TWC (pt. three coda)
Title: The Werekitten Chronicles (a coda)
Pairing: catboy!Arthur/werewolf!Eames
Words: ~3100
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On curiosity, and that thing it does to cats.
Author's Note: Pavlov's Bell verse! This comes right after part three. It was originally included, but it changed the tone of the story considerably, so I took it out. Here you go. More werekittens can be found here.
Will is the only one of the babies to wake up when Arthur and Eames are carrying them from the car to the nursery. Arthur tucks Leah and Thomas into their cribs to the sound of Eames' quiet humming as he changes Will's diaper, some tune Arthur can't name. Whatever it is, Will seems to like it, because he's totally quiet while Eames changes him and almost immediately is out like a light when Eames finishes and scoops him up.
“Wine,” Eames mouths to Arthur, then goes on humming and rocking to make sure Will is really asleep. Arthur slips out of the nursery.
Home. He loves the smell of it-musky, undeniably the lodgings of a werewolf, but not overpowering. He fills his lungs with it as he fishes a bottle of white wine out of their liquor cabinet and pours two glasses. Their plane landed in Paris just before ten o'clock. They have some time to themselves before bed. He lounges on the couch and waits for Eames.
The gods of sex must be smiling on them, because Eames manages to sneak out without anyone waking up. He slides onto the couch beside Arthur and leans in for a kiss.
“Home sweet home,” he says.
Arthur searches his voice for sarcasm, but doesn't find it. He lolls his head, letting it tip onto Eames' shoulder because he's tired and doesn't give a fuck. Eames leans into him, too.
“I called Dr. Forsyth,” he says suddenly. “He was saying about Thomas' ears-”
“Shhh.” Arthur gropes until he finds Eames' mouth, presses his fingers against Eames' lips. “Here's a thought,” he says. “Let's pretend we're still brilliant, dangerous mind-criminals, with no attachments, who have amazing sex all over the globe, and the only reason we have to be this tired at 10:30 at night is jet lag. Not crying babies.”
Eames chuckles. He takes the wine glass out of Arthur's hand and leans forward to place both on the coffee table, leaving Arthur without head support for a moment. Then he's back, taking Arthur by the shoulders and laying him down so that he can crawl on top.
“That's a nice thought,” he says.
“Remember when I was the most dangerous point in mind crime?” Arthur says, with just a bit of yearning.
“You still are,” Eames tells him, and he leans down and covers Arthur's mouth with his own in a kiss that hasn't faded in passion at all. There's less thrill now for Arthur, less excitement, but there's something else he has no name for, and it sends a warm little ripple from his spine down to the tip of his tail.
They kiss for a long time. Arthur likes this part, the kissing, because he doesn't have to think about it, and because of the way Eames touches him, sliding a hand up under Arthur's shirt and then dragging his nails down his stomach softly, over and over. He could stay like this for the rest of the night, kissing Eames, who tastes of wine and saltine crackers-letting Eames plunder his mouth; dragging his fingers through Eames' hair and tracing crooked teeth with his tongue. They lose themselves in a rhythm and maybe it's not as exhilarating as it used to be, but it's familiar and soothing. They know each other's bodies well enough by now to know exactly how to make the other gasp.
There's a single cry over the baby monitor.
Arthur digs his fingers insistently into Eames' scalp, and after a second's hesitation Eames keeps kissing him, but then the crying picks back up and he stops. He leans back and just looks at Arthur for a moment. Arthur does his best to convey an order with his eyes, the way Eames' father seems to be able to.
“I'll be back,” Eames mumbles finally, disentangling himself from Arthur.
Arthur sighs, pushing himself upright against the armrest, and scrubs a hand over his face. “You know she only does it because she knows you'll go in there and hold her.”
Eames is already halfway down the hall. “She might need changing.”
He's gone. Arthur groans under his breath. Cockblocked by one of his children. Again. He supposes he'll have to get used to that again, now that they're home.
The crying stops almost as soon as Eames' soothing tones rumble over the monitor and Arthur is absurdly jealous of his infant daughter.
He sits there for a few minutes, sipping at his wine again and wondering if this moment might yet be salvageable when he hears Eames, calling him from the nursery and over the monitor: “Arthur?”
