Inception: you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (3/5)
hahaha guys, I'm so sorry; this took so long. *___* even taking into account corrupted files and writer's block, this shouldn't have taken this long, but that's just another reason why I should never write wips.
I have many mixed feelings about the writing here, but if I don't get this out now, I'll probably just sit on it forever, so here it is. so many thank yous to weatherfront for listening to my rambly emails and letting me bounce ideas off her - and to jibrailis, who offered her help as well (which I may still take up later ♥ - it's just that this chapter is so late already ahahaha), and to everyone on my flist for listening to my whining. you are all fantastic. ♥
you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (3/5)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 4211 words
eames wakes up five years in the future.
previous.
Ariadne contacts them about a job, and they go, because it's Ariadne. She's quite a well-heard-of figure by now in the dreamsharing world, although she took some time off to start on her PhD. Sometimes, Eames wonders why she even wants a PhD, considering she's probably going to spend the rest of her life in dreamshare, and Eames is quite certain everyone else in their dubious and very illegal business couldn't care less as to people's academic backgrounds.
The job takes them to Marseille, and Eames has the delight of hearing Arthur dust off his actually-quite-impressive French. Unfortunately, as far as Eames is concerned, that's about the only perk of the job.
It's not a difficult extraction overall. The landscape might have to be a little unusual, but Ariadne has that covered, and their extractor seems comfortable enough. The problem is, Eames is supposed to forge the mark's daughter. Unfortunately, she passed away in a car accident just a month ago.
It's not the first time Eames has had to forge a dead person. It's much more difficult because he doesn't have anyone to observe, but he's done a dead grandmother and a brother, the former on two separate occasions. In all those cases though, the deceased has been dead for a few years, at least, and it's easier that way because the memories are usually less precise in the mark's mind, and little idiosyncrasies can be explained away without too much difficulty.
This time though, she's only been gone a month. To her father, that would barely be any time at all. He would remember her exactly the way she was, and Eames wouldn't have any room for little hiccups. If his forge fails, the entire job would probably fall through.
They have a little over two weeks to prepare, and uncharacteristically, Eames spends all his time at his desk. There's no one to really tail, although he'd followed the mark and some of the daughter's friends around for a day at the beginning before concluding that they were going to be of no help. Instead, he pores over academic transcripts and government records and twitter history, jotting down notes and making associations and trying to reconstruct this girl in his head from words and numbers alone. It's terribly imprecise work - impossible, another might say - and as always is the case with forging the dead, he'll have no idea whether or not his forge will be anything like the actual girl until they're on the job.
At the end of each day, Laurent, their extractor, usually leaves first, followed by Ariadne, who requires some sort of food intake every four to five hours. Arthur tends to leave around half past nine, at which point he will insist that it's time for dinner for both of them. Eames had gone along the first three days, but by day four, his research feels shakier than ever, and he can't afford the time to be tired or hungry or restless.
"You go ahead first, darling," he says, giving Arthur a half-smile. "I have a little more to finish up first, but I won't be too long."
Which is a blatant lie, because two and a half hours later, he's still at his desk, and a steady migraine has been developing for the past half an hour. With a sigh, he puts down his pen and buries his face in his hands, trying to massage away some of the headache.
Behind him, the warehouse door clicks open. "What happened to I won't be too long, Mr. Eames?"
It's only quick reflexes that have him catching the paper bag Arthur tosses at him - which turns out to be an order of fish burger and fries. Arthur settles himself down into a chair, giving him a small smile when he looks up in surprise, and Eames' stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly and make its presence known.
Humming happily into his bite of burger, Eames shrugs. "The research's just not coming together as smoothly as usual."
"Because she's dead?"
"Partly. The thing is, it's still too soon. The memories are too clear for the father, but I don't have a person I can observe." He pushes some of the papers on his desk forward. "All I have are records, and it's hard to build a person out of that."
"And there's no one else you can forge?" Arthur asks, leaning over for a closer look.
"Unfortunately not. Lefebvre's an only child and estranged from his parents. We know he's not the most social fellow, and he divorced his wife twenty years ago. His daughter is the only way in."
Arthur nods, eyes still on the paper. "I downloaded some files from the daughter's computer earlier that I can send you, if you want."
Eames looks up in surprise. He'd tried to remotely gain access to the data from the computers in Lefebvre's house the first day without success, but computers had never exactly been Eames' area of expertise. "Thank you, that would be very helpful," he says. "I would have asked you for intel earlier, but I figured you wouldn't have anything on the daughter." He stretches out his protesting back with a sigh. "I didn't think you needed it for your part of research."
"I don't," Arthur says simply. And before the implications can sink in, he stands up, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles from his suit. "Coming?" he asks, heading for the door.
Oh, Eames thinks, and follows him.
~
On the Friday of the last weekend before the job, Eames finds himself directed out of the warehouse without being given a choice about it.
"You're coming with me, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, his hands warm on Eames' shoulders, and Eames lets himself be guided partly out of surprise.
