Fic: Dearheart
Dearheart
Words: 2,300
Thanks to: chibi_lurrel for the looksee!
Written for: the inception_kink prompt: Eames and Arthur have just moved in together, but sleeping in the same bed every night is going to take some adjusting. Maybe one of them snores, one of them burns like a furnace, one of them is a cover hog, one of them talks in his sleep, etc. I want to see them bitching at each other for a few sleepless nights before they learn to compromise. Fluff and warm fuzzy feelings are a necessity!
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Arthur says despondently,
Dearheart
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Arthur says despondently, watching Phillippa and James run out into the backyard with great squeals of delight.
“Calling it quits already?” Dom settles down onto the wicker armchair on the deck with a contented sigh. “Giving up so easy doesn’t sound like you.”
“You don’t understand,” Arthur rubs his face with the hand that isn’t holding the glass of surprisingly delicious fresh-squeezed lemonade Dom made. “I haven’t slept in over two weeks. The only time I can rest is when I’m hooked up to the PASIV, and even then I’m at work.”
“Please don’t tell me the problem is that you two are having so much sex you literally cannot get a chance to sleep,” Dom says, taking a sip of his lemonade. “Because if that’s the case, then as a single dad with two kids and a set of in-laws living with me to ensure my complete and utter celibacy, you might as well kick me in the balls right now.”
“I wish that were the problem.” Arthur sighs deeply, and watches Phillippa kneel down on the grass and investigate what looks to be a particularly fascinating mound of dirt. “No, we’re not clawing each others’ clothes off every three seconds anymore. The problem is after the sex, when we’re both in bed and have to be up in the morning for a job.”
Phillippa scoops a handful of dirt into her fingers and lifts it to her mouth. “Phil,” Dom calls out warningly. The dirt stops in mid-air and Phillippa hesitates a moment before offering the dirt to James, who makes a face and then wanders off to go look at a tree instead. “I’m not sure I understand the problem. Is this cold feet about moving in together?”
“No it’s-" Arthur clears his throat, and reminds himself that this is Dom, his best friend, his trusted confidante, and the guy he has incredibly damaging dirt on should he ever repeat this conversation to anyone else in the world, ever. “So we-we spoon, alright? I mean, whatever, Eames is really into it, and I humor him, even though I don’t get the appeal, personally. But the point is, Eames is like a fucking furnace. That leaks water. And talks right in my ear periodically throughout the night. And I ask you-how is a man supposed to sleep under those conditions?”
“So this water leakage thing,” Dom says, taking another sip of his lemonade. “Do you mean sweating, drooling, or crying? Because I dated this woman who always cried after we had sex. She told me it wasn’t me and that it was this medical condition with her tear ducts but-you know.”
“Was that Stacy?” Arthur asks and Dom nods. “Yeah, she looked like a crier. Eames doesn’t cry-thank god-he only drools and sweats. Which isn’t so much a problem when I’m the big spoon, but when I’m stuck being the little one it reminds me of that job we had in Rio-the one where we were all stuck in that wet cave with those dripping stalactites.”
“Phil, come on, we talked about eating bugs,” Dom says, and Phillippa freezes, worm halfway to her mouth already. She drops the worm reluctantly to the ground where it makes a hasty slither for freedom. “As for Eames-how did you deal with this problem before? You guys have been together for what, a year now?”
“Technically, only 356 days,” Arthur replies reflexively. “And it wasn’t a problem before because I always snuck out in the middle of the night.”
Dom laughs, and then stops. “You’re not joking.”
“At first, I figured it’d be a one night stand. Because it’s Eames,” Arthur says, and takes a deep gulp of his lemonade. “Then it kept happening and finally I figured there might be something else to this and I’ve been trying. Really. But he’s such a heavy sleeper that he’s out within five seconds of touching the pillow and I’m stuck there, awake, feeling like I’m being roasted alive while someone drips seasoning on me.”
Dom snorts out a laugh and Arthur glares halfheartedly. The lemonade really is good. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. If it’s bothering you so much maybe you guys should get a lighter blanket so you don’t get so hot and make sure Eames is always the little spoon.”
“So you’re suggesting I talk to Eames about this?” Arthur says. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
Dom sighs a little, though it’s unclear whether it’s in response to Arthur’s statement or the fact that Phillippa has kicked off her shoes and begun rolling around in the grass while James watches a few feet away, aghast.
