[INCEPTION] Fic: My nine rides shotgun (1/2) (Eames/Robert, R) written with fermine
My nine rides shotgun (1/2) by fermine and bronson
Eames/Robert
AU fic where Robert is in high school and Eames is his bodyguard. Warning for, uh, underage sexytimes.
mmm, rarepairs. also, this was written out of pure fun. fuck yeah, spontaneity. big thank you to furloughday and jacquise for the beta! <3
“If you think you can just sneak out of your room without my knowing, think again,” Eames says, smiling serenely as he braces his arm against the wall, leaning over Robert. He’s Robert’s new bodyguard - Robert’s third in the last week or so.
Robert hopes this one doesn’t get shot or dismembered (the previous one quit after Robert faked a seizure and snuck out of his bedroom window), not because Robert particularly cares for him but because he really doesn’t want to deal with a constant rotation of heavily armed, brawny men believing themselves to be his protector.
Eames doesn’t step back even though Robert lifts his head with dignity, staring him straight in the eye. They’re close enough that it could be immediate grounds for sexual harassment with the way Eames is trapping him against the wall, his nose nearly touching Robert’s.
Robert ducks a little, hunching his shoulders, pulling his uniform jacket around his chest. He is already five minutes late for school.
“I thought I’d told you to not hassle me in the morning, Eames.” Robert looks around, to make sure that they’re alone. (Of course they’re alone. His father’s never around this late in the morning, despite it being only eight-thirty; and the maids keep to themselves in the kitchen. But the close call a few days ago had bothered Robert to no end that he promised himself he’s never going to be caught in such an undignified situation.)
Eames smirks, lazily, leaning against the wall. His suit jacket wrinkles slightly and Robert winces on its behalf. “I thought you owed me a little more than that after last night.”
“I owe you nothing,” Robert says, and when his voice stutters it’s only because Eames is leaning even closer, tilting Robert’s chin up with two fingers and breathing down his face.
Robert’s chin almost wobbles but he steels himself against it. He slaps Eames’ hand away when it reaches for his cheek and Eames steps back, stung, recovering remarkably fast.
“Feisty.”
Robert sniffs, shooting him a glare he doesn’t bother to mask. “I’m late for school,” he says, turning up his nose when Eames merely starts to snigger, reaching for his head to muss up his hair.
“Don’t touch me!” Robert hisses, batting Eames’ hands away. Eames makes a face, shrugs, and pockets his hands quickly.
“All right then,” he concedes, “No touching.” He holds up both his arms in a gesture of defeat. Robert straightens his jacket, pushing the hair from his forehead, and stalks down the hall.
*
Eames is waiting by the car. He shouldn’t be; that’s the driver’s job. But Robert forgets that Eames has his way of manipulating things to his own advantage. A quick glance at the driver’s seat tells him that the driver isn’t there and that Eames has brought the sedan, not the stretch limo.
(Eames never does what he’s supposed to do.)
Robert sighs, exasperated. But Eames is grinning at him as he opens the passenger’s side door. The front passenger’s side door. Which, he knows from the monthly meetings with the family’s head of security, is the worst possible thing in terms of keeping with the whole caution, lock and key, us against the world system that they’ve been maintaining since Robert had been born.
“Well? How was algebra?” Eames says by way of greeting.
Robert rolls his eyes at him. “Why do you even ask these things when you already know how much I hate algebra?” He sighs tiredly as he allows himself to sink into his seat. Eames’ arms are perched on top of the still open door -- yet another violation of security protocol.
“What?” Robert lifts an eyebrow as Eames continues to stare at him, undeterred. Finally, Eames shrugs his shoulders and steps back from the car.
“Nothing ever pleases you, does it? You find little things to complain about every five minutes whether it be Algebra or my new cologne.”
“Your new cologne makes me nauseous.”
“Shush,” Eames says. He shuts the car door without warning, making Robert startle in his seat as he shakily pulls on his seatbelt. Eames slides into the driver’s side, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes Robert uncomfortable, flush to his ears. He rubs at them, pushing his hair back out of a lack of a better thing to do.
“I’ll treat you to ice cream,” Eames says, easing the car into first gear.
Robert sniffs. “I’m allergic to ice cream.”
“That isn’t completely true and we both know it; the only thing you’re allergic to is happiness. Honest to god, every day you find something to whine about. Without fail.”
“I do not whine,” Robert says indignantly, and maybe he does squeak a little but it’s only because Eames is crossing the line.
Eames pats him on the knee. Robert jerks at his touch and turns away, twitching, facing the window where the landscape outside streaks past in a colorful blur.
“It’s just ice cream, Robert,” Eames says. “It won’t kill you.”
“Actually-” Robert says, on the verge of recounting his brief run-in with kidnappers last month when he stopped for take out after school, but Eames holds up a hand, silencing him before he can continue.
“I’m taking you out today, Robbie.”
“It’s Robert.”
“Whatever,” Eames rolls his eyes. “Just sit back, relax, and smile a little or wrinkles will start to form on your forehead. Look, there’s one right there.” Robert glares just as Eames pulls away, flicking him on the nose.
*
“What’s this?” Robert asks, trying to look very much in charge even in his pinstriped pajamas, even though the kitchen isn’t exactly the battlefield he had been planning conquering Eames in.
Everyone else is asleep and his father hasn’t arrived home yet. Meaning, he’s stuck with this. This and Eames.
And this is--
“Ice cream,” Eames says, frowning, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and a smart guy like Robert should know better than to question the unmistakable pint of Ben and Jerry’s thrust into his hand.
“It’s eleven-thirty in the evening and I have school in the morning,” Robert replies with a long-suffering sigh. He passes a hand over his eyes, but Eames doesn’t give up.
(Fucker never gives up.)
“Come on, then,” Eames cajoles him, plucking a spoon from the drawer of newly washed (rinsed with distilled water, sterilized) cutlery he’d opened with the hook of his pinky. “Just a spoonful, eh?”
Robert hesitates a moment before accepting the spoon. He rolls his eyes as Eames’ expectant face looms over him, watching his every move. He takes a small bite of ice cream, letting it melt on his tongue, soft and cool. A few scoops later and Eames is grinning smugly at him, arms crossed. His gun is peeking out of his holster.
Robert puts the ice cream away with a muffled sigh of satisfaction. “Thank you,” he says curtly, licking the corners of his lips. Eames nods, seemingly satisfied and swipes a thumb across Robert’s cheek, biting on the pad of his thumb.
“Sorry,” Eames laughs. “You had a little-”
“Don’t,” Robert says, “Don’t do that ever again, touch me like that.” His face is warm even though it shouldn’t be. Probably because it’s late, he thinks, and rubs a hand furiously across his cheek. Still warm, and Eames is still looking at him with the strangest expression on his face.
“It’s late,” Robert tells him, as if Eames doesn’t know, “I’m going to bed.” He doesn’t wait for Eames to respond but pads up the stairs, into the sprawling hallway until he finally stops in front of the door of his room. His hand hovers over the doorknob, twitching.
Finally, he heaves a sigh and steps inside.
*
When Robert gets in the car the next morning, his door is held open by the driver and Eames just stands to one side, with his hands clasped behind his back, glancing this way and that like the bodyguard that he’s hired to be.
Eames only smiles at him as he passes, but says nothing else beyond that.
Robert should be relieved, that the morning will go as it has always gone before Eames had arrived. Quietly, peacefully, where Robert can use the time to cram on his math homework in the car.
But he gets nothing done in the half-hour drive to school. He sits at the back and almost the entire time he’s forcing himself not to stare at the back of Eames’ head. It’s like he’s bracing himself for the quiet to be snapped with some witty retort but it doesn’t come like Robert expects it to and he’s left in anticipation until the car pulls up at his school’s driveway and he realizes that it’s a painful thing, anticipation, it’s tense about his chest and skittish underneath his skin.