"You do know I still have hours of research left to do," he says conversationally 20 minutes later (which is kind of a lie, because there's not much else he can do at this point, and he's fairly certain Arthur knows this), when he finds himself ushered to a table at Chez Jeannot after listening to Arthur ask the maitre'd about a reservation. The restaurant is surprisingly cozy, and Eames settles into his seat with a sigh.
Arthur ignores him in favour of looking at the menu, eyes flicking quickly through the pages. "What are you having?" he asks finally, raising an eyebrow at the way Eames is apparently examining the patterns on the ceiling.
Eames shrugs, nonchalant. French has never been a favoured language of his, and he doesn't particularly feel like squinting his way through the menu. "Choose for me, darling," he says, taking the time to relax back into his seat instead.
He's expecting something good, considering it's Arthur, who is as picky (or detail-conscious, as Arthur likes to insist) with his food as he is with everything else. What he doesn't expect is for his filet mignon to be completely delicious, cooked medium rare just the way Eames likes it. The meat is juicy and covered in red wine sauce, and Eames sinks his teeth in with exaggerated delight. Across from him, Arthur laughs, shaking his head at Eames as he cuts neatly into his chicken pastilla.
Dessert is mille feuille, while Arthur has pain au chocolat. They talk about irrelevant things: traveling and philosophy and the last book Arthur read, and before Eames really notices, two hours have passed and the restaurant is slowly but steadily emptying out.
When the bill comes, Eames reaches for it, but is intercepted before he quite makes it. "My treat," Arthur says, reaching into his wallet for his credit card, and Eames lets him.
They take a taxi back to the hotel afterward, where they go their separate ways. As Eames steps into the shower, he can't help but think that it's a little odd suddenly having the whole room to himself after months of sharing, but it's one thing to share when there's only one bed in the flat, and quite another to purposefully book the same room for two, so they'd ended up with different rooms a few doors apart. Scrubbing himself clean, he pulls on the sweatpants he'd brought along before collapsing onto the bed with a sigh.
It's not until he's drifting off to sleep that it occurs to him that if it had been anyone else, Eames would've called the evening a date.
~
The job is a success, but not without a few complications.
Lefebvre seems a little hesitant at first, but eventually buys into Eames' forge like they'd hoped and leads them to the safe where the information they want is hidden. Eames manages to get it open with a few clicks, at which point he quickly rips into the envelope for the papers he has to commit to memory.
Unfortunately, at this point, the rogue projections break in. Sadly for Eames, Laurent is busy playing the concerned bodyguard, and Arthur should be dealing with the projections around the perimeter. He's on his own.
Eames keeps his eyes on the papers, because as long as he gets through this, the job is done - although the fact that he's probably going to get torn apart while he's busy reading isn't going to be fun, he thinks with a wince as a projection throws an ashtray at his head. It crashes into the wall right by his ear. Jumping to his feet, Eames dashes into the next room and slams the door shut behind him, abandoning the strappy heels on his feet while he's at it but keeping the forge.
It doesn't delay things for long though. A second projection kicks down the door and throws a bottle of wine while a third advances with a butler's knife and Eames dodges again with a small sigh, but not before he feels the spray of glass against his arm. Two pages left.
There are more projections now crowding in the doorway, and Eames is just considering the wisdom of locking himself into the adjacent bathroom - it'll give him a few extra minutes, but he'll have nowhere to run when they break in - when Arthur appears, gun in hand and looking barely out of breath.
"Do hurry up Mr. Eames, we don't have all day," he says a minute later, and there's a crooked half-smile on his face like there aren't motionless projections littered all over the floor.
Eames throws his head back with a laugh, an uncontrollable fondness welling up inside him. Looking back down at the papers in his hands, he finishes rereading the last two paragraphs just as the timer runs out.
~
Eames has always considered himself a bit of a vagabond, flying to a different city every few months just for a change of scenery and living out of hotels even though he has some sort of property in five different countries, so it's a bit of a surprise that he finds himself thinking it feels nice to be home after barely two and a half weeks in Marseille. In fact, it's surprising to realize that he's come to think of his London flat as home at all, considering the fact that before the last few months, he's only stayed here a month and a half at the most out of every year.
Just because there's no job and they're back in London doesn't mean things stay uneventful for long though.
It's about a week later when Eames wakes for no apparent reason in the middle of the night. Blinking into the darkness, it takes him a minute to realize that Arthur is tossing and turning beside him, blankets kicked off and brow heavy with a sheen of sweat.
A nightmare, Eames thinks. He himself hasn't had one in about a decade now. “Arthur,” he says, tentatively reaching forward to shake the other man awake.
Arthur opens his eyes, but doesn't seem to be quite aware of the fact that he's awake. His face is unnaturally pale, and Eames can see the sweat matting his hair. There's a glassy look in his eyes when he looks up, as if he's seeing something else entirely.
Eames hesitates. He'd assumed that Arthur, like everyone else in their business, didn't have natural dreams anymore, but clearly he'd been wrong. Instead of giving in to the urge to swear, he reaches out and pulls Arthur close instead, still half-expecting resistance, but Arthur lets him without protest. Up close, Eames can feel the slight tremble of his body. “Hush now, it's alright, darling,” he says, keeping his voice soothing.