* * * * * *
“No, no, Arthur, we need to stop,” Eames pants against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur cracks an eye open, but when Eames shows no indication of actually stopping the kissing and the groping, Arthur chalks it up to yet another instance of ignoring whatever comes out of Eames’ mouth that isn’t, “Oh god, Arthur, you’re amazing.”
Then Eames pulls away. Arthur tries to follow Eames’ lips with his own and makes a noise that is definitely not a whine when Eames puts a palm flat in the center of the chest to keep him pinned down. “I mean it this time. We need to stop and-talk.”
“But-" Arthur struggles manfully to keep the pout out of his voice, but suspects he does not achieve complete success. “But we’re in bed. And you’re-and I’m-"
“No,” Eames repeats more forcefully, and then sits back on his heels. “It was one thing when you were still sneaking out before the morning light, but now that you’ve started insisting on cuddling-"
“I-" Arthur gapes. “I am not the one that-"
Eames talks loudly over him. “Now that you have become simply obsessed with cuddling until we both fall asleep, I must tell you that this sleeping arrangement is untenable.”
Arthur opens his mouth to disagree and then halts. “Wait. What?”
“Darling, as much as I’ve enjoyed our recent adventure down the twisted pathways of living in sin together like proper heathens ought to,” Eames says, “I depend on getting at least six or seven hours of beauty rest for proper function in both the waking world and dream world. And I’m afraid that recently, those six or seven hours have been reduced to an unacceptable four or five.”
Arthur sits up when his blatant attempt to lure Eames back into sex mode by stretching seductively is roundly ignored. “Alright, fine. You’ve been having some insomnia.”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite the problem, dearheart,” Eames says, and Arthur thinks to himself: dearheart? “The source of the trouble is, unfortunately, your penchant for stealing every single blanket for yourself and leaving me to wake up shivering in the middle of the night. And the fact that you snore like a jackhammer.”
Arthur blinks. “I do not snore.” A pause. “And are you calling me a cover hog?”
“I like to think of you more as a caterpillar, spinning itself a cocoon from which to wake up a well-rested, dazzlingly beautiful butterfly, ready to greet the world and shoot it in the face,” Eames says. “I haven’t determined where the snoring fits into the metaphor yet, but rest assured you do it. I have hours of audio recordings to prove it.”
“This is ridiculous.” Arthur frowns. “If anything, I should be the one complaining about the fact that you are about a thousand degrees-Celsius, even-and do nothing but drool and mumble nonsense in my ear all night.”
“The drooling, I will admit, is not my finest feature,” Eames concedes. “But you cannot seriously be complaining that I am too warm when you seem intent on robbing me of every single piece of insulation I could possibly use in bed.”
“I don’t understand how you could possibly need insulation at all when I wake up bathed in your sweat.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to change the sheets because of you?”
Eames chuckles. “If I had a quid for every person who said that-"
“Oh, nice, very mature.” Arthur swings his legs off the bed and Eames stops smiling. “While you’re complaining about waking up in the middle of the night because you’re no longer radiating the same heat as an active volcano, I, on the other hand, have been getting no sleep whatsoever for the past two weeks thanks to your drooling and your mumbling and your insistence on spooning me.”
“My-" Eames chokes out a laugh. “Darling, with the way you practically roll yourself onto me at the end of the night-in spite of a very generous amount of room on your side of the mattress, I might add-I have the option of either being shoved off the bed or clinging on for dear life.”
“So now I’m a cover hog and a bed hog.” Arthur grabs a pillow as he slides off the bed. “Well, maybe since my nighttime habits inconvenience you so very much I should take my snoring elsewhere.”
“Arthur,” Eames starts, but Arthur simply marches out the door and into the living room. He flings himself onto the leather couch and silently fumes, waiting for Eames to appear and beg him to come back. When ten minutes pass and Eames makes no move to come out of the bedroom, much less grovel, Arthur reluctantly gets up and goes to fetch a spare blanket from the hall closet.
This is good, Arthur thinks to himself as he lays down lengthwise on the couch and tries to get comfortable. Finally, the opportunity for some quality shut-eye--which he’s certainly needed.
Arthur closes his eyes and prepares himself for the best sleep of his life.
* * * * * *
Arthur opens his eyes and glares balefully at the clock that is obviously mocking him. Only an hour’s gone by, but Arthur’s cold, uncomfortable, and tired--with sleep nowhere in sight.
