[fic] The Escort
Title: The Escort
Author: white_aster
Pairings or Characters: Eames/Arthur
Rating: Rish?
Word Count: 2189
Warnings/Kinks: AU. Amiable prostitution. General snark. Less sex than there should be.
Summary: Eames needs an escort for a high-class dinner party. Luckily, they sell those.
Author's Note: Written for the "AU. Arthur's a high class escort. Eames likes." on inception_kink.
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The Escort
Eames would insist later that he had always planned on being a perfect gentleman.
The escort wasn't the point of the evening, after all. It was merely that the mark, publishing magnate Jamison Hatfield, was in a long-term same-sex relationship, and playing the same side of the street would be a subtle psychological link. Eames wasn't betting on it getting him any closer to Hatfield, but it was always better to turn up to such events with an escort, male or female cost the same, and it wasn't as if Eames cared overmuch, so why not?
Eames "uh huh"ed absently as the Elite agent read him the standard contract over the phone. When she asked if he had any special requests, he said, "Dinner party at Forsini's, so dressed appropriately, and other than that, someone with a brain would be lovely." The last thing Eames needed was to be known as "that guy whose date put us all to sleep with his inane chatter".
The agent assured him that she knew just the gentleman.
And thus it was that at 5pm precisely, a firm knock sounded at Eames' hotel room door. Eames was running a bit late and answered the door in trousers and half-done-up shirt, mind still running through its paces. His performance that night would be Thomas Everett's first appearance in public, and Eames wanted him to be as flawlessly real as possible.
The sight of his escort standing in the hall was enough to firmly establish that Thomas Everett was very, very appreciative of the male form. Especially when that form was slim, dark-eyed, and impeccably put together from his mirror-shined shoes to the perfectly-tied bowtie topping off his flawlessly tailored tuxedo.
"Good evening. Mr. Everett, I presume?" the man asked, his tone deferential in that particular way that, oddly enough, said "butler" more than "let me slip into something more comfortable" to Eames' ears.
It took a moment for Eames to drag his attention from the man's truly exquisite cheekbones to remember his own alias. "Yes. You must be Arthur." He reached out a hand before he'd really thought about it. It was a failing of his: wanting to touch anything interesting that crossed his path.
Arthur took it immediately, shaking with a firm grip. "Yes, sir."
Eames hadn't ever had an escort call him 'sir' before, but he could, he thought, grow to like it. Not that that was what this was about. No, not at all. This was about being Thomas Everett. This was about being introduced to, possibly conversing with, and definitely observing as closely as possible Jamison Hatfield.
Perhaps Eames should have asked for a plain escort, rather than the distractingly handsome devil that they'd sent him. He wondered if Elite had any of those on file for just this type of situation.
"Come on in," Eames said, smiling as he stood aside. "We've a bit before we need to leave, and I'm not even close to being presentable yet."
-----------
Eames learned a lot about his escort while he finished getting ready. He had good instincts (his eyes took in the whole room in one practiced sweep before settling attentively on Eames), he was probably ex-military (he stood at something very much like parade rest rather than take a seat), and he was the most refreshingly straightforward escort that Eames had ever seen, asking polite, intelligent questions about Eames' expectations of his behavior at the party.
"If anyone asks how I know you, do you have any preference for what I should tell them?"
Eames chuckled as he adjusted his tie. "That depends entirely on how good an actor you are."
"Oh, I can be quite a good actor," Arthur said, and his smile in the mirror was genuinely amused.
Arthur was also, underneath the deferential tone and the oh-so-polite manner, a complete and total top in bed, or Eames would eat his own bowtie.
Not that that was relevant to the evening. Of course.
Though by the time they left the hotel, Eames was fairly certain that Thomas Everett would bed Arthur in a heartbeat. He was quite a fan of the cool and collected type, was Thomas.
-----------
The party was mind-numbingly boring, as Eames had feared it would be. He was introduced to Hatfield but was seated too far away to do much but watch the man gesture as he talked, and even that was a trial, stolen between fending off conversations with the flirty fashion designer and the pop psychology author across from him.