The week ends without so much as a word from Eames except for the requisite good morning or watch your step, sir. Robert doesn’t understand why this bothers him so much when he hardly ever spoke to his previous bodyguards at all.
They were, of course, nothing like Eames whose complete disregard of personal space was highly commendable. Eames however, despite his faults, was competent at his job and, even though Robert will be loathe to admit, different from the rest of the staff. He was entertaining to say the least -- he made Robert laugh.
When Saturday night comes to a close with Eames hardly batting an eye in Robert’s direction, Robert finds himself irritated out of his wits, marching down the hall to the balcony where Eames is playing poker with one of the guards.
Eames looks up, startled, mouth pursing into a fine line. “Robert,” he says, “You’re in your ... pajamas.”
Robert colors but only briefly and waves the guard off in dismissal. “You,” he starts, and then realizes he’s at a loss. He came here to say something but he hardly remembers what it is anymore.
“Me,” Eames replies, smiling brilliantly at Robert. Robert hates that he’s nonplussed about this because Robert knows that Eames knows that something’s off. Something’s off and he’s causing it.
Eames throws several chips into the pot but the other guards aren’t paying as much attention to the game as they’re paying attention to their employer’s son, in his pajamas.
Robert is beside himself, but he reins in his temper before he disgraces himself in front of his employees. (His father’s, but, details.) He takes a breath and just stands there for a while, glancing at the guards, then pointedly ignoring the curious look on their faces.
“Well, what about me?” Eames finally asks him, turning his cards face down on the table before facing Robert fully. His fingers tap some rhythm on his downturned cards, an expectant expression glazing his eyes with passing interest.
“Can I talk to you in private?” Robert says instead.
“But of course,” Eames exclaims with exaggerated cheer. He stands from his chair and he and Robert quickly head to the kitchen--some kind of neutral ground for the two of them, apparently--where the dim light from the living room barely makes out Eames’ face in the darkness.
“So,” Robert ventures, voice taking a haughty lilt. Eames is leaning back against the counter, eyeing him with interest.
“So,” Eames echoes.
“Did I do something?” Robert blurts and it’s only then he realizes how needy he sounds when his voice chokes at the last syllable. He swallows, steeling himself, but when Eames doesn’t respond and simply continues to stare at him, he follows with a moan of despair, scrubbing a hand through his face.
“I know I can be a bit of a chore,” Robert says, “And I’m rarely impressed by a lot of things.” He chews his lip. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t try to extract joy from life. It’s not like I intend on being miserable.”
Eames blinks. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
Robert makes a frustrated noise. “I’m not sure I follow myself, either.” He shakes his head. “This is stupid. I’m going to bed.”
Robert is already halfway down the hall when Eames catches up to him, jogging by his side, one hand resting lightly on his arm.
“What?”
Eames is smiling. Robert shouldn’t feel comforted by the warm weight of his hand, shouldn’t feel flustered or relieved that he’s speaking to him but that’s how it is: he’s embarrassed, giddy, and confused at the same time.
“You didn’t do anything,” Eames assures him. “I just wanted to keep things professional between us. Er, I mean.”
“Professional,” Robert repeats, nodding his head. Eames still hasn’t let go of him. Robert stares at his hand. “You didn’t speak to me for the rest of the week. You gave me the cold shoulder.” He swallows at the hiccup in his throat - it’s how he gets when he’s nervous, sweaty palms, a squeak to his voice.
“I thought you were angry,” he finishes lamely, shrugging Eames’ hand off and rubbing the warm spot he’d left with his hand. “I thought...”
“Oh, Robert,” Eames laughs. Robert looks up and Eames is shaking his head and sighing, reaching forward to knot his fingers in Robert’s hair. This time, Robert doesn’t pull away even when they’re standing close enough that he could smell Eames’ cologne.
“I didn’t want our friendship to get in the way of my job,” Eames says.
Robert’s head snaps up. “Friendship?”
“Yes,” Eames confirms. “Well, that’s what we are, I assume? Friends?”
“Right,” Robert says. “Right. But you’re my bodyguard first and foremost, an employee of the Fischer household.” He doesn’t know why he says that when he knows it’ll only piss Eames off.
Eames’ hand in his hair stiffens briefly and his voice is standoffish, almost--if Robert doesn’t know better--offended, when he says, “You never make me forget that for a minute, do you?”
Robert opens his mouth, but shuts it with a defiant click a second later.
Eames laughs again. His hand travels down Robert’s cheek and it stays there. Robert wants to pull back but he doesn’t, because it’s large and warm and it reassures him for some reason.
“What’s so funny?” Robert mutters, glaring up at Eames.
“I was wondering what it would take to shut you up, actually,” Eames says casually, like it’s nothing quote as offensive as it sounds, put in that way. In Eames’ patronizing tone of voice. “I think I’ve finally got it cracked, though.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really,” Eames nods. His thumb strokes circles on Robert’s skin. It tingles. “You never talk to anyone in this house besides me.”
“That’s not true,” Robert protests, shifting a little that Eames’ palm grazes over his nose.
Eames is unfazed, however, and just lets his hand rest on Robert’s shoulder, dangerously close to the naked skin of his neck. “You know why that is? Because I talk to you.”
Robert shakes his head, but it’s a useless effort. It’s true.
“And that’s what gets you started, isn’t it?” Eames smiles at him and Robert thinks it’s a little bit sad, how Eames’ eyes are soft when the smile on his face is just as somber. “I annoy you and you tell me off with a bloody paragraph, really. Fancy semi-colons and everything.”
Robert frowns. Sometimes, it’s hard to follow Eames as he goes along. Robert always has to wait. Most of the time, he chooses to cut Eames off entirely, pretending that he’s either uninterested or otherwise preoccupied. But this is one of those few times when he really wants to know what Eames has to say.
“And don’t you think it’s rather ironic that I’m the one who shuts you up as well?” Eames is smiling now, a little too widely, and his hand has already migrated to the back of Robert’s neck. His fingers pressing against the fine hairs, his palm fitting over the bony knob at the top of his spine.
“What are you even talking about?” Robert asks, voice shaking as Eames lowers his head even closer. Their noses touch and Robert sucks in a noisy, shuddering breath when Eames bridges that tiny stretch of distance between them, fitting their mouths together and cupping the back of his head.
Eames’ lips are dry, warm, and Robert startles at the gentleness of the kiss. Robert’s head starts to swim and it’s with dawning horror that he realizes he’s moaning a little, tipping his head back and curling his arms around Eames’ broad shoulders. But Eames is the first to pull away, although not before pressing his teeth lightly against Robert’s bottom lip and rubbing the pad of his thumb against his cheek.
“You’ve quieted down, I see,” Eames observes cheekily, winking when Robert’s face fills with heat.
Robert splutters, but he can’t summon any other feeling besides embarrassment so he settles for shoving Eames off with a hand to the chest, except it backfires because Eames catches him by the wrist, kissing the inside of it and trailing his lips up Robert’s elbow.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers against Robert’s skin, breath hot and sending ripples up Robert’s spine. He looks up at Robert through his eyelashes, smiling, serene. “Goodnight, Robert.” And then he’s off, walking down the hall and whistling, one hand inside his pocket. Eames waves without looking back and Robert swallows at the lump in his throat, leaning against the wall for support, knees shaking.
He lets out a nervous laugh before running his tongue over his bottom lip.
His father will kill him.
*
Dinner with his father the next day is both unexpected and dreadful. They hardly speak a word to each other, each preoccupied by either the food on their plates or the food in their mouths.
