156
oh, what a bargain
inception (arthur/eames. ish.)
1,350 words of, uh. arthur and eames as street kids! another fill for inception_kink. originally posted here!
Eames isn’t running, exactly, but he’s not dawdling, either. He’s got his hands in the pocket of his ratty wool coat, the navy blue one he had with him when he left home, and he’s got the mark’s wallet pressed between his pointer and middle fingers. He’s learning. He’s still got the black eye from the last lesson, but he’s learning.
Arthur’s probably already back at the squat; Eames is fifteen minutes late already. Arthur counts the minutes because he expects that one day Eames won’t bother to come back at all.
Eames is pretty sure it’s actually going to happen the other way around. He doesn’t know how to tell Arthur.
.
“You’re late,” Arthur says, and it’s such an Arthur greeting that Eames almost has to laugh. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, his sweater sleeves long enough that he can curl his fingers into them. His hair is still slicked back, but there’s a lock or two coming loose in the front. Eames has to resist the urge to brush them back. It’s not worth the risk of Arthur’s scowl.
“Can’t run with the goods, love. Might look suspicious.” Eames’ parents are British, and for as long as he can remember they spent the summers holed up in a small town in Wales with a name so odd he has no idea how to say it anymore. It was all ls and ws strung together in some arcane pattern. Eames’ accent is still mostly British, though he does say things like TV, and sneakers, and pants, instead of telly, and trainers, and trousers. He’s lived in the United States most of his life, after all.
They don’t have heat, but the squat is sheltered from the wind, at least - the interior room in an abandoned hotel. The mattress in the corner is covered in tattered blankets and discarded clothing - piles of cloth to keep them warm once the sun goes down.
“What’d you get?” Arthur asks, and tries not to look eager. They’re down to their last two cans of lentils, and the ends of a loaf of bread.
“Two wallets, a watch, some change,” Eames says, emptying his pockets. “Enough, for now.” The bruise underneath his eyes throbs when he smiles, but he ignores it. Arthur is calculating in his head, like the little machine he is.
Eames is fine with being the muscle. He’s a criminal already, and he doubts he’s going to have the chance to be much else. Arthur, however, is frighteningly smart up in the twisted brain of his. Arthur is worth protecting, because he has a future. And Eames is going to see that he gets there.
.
Huddled on the mattress with Arthur, Eames can only feel the cold where is brushes against his socked feet, and the back of his neck. Arthur’s face is pressed into the line of his throat, and Eames can feel Arthur’s breath against his neck. Eames has his hands up under Arthur’s shirt in the back, fingers tucked against his bare skin. Arthur’s hands clutch at the waistband of his pants. This is how they keep warm.
Eames almost can’t stand to be pressed against Arthur like this, even though necessity demands it. They’ve been running together for almost two years now, and Eames hasn’t ever touched Arthur without his express permission. He wants to, though. Oh, how he wants to.
Arthur’s younger, and they don’t discuss their past, but he suspects that Arthur’s parents are a different crop than Eames’ are. Eames has too much pride to go back to his; he’d rather disappear forever than be a returning failure. He doesn’t know why Arthur can’t go back, but he’ll do anything he has to in order to keep it from happening.
Arthur snuffles in his sleep and burrows closer. Eames can feel Arthur’s eyelashes pressed against the skin of his neck. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability; one Eames is certain he wouldn’t see were Arthur awake. He threads one hand into the hair at the back of Arthur’s head, and thinks about spring.
.
“You fucking idiot.” Arthur’s voice is expressionless with anger, his face entirely blank, and Eames wipes the blood off of his face with the back of his hand. The ends of Arthur’s words are crisp and sharp, precisely enunciated. It’s one way Eames always knows that Arthur is livid. His lip is bleeding, and he has to keep wiping it off of his chin before it starts to drip.
“I’m afraid there wasn’t another way, darling,” Eames says, and quirks his lips in a fake smirk. It pulls at his lip, but he’s not going to pretend he didn’t have his reasons. It’s just that Arthur doesn’t like them.
“You’re supposed to be careful, Eames,” Arthur says. “You’re not supposed to get picked up for shoplifting!”
“Well, I didn’t, did I?” It’s semantics. Technically, he was picked up; he just managed to wriggle away. So he got elbowed in the mouth, so what? He wasn’t hauled in, he still brought in some cash, so all is well in the world.
“Close enough,” Arthur says. Eames had gotten home before him, for once, and he’d seen the look on Arthur’s face when he walked in - he had good news. Eames had thought, well, that’s about to change, lightning fast, before Arthur saw his fat lip. Coupled with the black eye, his face must look a right mess at the moment. “And what do you think would happen if you were arrested? I’d just sit here, wondering where you’d gone and you’d go to juvie for whatever they could pin on you? Does that sound fun?”