Arthur, seated to Eames' right, was quiet at first, those lovely dark eyes flitting from Eames to Hatfield to the annoying duo across from them all through the appetizers. When the soup arrived, he asked the author, "You're the Robert Henderson? What a coincidence. I just finished reading The Fragile Mind. It was incredibly insightful, particularly your thoughts on imagination and repression."
Henderson blinked as if seeing Arthur for the first time, turning like a flower toward the sun. "Why, thank you. It's always nice to meet a fan."
Arthur leaned forward eagerly over his bowl, head turning to the fashion designer. "Have you read it?" She shook her head, but Arthur continued on, his enthusiasm contagious. "It's really very fascinatiing. It's so hard to describe such a depth of research in plain language, but somehow--"
Eames listened with half an ear as his erstwhile arm candy skillfully distracted his distractors. By dessert, said distractors were lost in their own conversation, animatedly going on about the role of the id in art. Eames snuck a glance over at Arthur, who gave him a small, smug, practically impish smile in response and went back to dissecting his tarte au citron.
"Good show," Eames murmured as they left. The night had been almost a complete waste, but still he was smiling. He took Arthur's coat from the coatcheck girl and held it out for him with a flourish
Arthur huffed a laugh, but shrugged into the proffered garment. "You seemed distracted, and they were starting to get annoyed." He held open the door for Eames with a flourish of his own, and the cool fall air enveloped them. "It's never good practice to let things get awkward."
Eames grinned. "Indeed not."
They returned to the hotel, occupying themselves during the taxi ride with more talk of psychology (Eames added 'at least a bachelors and maybe more in psychology' to his escort's list of attributes) and discreetly eyeing each other. As they reached Eames' hotel room door, he checked his watch. He hummed thoughtfully. "Nearly ten. I suppose you'll be heading on, then?"
Arthur shrugged with his hands. "I don't have any other assignments tonight. I will be going off Elite's clock."
"Ah, so you'll be free, then?"
And there, there was that smile again, conspiratorial this time, and if the warmth in it was affected, Eames found that he didn't particularly care. "'Free' is such an ambiguous word. But I'll certainly be available."
"I see." Eames took a step closer than was strictly required to slide the keycard into the lock. "Perhaps you'd be up for a nightcap, then? Have that drink you turned down earlier?"
Arthur didn't step away. Their arms brushed as Eames opened the door, and it only made Eames want to do it again, with a dozen fewer layers of fabric involved.
Up close, those dark eyes were still cool and collected, even as that small, dimpling smile told another story and Arthur said, "Sounds good. Very kind of you to offer."
"Oh, it's not entirely altruistic, I assure you."
Arthur chuckled as they moved inside (and again the visual sweep of the room, yes, military, most definitely), "No? You're shattering my illusions here, Mr. Everett."
"So sorry," Eames said, shedding his coat and moving over to the minibar. He rubbed his hands together, contemplating the choices. "What can I get you?"
"Is there gin?" Arthur asked, and ah, there went the coat, hung neatly in the closet. And that suit really did positively obscene justice to Arthur's waist and arse, Eames noted. An excellent start to the evening.
"There is. You strike me as a gin and tonic kind of man."
"You have excellent instincts, then."
"What can I say, it's a gift." Eames stole glances up at Arthur as he poured the drinks (gin, tonic, lime for his lovely companion, straight bourbon for himself), and this time the man sat in one of the armchairs on either side of the table in the corner. Not on the bed, and Eames was perhaps more fascinated by that choice than anything. He'd hired more than one man (and woman) in his life, and none had played the game quite this close to the vest.
Eames shrugged out of his jacket, just to encourage the shedding of clothes, and brought the drinks over. Arthur took it with only the barest brush of fingers. They drank, and pretended that they didn't watch each other. "Well, then," Eames said. "This is always the awkward part, isn't it?"
Arthur shrugged a bit over his glass. He knew his legalities, too. He'd done absolutely nothing to invite any sort of charges. Eames couldn't imagine setting off any sort of police alarms in the man's head, but he could appreciate that kind of caution.