For the first time, Robert wishes for the silence to stay there. That way, he doesn’t need to stutter, things don’t need to be said, and his father won’t ever have to find out.
“Eames,” his father suddenly says and Robert violently jumps in his seat.
“Sorry,” Robert apologises into his lamb chops, shifting back to a more dignified position. He tries not to meet his father’s confused gaze.
“Anyway, Eames tells me you haven’t been late for any of your morning classes in the last few weeks,” Maurice brings up.
Robert breathes, relieved, but the nerves in his belly remain afloat. “Y-yeah?”
Maurice nods, but looks otherwise unimpressed. “That’s good,” he says, but his eyes are directed elsewhere, to some middle distance that always seems to be more interesting than Robert that it holds his father’s attention most of the time. (Times like these are when Robert misses his mother the most.) He’s holding his wine glass to his lips and Robert almost misses the words he mutters into his wine as he sips, “Keep it up.”
---
Keep it up, his father says. Robert knows he doesn’t mean continue fooling around with the new bodyguard but these days that’s what Robert finds himself doing. Eames doesn’t kiss him again and it’s not like Robert is waiting on him (he isn’t, he’s got plenty of other things to do: homework, lacrosse and violin lessons on the weekends) but he does notice a slight change in their relationship.
(“Friendship.”)
Eames touches him more. A hand on the shoulder, the small of Robert’s back. He walks close enough that their shoulders bump and Robert has to hop a few paces forward to keep himself from colliding with Eames.
Sometimes Eames even walks him to his classroom door never mind the raised eyebrows when Robert stands awkwardly in his school uniform, stiff shouldered as Eames brushes invisible lint off his jacket or leans forward to smooth the errant strands of his hair. They’re fast approaching a level of... intimacy? The word makes something in Robert’s stomach tighten, but he can’t say he isn’t pleased. Still, there’s his father, and the fact that Eames is fifteen years older, and happens to be his father’s employee. And there’s also the fact that Eames probably doesn’t want a scrawny teenager like Robert, anyway.
*
Eames arrives at Robert’s school alone one afternoon, driving the sedan. The smile on his face is cocksure, lowering the passenger’s side window as Robert nears the car with an amused, albeit wary, smile on his face.
“You’re really pushing it, aren’t you,” Robert says as he opens the car door.
Eames doesn’t bother responding and just smiles wider, winking. Robert tosses his bag in the passenger seat and pulls on his seatbelt, shifting in his seat to make himself comfortable. He looks up - Eames is watching him.
“What?” Robert asks self-consciously, rubbing the back of his hand against his cheek. “Why are you-”
He never gets to finish because Eames leans down to kiss him, quick, before pulling back and starting the car. “How was school?” he asks, punctuating the statement with a smirk.
Robert opens his mouth but no words form. He colors and looks out the window instead, pursing his lips.
“Well?” Eames asks him again as he puts the car in gear.
“Well what?” Robert shrugs, looking out the window. Nothing interesting is outside, and he’s really not looking at anything else but at the reflection of Eames as he runs a finger down his bottom lip. It tingles, and he’s both thrilled and discomfited by the sensation.
“We’re back to this, are we?” Eames sighs, glancing at Robert as he shifts gears. “Anything the matter?”
“It’s just weird, okay?” Robert confesses, shifting in his seat. He’s suddenly feeling very self-conscious of himself. Of how his blazer is slightly wrinkled, or his tie is too tight against his neck, or how his pants cave where his thighs should be lean and strong. Of everything, that his hands are restless on his lap, twisting into the loose cloth of his pants.
Eames chuckles. “Don’t you worry about that, of course it’s weird.”
“Then how do you make it not weird, Eames?” And he really wants to know. He looks at Eames, eyes wide with a sudden claw of desperation to make it all work in his head. “You’re older than me. You work for me. You’re a bodyguard. You--”
“Do you like me?” Eames asks, interrupting him. Robert blinks, caught off-guard. The answer should be painfully obvious but he can’t seem to put them into words. Eames waits for his response, face serene and somehow Robert can’t look away.
“Yes,” he moans quietly, snorting out a laugh of embarrassment. He hides his face in his hands, clenching his eyes shut. Eames reaches over to him, twirling his fingers in his hair and rather than protest Robert leans into his touch.
“You’re cute,” Eames says.
“You only like me because I’m young.”
“No, although that plays a large part in it.” Eames smiles, shifting into second gear. Robert shoots him a look. “Don’t pout, Robert. It’s unbecoming of you.”
“You’re a pedophile.”
“Only in America.”
Robert laughs in spite of himself. “It doesn't matter anyway,” he says when he sobers up. “I’m turning eighteen soon.”
“Yeah?” Eames asks.
Robert nods, not sure where he’s going with his. His skin flushes under the intensity of Eames’ gaze and he rubs his palms on his knees, willing the trembling of his hands away. “Two weeks,” he says finally, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Father’s throwing a party. Inviting people I have never met in my life.” He rolls his eyes.
“Will he give you away like some debutante?” Eames teases, but there’s a strange look on his face, Robert thinks, that isn’t as playful.
He scoffs. “Of course not,” then he sobers. “But I’ll probably need an escort.”
“Do you,” Eames raises his eyebrows, and he’s smirking as he turns his attention back on the road. “I know a few people who would--”
“Really,” Robert stares at him. “Are any of them my age?”
Eames blinks at him in surprise. “Well no of course not, that would be illegal anywhere in the world, really--”
Robert groans, but he’s grinning, and the discomfort eases to genuine amusement that loosens that knot of something big and stifling at the back of his throat. Like a dislodged thorn. He relaxes in his seat. “Not those kinds of escorts, Eames.”
Eames smiles at him wryly. “I know.” Then he turns thoughtful, his smile softening around the corners, and Robert thinks Eames should look like this more often. Less forward. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“What does?”
“To find something incredibly amusing,” Eames says as he draws the car to a full stop. They’re in a quieter part of the neighborhood, Robert realizes, near an empty park. This is the kind of neighborhood that’s defined by foreclosed house and dilapidated buildings. Robert looks up to find the streets nearly empty of pedestrians.
“What are we doing here?” he asks. Nervousness washes over him like a tidal wave as Eames unlocks his seatbelt and leans towards him. At this proximity, Robert can smell Eames’ cologne. He licks his bottom lip, waiting for the inevitable as Eames cups the back of his head and touches the tips of their noses together. This is how they’re different, Robert thinks, eyes tracing the definitions of Eames’ unshaven face.
It’s not just Eames’ physicality but his candor, the easy way he goes about things, lowering his mouth over Robert’s but never sealing the distance. Robert skin itches with want and impatience and he makes a frustrated noise as Eames runs the pad of his finger across his cheek.
“If you want something Robert,” Eames says, slow. “You mustn’t be afraid to chase after it.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Robert says. “I’m seventeen.”
“Going on eighteen,” Eames reminds him cheerfully. Robert snorts, rolling his eyes, and when Eames laughs, decides to shut him up with his mouth. Robert gasps as the heat of Eames’ tongue touches his own. He groans and clutches at Eames’ shoulders desperately, tipping his head back for Eames to tug at his collar and press dry kisses down his throat. A hand loosens the top button of his uniform short, making quick work of his necktie. Robert nods, hisses, “Yes,” although he still isn’t sure what he’s agreeing too. This, wanting Eames, or some other third thing he can’t name.
Eames’ mouth is hot, sly, and his hands reach up to cup Robert’s sides, stroking his back and wrinkling his shirt as a sharp pull loosens Robert’s dress shirt from his trousers.
