[a merry chase what-if] Lost My Drink, Can't Find My Keys
TECHNICALLY WHAT HAPPENS HERE IS NO LONGER PART OF MERRY CHASE CANON.
Eames didn't even remember what the fight had been about.
He wasn't so deluded as to thing that things with Arthur would be smooth sailing and hearts in their eyes ( because Eames and Arthur couldn't stand that all the time ) but he never expected to have a fight like the one they' ( Read more... )
Eames didn't even remember what the fight had been about.
He wasn't so deluded as to thing that things with Arthur would be smooth sailing and hearts in their eyes ( because Eames and Arthur couldn't stand that all the time ) but he never expected to have a fight like the one they' ( Read more... )
Like most stupid fights, it started with something simple (Arthur going on a job by himself) and blew up into something completely different than what it had started out as (Arthur needing some "fucking space away" from Eames).
It was as if one thing piled onto another and it blew up as a result.
Arthur had left to cool off, not wanting to get into a full-out fist fight with Eames over something that honestly shouldn't have been a big deal. For either of them. Eames had gone on jobs by himself and this didn't happen. The first time Arthur is called out for the single position open on another team and this happens. They end up yelling and Eames had looked like he wanted to break something and Arthur just needed to get away.
He went off to just walk among the city for a few hours. He hadn't called or texted the other man. The single dog tag of Eames' that he had around his neck under his shirt served as a reminder that he and Eames were more than what they used to be to each other. That entailed a whole new kind of responsibility to each other.
As such, Arthur needed to go back home and try to settle this pointless fight in a more civil fashion. Unfortunately, that plan pretty much flew out the window when he was back in the apartment and saw the very unexpected sight of Eames - very drunk - on the couch.
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"Oh, look who has deigned to return," he says, emphasizing the word as though to petulantly prove he's still his wits about him.
He doesn't want to let Arthur leave, not again, not slipping out of his fingers. It was, honestly, part of the reason for the fight. Eames could trust himself to not leave; he hadn't ever left. And though he trusted Arthur with his life, he had already left once before (and even knowing the reason, logically, behind it, it did not help Eames emotionally). What if Arthur left and decided he was bored of him?
He had to keep Arthur here. That was the thought in his head as he shifted, fingers dragging and setting the bottle down on the floor. He planted his bare feet there, too, flexing his toes and staring at Arthur. A look had entered his eyes but he hadn't done anything, yet.
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"Well, yeah. I live here. Why wouldn't I come back?" Arthur hasn't taken another step further into the apartment; something about this is... unsettling.
"You're drunk." It's not a question. It's been a while since Arthur has seen it - years, really - but he remembers Eames can get drunk.
Did the fight honestly upset him that much? Arthur shakes his head and steps forward, "Look, Eames, I'm about all that shit I said earlier --"
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"Stunningly observant of you to notice that," Eames spits about the drunk comment, ignoring the first one. Arthur came back to leave again, that was a possibility. His brain was running its cogs together, coming up with ideas in explosions of sparks.
And then he says he's sorry and just - the guilt flares up again but why should he feel guilty when Arthur was the one to leave, and it feeds his ragepanic.
"Shut up," he hisses, cutting the other man off, lurching off the couch. He overbalances and stumbles, but uses the momentum to keep going, to get his hands in fistfuls of Arthur's shirt and shove him against the door frame. Eames is larger, Eames could easily hold him here.
Eames could keep him here, his drunken brain supplies helpfully. Then he wouldn't have to worry about him leaving.
"Sorry? You bloody fucking left, don't tell me you're sorry."
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Making his voice hard, because that seems to be the only way he might get through to the other man if he's going to be like this, "I'm sorry for what I said. I left because I didn't want the fight to get worse. And I came back because I thought we'd both be cooled off by now. Are you saying you didn't want me to come back?" He was searching the other man's eyes, trying to see what the hell he was thinking. This... this wasn't the Eames he knew [and loved]. Was it?
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Eames growls and gives Arthur another little shove, a little one upwards. His face is right in front of the other man's, breath hissing hot over his face. The hardness in Arthur's voice penetrates, but not, perhaps, in the sense that Arthur intended it to. It only makes him angrier, more worried.