"So," Eames said softly, "how much for the night?" It was the way these things went. The escort fee, of course, couldn't include anything but the actual event. It was a common workaround (and completely out of the service's control, of course) for the escort to negotiate further payment for further services.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "The whole night?"
"Oh, absolutely." Eames held his eyes as he sipped his drink. "I like to take my time."
That might have been actual heat, flaring behind that calm exterior. Lovely.
Arthur considered, head tilting to the side, then named a price.
It was on the high end but not unreasonable. "Done," Eames said.
"I also need to leave by 6am," Arthur said, somewhat apologetically.
"Early class?" Eames asked, casually. It was a guess, though an educated one. Ex-military, and that entire conversation with Henderson had required either an amazingly well-read amateur or a man who had a close and personal relationship with some kind of psychological schooling.
And oh but that got a blink and a "yes" before the man could really think about it.
"Which one?"
Then the control was back, admirably quickly. "Personal information costs extra, Mr. Everett," Arthur said, amused.
Eames chuckled. "How much?"
"More than you have."
"Fair enough," Eames said. He could appreciate a bit of professional distance. After all, he had all night to figure out what he could on his own. He set down his glass and reached for his money clip, counting out bills and setting them on the table. Arthur's eyes counted them with him, and he nodded approvingly, letting the money curl on the table next to him, a different sort of smile on his face. More sure, more confident, as if they were back on solid ground and that was fine by him.
There was, Eames thought, something of control to be taken from such a transaction. After all, Arthur was the one being paid, here.
Arthur stood, and they were close, very close, almost touching but not quite. The air between them felt charged, full of potential energy. "Well, then, Mr. Everett. What is it you'd like?"
The low, promising tone made Eames dearly wish that he was using his own name. Well, not that Eames was his name, either, but it was certainly moreso than Everett.
Eames broke first, bridging that delightfully warm gap between them. He laid his hand on Arthur's hip and stepped close enough to murmur in his ear, leaving that one touch the only point of contact. "Right now," he said thoughtfully, "I'd like to peel you out of this lovely suit and get you into my lap so I can properly get my hands on you. After that I believe I'd like to see how long it will take to make you beg -- for real, of course, faking it is so crass, don't you think? Then we will need to build some recovery time into the schedule, as I am very much looking forward to you fucking the living daylights out of me before 6am, darling."
Arthur actually shivered. It trembled up Eames' hand where it was cupped around Arthur's hipbone.
Eames took exactly one step back, picking up his glass again. "Though I am, of course, open to suggestions. Never let it be said that I'm not...flexible."
Arthur's eyes had gone black with pupil. "I think that you have excellent ideas, Mr. Everett." He reached out, plucking the glass from Eames' hand and sliding it across the table, out of reach.
Oh, Eames thought, as Arthur stepped in, pulling himself close, pressing his erection into Eames' thigh, cupping the back of Eames' neck to hold him there as Arthur fucked his mouth with a gin-soaked tongue, this is going to be so much fun.
Author: white_aster
Pairings or Characters: Eames/Arthur
Rating: Rish?
Word Count: 2189
Warnings/Kinks: AU. Amiable prostitution. General snark. Less sex than there should be.
Summary: Eames needs an escort for a high-class dinner party. Luckily, they sell those.
Author's Note: Written for the "AU. Arthur's a high class escort. Eames likes." on inception_kink.
--------
The Escort
Eames would insist later that he had always planned on being a perfect gentleman.
The escort wasn't the point of the evening, after all. It was merely that the mark, publishing magnate Jamison Hatfield, was in a long-term same-sex relationship, and playing the same side of the street would be a subtle psychological link. Eames wasn't betting on it getting him any closer to Hatfield, but it was always better to turn up to such events with an escort, male or female cost the same, and it wasn't as if Eames cared overmuch, so why not?
Eames "uh huh"ed absently as the Elite agent read him the standard contract over the phone. When she asked if he had any special requests, he said, "Dinner party at Forsini's, so dressed appropriately, and other than that, someone with a brain would be lovely." The last thing Eames needed was to be known as "that guy whose date put us all to sleep with his inane chatter".
The agent assured him that she knew just the gentleman.