Robert is aching, and suddenly he can’t remember ever wanting anything as much as this: Eames’ hands, his mouth, the heat of his breath on Robert’s face. Eames’ teeth scrape his throat gently, mouth closing over his adam’s apple as he unbuttons each of Robert’s buttons meticulously.
Robert moans, grasping Eames’ forearm and all at once Eames’ ministrations stop. Eames almost looks horrified and Robert takes a moment to keep his emotions in check, his arousal, even though he is anything other than dignified with an erection in his pants and the needy noises he’s making.
“We should go,” Eames says, revving the engine back to life.
“What?” Robert asks shakily.
Eames looks sheepish, apologetic. “It’s a school night. You probably have a lot of work to do, don’t you Robert?”
“No,” Robert says firmly. “I don’t have any work. And even if I did, I can always do it later. It was just about to get good, Eames.”
Eames shrugs one shoulder, looking pained. “We’re going home.”
“But-”
“This isn’t a negotiation.” Eames says pointedly.
Robert huffs and tucks his shirt back into his pants, smoothing the wrinkles and turning his nose up haughtily.
“Fine,” he sneers. “It’s nothing a little rub can’t fix anyway.” He makes sure that last jab sinks and sure enough, Eames looks conflicted, a furrow between his brows followed by an unconscious swallow.
Robert sits stiffly during the entire drive home while Eames best attempts not to touch him.
*
The morning after, Eames isn’t there outside his bedroom for the usual good morning. In fact, Eames doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the house at all.
He tries the kitchen, where the cook is preparing his breakfast for the day. Bacon and eggs, and waffles, and a tall glass of something fruity and cold. It smells good.
“Have you seen Eames?” he asks her.
She shakes her head as she slices up an apple. “He didn’t come in this morning, Mr Fischer.”
Oh.
He leaves the house and finds another bodyguard waiting for him by the car. The driver’s there; they’re taking the limo.
The following afternoon, the same faceless bodyguard waits for him at the school gate.
The ride home is quiet; this bodyguard doesn’t like to talk and Robert doesn’t talk unless spoken to, not when the person is of no interest to him at all. And this new guy, with his closely cropped hair, generic suit, and blank face, is not very interesting at all.
That evening, he’s laying down on his bed. His legs dangle off the edge until his feet graze over the carpet.
It’s quiet.
His mobile is on the bedside table. No texts. Not a lot of messages in his inbox except for the few from his Uncle Browning, asking about this and that. Most had been from Eames--the most recent one is nearly two days old now.
He’s not lonely; because how can he be lonely when his room is half the size of a regular New York apartment? When he’s got a skyline outside his window, and video games just beyond the double doors of his entertainment system?
He’s not lonely.
He’s bored, is what he is.
And in a house so big with only him in it, Robert thinks hell, I need to entertain myself, don’t I?
He pushes himself out of the bed and climbs the antique wardbrobe pushed against the wall. His foot slips a little but he manages to claw his way up eventually. Once there, he takes the security camera just within reach.
He grabs the head and pulls.
It short circuits. Debris of the lens’ plastic casing crumble on the floor.
As predicted, alarms go off somewhere in the house. In the main security room where he’s sure Eames is hiding from him.
He’s bored, that’s why he smashes his lampshade against the wall. The bulb erupts, like a clap of thunder.
He shouts for good measure.
Feet thunder down the hallway and soon enough, Eames is barging into his door, his semi-automatic clutched in his hand. Behind him are several other bodyguards that Robert forgets about almost immediately.
Eames is breathless as he looks around the room. The lamp is smashed, so is the security camera, but other than that, Robert’s room is spotless and Robert--
--Robert is in the middle of it all, his hands on his hips, and the slyest smirk on his face.
“What the hell happened?” Eames practically roars out loud, that even his colleagues jump back in surprise. His breaths come in short gasps and he really is scared, Robert realizes.
“A minor accident,” Robert shrugs, tipping his head to the side. “You came.” He feigns surprise, and the stark relief in Eames’ face as he slips his gun back in his holster fills him with inexplicable satisfaction. Robert waves the rest of them off with a dismissive hand, waiting until the doors have closed to cross the room and stand directly in front of Eames.
They stare at each other for a second. “What are you doing, Robert?” Eames groans, shaking his head. “Did you do all this to get my attention?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Robert says, covering up his embarrassment. “But what if I did? I hate Louis or Willis or whatever it is that guy’s name is. The new bodyguard. He’s not...” you, Robert says in his head, “competent.”
“I’ve seen him on the field He’s one of the best, comes with an impressive list of references.”
“He’s a tool.” Robert rolls his eyes. His hands ball into fists at his sides, itching to sweep aside Eames’ hair from his face. It’s been awhile since they’ve talked to each other, and even though Eames is looking at him like he wants to strangle him or leave him alone, it feels good to be able to stand in the same room as him again.
“Anyway,” Robert continues, “why haven’t you been driving me to school lately?”
“It’s not part of the job description.”
“Really? And sticking your tongue inside my mouth is?”
“Robert-” Eames pleads.
“No, you be quiet. You’re my father’s employee and mine by extension. You’ll do what I tell you to because you’re on my payroll!” He lets out a long breath, raking shaky fingers through his hair and breathing hard.
“What on earth do you want me to do then?” Eames asks, looking bored already as he rolls his eyes and raises his arms to appeal to the ceiling. “Polish your shoes, do your laundry--”
“Kiss me,” Robert says, voice firm. It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t stutter. “Well? I said kiss me.”
There is a pause before Eames sighs and cups Robert’s jaw in his hand. Robert’s eyes close automatically and he lets out an appreciative moan as Eames pulls him closer and winds his arm around his waist.
“Oh, pet,” Eames whispers, tucking Robert’s face into his neck, “You’re ridiculous. What am I ever going to do with you, mm?”
“You can start by kissing me.”
“You don’t want me to kiss you. I reek of cigarettes. I’m an old man.”
“I don’t care,” Robert says stubbornly, “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“It will,” Eames says, almost sadly. “Maybe not right now when your brain is clogged by your hormones but years from now you’ll look back on this moment and think, ‘why did I ever let that silly man have his way with me.’”
“Is that what you want, then?”
“What?”
“Do you want to have your way with me?”
Eames blinks, releasing him somewhat, laughing nervously. “No, I mean. I meant that-”
“-because I might be okay with that. I might.” Robert squirms and pulls Eames by the sides of his jacket, looking down at his feet. “Why are you fighting this? It’s obvious you want this too.”
“This is more complicated than you think.”
“Do you have any idea how unfair that is?” Robert cries out, frustrated. “You come on to me, relentlessly, every day, and I’m here! You won! I can’t go against,” he gestures vaguely at Eames, gesturing at all of him. He ignores the solemn look on that Eames’ face. He has a point to make, God damn it. And he’s tired of being on the wrong side of things all the time. “All this. I don’t--What--”
He doesn’t understand.
Eames sighs and he moves a little towards Robert that Robert almost holds his breath in anticipation of Eames’ touch, a hug, a kiss, anything that would assuage him.
But Eames stills and he looks away for a moment.
“Well?” Robert prompts him, a mockery of Eames’ own impatience towards Robert’s dark moods. His voice twists with frustration, heavy with a merciless prodding that Robert has learned from his teachers. If you prod hard enough, if you push hard enough, then something will give eventually.
“Go to bed,” is what Eames says instead. “You have school in the morning.”
And just like that he turns to leave and Robert desperately wants to call Eames back inside his room.
But the door opens and beyond it are the other bodyguards waiting to make sure that the situation is under control. And beyond the wall of black suits and stern faces is the maid, with a broom in one hand and a bin in the other.
All of a sudden, it’s no longer him and Eames and Robert’s breath catches in his throat.
He hurls the nearest object--a snow globe--against the wall. It doesn’t shatter. It falls on the floor with a thud.