With another sigh of long-suffering, Arthur gets up and goes to the nursery. Maybe one of the boys needs changing as well. He gets to the doorway and Eames has a funny expression on his face; he's holding Leah in one arm and in his other hand he's holding a folder. Arthur's gaze drops to it.
“Did you read this?” Eames asks. His strange tone is as unfamiliar as his expression.
“Where did you find that?”
“I found it in the suitcase.” Eames points; they've only unpacked the babies' things so far. “I was looking for Mr. Cumberbatch. I wouldn't have read it if I'd known what it was ...”
Arthur shakes his head slowly. “Micah gave it to me. I forgot about it till now, I ...”
Eames hands it to him. Arthur tries to read his features but can't; Eames' face is inscrutable. Not sure what to expect, he opens the folder.
There's a handwritten note from Micah paper-clipped to a couple of photocopied pages. Arthur has to read by the light from the hall: the room is dark except for a toy aquarium mounted on the wall, casting a shimmery gold glow on the pages.
This is the only source I could find that makes mention of your kind. It's taken from an older book that quotes a text written by a pseudo-scholar called Grandy in the 1800's. He was a turned werewolf and wrote of his pack life later on in life. Obviously, some of the details may be inaccurate.
I urge you to take this with a grain of salt and not put too much stock in it. He could be over-dramatizing his recollections, as the author says at the end. We don't know. I'll continue looking for a more reliable source. Best regards-Micah.
Intrigued by this forewarning-and a little unsettled-Arthur starts to read while Eames paces the room slowly, lulling Leah back to sleep.
“...It is a problem, of course, that our women are not as fertile as we would like, which they tell me is the reason for our relationship with the female felid creatures, who are fertile just a few times a year but exceptionally so: indeed a madness comes upon them, and they become insatiable. Higher-ranking pack members will take them as concubines. This works for both parties, as a well-treated female with a skilled midwife can throw numerous young at one birthing, and the young are strong and cannot be told from a full-blooded pack member in most cases. Some resemble the mother's side, with second ears and furred tails, sharp nails and slit-pupiled eyes; of these the males are sent away when they are old enough to make a kill, and we have good reason to do so...
“For every female there are four males: these savage creatures come when there is a female in cycle and would take our women indiscriminately; they are most drawn to their own kind, but on one occasion attacked a she-wolf of fifteen years outside her pack's border, and beat her viciously, and had carnal knowledge of her. Such a thing would, in the world of men, be viewed as a loss of marriageable property, but her pack was much aggrieved on her account, and all the men sought her attackers, though none were found: This sin was, of course, committed for the simple sake of Breeding, which is of the gravest fundament to them, and drives their every behaviour... There is no negotiating with them, for they will kill the young of their own species wherever they find it: this is as abhorrent a concept to pack-kind as it will be to the men who read this...
“There is a facetious saying that one should hold his breath whenever treating with the male felid-kind, for there is a rare breed among them who is male in aspect, but not so savage nor soft-witted; he too has a cycle, and will breed every female in sight if allowed: a she-wolf who submits to him is considered shamed. However, if no fertile female is present during a cycle, this cunning creature can affect his own scent to allure males instead, and fool even good wolves; and beguile them until they have no wits to call their own: he is most dangerous of all. A wolf may claim one of these for his own, as we would do with a female consort, but there are words to describe a pack member who would sooner be taken in by these males than take a she-wolf from his own pack, and it happens rarely. They pass down a story of an honest wolf who forgot himself, and forgot his family, and chose to lie with one of these fiends, who hoodwinked him with all his wiles; and they say the creature swelled with child, which had to be cut out of his body, and killed him. The young were freaks: half wolf, half felid, and rightly neither; as punishment, it is said the father of the mutants was made to devour them, and died of melancholy shortly after.”
Arthur's eyes are stinging and burning. His fingers are numb. The pages tremble slightly in his hands and he forces himself to drag his eyes further down the page, to where the author interjects.
Grandy's description of the creatures he referred to as “felid” has intrigued cryptozoologists for many decades. Similar recollections from other werewolves across Europe have been recorded, and we cannot discredit the accounts of humans up to the 19th century, who described catlike demons with long tails and glowing, pupilless green eyes. Most of these quotations are lost today, however, and we know that some of Grandy's more fanciful tales have been outright disproven (indeed, at a later date, following publication of the memoirs, Grandy admitted that of the “cunning” creatures that could change their scent at will, he had only heard secondhand stories, and never witnessed one for himself). Today, the accepted consensus among experts is that such creatures may have once existed, but presumably have gone extinct, perhaps bred out of existence by werewolves. It can be safely assumed that these creatures' population was already on the decline by the time Grandy encountered any, at any rate.