And thus it was that at 5pm precisely, a firm knock sounded at Eames' hotel room door. Eames was running a bit late and answered the door in trousers and half-done-up shirt, mind still running through its paces. His performance that night would be Thomas Everett's first appearance in public, and Eames wanted him to be as flawlessly real as possible.
The sight of his escort standing in the hall was enough to firmly establish that Thomas Everett was very, very appreciative of the male form. Especially when that form was slim, dark-eyed, and impeccably put together from his mirror-shined shoes to the perfectly-tied bowtie topping off his flawlessly tailored tuxedo.
"Good evening. Mr. Everett, I presume?" the man asked, his tone deferential in that particular way that, oddly enough, said "butler" more than "let me slip into something more comfortable" to Eames' ears.
It took a moment for Eames to drag his attention from the man's truly exquisite cheekbones to remember his own alias. "Yes. You must be Arthur." He reached out a hand before he'd really thought about it. It was a failing of his: wanting to touch anything interesting that crossed his path.
Arthur took it immediately, shaking with a firm grip. "Yes, sir."
Eames hadn't ever had an escort call him 'sir' before, but he could, he thought, grow to like it. Not that that was what this was about. No, not at all. This was about being Thomas Everett. This was about being introduced to, possibly conversing with, and definitely observing as closely as possible Jamison Hatfield.
Perhaps Eames should have asked for a plain escort, rather than the distractingly handsome devil that they'd sent him. He wondered if Elite had any of those on file for just this type of situation.
"Come on in," Eames said, smiling as he stood aside. "We've a bit before we need to leave, and I'm not even close to being presentable yet."
-----------
Eames learned a lot about his escort while he finished getting ready. He had good instincts (his eyes took in the whole room in one practiced sweep before settling attentively on Eames), he was probably ex-military (he stood at something very much like parade rest rather than take a seat), and he was the most refreshingly straightforward escort that Eames had ever seen, asking polite, intelligent questions about Eames' expectations of his behavior at the party.
"If anyone asks how I know you, do you have any preference for what I should tell them?"
Eames chuckled as he adjusted his tie. "That depends entirely on how good an actor you are."
"Oh, I can be quite a good actor," Arthur said, and his smile in the mirror was genuinely amused.
Arthur was also, underneath the deferential tone and the oh-so-polite manner, a complete and total top in bed, or Eames would eat his own bowtie.
Not that that was relevant to the evening. Of course.
Though by the time they left the hotel, Eames was fairly certain that Thomas Everett would bed Arthur in a heartbeat. He was quite a fan of the cool and collected type, was Thomas.
-----------
The party was mind-numbingly boring, as Eames had feared it would be. He was introduced to Hatfield but was seated too far away to do much but watch the man gesture as he talked, and even that was a trial, stolen between fending off conversations with the flirty fashion designer and the pop psychology author across from him.
Arthur, seated to Eames' right, was quiet at first, those lovely dark eyes flitting from Eames to Hatfield to the annoying duo across from them all through the appetizers. When the soup arrived, he asked the author, "You're the Robert Henderson? What a coincidence. I just finished reading The Fragile Mind. It was incredibly insightful, particularly your thoughts on imagination and repression."
Henderson blinked as if seeing Arthur for the first time, turning like a flower toward the sun. "Why, thank you. It's always nice to meet a fan."
Arthur leaned forward eagerly over his bowl, head turning to the fashion designer. "Have you read it?" She shook her head, but Arthur continued on, his enthusiasm contagious. "It's really very fascinatiing. It's so hard to describe such a depth of research in plain language, but somehow--"
Eames listened with half an ear as his erstwhile arm candy skillfully distracted his distractors. By dessert, said distractors were lost in their own conversation, animatedly going on about the role of the id in art. Eames snuck a glance over at Arthur, who gave him a small, smug, practically impish smile in response and went back to dissecting his tarte au citron.
"Good show," Eames murmured as they left. The night had been almost a complete waste, but still he was smiling. He took Arthur's coat from the coatcheck girl and held it out for him with a flourish
Arthur huffed a laugh, but shrugged into the proffered garment. "You seemed distracted, and they were starting to get annoyed." He held open the door for Eames with a flourish of his own, and the cool fall air enveloped them. "It's never good practice to let things get awkward."