*
PART TWO
Eames/Robert
AU fic where Robert is in high school and Eames is his bodyguard. Warning for, uh, underage sexytimes.
mmm, rarepairs. also, this was written out of pure fun. fuck yeah, spontaneity. big thank you to furloughday and jacquise for the beta! <3
“If you think you can just sneak out of your room without my knowing, think again,” Eames says, smiling serenely as he braces his arm against the wall, leaning over Robert. He’s Robert’s new bodyguard - Robert’s third in the last week or so.
Robert hopes this one doesn’t get shot or dismembered (the previous one quit after Robert faked a seizure and snuck out of his bedroom window), not because Robert particularly cares for him but because he really doesn’t want to deal with a constant rotation of heavily armed, brawny men believing themselves to be his protector.
Eames doesn’t step back even though Robert lifts his head with dignity, staring him straight in the eye. They’re close enough that it could be immediate grounds for sexual harassment with the way Eames is trapping him against the wall, his nose nearly touching Robert’s.
Robert ducks a little, hunching his shoulders, pulling his uniform jacket around his chest. He is already five minutes late for school.
“I thought I’d told you to not hassle me in the morning, Eames.” Robert looks around, to make sure that they’re alone. (Of course they’re alone. His father’s never around this late in the morning, despite it being only eight-thirty; and the maids keep to themselves in the kitchen. But the close call a few days ago had bothered Robert to no end that he promised himself he’s never going to be caught in such an undignified situation.)
Eames smirks, lazily, leaning against the wall. His suit jacket wrinkles slightly and Robert winces on its behalf. “I thought you owed me a little more than that after last night.”
“I owe you nothing,” Robert says, and when his voice stutters it’s only because Eames is leaning even closer, tilting Robert’s chin up with two fingers and breathing down his face.
Robert’s chin almost wobbles but he steels himself against it. He slaps Eames’ hand away when it reaches for his cheek and Eames steps back, stung, recovering remarkably fast.
“Feisty.”
Robert sniffs, shooting him a glare he doesn’t bother to mask. “I’m late for school,” he says, turning up his nose when Eames merely starts to snigger, reaching for his head to muss up his hair.
“Don’t touch me!” Robert hisses, batting Eames’ hands away. Eames makes a face, shrugs, and pockets his hands quickly.
“All right then,” he concedes, “No touching.” He holds up both his arms in a gesture of defeat. Robert straightens his jacket, pushing the hair from his forehead, and stalks down the hall.
*
Eames is waiting by the car. He shouldn’t be; that’s the driver’s job. But Robert forgets that Eames has his way of manipulating things to his own advantage. A quick glance at the driver’s seat tells him that the driver isn’t there and that Eames has brought the sedan, not the stretch limo.
(Eames never does what he’s supposed to do.)
Robert sighs, exasperated. But Eames is grinning at him as he opens the passenger’s side door. The front passenger’s side door. Which, he knows from the monthly meetings with the family’s head of security, is the worst possible thing in terms of keeping with the whole caution, lock and key, us against the world system that they’ve been maintaining since Robert had been born.
“Well? How was algebra?” Eames says by way of greeting.
Robert rolls his eyes at him. “Why do you even ask these things when you already know how much I hate algebra?” He sighs tiredly as he allows himself to sink into his seat. Eames’ arms are perched on top of the still open door -- yet another violation of security protocol.
“What?” Robert lifts an eyebrow as Eames continues to stare at him, undeterred. Finally, Eames shrugs his shoulders and steps back from the car.
“Nothing ever pleases you, does it? You find little things to complain about every five minutes whether it be Algebra or my new cologne.”
“Your new cologne makes me nauseous.”
“Shush,” Eames says. He shuts the car door without warning, making Robert startle in his seat as he shakily pulls on his seatbelt. Eames slides into the driver’s side, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes Robert uncomfortable, flush to his ears. He rubs at them, pushing his hair back out of a lack of a better thing to do.
“I’ll treat you to ice cream,” Eames says, easing the car into first gear.
Robert sniffs. “I’m allergic to ice cream.”
“That isn’t completely true and we both know it; the only thing you’re allergic to is happiness. Honest to god, every day you find something to whine about. Without fail.”
“I do not whine,” Robert says indignantly, and maybe he does squeak a little but it’s only because Eames is crossing the line.
Eames pats him on the knee. Robert jerks at his touch and turns away, twitching, facing the window where the landscape outside streaks past in a colorful blur.
“It’s just ice cream, Robert,” Eames says. “It won’t kill you.”
“Actually-” Robert says, on the verge of recounting his brief run-in with kidnappers last month when he stopped for take out after school, but Eames holds up a hand, silencing him before he can continue.
“I’m taking you out today, Robbie.”
“It’s Robert.”
“Whatever,” Eames rolls his eyes. “Just sit back, relax, and smile a little or wrinkles will start to form on your forehead. Look, there’s one right there.” Robert glares just as Eames pulls away, flicking him on the nose.
*
“What’s this?” Robert asks, trying to look very much in charge even in his pinstriped pajamas, even though the kitchen isn’t exactly the battlefield he had been planning conquering Eames in.
Everyone else is asleep and his father hasn’t arrived home yet. Meaning, he’s stuck with this. This and Eames.
And this is--
“Ice cream,” Eames says, frowning, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and a smart guy like Robert should know better than to question the unmistakable pint of Ben and Jerry’s thrust into his hand.
“It’s eleven-thirty in the evening and I have school in the morning,” Robert replies with a long-suffering sigh. He passes a hand over his eyes, but Eames doesn’t give up.
(Fucker never gives up.)
“Come on, then,” Eames cajoles him, plucking a spoon from the drawer of newly washed (rinsed with distilled water, sterilized) cutlery he’d opened with the hook of his pinky. “Just a spoonful, eh?”
Robert hesitates a moment before accepting the spoon. He rolls his eyes as Eames’ expectant face looms over him, watching his every move. He takes a small bite of ice cream, letting it melt on his tongue, soft and cool. A few scoops later and Eames is grinning smugly at him, arms crossed. His gun is peeking out of his holster.
Robert puts the ice cream away with a muffled sigh of satisfaction. “Thank you,” he says curtly, licking the corners of his lips. Eames nods, seemingly satisfied and swipes a thumb across Robert’s cheek, biting on the pad of his thumb.
“Sorry,” Eames laughs. “You had a little-”
“Don’t,” Robert says, “Don’t do that ever again, touch me like that.” His face is warm even though it shouldn’t be. Probably because it’s late, he thinks, and rubs a hand furiously across his cheek. Still warm, and Eames is still looking at him with the strangest expression on his face.
“It’s late,” Robert tells him, as if Eames doesn’t know, “I’m going to bed.” He doesn’t wait for Eames to respond but pads up the stairs, into the sprawling hallway until he finally stops in front of the door of his room. His hand hovers over the doorknob, twitching.
Finally, he heaves a sigh and steps inside.
*
When Robert gets in the car the next morning, his door is held open by the driver and Eames just stands to one side, with his hands clasped behind his back, glancing this way and that like the bodyguard that he’s hired to be.
Eames only smiles at him as he passes, but says nothing else beyond that.
Robert should be relieved, that the morning will go as it has always gone before Eames had arrived. Quietly, peacefully, where Robert can use the time to cram on his math homework in the car.
But he gets nothing done in the half-hour drive to school. He sits at the back and almost the entire time he’s forcing himself not to stare at the back of Eames’ head. It’s like he’s bracing himself for the quiet to be snapped with some witty retort but it doesn’t come like Robert expects it to and he’s left in anticipation until the car pulls up at his school’s driveway and he realizes that it’s a painful thing, anticipation, it’s tense about his chest and skittish underneath his skin.