“Eames,” Arthur finally says shakily, his voice unsteady, and Eames, knowing better than to say it had just been a dream, tells him instead, “It's fine, it's all over now.” Arthur doesn't reply, but the fine tremors don't go away. He loosens his hold slightly in case he's making Arthur uncomfortable, but to his surprise, Arthur pulls closer again almost involuntarily, his grip tightening around Eames' shoulder.
He's never seen Arthur this out-of-sorts before, not even after Eames had woken up without his memories, or that time years ago when Arthur had ended up shot in the left hip in Harbin. Then, Arthur had been panicked, angry, in unimaginable pain - but Eames has never had to deal with this plainly frightened Arthur he doesn't recognize. A part of him realizes he'd never thought Arthur even capable of being like this. Despite the last few months and the knowledge that some version of himself must have inspired emotional attachment in Arthur, the instinctive part of him still thinks of Arthur as the most frighteningly independent person he knows. The Arthur in his head has always been untouchably perfect, needing no one but himself - which doesn't make him without warmth or incapable of camaraderie, but he's airtight and impervious to Eames in all the ways that matter.
Looking at the figure slowly shaking apart beside him though, Eames can't help but think that maybe, the Arthur in his head has never really been Arthur after all.
Eames doesn't know how long they sit there, but the sweat has cooled against Arthur's skin by the time Eames pulls him up. “Come to the kitchen, Arthur, I'll make you a cup of tea,” he says firmly, not about to be refused as he pulls the other man along. Arthur makes a token protest, but Eames ignores him, knowing that Arthur is never going to get back to sleep without calming down properly.
He makes a pot of steaming Earl Grey, handing Arthur a cup first before turning to fix his own. When he turns back, Arthur is watching him, the look in his eyes unidentifiable to Eames.
“Is the tea alright?” Eames says, knowing it's an inane thing to say but not knowing how else to get Arthur responding.
Arthur nods, but doesn't reply out loud. When he finally speaks, all he says is, “You used to do this before too, you know.” His eyes follow Eames around the room, unwavering.
Eames might have found that comment disconcerting a while ago, might have been discomfited by the reminder that Arthur knows parts of him he himself can't remember, but that fact feels a little less important now. He shrugs inelegantly instead. “Do you dream often?” he asks, settling himself down into the chair opposite Arthur.
Arthur shrugs. “Not particularly. They come around occasionally though, and they're usually nightmares.” He keeps his tone light, as if he's merely commenting on the weather. To the untrained eye, he would be convincing - his hands are steady now as he takes a sip of his tea, his demeanor seemingly unconcerned.
Eames has made a career out of people-watching though, and it's obvious Arthur is trying his best to downplay the whole thing. For a moment, Eames considers going along with it - but then he sighs and puts down his cup. "Arthur. Are you sure you're all right?" he says simply, meeting Arthur's gaze and not looking away.
Arthur stares back for a heartbeat before he audibly exhales, tension draining out of him as he slouches down in his chair. "I will be," he says quietly, sounding tired, and this time, Eames can tell he's telling the truth.
They sit in not-quite-comfortable silence for a while, Arthur apparently lost in his thoughts and Eames taking the moment to watch Arthur, before the tick of the kitchen clock reminds them both that it's still the middle of the night. Eames stands, pouring the rest of his tea down the drain. "Are you coming back to bed?"
He's expecting Arthur to decline - he knows that if the situation were reversed, he himself would want some space - but to his surprise, Arthur stands up with a sigh. "I suppose I'd better. It's not like I'll be able to get anything done," he says, putting his empty mug down by the sink.
They don't talk about it after that, but when Eames stumbles into the kitchen the next morning after sleeping in, he finds bacon and egg in the basket from the diner around the corner on the table, complete with breakfast tea and a scribbled note.
Out doing research. Be back by lunch time.
Thanks.
-A
~
Eames' birthday falls on the second week of July.
To tell the truth, he'd sort of forgotten about the occasion himself, except he's examining the calendar one day to see if they can fit in the offer for a job in Durham when he realizes that his birthday is only a few days away.
Eames doesn't know quite what he expects. He doesn't have any past experience to rely on, but Arthur doesn't seem like the type to do big celebrations. They've been busy lately with jobs and research, and so Eames is sort of just expecting a day off to sit around and do nothing - maybe lunch out or something at the most. Which is why he's a little stunned when, on the morning of his birthday, Arthur wakes Eames up early, pushes him into the car, then proceeds to drive them both to the beach.
There's nothing close by, and Arthur has apparently chosen a less popular beach farther away, so it takes a good two hours to get there, but it's worth it because when they do, the weather is gorgeous and the waterline continues on for as far as the eye can see. Eames thinks he can make out a group of people far off in the distance, but they're barely visible and practically on the other side of the beach. For all intents and purposes, they're the only ones here.
“Take off your shoes,” Arthur says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.