Arthur has to read this paragraph several times before any of the words sink in. When at last he looks up, he finds Eames watching him warily. He's stopped pacing.
“Well,” Arthur says. “That's-well.” And “well” seems to sum it up pretty neatly. Eames' eyes narrow.
“You know it might not be true,” he says.
“Which part?” says Arthur. He's flushed, hot all over for no particular reason. His tail is stiff. “The part about my species being baby-killing rapists? Or how I-what was the word-sorry, hoodwinked you into sleeping with me? Because I'm sure I didn't mean to-”
“No,” says Eames. “Arthur, if you think I'm judging you or something-”
“What's there to judge, Eames?” Arthur demands hotly. “What's left to judge? There's nobody like me left in the whole fucking world because they're all werewolves!”
He throws the folder to the ground. Leah stirs, making a sound, and Eames' eyes flash dangerously.
“Don't,” he warns in his low, quiet, simmering alpha-voice, “raise your voice around my children.”
Arthur shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, but he can't do that for more than a second because all he can think when his eyes are closed is the father of the mutants was made to devour them, and died of melancholy shortly after-
When he opens them, Eames has softened, himself again.
“You know nobody in my pack would ever tell me to harm them,” he says, very gently, like he's read Arthur's mind. “Not even Alizé, whatever you think of him. No pack would do that. It's just a story.”
Arthur's shivering now. He wishes he hadn't thrown the folder, so he would at least know what to do with his hands.
“I know,” he says. He hates-himself, diluted as he obviously is; hates his species, everyone. He hates what he is.
Hates that he knows this now.
“I know,” he says again, feebly.
Eames reaches over, touches his cheek. “What is it, then?”
“I didn't know,” Arthur forces out, groping for the right words, “about-changing my scent, I didn't know I could do that. I wasn't trying to do it.”
“You've always smelled the same to me,” says Eames.
“I know, I smell good, I smell like-how did Alizé put it? Like a bitch in heat-”
Eames drops his hand away, starting to hackle. “That's not why I slept with you.”
“I'm not stupid, Eames,” Arthur says, exhausted now. “I've seen how the unmated werewolves look at me-males and females-like they want to rub themselves all over me. You just got there first.”
“Do you think I'm only here with you, living with you, raising children with you, because I like how you smell? Are you being serious right now?” Eames demands. He snorts at Arthur's dubious expression, shaking his head. “You know, it used to be that the most exciting thing I could think of was a job like inception-all those risks, unexplored avenues, I loved that. I was always looking for jobs like that. And now I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be than here, right now, with you. Just so you know.”
“I'm not that loveable, Eames,” Arthur says, flushing with anger.
“Well, newsflash for you, Arthur,” Eames snaps, “I'm not stupid either. I've always wanted to sleep with you, you daft twat, well before you ever had a heat cycle around me. I was mad about you before then, too, so don't stand there and tell me there's nothing loveable about you when you've been breaking my damn heart for years-”
Leah squirms in his arms and he shuts his mouth, both of them looking down at her. She's just stretching. Quietly, Eames turns and lays her back down in her crib, fussing over her a bit while Arthur stands there and tries to collect his thoughts.
“I just don't get it,” he says finally, when Eames turns back around.
“What don't you get?”
“I don't know,” Arthur says. He nods toward the cribs, gazing at the sleeping forms within them. “Them. Your pack loved them. Hell, everyone who meets them loves them. And how can you not, they're so-innocent, and sweet, and little-and I-”
His voice breaks and he stops, mortified, wanting to bail out of this conversation now before he says anything else. But Eames hears what he isn't saying, and he moves closer, his features softening again.
“And if your own mother didn't love you,” he finishes quietly, taking both of Arthur's hands, “then how, possibly, could I?”
Arthur ducks his head, hating the ease with which Eames reads him. His own voice sounds embarrassingly small to him.
“I just don't get it.”