The week ends without so much as a word from Eames except for the requisite good morning or watch your step, sir. Robert doesn’t understand why this bothers him so much when he hardly ever spoke to his previous bodyguards at all.
They were, of course, nothing like Eames whose complete disregard of personal space was highly commendable. Eames however, despite his faults, was competent at his job and, even though Robert will be loathe to admit, different from the rest of the staff. He was entertaining to say the least -- he made Robert laugh.
When Saturday night comes to a close with Eames hardly batting an eye in Robert’s direction, Robert finds himself irritated out of his wits, marching down the hall to the balcony where Eames is playing poker with one of the guards.
Eames looks up, startled, mouth pursing into a fine line. “Robert,” he says, “You’re in your ... pajamas.”
Robert colors but only briefly and waves the guard off in dismissal. “You,” he starts, and then realizes he’s at a loss. He came here to say something but he hardly remembers what it is anymore.
“Me,” Eames replies, smiling brilliantly at Robert. Robert hates that he’s nonplussed about this because Robert knows that Eames knows that something’s off. Something’s off and he’s causing it.
Eames throws several chips into the pot but the other guards aren’t paying as much attention to the game as they’re paying attention to their employer’s son, in his pajamas.
Robert is beside himself, but he reins in his temper before he disgraces himself in front of his employees. (His father’s, but, details.) He takes a breath and just stands there for a while, glancing at the guards, then pointedly ignoring the curious look on their faces.
“Well, what about me?” Eames finally asks him, turning his cards face down on the table before facing Robert fully. His fingers tap some rhythm on his downturned cards, an expectant expression glazing his eyes with passing interest.
“Can I talk to you in private?” Robert says instead.
“But of course,” Eames exclaims with exaggerated cheer. He stands from his chair and he and Robert quickly head to the kitchen--some kind of neutral ground for the two of them, apparently--where the dim light from the living room barely makes out Eames’ face in the darkness.
“So,” Robert ventures, voice taking a haughty lilt. Eames is leaning back against the counter, eyeing him with interest.
“So,” Eames echoes.
“Did I do something?” Robert blurts and it’s only then he realizes how needy he sounds when his voice chokes at the last syllable. He swallows, steeling himself, but when Eames doesn’t respond and simply continues to stare at him, he follows with a moan of despair, scrubbing a hand through his face.
“I know I can be a bit of a chore,” Robert says, “And I’m rarely impressed by a lot of things.” He chews his lip. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t try to extract joy from life. It’s not like I intend on being miserable.”
Eames blinks. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
Robert makes a frustrated noise. “I’m not sure I follow myself, either.” He shakes his head. “This is stupid. I’m going to bed.”
Robert is already halfway down the hall when Eames catches up to him, jogging by his side, one hand resting lightly on his arm.
“What?”
Eames is smiling. Robert shouldn’t feel comforted by the warm weight of his hand, shouldn’t feel flustered or relieved that he’s speaking to him but that’s how it is: he’s embarrassed, giddy, and confused at the same time.
“You didn’t do anything,” Eames assures him. “I just wanted to keep things professional between us. Er, I mean.”
“Professional,” Robert repeats, nodding his head. Eames still hasn’t let go of him. Robert stares at his hand. “You didn’t speak to me for the rest of the week. You gave me the cold shoulder.” He swallows at the hiccup in his throat - it’s how he gets when he’s nervous, sweaty palms, a squeak to his voice.
“I thought you were angry,” he finishes lamely, shrugging Eames’ hand off and rubbing the warm spot he’d left with his hand. “I thought...”
“Oh, Robert,” Eames laughs. Robert looks up and Eames is shaking his head and sighing, reaching forward to knot his fingers in Robert’s hair. This time, Robert doesn’t pull away even when they’re standing close enough that he could smell Eames’ cologne.
“I didn’t want our friendship to get in the way of my job,” Eames says.
Robert’s head snaps up. “Friendship?”
“Yes,” Eames confirms. “Well, that’s what we are, I assume? Friends?”
“Right,” Robert says. “Right. But you’re my bodyguard first and foremost, an employee of the Fischer household.” He doesn’t know why he says that when he knows it’ll only piss Eames off.
Eames’ hand in his hair stiffens briefly and his voice is standoffish, almost--if Robert doesn’t know better--offended, when he says, “You never make me forget that for a minute, do you?”
Robert opens his mouth, but shuts it with a defiant click a second later.
Eames laughs again. His hand travels down Robert’s cheek and it stays there. Robert wants to pull back but he doesn’t, because it’s large and warm and it reassures him for some reason.
“What’s so funny?” Robert mutters, glaring up at Eames.
“I was wondering what it would take to shut you up, actually,” Eames says casually, like it’s nothing quote as offensive as it sounds, put in that way. In Eames’ patronizing tone of voice. “I think I’ve finally got it cracked, though.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really,” Eames nods. His thumb strokes circles on Robert’s skin. It tingles. “You never talk to anyone in this house besides me.”
“That’s not true,” Robert protests, shifting a little that Eames’ palm grazes over his nose.
Eames is unfazed, however, and just lets his hand rest on Robert’s shoulder, dangerously close to the naked skin of his neck. “You know why that is? Because I talk to you.”
Robert shakes his head, but it’s a useless effort. It’s true.
“And that’s what gets you started, isn’t it?” Eames smiles at him and Robert thinks it’s a little bit sad, how Eames’ eyes are soft when the smile on his face is just as somber. “I annoy you and you tell me off with a bloody paragraph, really. Fancy semi-colons and everything.”
Robert frowns. Sometimes, it’s hard to follow Eames as he goes along. Robert always has to wait. Most of the time, he chooses to cut Eames off entirely, pretending that he’s either uninterested or otherwise preoccupied. But this is one of those few times when he really wants to know what Eames has to say.
“And don’t you think it’s rather ironic that I’m the one who shuts you up as well?” Eames is smiling now, a little too widely, and his hand has already migrated to the back of Robert’s neck. His fingers pressing against the fine hairs, his palm fitting over the bony knob at the top of his spine.
“What are you even talking about?” Robert asks, voice shaking as Eames lowers his head even closer. Their noses touch and Robert sucks in a noisy, shuddering breath when Eames bridges that tiny stretch of distance between them, fitting their mouths together and cupping the back of his head.
Eames’ lips are dry, warm, and Robert startles at the gentleness of the kiss. Robert’s head starts to swim and it’s with dawning horror that he realizes he’s moaning a little, tipping his head back and curling his arms around Eames’ broad shoulders. But Eames is the first to pull away, although not before pressing his teeth lightly against Robert’s bottom lip and rubbing the pad of his thumb against his cheek.
“You’ve quieted down, I see,” Eames observes cheekily, winking when Robert’s face fills with heat.
Robert splutters, but he can’t summon any other feeling besides embarrassment so he settles for shoving Eames off with a hand to the chest, except it backfires because Eames catches him by the wrist, kissing the inside of it and trailing his lips up Robert’s elbow.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he whispers against Robert’s skin, breath hot and sending ripples up Robert’s spine. He looks up at Robert through his eyelashes, smiling, serene. “Goodnight, Robert.” And then he’s off, walking down the hall and whistling, one hand inside his pocket. Eames waves without looking back and Robert swallows at the lump in his throat, leaning against the wall for support, knees shaking.
He lets out a nervous laugh before running his tongue over his bottom lip.
His father will kill him.
*
Dinner with his father the next day is both unexpected and dreadful. They hardly speak a word to each other, each preoccupied by either the food on their plates or the food in their mouths.
For the first time, Robert wishes for the silence to stay there. That way, he doesn’t need to stutter, things don’t need to be said, and his father won’t ever have to find out.