Eames turns to him, sure that he's misheard.
Arthur had traded in his usual Ferragamo loafers with regular dress shoes that morning, and Eames watches in astonishment as the other man proceeds to take off his footwear until he's barefoot in the sand. Having lived with Arthur these last few months, it's become clear that there's more to him than the prim-and-proper point man, but it's still surprises Eames to see Arthur so relaxed in an environment like this.
Arthur gives a crooked smile at his expression, dimple tucked high in his left cheek and hair blown out of the place by the wind. He seems younger here, somehow, his limbs loose and lazy as he gestures for Eames to do the same. Eames gives a put-upon sigh on purpose, knowing that Arthur can see right through him as he peels off his own shoes and socks and throws them in the general direction of the car.
The sand, warmed by the sun, is pleasantly squishy between his toes.
For lunch, it turns out that Arthur has packed them a picnic basket. Eames seems to be lacking words a lot today, because once again, he just gapes as Arthur pulls out a big plastic box from the trunk of the car. He recognizes the wine-red napkins from his favourite overpriced sandwich shop, which is located a good 45 minutes away from their flat.
“Oh, Arthur,” he says without thinking, something in his stomach warming without his permission at the knowledge of Arthur going to all this trouble for him. Arthur ducks his head a little as he hands Eames his usual short rib sandwich, as if embarrassed, and Eames can't help the sudden wave of fondness he feels.
The sandwich is as delicious as he remembers, the bread thick and substantial and the caramelized onions and emmental cheese simply melting on his tongue. He eats it slowly, savouring every bite and ignoring the way Arthur is shaking his head and laughing at him. For dessert, they have fresh peaches. Eames has no idea where Arthur bought them, but they're just the perfect ripeness. He moans a little when he bites into one, the sugary tang exploding over his tongue. A little bit of juice trickles down his forefinger, and Eames follows it with his tongue, determined not to let a single drop escape.
When he looks up, he finds Arthur looking at him, expression intense. Suddenly feeling embarrassed at how messy he's being next to Arthur's impeccable eating manners, he quickly finishes the rest of his fruit, cleaning the pit in his mouth before spitting it out.
By the time he's done, Arthur has looked away.
After lunch, Eames insists on lying in the sand for a while, uncaring of the fact that he's getting it all over himself. Arthur makes a token protest but follows suit beside him without too much complaint, and it occurs to Eames that Arthur is indulging him. He entertains himself with that thought for a while, laughing a little at the unlikely idea while keeping his eyes closed and letting the sun warm his face.
"What," Arthur says with a long-suffering sigh.
"Nothing at all." Eames takes another deep breath before sitting up, one hand raised to block the sun from his eyes. “Wait, darling, you're burning,” he says with a laugh, nodding at the way the tip of Arthur's nose is turning slightly pink before reaching for the bottle of sunscreen. He manages to place a generous dollop in the center of Arthur's face before Arthur snatches the bottle from him with a scowl and proceeds to spread it out with quick, deft strokes.
When he's done, Eames sticks out his own face in an exaggerated manner. "You're not going to return the favour?" he asks in mock hurt, then rubs at his shoulder when the sunscreen bottle hits him. "Ow, that hurts."
"Don't be an infant," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but he's smiling just a little, as if he can't keep his mouth from twitching up, and Eames isn't fooled at all.
They wander around aimlessly for a while, just watching the waves lap at the shoreline and breathing in the salt in the air. Eames feels... not happy, exactly, but it's something close. He can't help but feel lighter, somehow, as if some weight he hadn't previously been aware of has been lifted off his shoulders and now he's this close to lifting off the ground and floating away like a hot air balloon.
Arthur leans towards him to say something, but his voice is lost in a sudden breeze and Eames is left with just the image of him - leaning close with eyes at half mast, the shadow of his dark lashes against his eyelids and the slightest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
He's fucking stunning like this, and all Eames wants to do is close the distance between them and kiss the breath out of Arthur.
The thought freezes him in his tracks, and he swallows, throat suddenly dry. Finding Arthur attractive is no surprise - or at least, it shouldn't be. Maybe it's the unexpectedness of it though, the way the idea of it has snuck up to him this time (because Eames had consciously stopped considering the possibility of anything happening with Arthur since the question of emotional attachment had come up). Whatever it is though, Eames has the abrupt, worrying impression that there's something intrinsically different about his own train of thought now.
"Eames?" Arthur asks, interrupting him, and Eames drags himself out of his thoughts. He’s expecting a raised eyebrow or a frown, but Arthur’s just looking at him, expression puzzled and open and something about it makes Eames almost reach out for him.
"Sorry darling, say that again?" he says instead, catching himself at the last minute and pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. He flashes Arthur as charming a smile as he dares, hoping that it’s enough to distract.
He’s fairly certain it doesn’t work, but Arthur repeats himself as requested, and the moment passes.
Eames isn't naive enough to think that that - whatever that was - is over, but the sun is warm on his back and Arthur is a solid presence at his side. Later, he'll think about this moment again and wonder what's changed, but for now, they're out here celebrating his birthday, and that's good enough for Eames.
to be continued.