He tries to wrap the blanket around his midsection tighter, but so far it’s doing a terrible job of actually keeping him warm. The leather beneath him is supple, but it squeaks every time he moves, and the cushions aren’t as solid as he likes. Arthur thinks longingly of his firm mattress-which Eames had made fun of, and described as practically rock-like when Arthur had picked it out-but then reminds himself that Eames is there. Eames, who spent ridiculous sums of money outfitting their apartment in New York with memory foam mattress and pillows. Eames, who didn’t even complain once when Arthur vetoed the idea of using at least a memory foam mattress topper.
Eames.
Arthur sighs, and rolls off the couch in one smooth motion. He clutches the pillow to his chest in order to hang onto some of the lost heat of his couch cocoon (god, now Eames has him thinking it too) but can’t quite suppress the shiver that travels up his bare back and legs.
When he makes his way to the bedroom, Eames is curled up on his side facing away from the door, sheet drawn up to his shoulder so Arthur can only make out the faintest curling outline of ink. The room is silent and Eames is breathing too shallowly to be asleep.
“Eames,” Arthur says as he slips into bed behind him, pressing a conciliatory kiss to the back of his neck.
“Arthur,” Eames sighs, wriggling in Arthur’s arms until they’re face to face. “I think you’ve destroyed any chance I might ever have of getting a good night’s sleep again-with or without you.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Arthur replies, trying to suppress a smile when Eames kisses his nose and failing utterly. “Dom suggested maybe we try a lighter blanket and that you be the little spoon from here on out.”
“You talked to Cobb about this?” Eames raises his eyebrows. “My god, I am going to thoroughly enjoy making him uncomfortable the next time we see him.”
Arthur just smiles as he leans in to kiss Eames’s lips. “Don’t let his Boy Scout exterior fool you-he wasn't always a dad.”
“Don’t tarnish my fantasy, love. I couldn’t bear it.” Eames kisses Arthur back, a little more deeply. “And, ah, Yusuf recommended earplugs. For me, mostly, but I suppose we could both use them.”
Arthur snorts. “I don’t even want to imagine the kind of conversations you and Yusuf have had about this.”
“Mostly they involve him taking the piss out of me for getting all soppy and soft, rambling on about the same person all the time instead of forgetting the last names of my newest conquests.” Eames smiles wryly. “Anyway, fancy another go? Since we’re awake and all.”
Arthur grins as he traces the line of Eames’ cheek, watching fondly as his eyelids begin to droop in spite of his best efforts. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
fin
Poll Dearheart FB
Words: 2,300
Thanks to: chibi_lurrel for the looksee!
Written for: the inception_kink prompt: Eames and Arthur have just moved in together, but sleeping in the same bed every night is going to take some adjusting. Maybe one of them snores, one of them burns like a furnace, one of them is a cover hog, one of them talks in his sleep, etc. I want to see them bitching at each other for a few sleepless nights before they learn to compromise. Fluff and warm fuzzy feelings are a necessity!
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Arthur says despondently,
Dearheart
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Arthur says despondently, watching Phillippa and James run out into the backyard with great squeals of delight.
“Calling it quits already?” Dom settles down onto the wicker armchair on the deck with a contented sigh. “Giving up so easy doesn’t sound like you.”
“You don’t understand,” Arthur rubs his face with the hand that isn’t holding the glass of surprisingly delicious fresh-squeezed lemonade Dom made. “I haven’t slept in over two weeks. The only time I can rest is when I’m hooked up to the PASIV, and even then I’m at work.”
“Please don’t tell me the problem is that you two are having so much sex you literally cannot get a chance to sleep,” Dom says, taking a sip of his lemonade. “Because if that’s the case, then as a single dad with two kids and a set of in-laws living with me to ensure my complete and utter celibacy, you might as well kick me in the balls right now.”
“I wish that were the problem.” Arthur sighs deeply, and watches Phillippa kneel down on the grass and investigate what looks to be a particularly fascinating mound of dirt. “No, we’re not clawing each others’ clothes off every three seconds anymore. The problem is after the sex, when we’re both in bed and have to be up in the morning for a job.”
Phillippa scoops a handful of dirt into her fingers and lifts it to her mouth. “Phil,” Dom calls out warningly. The dirt stops in mid-air and Phillippa hesitates a moment before offering the dirt to James, who makes a face and then wanders off to go look at a tree instead. “I’m not sure I understand the problem. Is this cold feet about moving in together?”
“No it’s-" Arthur clears his throat, and reminds himself that this is Dom, his best friend, his trusted confidante, and the guy he has incredibly damaging dirt on should he ever repeat this conversation to anyone else in the world, ever. “So we-we spoon, alright? I mean, whatever, Eames is really into it, and I humor him, even though I don’t get the appeal, personally. But the point is, Eames is like a fucking furnace. That leaks water. And talks right in my ear periodically throughout the night. And I ask you-how is a man supposed to sleep under those conditions?”