“Of fucking course not,” Eames says. “You know I wouldn’t do that on purpose!”
“I know,” Arthur says, and he seems to deflate a little. “I know, just. Be careful.”
Eames walks forward a few steps until he’s close enough to touch Arthur. He reaches out, and waits for Arthur’s subtle nod of permission, and then lays his palms flat on Arthur’s shoulders, thumbs pressing against his collarbones. “Can only be so careful, love. I do my best, but there’s no safe when you’re squatting and stealing for a living.”
Arthur looks down at Eames hands, and then up at his lip, and then shrugs. He knows it’s true, but he doesn’t have to like it.
.
When they’ve got a little extra cash, between the bits that Arthur squirrels away, and the day-to-day living they have to do, Eames buys Arthur books. Eames isn’t much of a reader, but Arthur is. He can’t be in school, but that doesn’t mean he can’t learn.
Eames chooses them based on the covers, mostly, and the titles he half-remembers from school. A Catcher in the Rye. Fahrenheit 451. The Odyssey. Lord of the Flies. It doesn’t matter what book it is, how bent the cover or how worn the pages, Arthur always touches it with a reverence that Eames reserves for very few things. It’s how a person might touch a lover, if they had one.
Eames thinks about what he’d do if Arthur ever touched him like that.
.
“What do we have for dinner tonight?” Arthurs asks, and Eames laughs. It’s one of those jokes they’ve worn down until it’s almost lost all meaning.
“Pork chops,” Eames says. Arthur is still grinning, his shirt coming untucked from his pants as he sits down. Eames can see the elastic of his boxers and a swatch of pale skin exposed in the back. It shouldn’t seem as thrilling as it does; they sleep together every night.
Really, they’ll have canned beans, some bread; simple and filling and cheap. Tomorrow is Sunday, and on Sundays St. Mary’s church on the corner gives out free breakfast until noon. Ariadne usually lets them take a few extra things home with them. She’s Eames’ favorite of the volunteers.
“That’ll be the day,” Arthur says, almost wistful. He’s watching Eames stir the pot between them.
“It’ll happen, just you wait,” Eames says. He’s going to see to it.
inception (arthur/eames. ish.)
1,350 words of, uh. arthur and eames as street kids! another fill for inception_kink. originally posted here!
Eames isn’t running, exactly, but he’s not dawdling, either. He’s got his hands in the pocket of his ratty wool coat, the navy blue one he had with him when he left home, and he’s got the mark’s wallet pressed between his pointer and middle fingers. He’s learning. He’s still got the black eye from the last lesson, but he’s learning.
Arthur’s probably already back at the squat; Eames is fifteen minutes late already. Arthur counts the minutes because he expects that one day Eames won’t bother to come back at all.
Eames is pretty sure it’s actually going to happen the other way around. He doesn’t know how to tell Arthur.
.
“You’re late,” Arthur says, and it’s such an Arthur greeting that Eames almost has to laugh. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, his sweater sleeves long enough that he can curl his fingers into them. His hair is still slicked back, but there’s a lock or two coming loose in the front. Eames has to resist the urge to brush them back. It’s not worth the risk of Arthur’s scowl.
“Can’t run with the goods, love. Might look suspicious.” Eames’ parents are British, and for as long as he can remember they spent the summers holed up in a small town in Wales with a name so odd he has no idea how to say it anymore. It was all ls and ws strung together in some arcane pattern. Eames’ accent is still mostly British, though he does say things like TV, and sneakers, and pants, instead of telly, and trainers, and trousers. He’s lived in the United States most of his life, after all.
They don’t have heat, but the squat is sheltered from the wind, at least - the interior room in an abandoned hotel. The mattress in the corner is covered in tattered blankets and discarded clothing - piles of cloth to keep them warm once the sun goes down.
“What’d you get?” Arthur asks, and tries not to look eager. They’re down to their last two cans of lentils, and the ends of a loaf of bread.
“Two wallets, a watch, some change,” Eames says, emptying his pockets. “Enough, for now.” The bruise underneath his eyes throbs when he smiles, but he ignores it. Arthur is calculating in his head, like the little machine he is.
Eames is fine with being the muscle. He’s a criminal already, and he doubts he’s going to have the chance to be much else. Arthur, however, is frighteningly smart up in the twisted brain of his. Arthur is worth protecting, because he has a future. And Eames is going to see that he gets there.
.