I have many mixed feelings about the writing here, but if I don't get this out now, I'll probably just sit on it forever, so here it is. so many thank yous to weatherfront for listening to my rambly emails and letting me bounce ideas off her - and to jibrailis, who offered her help as well (which I may still take up later ♥ - it's just that this chapter is so late already ahahaha), and to everyone on my flist for listening to my whining. you are all fantastic. ♥
you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (3/5)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 4211 words
eames wakes up five years in the future.
previous.
Ariadne contacts them about a job, and they go, because it's Ariadne. She's quite a well-heard-of figure by now in the dreamsharing world, although she took some time off to start on her PhD. Sometimes, Eames wonders why she even wants a PhD, considering she's probably going to spend the rest of her life in dreamshare, and Eames is quite certain everyone else in their dubious and very illegal business couldn't care less as to people's academic backgrounds.
The job takes them to Marseille, and Eames has the delight of hearing Arthur dust off his actually-quite-impressive French. Unfortunately, as far as Eames is concerned, that's about the only perk of the job.
It's not a difficult extraction overall. The landscape might have to be a little unusual, but Ariadne has that covered, and their extractor seems comfortable enough. The problem is, Eames is supposed to forge the mark's daughter. Unfortunately, she passed away in a car accident just a month ago.
It's not the first time Eames has had to forge a dead person. It's much more difficult because he doesn't have anyone to observe, but he's done a dead grandmother and a brother, the former on two separate occasions. In all those cases though, the deceased has been dead for a few years, at least, and it's easier that way because the memories are usually less precise in the mark's mind, and little idiosyncrasies can be explained away without too much difficulty.
This time though, she's only been gone a month. To her father, that would barely be any time at all. He would remember her exactly the way she was, and Eames wouldn't have any room for little hiccups. If his forge fails, the entire job would probably fall through.
They have a little over two weeks to prepare, and uncharacteristically, Eames spends all his time at his desk. There's no one to really tail, although he'd followed the mark and some of the daughter's friends around for a day at the beginning before concluding that they were going to be of no help. Instead, he pores over academic transcripts and government records and twitter history, jotting down notes and making associations and trying to reconstruct this girl in his head from words and numbers alone. It's terribly imprecise work - impossible, another might say - and as always is the case with forging the dead, he'll have no idea whether or not his forge will be anything like the actual girl until they're on the job.
At the end of each day, Laurent, their extractor, usually leaves first, followed by Ariadne, who requires some sort of food intake every four to five hours. Arthur tends to leave around half past nine, at which point he will insist that it's time for dinner for both of them. Eames had gone along the first three days, but by day four, his research feels shakier than ever, and he can't afford the time to be tired or hungry or restless.
"You go ahead first, darling," he says, giving Arthur a half-smile. "I have a little more to finish up first, but I won't be too long."
Which is a blatant lie, because two and a half hours later, he's still at his desk, and a steady migraine has been developing for the past half an hour. With a sigh, he puts down his pen and buries his face in his hands, trying to massage away some of the headache.
Behind him, the warehouse door clicks open. "What happened to I won't be too long, Mr. Eames?"
It's only quick reflexes that have him catching the paper bag Arthur tosses at him - which turns out to be an order of fish burger and fries. Arthur settles himself down into a chair, giving him a small smile when he looks up in surprise, and Eames' stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly and make its presence known.
Humming happily into his bite of burger, Eames shrugs. "The research's just not coming together as smoothly as usual."
"Because she's dead?"
"Partly. The thing is, it's still too soon. The memories are too clear for the father, but I don't have a person I can observe." He pushes some of the papers on his desk forward. "All I have are records, and it's hard to build a person out of that."
"And there's no one else you can forge?" Arthur asks, leaning over for a closer look.
"Unfortunately not. Lefebvre's an only child and estranged from his parents. We know he's not the most social fellow, and he divorced his wife twenty years ago. His daughter is the only way in."
Arthur nods, eyes still on the paper. "I downloaded some files from the daughter's computer earlier that I can send you, if you want."
Eames looks up in surprise. He'd tried to remotely gain access to the data from the computers in Lefebvre's house the first day without success, but computers had never exactly been Eames' area of expertise. "Thank you, that would be very helpful," he says. "I would have asked you for intel earlier, but I figured you wouldn't have anything on the daughter." He stretches out his protesting back with a sigh. "I didn't think you needed it for your part of research."
"I don't," Arthur says simply. And before the implications can sink in, he stands up, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles from his suit. "Coming?" he asks, heading for the door.
Oh, Eames thinks, and follows him.
~
On the Friday of the last weekend before the job, Eames finds himself directed out of the warehouse without being given a choice about it.
"You're coming with me, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, his hands warm on Eames' shoulders, and Eames lets himself be guided partly out of surprise.