“So this water leakage thing,” Dom says, taking another sip of his lemonade. “Do you mean sweating, drooling, or crying? Because I dated this woman who always cried after we had sex. She told me it wasn’t me and that it was this medical condition with her tear ducts but-you know.”
“Was that Stacy?” Arthur asks and Dom nods. “Yeah, she looked like a crier. Eames doesn’t cry-thank god-he only drools and sweats. Which isn’t so much a problem when I’m the big spoon, but when I’m stuck being the little one it reminds me of that job we had in Rio-the one where we were all stuck in that wet cave with those dripping stalactites.”
“Phil, come on, we talked about eating bugs,” Dom says, and Phillippa freezes, worm halfway to her mouth already. She drops the worm reluctantly to the ground where it makes a hasty slither for freedom. “As for Eames-how did you deal with this problem before? You guys have been together for what, a year now?”
“Technically, only 356 days,” Arthur replies reflexively. “And it wasn’t a problem before because I always snuck out in the middle of the night.”
Dom laughs, and then stops. “You’re not joking.”
“At first, I figured it’d be a one night stand. Because it’s Eames,” Arthur says, and takes a deep gulp of his lemonade. “Then it kept happening and finally I figured there might be something else to this and I’ve been trying. Really. But he’s such a heavy sleeper that he’s out within five seconds of touching the pillow and I’m stuck there, awake, feeling like I’m being roasted alive while someone drips seasoning on me.”
Dom snorts out a laugh and Arthur glares halfheartedly. The lemonade really is good. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. If it’s bothering you so much maybe you guys should get a lighter blanket so you don’t get so hot and make sure Eames is always the little spoon.”
“So you’re suggesting I talk to Eames about this?” Arthur says. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
Dom sighs a little, though it’s unclear whether it’s in response to Arthur’s statement or the fact that Phillippa has kicked off her shoes and begun rolling around in the grass while James watches a few feet away, aghast.
* * * * * *
“No, no, Arthur, we need to stop,” Eames pants against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur cracks an eye open, but when Eames shows no indication of actually stopping the kissing and the groping, Arthur chalks it up to yet another instance of ignoring whatever comes out of Eames’ mouth that isn’t, “Oh god, Arthur, you’re amazing.”
Then Eames pulls away. Arthur tries to follow Eames’ lips with his own and makes a noise that is definitely not a whine when Eames puts a palm flat in the center of the chest to keep him pinned down. “I mean it this time. We need to stop and-talk.”
“But-" Arthur struggles manfully to keep the pout out of his voice, but suspects he does not achieve complete success. “But we’re in bed. And you’re-and I’m-"
“No,” Eames repeats more forcefully, and then sits back on his heels. “It was one thing when you were still sneaking out before the morning light, but now that you’ve started insisting on cuddling-"
“I-" Arthur gapes. “I am not the one that-"
Eames talks loudly over him. “Now that you have become simply obsessed with cuddling until we both fall asleep, I must tell you that this sleeping arrangement is untenable.”
Arthur opens his mouth to disagree and then halts. “Wait. What?”
“Darling, as much as I’ve enjoyed our recent adventure down the twisted pathways of living in sin together like proper heathens ought to,” Eames says, “I depend on getting at least six or seven hours of beauty rest for proper function in both the waking world and dream world. And I’m afraid that recently, those six or seven hours have been reduced to an unacceptable four or five.”
Arthur sits up when his blatant attempt to lure Eames back into sex mode by stretching seductively is roundly ignored. “Alright, fine. You’ve been having some insomnia.”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite the problem, dearheart,” Eames says, and Arthur thinks to himself: dearheart? “The source of the trouble is, unfortunately, your penchant for stealing every single blanket for yourself and leaving me to wake up shivering in the middle of the night. And the fact that you snore like a jackhammer.”
Arthur blinks. “I do not snore.” A pause. “And are you calling me a cover hog?”
“I like to think of you more as a caterpillar, spinning itself a cocoon from which to wake up a well-rested, dazzlingly beautiful butterfly, ready to greet the world and shoot it in the face,” Eames says. “I haven’t determined where the snoring fits into the metaphor yet, but rest assured you do it. I have hours of audio recordings to prove it.”
“This is ridiculous.” Arthur frowns. “If anything, I should be the one complaining about the fact that you are about a thousand degrees-Celsius, even-and do nothing but drool and mumble nonsense in my ear all night.”