"Didn't want you to leave. Don't want you to. Not going to let you leave," and it tumbles out of his vodka-stupid mouth, and oh that wasn't smooth or subtle but now that he's spoken it to the universe there's ideas, plans.
He's so pleased that he's come up with a plan that he leans forward and kisses Arthur, harshly.
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He tries to break away from it, try to talk to Eames, even while he tastes the bitterness of the alcohol he would always choose to drink. He pulls at the other man's wrists again.
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He lets Arthur pull his mouth away, but only so that Eames can twist his wrists out of Arthur's hold and pin the point man's hands above his head. Once satisfied, he runs his tongue along Arthur's bottom lip, then moves to his ear, biting on the lobe before he hisses into his ear.
"Not going to let you leave," he repeats, hot breath ghosting over the shell of Arthur's ear before he bites at the skin just under it.
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He doesn't know whether to be turned on or freaked out and that makes him worried about his own mental state if he can't tell which one he should be right now in this situation. He could get out of this grip if he really wanted. He could incapacitate Eames if he wanted to (especially when Arthur was sober and Eames shitfaced in a bad way). But he didn't want to hurt the other man.
Not when it just seemed that - at the heart of it - Eames was afraid Arthur would leave... It seemed to click then: Eames thought that if Arthur went on this job he wouldn't come back. That just wasn't true.
Voice less hard, more earnest, wanting to reassure the other man, "I'm not going to leave, Eames. I'm not going to leave you."
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Eames makes a noise that could have been a choked sob, but when he raises his mouth from where it was there's anger in his eyes again.
"You did.." God help him, Eames' voice breaks a little bit with his harsh tone. "You left, stormed right out and I didn't know - I didn't -" he cuts off with a frustrated growl, shifting his hands to hold Arthur's wrists with one hand, the other going to paw at his shirt buttons, Eames biting, hard, at the the base of Arthur's throat, as if to communicate his anger without words.
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"But I came back! I'm here now! Why would I leave you?" The more he opened Arthur's shirt he would eventually see the dogtag he gave Arthur back when they finally made-up and decided to give another go of it.
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"It's your house. You could be kicking me out. But I'm not going to let you," he hisses, bending to bite at Arthur's collarbone. The dogtag glints in the low lamplight, and the sight of it pleases Eames, somehow. His mark on Arthur.
He wants to mark Arthur more.
Its with that thought that he tilts his head back up and bites at the side of Arthur's neck, taking skin between his teeth and sucking hard.
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He wonders what the fuck is wrong with him. He also can't understand what the hell Eames is going on about; why should Arthur be kicking him out? It's not like they haven't had fights before. Granted none as bad as that one earlier today... Usually going in another room and just spending time in separate rooms would be enough. This had been the first time Arthur had left the apartment to avoid the fight escalating.
He lets out a keening noise at the teeth and suction on his neck, feeling a small flicker of self-loathing as he rubs himself against Eames' leg.
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In Eames' drunken mind, there is a smug sense of success. Arthur is arching into him, making delicious noises; he isn't talking about leaving or not leaving, so he's not thinking about it either, obviously.
He presses his leg up harder, shifts it a bit, enjoying the fact that Arthur is getting hard. He sucks harder, leaving a dark, angry red mark on his neck, and squeezes his hand around Arthur's wrists before he moves to kiss him again, tongue sliding between his lips and trying to own his mouth.
His other hand slide down to the buttons of Arthur's trousers, not undoing them just yet but playing with them slightly.
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Maybe Arthur can also convince himself that there isn't anything wrong with this. It's rougher than what they usually do, but not as if Arthur doesn't want it...
His wrists and arms are already starting to feel sore from the position and squeezing. Although at the next push he's getting harder and rubbing against the leg and fingers he feels, moaning into Eames' mouth as it crushes onto his and the over man's tongue darting back in and bitter once more with the taste of vodka.
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But this position isn't going to be easy, and moreover the lube is in their bedroom. Eames may be drunk, but he knows dry will hurt both of them and spit won't be much better.
So he lets go of Arthur's arms to slide a hand into his hair, slides the leg out and hooks two fingers into the top of the other man's pants. He sucks on Arthur's lower lip, bites, and then pulls back, pulling the other man forward.
"Bedroom," he hisses, orders, not a request in the slightest, taking an unsteady step backwards.
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