He's relieved when Eames doesn't give him the kind of bullshit answer his mom would, like, obviously she was an idiot to give you up, or she just didn't see how special you are. Instead, Eames says:
“I don't get it either. I can't imagine anyone doing that to their own child. But that's on your mother, Arthur, not on you,” he says. “It has nothing to do with how loveable you are. Maybe if she met you today she'd realize what a mistake she made, but I think she must have had some issues going on, to leave you the way she did. It was her choice to handle it like that. You had nothing to do with it.”
He's right, of course he is. It's just that there's always been a little seed of doubt in Arthur all these years, whispering something is wrong with me. So of course he'd have had to trick or seduce Eames somehow, for him to be this devoted-and that stupid, irrational voice has only gotten louder ever since his own children came along, because he didn't even want them and now he can't imagine life without them. He can't imagine doing to them what was done to him.
But they're perfect. And he obviously ... wasn't. Not to his mother.
He says, choked, “It just makes me feel like something is ... wrong with me.”
“You've always been perfect,” Eames tells him firmly, and kisses him.
When they break apart, the light from the toy aquarium is shimmering over Eames' face. He looks so fond, so sure of himself.
Arthur takes a slow breath.
“I'll marry you, if you want,” he says.
“Really?” says Eames, eyes widening.
“But you have to propose properly,” Arthur warns. “Don't half-ass it. And don't embarrass me, either. No public spectacles.”
“Of course.” Eames looks delighted. Funny, Arthur thinks wryly, how something so simple and stupid as a piece of paper declaring them legally each other's can mean so much to him. He can give this to Eames, he's decided. It obviously means more to him.
He kisses Eames again, and feels an involuntary purr starting in his throat when Eames slides a hand down to knead at the base of Arthur's tail. He swallows it when Eames' lips graze his throat.
“Just so you know,” Eames murmurs into the side of Arthur's neck, “you don't smell quite as enticing now that you don't have heat cycles anymore.”
“Take that back.”
“You're the sweetest perfume in the world and always have been,” Eames amends.
Arthur leans into him, purring for real now, and wonders if Eames would be amenable to simply cuddling on the couch. Forget the folder and the cat-species and werewolves and just be them, Arthur and Eames. Just for awhile, if not forever.
“That's what I thought,” he answers, complacent.
Pairing: catboy!Arthur/werewolf!Eames
Words: ~3100
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On curiosity, and that thing it does to cats.
Author's Note: Pavlov's Bell verse! This comes right after part three. It was originally included, but it changed the tone of the story considerably, so I took it out. Here you go. More werekittens can be found here.
Will is the only one of the babies to wake up when Arthur and Eames are carrying them from the car to the nursery. Arthur tucks Leah and Thomas into their cribs to the sound of Eames' quiet humming as he changes Will's diaper, some tune Arthur can't name. Whatever it is, Will seems to like it, because he's totally quiet while Eames changes him and almost immediately is out like a light when Eames finishes and scoops him up.
“Wine,” Eames mouths to Arthur, then goes on humming and rocking to make sure Will is really asleep. Arthur slips out of the nursery.
Home. He loves the smell of it-musky, undeniably the lodgings of a werewolf, but not overpowering. He fills his lungs with it as he fishes a bottle of white wine out of their liquor cabinet and pours two glasses. Their plane landed in Paris just before ten o'clock. They have some time to themselves before bed. He lounges on the couch and waits for Eames.
The gods of sex must be smiling on them, because Eames manages to sneak out without anyone waking up. He slides onto the couch beside Arthur and leans in for a kiss.
“Home sweet home,” he says.
Arthur searches his voice for sarcasm, but doesn't find it. He lolls his head, letting it tip onto Eames' shoulder because he's tired and doesn't give a fuck. Eames leans into him, too.
“I called Dr. Forsyth,” he says suddenly. “He was saying about Thomas' ears-”
“Shhh.” Arthur gropes until he finds Eames' mouth, presses his fingers against Eames' lips. “Here's a thought,” he says. “Let's pretend we're still brilliant, dangerous mind-criminals, with no attachments, who have amazing sex all over the globe, and the only reason we have to be this tired at 10:30 at night is jet lag. Not crying babies.”
Eames chuckles. He takes the wine glass out of Arthur's hand and leans forward to place both on the coffee table, leaving Arthur without head support for a moment. Then he's back, taking Arthur by the shoulders and laying him down so that he can crawl on top.
