otherwise.
"Suit yourself," Eames sing-songs, humming the tune of Non Je Ne Regrette Rien while throwing the occasional glance Arthur's way. He has a soothing voice, and for a moment Arthur gets lost in Eames' melodic murmuring as he brushes his fingers over his little red die in his pocket. Before he can change his mind, he pulls himself out of his chair, walking over to Eames and his trash can bonfire. Holding his palms out towards the flames, he makes a low sound in his throat of relief as warmth spreads through his fingers and slowly throughout the rest of his body.
"You're welcome," Eames says smugly, the other side of the trash can.
"I didn't say thank you," Arthur points out.
"Not with words, no," Eames says with fire reflected in his eyes. "But over the years I've perfected the art of reading body language."
Arthur isn't surprised; being a forger is all about studying people. But the idea of Eames knowing what he's feeling by one glimpse at the way he's standing unnerves him.
"And what's my body saying right now?" Arthur questions Eames, nervous yet intrigued.
Eames takes one look at Arthur and bursts out laughing. Arthur glowers.
"Share the joke with the rest of the class, Eames."
"Oh darling, your body practically screams," Eames pauses to pull a face at him, "cuddle me."
Arthur blinks, astounded. "It's not saying that."
"I'm only telling you what I see," Eames shrugs.
Arthur looks none too happy about Eames seeing him as a damn teddy bear. "You're mistaken."
"You protest too much."
Arthur knows Eames has planted the idea of cuddling in his head, but he'll be damned if Eames makes him think it's his own idea. He drags his annoyed and embarrassed gaze away from Eames' face and stares determinedly into the fire. He's aware of the other man moving from the sound of his footsteps, and when Arthur looks up again Eames is gone. He suddenly feels a wave of disappointment and loneliness...
And then a pair of strong arms encircle his waist from behind him, a chin rests snugly on his shoulder, and Arthur tries not to smile but his lips betray him by curving upwards.
"Eames," Arthur scolds affectionately.
"Je ne regrette rien," Eames says with his lips against Arthur's ear. "Don't pretend like you don't like it."
Arthur keeps on pretending, trying to wriggle out of Eames' embrace, but his hold is unbreakable. Eames sighs as Arthur attempts to resist.
"Arthur," Eames chides softly. "For five minutes, stop fighting it. That's all I'm asking for."
When Eames puts it like that, it doesn't sound so bad. Arthur allows himself to relax against Eames, the tenseness in his muscles fading, Eames' body pressed against him like a furnace. After five minutes have passed, Arthur twists in Eames' arms, and it's like he's high from the heat, nuzzling Eames' neck with his face.
"Let's make it ten minutes," Arthur proposes.
Another five minutes of quiet cuddling passes, until Arthur speaks again, "Let's make it fifteen-"
Eames shuts Arthur up with a kiss.
pairing: Arthur/Eames (because I can't resist a pairing where one calls the other darling :3)
words: 1083
rating: PG
note: for the "cuddling by the fire" square for my schmoop_bingo card. Eames plants the idea of cuddling in Arthur's head.
Don't Think About Cuddling
The only sounds that can be heard in the warehouse on a cold winter's night are the blows of breath from Arthur's mouth against his numb fingers and the whisper of his palms rubbing together.
Ariadne had offered him her scarf before she left to get some sleep somewhere where her dreams would less likely to be invaded-not that Arthur would ever enter her dreams uninvited. Eames on the other hand, prone to boredom easily and a nosey son of a bitch sometimes (but only usually when Arthur is concerned) was more likely to intrude on her sleep. Arthur had declined Ariadne's scarf since it would have clashed terribly with his suit, but thanked her anyway.
"It's a bit nippy in here," someone says behind Arthur. He doesn't bother turning around since the owner of the voice will no doubt move and get up in his face, quite literally.
"Nothing gets past you, Eames," sighs Arthur, freezing his balls off. He supposes Eames is used to weather like this, being British. He listens to the thuds of Eames' shoes as he comes to stand in front of the chair Arthur is huddled in.
"Darling," Eames says, all sympathy and endearment. "You're shivering."
Growing weary of Eames continuing to point out the obvious, Arthur growls out, "No shit."
"I would say the cold puts you in a foul mood, but you're always grumpy," Eames remarks. "Life's too short to have a face like a smacked arse all the time."