"You do know I still have hours of research left to do," he says conversationally 20 minutes later (which is kind of a lie, because there's not much else he can do at this point, and he's fairly certain Arthur knows this), when he finds himself ushered to a table at Chez Jeannot after listening to Arthur ask the maitre'd about a reservation. The restaurant is surprisingly cozy, and Eames settles into his seat with a sigh.
Arthur ignores him in favour of looking at the menu, eyes flicking quickly through the pages. "What are you having?" he asks finally, raising an eyebrow at the way Eames is apparently examining the patterns on the ceiling.
Eames shrugs, nonchalant. French has never been a favoured language of his, and he doesn't particularly feel like squinting his way through the menu. "Choose for me, darling," he says, taking the time to relax back into his seat instead.
He's expecting something good, considering it's Arthur, who is as picky (or detail-conscious, as Arthur likes to insist) with his food as he is with everything else. What he doesn't expect is for his filet mignon to be completely delicious, cooked medium rare just the way Eames likes it. The meat is juicy and covered in red wine sauce, and Eames sinks his teeth in with exaggerated delight. Across from him, Arthur laughs, shaking his head at Eames as he cuts neatly into his chicken pastilla.
Dessert is mille feuille, while Arthur has pain au chocolat. They talk about irrelevant things: traveling and philosophy and the last book Arthur read, and before Eames really notices, two hours have passed and the restaurant is slowly but steadily emptying out.
When the bill comes, Eames reaches for it, but is intercepted before he quite makes it. "My treat," Arthur says, reaching into his wallet for his credit card, and Eames lets him.
They take a taxi back to the hotel afterward, where they go their separate ways. As Eames steps into the shower, he can't help but think that it's a little odd suddenly having the whole room to himself after months of sharing, but it's one thing to share when there's only one bed in the flat, and quite another to purposefully book the same room for two, so they'd ended up with different rooms a few doors apart. Scrubbing himself clean, he pulls on the sweatpants he'd brought along before collapsing onto the bed with a sigh.
It's not until he's drifting off to sleep that it occurs to him that if it had been anyone else, Eames would've called the evening a date.
~
The job is a success, but not without a few complications.
Lefebvre seems a little hesitant at first, but eventually buys into Eames' forge like they'd hoped and leads them to the safe where the information they want is hidden. Eames manages to get it open with a few clicks, at which point he quickly rips into the envelope for the papers he has to commit to memory.
Unfortunately, at this point, the rogue projections break in. Sadly for Eames, Laurent is busy playing the concerned bodyguard, and Arthur should be dealing with the projections around the perimeter. He's on his own.
Eames keeps his eyes on the papers, because as long as he gets through this, the job is done - although the fact that he's probably going to get torn apart while he's busy reading isn't going to be fun, he thinks with a wince as a projection throws an ashtray at his head. It crashes into the wall right by his ear. Jumping to his feet, Eames dashes into the next room and slams the door shut behind him, abandoning the strappy heels on his feet while he's at it but keeping the forge.
It doesn't delay things for long though. A second projection kicks down the door and throws a bottle of wine while a third advances with a butler's knife and Eames dodges again with a small sigh, but not before he feels the spray of glass against his arm. Two pages left.
There are more projections now crowding in the doorway, and Eames is just considering the wisdom of locking himself into the adjacent bathroom - it'll give him a few extra minutes, but he'll have nowhere to run when they break in - when Arthur appears, gun in hand and looking barely out of breath.
"Do hurry up Mr. Eames, we don't have all day," he says a minute later, and there's a crooked half-smile on his face like there aren't motionless projections littered all over the floor.
Eames throws his head back with a laugh, an uncontrollable fondness welling up inside him. Looking back down at the papers in his hands, he finishes rereading the last two paragraphs just as the timer runs out.
~
Eames has always considered himself a bit of a vagabond, flying to a different city every few months just for a change of scenery and living out of hotels even though he has some sort of property in five different countries, so it's a bit of a surprise that he finds himself thinking it feels nice to be home after barely two and a half weeks in Marseille. In fact, it's surprising to realize that he's come to think of his London flat as home at all, considering the fact that before the last few months, he's only stayed here a month and a half at the most out of every year.
Just because there's no job and they're back in London doesn't mean things stay uneventful for long though.
It's about a week later when Eames wakes for no apparent reason in the middle of the night. Blinking into the darkness, it takes him a minute to realize that Arthur is tossing and turning beside him, blankets kicked off and brow heavy with a sheen of sweat.
A nightmare, Eames thinks. He himself hasn't had one in about a decade now. “Arthur,” he says, tentatively reaching forward to shake the other man awake.
Arthur opens his eyes, but doesn't seem to be quite aware of the fact that he's awake. His face is unnaturally pale, and Eames can see the sweat matting his hair. There's a glassy look in his eyes when he looks up, as if he's seeing something else entirely.
Eames hesitates. He'd assumed that Arthur, like everyone else in their business, didn't have natural dreams anymore, but clearly he'd been wrong. Instead of giving in to the urge to swear, he reaches out and pulls Arthur close instead, still half-expecting resistance, but Arthur lets him without protest. Up close, Eames can feel the slight tremble of his body. “Hush now, it's alright, darling,” he says, keeping his voice soothing.