“That's a nice thought,” he says.
“Remember when I was the most dangerous point in mind crime?” Arthur says, with just a bit of yearning.
“You still are,” Eames tells him, and he leans down and covers Arthur's mouth with his own in a kiss that hasn't faded in passion at all. There's less thrill now for Arthur, less excitement, but there's something else he has no name for, and it sends a warm little ripple from his spine down to the tip of his tail.
They kiss for a long time. Arthur likes this part, the kissing, because he doesn't have to think about it, and because of the way Eames touches him, sliding a hand up under Arthur's shirt and then dragging his nails down his stomach softly, over and over. He could stay like this for the rest of the night, kissing Eames, who tastes of wine and saltine crackers-letting Eames plunder his mouth; dragging his fingers through Eames' hair and tracing crooked teeth with his tongue. They lose themselves in a rhythm and maybe it's not as exhilarating as it used to be, but it's familiar and soothing. They know each other's bodies well enough by now to know exactly how to make the other gasp.
There's a single cry over the baby monitor.
Arthur digs his fingers insistently into Eames' scalp, and after a second's hesitation Eames keeps kissing him, but then the crying picks back up and he stops. He leans back and just looks at Arthur for a moment. Arthur does his best to convey an order with his eyes, the way Eames' father seems to be able to.
“I'll be back,” Eames mumbles finally, disentangling himself from Arthur.
Arthur sighs, pushing himself upright against the armrest, and scrubs a hand over his face. “You know she only does it because she knows you'll go in there and hold her.”
Eames is already halfway down the hall. “She might need changing.”
He's gone. Arthur groans under his breath. Cockblocked by one of his children. Again. He supposes he'll have to get used to that again, now that they're home.
The crying stops almost as soon as Eames' soothing tones rumble over the monitor and Arthur is absurdly jealous of his infant daughter.
He sits there for a few minutes, sipping at his wine again and wondering if this moment might yet be salvageable when he hears Eames, calling him from the nursery and over the monitor: “Arthur?”
With another sigh of long-suffering, Arthur gets up and goes to the nursery. Maybe one of the boys needs changing as well. He gets to the doorway and Eames has a funny expression on his face; he's holding Leah in one arm and in his other hand he's holding a folder. Arthur's gaze drops to it.
“Did you read this?” Eames asks. His strange tone is as unfamiliar as his expression.
“Where did you find that?”
“I found it in the suitcase.” Eames points; they've only unpacked the babies' things so far. “I was looking for Mr. Cumberbatch. I wouldn't have read it if I'd known what it was ...”
Arthur shakes his head slowly. “Micah gave it to me. I forgot about it till now, I ...”
Eames hands it to him. Arthur tries to read his features but can't; Eames' face is inscrutable. Not sure what to expect, he opens the folder.
There's a handwritten note from Micah paper-clipped to a couple of photocopied pages. Arthur has to read by the light from the hall: the room is dark except for a toy aquarium mounted on the wall, casting a shimmery gold glow on the pages.
This is the only source I could find that makes mention of your kind. It's taken from an older book that quotes a text written by a pseudo-scholar called Grandy in the 1800's. He was a turned werewolf and wrote of his pack life later on in life. Obviously, some of the details may be inaccurate.
I urge you to take this with a grain of salt and not put too much stock in it. He could be over-dramatizing his recollections, as the author says at the end. We don't know. I'll continue looking for a more reliable source. Best regards-Micah.
Intrigued by this forewarning-and a little unsettled-Arthur starts to read while Eames paces the room slowly, lulling Leah back to sleep.
“...It is a problem, of course, that our women are not as fertile as we would like, which they tell me is the reason for our relationship with the female felid creatures, who are fertile just a few times a year but exceptionally so: indeed a madness comes upon them, and they become insatiable. Higher-ranking pack members will take them as concubines. This works for both parties, as a well-treated female with a skilled midwife can throw numerous young at one birthing, and the young are strong and cannot be told from a full-blooded pack member in most cases. Some resemble the mother's side, with second ears and furred tails, sharp nails and slit-pupiled eyes; of these the males are sent away when they are old enough to make a kill, and we have good reason to do so...