Huddled on the mattress with Arthur, Eames can only feel the cold where is brushes against his socked feet, and the back of his neck. Arthur’s face is pressed into the line of his throat, and Eames can feel Arthur’s breath against his neck. Eames has his hands up under Arthur’s shirt in the back, fingers tucked against his bare skin. Arthur’s hands clutch at the waistband of his pants. This is how they keep warm.
Eames almost can’t stand to be pressed against Arthur like this, even though necessity demands it. They’ve been running together for almost two years now, and Eames hasn’t ever touched Arthur without his express permission. He wants to, though. Oh, how he wants to.
Arthur’s younger, and they don’t discuss their past, but he suspects that Arthur’s parents are a different crop than Eames’ are. Eames has too much pride to go back to his; he’d rather disappear forever than be a returning failure. He doesn’t know why Arthur can’t go back, but he’ll do anything he has to in order to keep it from happening.
Arthur snuffles in his sleep and burrows closer. Eames can feel Arthur’s eyelashes pressed against the skin of his neck. It’s a rare moment of vulnerability; one Eames is certain he wouldn’t see were Arthur awake. He threads one hand into the hair at the back of Arthur’s head, and thinks about spring.
.
“You fucking idiot.” Arthur’s voice is expressionless with anger, his face entirely blank, and Eames wipes the blood off of his face with the back of his hand. The ends of Arthur’s words are crisp and sharp, precisely enunciated. It’s one way Eames always knows that Arthur is livid. His lip is bleeding, and he has to keep wiping it off of his chin before it starts to drip.
“I’m afraid there wasn’t another way, darling,” Eames says, and quirks his lips in a fake smirk. It pulls at his lip, but he’s not going to pretend he didn’t have his reasons. It’s just that Arthur doesn’t like them.
“You’re supposed to be careful, Eames,” Arthur says. “You’re not supposed to get picked up for shoplifting!”
“Well, I didn’t, did I?” It’s semantics. Technically, he was picked up; he just managed to wriggle away. So he got elbowed in the mouth, so what? He wasn’t hauled in, he still brought in some cash, so all is well in the world.
“Close enough,” Arthur says. Eames had gotten home before him, for once, and he’d seen the look on Arthur’s face when he walked in - he had good news. Eames had thought, well, that’s about to change, lightning fast, before Arthur saw his fat lip. Coupled with the black eye, his face must look a right mess at the moment. “And what do you think would happen if you were arrested? I’d just sit here, wondering where you’d gone and you’d go to juvie for whatever they could pin on you? Does that sound fun?”
“Of fucking course not,” Eames says. “You know I wouldn’t do that on purpose!”
“I know,” Arthur says, and he seems to deflate a little. “I know, just. Be careful.”
Eames walks forward a few steps until he’s close enough to touch Arthur. He reaches out, and waits for Arthur’s subtle nod of permission, and then lays his palms flat on Arthur’s shoulders, thumbs pressing against his collarbones. “Can only be so careful, love. I do my best, but there’s no safe when you’re squatting and stealing for a living.”
Arthur looks down at Eames hands, and then up at his lip, and then shrugs. He knows it’s true, but he doesn’t have to like it.
.
When they’ve got a little extra cash, between the bits that Arthur squirrels away, and the day-to-day living they have to do, Eames buys Arthur books. Eames isn’t much of a reader, but Arthur is. He can’t be in school, but that doesn’t mean he can’t learn.
Eames chooses them based on the covers, mostly, and the titles he half-remembers from school. A Catcher in the Rye. Fahrenheit 451. The Odyssey. Lord of the Flies. It doesn’t matter what book it is, how bent the cover or how worn the pages, Arthur always touches it with a reverence that Eames reserves for very few things. It’s how a person might touch a lover, if they had one.
Eames thinks about what he’d do if Arthur ever touched him like that.
.
“What do we have for dinner tonight?” Arthurs asks, and Eames laughs. It’s one of those jokes they’ve worn down until it’s almost lost all meaning.
“Pork chops,” Eames says. Arthur is still grinning, his shirt coming untucked from his pants as he sits down. Eames can see the elastic of his boxers and a swatch of pale skin exposed in the back. It shouldn’t seem as thrilling as it does; they sleep together every night.
Really, they’ll have canned beans, some bread; simple and filling and cheap. Tomorrow is Sunday, and on Sundays St. Mary’s church on the corner gives out free breakfast until noon. Ariadne usually lets them take a few extra things home with them. She’s Eames’ favorite of the volunteers.
“That’ll be the day,” Arthur says, almost wistful. He’s watching Eames stir the pot between them.
“It’ll happen, just you wait,” Eames says. He’s going to see to it.