“Eames,” Arthur finally says shakily, his voice unsteady, and Eames, knowing better than to say it had just been a dream, tells him instead, “It's fine, it's all over now.” Arthur doesn't reply, but the fine tremors don't go away. He loosens his hold slightly in case he's making Arthur uncomfortable, but to his surprise, Arthur pulls closer again almost involuntarily, his grip tightening around Eames' shoulder.
He's never seen Arthur this out-of-sorts before, not even after Eames had woken up without his memories, or that time years ago when Arthur had ended up shot in the left hip in Harbin. Then, Arthur had been panicked, angry, in unimaginable pain - but Eames has never had to deal with this plainly frightened Arthur he doesn't recognize. A part of him realizes he'd never thought Arthur even capable of being like this. Despite the last few months and the knowledge that some version of himself must have inspired emotional attachment in Arthur, the instinctive part of him still thinks of Arthur as the most frighteningly independent person he knows. The Arthur in his head has always been untouchably perfect, needing no one but himself - which doesn't make him without warmth or incapable of camaraderie, but he's airtight and impervious to Eames in all the ways that matter.
Looking at the figure slowly shaking apart beside him though, Eames can't help but think that maybe, the Arthur in his head has never really been Arthur after all.
Eames doesn't know how long they sit there, but the sweat has cooled against Arthur's skin by the time Eames pulls him up. “Come to the kitchen, Arthur, I'll make you a cup of tea,” he says firmly, not about to be refused as he pulls the other man along. Arthur makes a token protest, but Eames ignores him, knowing that Arthur is never going to get back to sleep without calming down properly.
He makes a pot of steaming Earl Grey, handing Arthur a cup first before turning to fix his own. When he turns back, Arthur is watching him, the look in his eyes unidentifiable to Eames.
“Is the tea alright?” Eames says, knowing it's an inane thing to say but not knowing how else to get Arthur responding.
Arthur nods, but doesn't reply out loud. When he finally speaks, all he says is, “You used to do this before too, you know.” His eyes follow Eames around the room, unwavering.
Eames might have found that comment disconcerting a while ago, might have been discomfited by the reminder that Arthur knows parts of him he himself can't remember, but that fact feels a little less important now. He shrugs inelegantly instead. “Do you dream often?” he asks, settling himself down into the chair opposite Arthur.
Arthur shrugs. “Not particularly. They come around occasionally though, and they're usually nightmares.” He keeps his tone light, as if he's merely commenting on the weather. To the untrained eye, he would be convincing - his hands are steady now as he takes a sip of his tea, his demeanor seemingly unconcerned.
Eames has made a career out of people-watching though, and it's obvious Arthur is trying his best to downplay the whole thing. For a moment, Eames considers going along with it - but then he sighs and puts down his cup. "Arthur. Are you sure you're all right?" he says simply, meeting Arthur's gaze and not looking away.
Arthur stares back for a heartbeat before he audibly exhales, tension draining out of him as he slouches down in his chair. "I will be," he says quietly, sounding tired, and this time, Eames can tell he's telling the truth.
They sit in not-quite-comfortable silence for a while, Arthur apparently lost in his thoughts and Eames taking the moment to watch Arthur, before the tick of the kitchen clock reminds them both that it's still the middle of the night. Eames stands, pouring the rest of his tea down the drain. "Are you coming back to bed?"
He's expecting Arthur to decline - he knows that if the situation were reversed, he himself would want some space - but to his surprise, Arthur stands up with a sigh. "I suppose I'd better. It's not like I'll be able to get anything done," he says, putting his empty mug down by the sink.
They don't talk about it after that, but when Eames stumbles into the kitchen the next morning after sleeping in, he finds bacon and egg in the basket from the diner around the corner on the table, complete with breakfast tea and a scribbled note.
Out doing research. Be back by lunch time.
Thanks.
-A
~
Eames' birthday falls on the second week of July.
To tell the truth, he'd sort of forgotten about the occasion himself, except he's examining the calendar one day to see if they can fit in the offer for a job in Durham when he realizes that his birthday is only a few days away.
Eames doesn't know quite what he expects. He doesn't have any past experience to rely on, but Arthur doesn't seem like the type to do big celebrations. They've been busy lately with jobs and research, and so Eames is sort of just expecting a day off to sit around and do nothing - maybe lunch out or something at the most. Which is why he's a little stunned when, on the morning of his birthday, Arthur wakes Eames up early, pushes him into the car, then proceeds to drive them both to the beach.
There's nothing close by, and Arthur has apparently chosen a less popular beach farther away, so it takes a good two hours to get there, but it's worth it because when they do, the weather is gorgeous and the waterline continues on for as far as the eye can see. Eames thinks he can make out a group of people far off in the distance, but they're barely visible and practically on the other side of the beach. For all intents and purposes, they're the only ones here.
“Take off your shoes,” Arthur says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.
Eames turns to him, sure that he's misheard.