“For every female there are four males: these savage creatures come when there is a female in cycle and would take our women indiscriminately; they are most drawn to their own kind, but on one occasion attacked a she-wolf of fifteen years outside her pack's border, and beat her viciously, and had carnal knowledge of her. Such a thing would, in the world of men, be viewed as a loss of marriageable property, but her pack was much aggrieved on her account, and all the men sought her attackers, though none were found: This sin was, of course, committed for the simple sake of Breeding, which is of the gravest fundament to them, and drives their every behaviour... There is no negotiating with them, for they will kill the young of their own species wherever they find it: this is as abhorrent a concept to pack-kind as it will be to the men who read this...
“There is a facetious saying that one should hold his breath whenever treating with the male felid-kind, for there is a rare breed among them who is male in aspect, but not so savage nor soft-witted; he too has a cycle, and will breed every female in sight if allowed: a she-wolf who submits to him is considered shamed. However, if no fertile female is present during a cycle, this cunning creature can affect his own scent to allure males instead, and fool even good wolves; and beguile them until they have no wits to call their own: he is most dangerous of all. A wolf may claim one of these for his own, as we would do with a female consort, but there are words to describe a pack member who would sooner be taken in by these males than take a she-wolf from his own pack, and it happens rarely. They pass down a story of an honest wolf who forgot himself, and forgot his family, and chose to lie with one of these fiends, who hoodwinked him with all his wiles; and they say the creature swelled with child, which had to be cut out of his body, and killed him. The young were freaks: half wolf, half felid, and rightly neither; as punishment, it is said the father of the mutants was made to devour them, and died of melancholy shortly after.”
Arthur's eyes are stinging and burning. His fingers are numb. The pages tremble slightly in his hands and he forces himself to drag his eyes further down the page, to where the author interjects.
Grandy's description of the creatures he referred to as “felid” has intrigued cryptozoologists for many decades. Similar recollections from other werewolves across Europe have been recorded, and we cannot discredit the accounts of humans up to the 19th century, who described catlike demons with long tails and glowing, pupilless green eyes. Most of these quotations are lost today, however, and we know that some of Grandy's more fanciful tales have been outright disproven (indeed, at a later date, following publication of the memoirs, Grandy admitted that of the “cunning” creatures that could change their scent at will, he had only heard secondhand stories, and never witnessed one for himself). Today, the accepted consensus among experts is that such creatures may have once existed, but presumably have gone extinct, perhaps bred out of existence by werewolves. It can be safely assumed that these creatures' population was already on the decline by the time Grandy encountered any, at any rate.
Arthur has to read this paragraph several times before any of the words sink in. When at last he looks up, he finds Eames watching him warily. He's stopped pacing.
“Well,” Arthur says. “That's-well.” And “well” seems to sum it up pretty neatly. Eames' eyes narrow.
“You know it might not be true,” he says.
“Which part?” says Arthur. He's flushed, hot all over for no particular reason. His tail is stiff. “The part about my species being baby-killing rapists? Or how I-what was the word-sorry, hoodwinked you into sleeping with me? Because I'm sure I didn't mean to-”
“No,” says Eames. “Arthur, if you think I'm judging you or something-”
“What's there to judge, Eames?” Arthur demands hotly. “What's left to judge? There's nobody like me left in the whole fucking world because they're all werewolves!”
He throws the folder to the ground. Leah stirs, making a sound, and Eames' eyes flash dangerously.
“Don't,” he warns in his low, quiet, simmering alpha-voice, “raise your voice around my children.”
Arthur shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, but he can't do that for more than a second because all he can think when his eyes are closed is the father of the mutants was made to devour them, and died of melancholy shortly after-
When he opens them, Eames has softened, himself again.
“You know nobody in my pack would ever tell me to harm them,” he says, very gently, like he's read Arthur's mind. “Not even Alizé, whatever you think of him. No pack would do that. It's just a story.”
Arthur's shivering now. He wishes he hadn't thrown the folder, so he would at least know what to do with his hands.
“I know,” he says. He hates-himself, diluted as he obviously is; hates his species, everyone. He hates what he is.
Hates that he knows this now.
“I know,” he says again, feebly.
Eames reaches over, touches his cheek. “What is it, then?”
“I didn't know,” Arthur forces out, groping for the right words, “about-changing my scent, I didn't know I could do that. I wasn't trying to do it.”
“You've always smelled the same to me,” says Eames.