"Kiss my smacked arse," Arthur says in a poor imitation of a British accent.
"Maybe later." Eames' gaze on Arthur is caring, as is his tone. "Would you like me to do something about the cold?"
Arthur quirks an eyebrow. "Unless you're the god of weather, I hardly think there's anything you can do."
"I don't know about weather," Eames starts to smirk, "but a god of sex could help warm you up."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm not having sex with you in this warehouse."
Eames raises his brow at him.
"Again," Arthur adds, forgetting the incident last Thursday.
Eames just laughs and pats Arthur's face fondly before walking off. Refusing to watch him walk away like some lovesick puppy, Arthur shuts his eyes and pictures he's in another place, far away from Eames where it's hot, or at least warm, laying on a beach somewhere or sitting cosily in front of a fire wrapped up in a blanket. But when he imagines both scenarios Eames is there, having his wicked way with him on the sand or on some Persian rug in front of a marble fireplace.
His subconscious fantasies embarrass him to say the least, and he's grateful when his reverie is broken by the noise of metal scraping against the floor. His eyes open with a start.
"What the hell are you doing?" Arthur asks, watching Eames drag a trash can across the ground a few feet away. He tosses a lit match inside the can and watches the trash ignite. "You're going to burn the place down. Not to mention attract homeless people."
"I've got it under control." Eames sticks his hands out in front of the fire. "Oh," he says in a voice like he just came in his pants, giving Arthur a look that could melt his clothes off. "That's lovely. Won't you join me, darling?"
"No, I'm fine here." Arthur's chattering teeth suggest otherwise.
"Suit yourself," Eames sing-songs, humming the tune of Non Je Ne Regrette Rien while throwing the occasional glance Arthur's way. He has a soothing voice, and for a moment Arthur gets lost in Eames' melodic murmuring as he brushes his fingers over his little red die in his pocket. Before he can change his mind, he pulls himself out of his chair, walking over to Eames and his trash can bonfire. Holding his palms out towards the flames, he makes a low sound in his throat of relief as warmth spreads through his fingers and slowly throughout the rest of his body.
"You're welcome," Eames says smugly, the other side of the trash can.
"I didn't say thank you," Arthur points out.
"Not with words, no," Eames says with fire reflected in his eyes. "But over the years I've perfected the art of reading body language."
Arthur isn't surprised; being a forger is all about studying people. But the idea of Eames knowing what he's feeling by one glimpse at the way he's standing unnerves him.
"And what's my body saying right now?" Arthur questions Eames, nervous yet intrigued.
Eames takes one look at Arthur and bursts out laughing. Arthur glowers.
"Share the joke with the rest of the class, Eames."
"Oh darling, your body practically screams," Eames pauses to pull a face at him, "cuddle me."
Arthur blinks, astounded. "It's not saying that."
"I'm only telling you what I see," Eames shrugs.
Arthur looks none too happy about Eames seeing him as a damn teddy bear. "You're mistaken."
"You protest too much."
Arthur knows Eames has planted the idea of cuddling in his head, but he'll be damned if Eames makes him think it's his own idea. He drags his annoyed and embarrassed gaze away from Eames' face and stares determinedly into the fire. He's aware of the other man moving from the sound of his footsteps, and when Arthur looks up again Eames is gone. He suddenly feels a wave of disappointment and loneliness...
And then a pair of strong arms encircle his waist from behind him, a chin rests snugly on his shoulder, and Arthur tries not to smile but his lips betray him by curving upwards.
"Eames," Arthur scolds affectionately.
"Je ne regrette rien," Eames says with his lips against Arthur's ear. "Don't pretend like you don't like it."
Arthur keeps on pretending, trying to wriggle out of Eames' embrace, but his hold is unbreakable. Eames sighs as Arthur attempts to resist.
"Arthur," Eames chides softly. "For five minutes, stop fighting it. That's all I'm asking for."
When Eames puts it like that, it doesn't sound so bad. Arthur allows himself to relax against Eames, the tenseness in his muscles fading, Eames' body pressed against him like a furnace. After five minutes have passed, Arthur twists in Eames' arms, and it's like he's high from the heat, nuzzling Eames' neck with his face.
"Let's make it ten minutes," Arthur proposes.
Another five minutes of quiet cuddling passes, until Arthur speaks again, "Let's make it fifteen-"
Eames shuts Arthur up with a kiss.