“Eames,” his father suddenly says and Robert violently jumps in his seat.
“Sorry,” Robert apologises into his lamb chops, shifting back to a more dignified position. He tries not to meet his father’s confused gaze.
“Anyway, Eames tells me you haven’t been late for any of your morning classes in the last few weeks,” Maurice brings up.
Robert breathes, relieved, but the nerves in his belly remain afloat. “Y-yeah?”
Maurice nods, but looks otherwise unimpressed. “That’s good,” he says, but his eyes are directed elsewhere, to some middle distance that always seems to be more interesting than Robert that it holds his father’s attention most of the time. (Times like these are when Robert misses his mother the most.) He’s holding his wine glass to his lips and Robert almost misses the words he mutters into his wine as he sips, “Keep it up.”
---
Keep it up, his father says. Robert knows he doesn’t mean continue fooling around with the new bodyguard but these days that’s what Robert finds himself doing. Eames doesn’t kiss him again and it’s not like Robert is waiting on him (he isn’t, he’s got plenty of other things to do: homework, lacrosse and violin lessons on the weekends) but he does notice a slight change in their relationship.
(“Friendship.”)
Eames touches him more. A hand on the shoulder, the small of Robert’s back. He walks close enough that their shoulders bump and Robert has to hop a few paces forward to keep himself from colliding with Eames.
Sometimes Eames even walks him to his classroom door never mind the raised eyebrows when Robert stands awkwardly in his school uniform, stiff shouldered as Eames brushes invisible lint off his jacket or leans forward to smooth the errant strands of his hair. They’re fast approaching a level of... intimacy? The word makes something in Robert’s stomach tighten, but he can’t say he isn’t pleased. Still, there’s his father, and the fact that Eames is fifteen years older, and happens to be his father’s employee. And there’s also the fact that Eames probably doesn’t want a scrawny teenager like Robert, anyway.
*
Eames arrives at Robert’s school alone one afternoon, driving the sedan. The smile on his face is cocksure, lowering the passenger’s side window as Robert nears the car with an amused, albeit wary, smile on his face.
“You’re really pushing it, aren’t you,” Robert says as he opens the car door.
Eames doesn’t bother responding and just smiles wider, winking. Robert tosses his bag in the passenger seat and pulls on his seatbelt, shifting in his seat to make himself comfortable. He looks up - Eames is watching him.
“What?” Robert asks self-consciously, rubbing the back of his hand against his cheek. “Why are you-”
He never gets to finish because Eames leans down to kiss him, quick, before pulling back and starting the car. “How was school?” he asks, punctuating the statement with a smirk.
Robert opens his mouth but no words form. He colors and looks out the window instead, pursing his lips.
“Well?” Eames asks him again as he puts the car in gear.
“Well what?” Robert shrugs, looking out the window. Nothing interesting is outside, and he’s really not looking at anything else but at the reflection of Eames as he runs a finger down his bottom lip. It tingles, and he’s both thrilled and discomfited by the sensation.
“We’re back to this, are we?” Eames sighs, glancing at Robert as he shifts gears. “Anything the matter?”
“It’s just weird, okay?” Robert confesses, shifting in his seat. He’s suddenly feeling very self-conscious of himself. Of how his blazer is slightly wrinkled, or his tie is too tight against his neck, or how his pants cave where his thighs should be lean and strong. Of everything, that his hands are restless on his lap, twisting into the loose cloth of his pants.
Eames chuckles. “Don’t you worry about that, of course it’s weird.”
“Then how do you make it not weird, Eames?” And he really wants to know. He looks at Eames, eyes wide with a sudden claw of desperation to make it all work in his head. “You’re older than me. You work for me. You’re a bodyguard. You--”
“Do you like me?” Eames asks, interrupting him. Robert blinks, caught off-guard. The answer should be painfully obvious but he can’t seem to put them into words. Eames waits for his response, face serene and somehow Robert can’t look away.
“Yes,” he moans quietly, snorting out a laugh of embarrassment. He hides his face in his hands, clenching his eyes shut. Eames reaches over to him, twirling his fingers in his hair and rather than protest Robert leans into his touch.
“You’re cute,” Eames says.
“You only like me because I’m young.”
“No, although that plays a large part in it.” Eames smiles, shifting into second gear. Robert shoots him a look. “Don’t pout, Robert. It’s unbecoming of you.”
“You’re a pedophile.”
“Only in America.”
Robert laughs in spite of himself. “It doesn't matter anyway,” he says when he sobers up. “I’m turning eighteen soon.”
“Yeah?” Eames asks.
Robert nods, not sure where he’s going with his. His skin flushes under the intensity of Eames’ gaze and he rubs his palms on his knees, willing the trembling of his hands away. “Two weeks,” he says finally, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Father’s throwing a party. Inviting people I have never met in my life.” He rolls his eyes.
“Will he give you away like some debutante?” Eames teases, but there’s a strange look on his face, Robert thinks, that isn’t as playful.
He scoffs. “Of course not,” then he sobers. “But I’ll probably need an escort.”
“Do you,” Eames raises his eyebrows, and he’s smirking as he turns his attention back on the road. “I know a few people who would--”
“Really,” Robert stares at him. “Are any of them my age?”
Eames blinks at him in surprise. “Well no of course not, that would be illegal anywhere in the world, really--”
Robert groans, but he’s grinning, and the discomfort eases to genuine amusement that loosens that knot of something big and stifling at the back of his throat. Like a dislodged thorn. He relaxes in his seat. “Not those kinds of escorts, Eames.”
Eames smiles at him wryly. “I know.” Then he turns thoughtful, his smile softening around the corners, and Robert thinks Eames should look like this more often. Less forward. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“What does?”
“To find something incredibly amusing,” Eames says as he draws the car to a full stop. They’re in a quieter part of the neighborhood, Robert realizes, near an empty park. This is the kind of neighborhood that’s defined by foreclosed house and dilapidated buildings. Robert looks up to find the streets nearly empty of pedestrians.
“What are we doing here?” he asks. Nervousness washes over him like a tidal wave as Eames unlocks his seatbelt and leans towards him. At this proximity, Robert can smell Eames’ cologne. He licks his bottom lip, waiting for the inevitable as Eames cups the back of his head and touches the tips of their noses together. This is how they’re different, Robert thinks, eyes tracing the definitions of Eames’ unshaven face.
It’s not just Eames’ physicality but his candor, the easy way he goes about things, lowering his mouth over Robert’s but never sealing the distance. Robert skin itches with want and impatience and he makes a frustrated noise as Eames runs the pad of his finger across his cheek.
“If you want something Robert,” Eames says, slow. “You mustn’t be afraid to chase after it.”
“I don’t know what I want,” Robert says. “I’m seventeen.”
“Going on eighteen,” Eames reminds him cheerfully. Robert snorts, rolling his eyes, and when Eames laughs, decides to shut him up with his mouth. Robert gasps as the heat of Eames’ tongue touches his own. He groans and clutches at Eames’ shoulders desperately, tipping his head back for Eames to tug at his collar and press dry kisses down his throat. A hand loosens the top button of his uniform short, making quick work of his necktie. Robert nods, hisses, “Yes,” although he still isn’t sure what he’s agreeing too. This, wanting Eames, or some other third thing he can’t name.
Eames’ mouth is hot, sly, and his hands reach up to cup Robert’s sides, stroking his back and wrinkling his shirt as a sharp pull loosens Robert’s dress shirt from his trousers.
Robert is aching, and suddenly he can’t remember ever wanting anything as much as this: Eames’ hands, his mouth, the heat of his breath on Robert’s face. Eames’ teeth scrape his throat gently, mouth closing over his adam’s apple as he unbuttons each of Robert’s buttons meticulously.