Arthur had traded in his usual Ferragamo loafers with regular dress shoes that morning, and Eames watches in astonishment as the other man proceeds to take off his footwear until he's barefoot in the sand. Having lived with Arthur these last few months, it's become clear that there's more to him than the prim-and-proper point man, but it's still surprises Eames to see Arthur so relaxed in an environment like this.
Arthur gives a crooked smile at his expression, dimple tucked high in his left cheek and hair blown out of the place by the wind. He seems younger here, somehow, his limbs loose and lazy as he gestures for Eames to do the same. Eames gives a put-upon sigh on purpose, knowing that Arthur can see right through him as he peels off his own shoes and socks and throws them in the general direction of the car.
The sand, warmed by the sun, is pleasantly squishy between his toes.
For lunch, it turns out that Arthur has packed them a picnic basket. Eames seems to be lacking words a lot today, because once again, he just gapes as Arthur pulls out a big plastic box from the trunk of the car. He recognizes the wine-red napkins from his favourite overpriced sandwich shop, which is located a good 45 minutes away from their flat.
“Oh, Arthur,” he says without thinking, something in his stomach warming without his permission at the knowledge of Arthur going to all this trouble for him. Arthur ducks his head a little as he hands Eames his usual short rib sandwich, as if embarrassed, and Eames can't help the sudden wave of fondness he feels.
The sandwich is as delicious as he remembers, the bread thick and substantial and the caramelized onions and emmental cheese simply melting on his tongue. He eats it slowly, savouring every bite and ignoring the way Arthur is shaking his head and laughing at him. For dessert, they have fresh peaches. Eames has no idea where Arthur bought them, but they're just the perfect ripeness. He moans a little when he bites into one, the sugary tang exploding over his tongue. A little bit of juice trickles down his forefinger, and Eames follows it with his tongue, determined not to let a single drop escape.
When he looks up, he finds Arthur looking at him, expression intense. Suddenly feeling embarrassed at how messy he's being next to Arthur's impeccable eating manners, he quickly finishes the rest of his fruit, cleaning the pit in his mouth before spitting it out.
By the time he's done, Arthur has looked away.
After lunch, Eames insists on lying in the sand for a while, uncaring of the fact that he's getting it all over himself. Arthur makes a token protest but follows suit beside him without too much complaint, and it occurs to Eames that Arthur is indulging him. He entertains himself with that thought for a while, laughing a little at the unlikely idea while keeping his eyes closed and letting the sun warm his face.
"What," Arthur says with a long-suffering sigh.
"Nothing at all." Eames takes another deep breath before sitting up, one hand raised to block the sun from his eyes. “Wait, darling, you're burning,” he says with a laugh, nodding at the way the tip of Arthur's nose is turning slightly pink before reaching for the bottle of sunscreen. He manages to place a generous dollop in the center of Arthur's face before Arthur snatches the bottle from him with a scowl and proceeds to spread it out with quick, deft strokes.
When he's done, Eames sticks out his own face in an exaggerated manner. "You're not going to return the favour?" he asks in mock hurt, then rubs at his shoulder when the sunscreen bottle hits him. "Ow, that hurts."
"Don't be an infant," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but he's smiling just a little, as if he can't keep his mouth from twitching up, and Eames isn't fooled at all.
They wander around aimlessly for a while, just watching the waves lap at the shoreline and breathing in the salt in the air. Eames feels... not happy, exactly, but it's something close. He can't help but feel lighter, somehow, as if some weight he hadn't previously been aware of has been lifted off his shoulders and now he's this close to lifting off the ground and floating away like a hot air balloon.
Arthur leans towards him to say something, but his voice is lost in a sudden breeze and Eames is left with just the image of him - leaning close with eyes at half mast, the shadow of his dark lashes against his eyelids and the slightest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
He's fucking stunning like this, and all Eames wants to do is close the distance between them and kiss the breath out of Arthur.
The thought freezes him in his tracks, and he swallows, throat suddenly dry. Finding Arthur attractive is no surprise - or at least, it shouldn't be. Maybe it's the unexpectedness of it though, the way the idea of it has snuck up to him this time (because Eames had consciously stopped considering the possibility of anything happening with Arthur since the question of emotional attachment had come up). Whatever it is though, Eames has the abrupt, worrying impression that there's something intrinsically different about his own train of thought now.
"Eames?" Arthur asks, interrupting him, and Eames drags himself out of his thoughts. He’s expecting a raised eyebrow or a frown, but Arthur’s just looking at him, expression puzzled and open and something about it makes Eames almost reach out for him.
"Sorry darling, say that again?" he says instead, catching himself at the last minute and pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. He flashes Arthur as charming a smile as he dares, hoping that it’s enough to distract.
He’s fairly certain it doesn’t work, but Arthur repeats himself as requested, and the moment passes.
Eames isn't naive enough to think that that - whatever that was - is over, but the sun is warm on his back and Arthur is a solid presence at his side. Later, he'll think about this moment again and wonder what's changed, but for now, they're out here celebrating his birthday, and that's good enough for Eames.
to be continued.