“I know, I smell good, I smell like-how did Alizé put it? Like a bitch in heat-”
Eames drops his hand away, starting to hackle. “That's not why I slept with you.”
“I'm not stupid, Eames,” Arthur says, exhausted now. “I've seen how the unmated werewolves look at me-males and females-like they want to rub themselves all over me. You just got there first.”
“Do you think I'm only here with you, living with you, raising children with you, because I like how you smell? Are you being serious right now?” Eames demands. He snorts at Arthur's dubious expression, shaking his head. “You know, it used to be that the most exciting thing I could think of was a job like inception-all those risks, unexplored avenues, I loved that. I was always looking for jobs like that. And now I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be than here, right now, with you. Just so you know.”
“I'm not that loveable, Eames,” Arthur says, flushing with anger.
“Well, newsflash for you, Arthur,” Eames snaps, “I'm not stupid either. I've always wanted to sleep with you, you daft twat, well before you ever had a heat cycle around me. I was mad about you before then, too, so don't stand there and tell me there's nothing loveable about you when you've been breaking my damn heart for years-”
Leah squirms in his arms and he shuts his mouth, both of them looking down at her. She's just stretching. Quietly, Eames turns and lays her back down in her crib, fussing over her a bit while Arthur stands there and tries to collect his thoughts.
“I just don't get it,” he says finally, when Eames turns back around.
“What don't you get?”
“I don't know,” Arthur says. He nods toward the cribs, gazing at the sleeping forms within them. “Them. Your pack loved them. Hell, everyone who meets them loves them. And how can you not, they're so-innocent, and sweet, and little-and I-”
His voice breaks and he stops, mortified, wanting to bail out of this conversation now before he says anything else. But Eames hears what he isn't saying, and he moves closer, his features softening again.
“And if your own mother didn't love you,” he finishes quietly, taking both of Arthur's hands, “then how, possibly, could I?”
Arthur ducks his head, hating the ease with which Eames reads him. His own voice sounds embarrassingly small to him.
“I just don't get it.”
He's relieved when Eames doesn't give him the kind of bullshit answer his mom would, like, obviously she was an idiot to give you up, or she just didn't see how special you are. Instead, Eames says:
“I don't get it either. I can't imagine anyone doing that to their own child. But that's on your mother, Arthur, not on you,” he says. “It has nothing to do with how loveable you are. Maybe if she met you today she'd realize what a mistake she made, but I think she must have had some issues going on, to leave you the way she did. It was her choice to handle it like that. You had nothing to do with it.”
He's right, of course he is. It's just that there's always been a little seed of doubt in Arthur all these years, whispering something is wrong with me. So of course he'd have had to trick or seduce Eames somehow, for him to be this devoted-and that stupid, irrational voice has only gotten louder ever since his own children came along, because he didn't even want them and now he can't imagine life without them. He can't imagine doing to them what was done to him.
But they're perfect. And he obviously ... wasn't. Not to his mother.
He says, choked, “It just makes me feel like something is ... wrong with me.”
“You've always been perfect,” Eames tells him firmly, and kisses him.
When they break apart, the light from the toy aquarium is shimmering over Eames' face. He looks so fond, so sure of himself.
Arthur takes a slow breath.
“I'll marry you, if you want,” he says.
“Really?” says Eames, eyes widening.
“But you have to propose properly,” Arthur warns. “Don't half-ass it. And don't embarrass me, either. No public spectacles.”
“Of course.” Eames looks delighted. Funny, Arthur thinks wryly, how something so simple and stupid as a piece of paper declaring them legally each other's can mean so much to him. He can give this to Eames, he's decided. It obviously means more to him.
He kisses Eames again, and feels an involuntary purr starting in his throat when Eames slides a hand down to knead at the base of Arthur's tail. He swallows it when Eames' lips graze his throat.
“Just so you know,” Eames murmurs into the side of Arthur's neck, “you don't smell quite as enticing now that you don't have heat cycles anymore.”
“Take that back.”
“You're the sweetest perfume in the world and always have been,” Eames amends.
Arthur leans into him, purring for real now, and wonders if Eames would be amenable to simply cuddling on the couch. Forget the folder and the cat-species and werewolves and just be them, Arthur and Eames. Just for awhile, if not forever.
“That's what I thought,” he answers, complacent.