Robert moans, grasping Eames’ forearm and all at once Eames’ ministrations stop. Eames almost looks horrified and Robert takes a moment to keep his emotions in check, his arousal, even though he is anything other than dignified with an erection in his pants and the needy noises he’s making.
“We should go,” Eames says, revving the engine back to life.
“What?” Robert asks shakily.
Eames looks sheepish, apologetic. “It’s a school night. You probably have a lot of work to do, don’t you Robert?”
“No,” Robert says firmly. “I don’t have any work. And even if I did, I can always do it later. It was just about to get good, Eames.”
Eames shrugs one shoulder, looking pained. “We’re going home.”
“But-”
“This isn’t a negotiation.” Eames says pointedly.
Robert huffs and tucks his shirt back into his pants, smoothing the wrinkles and turning his nose up haughtily.
“Fine,” he sneers. “It’s nothing a little rub can’t fix anyway.” He makes sure that last jab sinks and sure enough, Eames looks conflicted, a furrow between his brows followed by an unconscious swallow.
Robert sits stiffly during the entire drive home while Eames best attempts not to touch him.
*
The morning after, Eames isn’t there outside his bedroom for the usual good morning. In fact, Eames doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the house at all.
He tries the kitchen, where the cook is preparing his breakfast for the day. Bacon and eggs, and waffles, and a tall glass of something fruity and cold. It smells good.
“Have you seen Eames?” he asks her.
She shakes her head as she slices up an apple. “He didn’t come in this morning, Mr Fischer.”
Oh.
He leaves the house and finds another bodyguard waiting for him by the car. The driver’s there; they’re taking the limo.
The following afternoon, the same faceless bodyguard waits for him at the school gate.
The ride home is quiet; this bodyguard doesn’t like to talk and Robert doesn’t talk unless spoken to, not when the person is of no interest to him at all. And this new guy, with his closely cropped hair, generic suit, and blank face, is not very interesting at all.
That evening, he’s laying down on his bed. His legs dangle off the edge until his feet graze over the carpet.
It’s quiet.
His mobile is on the bedside table. No texts. Not a lot of messages in his inbox except for the few from his Uncle Browning, asking about this and that. Most had been from Eames--the most recent one is nearly two days old now.
He’s not lonely; because how can he be lonely when his room is half the size of a regular New York apartment? When he’s got a skyline outside his window, and video games just beyond the double doors of his entertainment system?
He’s not lonely.
He’s bored, is what he is.
And in a house so big with only him in it, Robert thinks hell, I need to entertain myself, don’t I?
He pushes himself out of the bed and climbs the antique wardbrobe pushed against the wall. His foot slips a little but he manages to claw his way up eventually. Once there, he takes the security camera just within reach.
He grabs the head and pulls.
It short circuits. Debris of the lens’ plastic casing crumble on the floor.
As predicted, alarms go off somewhere in the house. In the main security room where he’s sure Eames is hiding from him.
He’s bored, that’s why he smashes his lampshade against the wall. The bulb erupts, like a clap of thunder.
He shouts for good measure.
Feet thunder down the hallway and soon enough, Eames is barging into his door, his semi-automatic clutched in his hand. Behind him are several other bodyguards that Robert forgets about almost immediately.
Eames is breathless as he looks around the room. The lamp is smashed, so is the security camera, but other than that, Robert’s room is spotless and Robert--
--Robert is in the middle of it all, his hands on his hips, and the slyest smirk on his face.
“What the hell happened?” Eames practically roars out loud, that even his colleagues jump back in surprise. His breaths come in short gasps and he really is scared, Robert realizes.
“A minor accident,” Robert shrugs, tipping his head to the side. “You came.” He feigns surprise, and the stark relief in Eames’ face as he slips his gun back in his holster fills him with inexplicable satisfaction. Robert waves the rest of them off with a dismissive hand, waiting until the doors have closed to cross the room and stand directly in front of Eames.
They stare at each other for a second. “What are you doing, Robert?” Eames groans, shaking his head. “Did you do all this to get my attention?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Robert says, covering up his embarrassment. “But what if I did? I hate Louis or Willis or whatever it is that guy’s name is. The new bodyguard. He’s not...” you, Robert says in his head, “competent.”
“I’ve seen him on the field He’s one of the best, comes with an impressive list of references.”
“He’s a tool.” Robert rolls his eyes. His hands ball into fists at his sides, itching to sweep aside Eames’ hair from his face. It’s been awhile since they’ve talked to each other, and even though Eames is looking at him like he wants to strangle him or leave him alone, it feels good to be able to stand in the same room as him again.
“Anyway,” Robert continues, “why haven’t you been driving me to school lately?”
“It’s not part of the job description.”
“Really? And sticking your tongue inside my mouth is?”
“Robert-” Eames pleads.
“No, you be quiet. You’re my father’s employee and mine by extension. You’ll do what I tell you to because you’re on my payroll!” He lets out a long breath, raking shaky fingers through his hair and breathing hard.
“What on earth do you want me to do then?” Eames asks, looking bored already as he rolls his eyes and raises his arms to appeal to the ceiling. “Polish your shoes, do your laundry--”
“Kiss me,” Robert says, voice firm. It’s a miracle his voice doesn’t stutter. “Well? I said kiss me.”
There is a pause before Eames sighs and cups Robert’s jaw in his hand. Robert’s eyes close automatically and he lets out an appreciative moan as Eames pulls him closer and winds his arm around his waist.
“Oh, pet,” Eames whispers, tucking Robert’s face into his neck, “You’re ridiculous. What am I ever going to do with you, mm?”
“You can start by kissing me.”
“You don’t want me to kiss you. I reek of cigarettes. I’m an old man.”
“I don’t care,” Robert says stubbornly, “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“It will,” Eames says, almost sadly. “Maybe not right now when your brain is clogged by your hormones but years from now you’ll look back on this moment and think, ‘why did I ever let that silly man have his way with me.’”
“Is that what you want, then?”
“What?”
“Do you want to have your way with me?”
Eames blinks, releasing him somewhat, laughing nervously. “No, I mean. I meant that-”
“-because I might be okay with that. I might.” Robert squirms and pulls Eames by the sides of his jacket, looking down at his feet. “Why are you fighting this? It’s obvious you want this too.”
“This is more complicated than you think.”
“Do you have any idea how unfair that is?” Robert cries out, frustrated. “You come on to me, relentlessly, every day, and I’m here! You won! I can’t go against,” he gestures vaguely at Eames, gesturing at all of him. He ignores the solemn look on that Eames’ face. He has a point to make, God damn it. And he’s tired of being on the wrong side of things all the time. “All this. I don’t--What--”
He doesn’t understand.
Eames sighs and he moves a little towards Robert that Robert almost holds his breath in anticipation of Eames’ touch, a hug, a kiss, anything that would assuage him.
But Eames stills and he looks away for a moment.
“Well?” Robert prompts him, a mockery of Eames’ own impatience towards Robert’s dark moods. His voice twists with frustration, heavy with a merciless prodding that Robert has learned from his teachers. If you prod hard enough, if you push hard enough, then something will give eventually.
“Go to bed,” is what Eames says instead. “You have school in the morning.”
And just like that he turns to leave and Robert desperately wants to call Eames back inside his room.
But the door opens and beyond it are the other bodyguards waiting to make sure that the situation is under control. And beyond the wall of black suits and stern faces is the maid, with a broom in one hand and a bin in the other.
All of a sudden, it’s no longer him and Eames and Robert’s breath catches in his throat.
He hurls the nearest object--a snow globe--against the wall. It doesn’t shatter. It falls on the floor with a thud.
*
PART TWO