“The drooling, I will admit, is not my finest feature,” Eames concedes. “But you cannot seriously be complaining that I am too warm when you seem intent on robbing me of every single piece of insulation I could possibly use in bed.”
“I don’t understand how you could possibly need insulation at all when I wake up bathed in your sweat.” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to change the sheets because of you?”
Eames chuckles. “If I had a quid for every person who said that-"
“Oh, nice, very mature.” Arthur swings his legs off the bed and Eames stops smiling. “While you’re complaining about waking up in the middle of the night because you’re no longer radiating the same heat as an active volcano, I, on the other hand, have been getting no sleep whatsoever for the past two weeks thanks to your drooling and your mumbling and your insistence on spooning me.”
“My-" Eames chokes out a laugh. “Darling, with the way you practically roll yourself onto me at the end of the night-in spite of a very generous amount of room on your side of the mattress, I might add-I have the option of either being shoved off the bed or clinging on for dear life.”
“So now I’m a cover hog and a bed hog.” Arthur grabs a pillow as he slides off the bed. “Well, maybe since my nighttime habits inconvenience you so very much I should take my snoring elsewhere.”
“Arthur,” Eames starts, but Arthur simply marches out the door and into the living room. He flings himself onto the leather couch and silently fumes, waiting for Eames to appear and beg him to come back. When ten minutes pass and Eames makes no move to come out of the bedroom, much less grovel, Arthur reluctantly gets up and goes to fetch a spare blanket from the hall closet.
This is good, Arthur thinks to himself as he lays down lengthwise on the couch and tries to get comfortable. Finally, the opportunity for some quality shut-eye--which he’s certainly needed.
Arthur closes his eyes and prepares himself for the best sleep of his life.
* * * * * *
Arthur opens his eyes and glares balefully at the clock that is obviously mocking him. Only an hour’s gone by, but Arthur’s cold, uncomfortable, and tired--with sleep nowhere in sight.
He tries to wrap the blanket around his midsection tighter, but so far it’s doing a terrible job of actually keeping him warm. The leather beneath him is supple, but it squeaks every time he moves, and the cushions aren’t as solid as he likes. Arthur thinks longingly of his firm mattress-which Eames had made fun of, and described as practically rock-like when Arthur had picked it out-but then reminds himself that Eames is there. Eames, who spent ridiculous sums of money outfitting their apartment in New York with memory foam mattress and pillows. Eames, who didn’t even complain once when Arthur vetoed the idea of using at least a memory foam mattress topper.
Eames.
Arthur sighs, and rolls off the couch in one smooth motion. He clutches the pillow to his chest in order to hang onto some of the lost heat of his couch cocoon (god, now Eames has him thinking it too) but can’t quite suppress the shiver that travels up his bare back and legs.
When he makes his way to the bedroom, Eames is curled up on his side facing away from the door, sheet drawn up to his shoulder so Arthur can only make out the faintest curling outline of ink. The room is silent and Eames is breathing too shallowly to be asleep.
“Eames,” Arthur says as he slips into bed behind him, pressing a conciliatory kiss to the back of his neck.
“Arthur,” Eames sighs, wriggling in Arthur’s arms until they’re face to face. “I think you’ve destroyed any chance I might ever have of getting a good night’s sleep again-with or without you.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Arthur replies, trying to suppress a smile when Eames kisses his nose and failing utterly. “Dom suggested maybe we try a lighter blanket and that you be the little spoon from here on out.”
“You talked to Cobb about this?” Eames raises his eyebrows. “My god, I am going to thoroughly enjoy making him uncomfortable the next time we see him.”
Arthur just smiles as he leans in to kiss Eames’s lips. “Don’t let his Boy Scout exterior fool you-he wasn't always a dad.”
“Don’t tarnish my fantasy, love. I couldn’t bear it.” Eames kisses Arthur back, a little more deeply. “And, ah, Yusuf recommended earplugs. For me, mostly, but I suppose we could both use them.”
Arthur snorts. “I don’t even want to imagine the kind of conversations you and Yusuf have had about this.”
“Mostly they involve him taking the piss out of me for getting all soppy and soft, rambling on about the same person all the time instead of forgetting the last names of my newest conquests.” Eames smiles wryly. “Anyway, fancy another go? Since we’re awake and all.”
Arthur grins as he traces the line of Eames’ cheek, watching fondly as his eyelids begin to droop in spite of his best efforts. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
fin
Poll Dearheart FB