Eames grinned. "Indeed not."
They returned to the hotel, occupying themselves during the taxi ride with more talk of psychology (Eames added 'at least a bachelors and maybe more in psychology' to his escort's list of attributes) and discreetly eyeing each other. As they reached Eames' hotel room door, he checked his watch. He hummed thoughtfully. "Nearly ten. I suppose you'll be heading on, then?"
Arthur shrugged with his hands. "I don't have any other assignments tonight. I will be going off Elite's clock."
"Ah, so you'll be free, then?"
And there, there was that smile again, conspiratorial this time, and if the warmth in it was affected, Eames found that he didn't particularly care. "'Free' is such an ambiguous word. But I'll certainly be available."
"I see." Eames took a step closer than was strictly required to slide the keycard into the lock. "Perhaps you'd be up for a nightcap, then? Have that drink you turned down earlier?"
Arthur didn't step away. Their arms brushed as Eames opened the door, and it only made Eames want to do it again, with a dozen fewer layers of fabric involved.
Up close, those dark eyes were still cool and collected, even as that small, dimpling smile told another story and Arthur said, "Sounds good. Very kind of you to offer."
"Oh, it's not entirely altruistic, I assure you."
Arthur chuckled as they moved inside (and again the visual sweep of the room, yes, military, most definitely), "No? You're shattering my illusions here, Mr. Everett."
"So sorry," Eames said, shedding his coat and moving over to the minibar. He rubbed his hands together, contemplating the choices. "What can I get you?"
"Is there gin?" Arthur asked, and ah, there went the coat, hung neatly in the closet. And that suit really did positively obscene justice to Arthur's waist and arse, Eames noted. An excellent start to the evening.
"There is. You strike me as a gin and tonic kind of man."
"You have excellent instincts, then."
"What can I say, it's a gift." Eames stole glances up at Arthur as he poured the drinks (gin, tonic, lime for his lovely companion, straight bourbon for himself), and this time the man sat in one of the armchairs on either side of the table in the corner. Not on the bed, and Eames was perhaps more fascinated by that choice than anything. He'd hired more than one man (and woman) in his life, and none had played the game quite this close to the vest.
Eames shrugged out of his jacket, just to encourage the shedding of clothes, and brought the drinks over. Arthur took it with only the barest brush of fingers. They drank, and pretended that they didn't watch each other. "Well, then," Eames said. "This is always the awkward part, isn't it?"
Arthur shrugged a bit over his glass. He knew his legalities, too. He'd done absolutely nothing to invite any sort of charges. Eames couldn't imagine setting off any sort of police alarms in the man's head, but he could appreciate that kind of caution.
"So," Eames said softly, "how much for the night?" It was the way these things went. The escort fee, of course, couldn't include anything but the actual event. It was a common workaround (and completely out of the service's control, of course) for the escort to negotiate further payment for further services.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "The whole night?"
"Oh, absolutely." Eames held his eyes as he sipped his drink. "I like to take my time."
That might have been actual heat, flaring behind that calm exterior. Lovely.
Arthur considered, head tilting to the side, then named a price.
It was on the high end but not unreasonable. "Done," Eames said.
"I also need to leave by 6am," Arthur said, somewhat apologetically.
"Early class?" Eames asked, casually. It was a guess, though an educated one. Ex-military, and that entire conversation with Henderson had required either an amazingly well-read amateur or a man who had a close and personal relationship with some kind of psychological schooling.
And oh but that got a blink and a "yes" before the man could really think about it.
"Which one?"
Then the control was back, admirably quickly. "Personal information costs extra, Mr. Everett," Arthur said, amused.
Eames chuckled. "How much?"
"More than you have."
"Fair enough," Eames said. He could appreciate a bit of professional distance. After all, he had all night to figure out what he could on his own. He set down his glass and reached for his money clip, counting out bills and setting them on the table. Arthur's eyes counted them with him, and he nodded approvingly, letting the money curl on the table next to him, a different sort of smile on his face. More sure, more confident, as if they were back on solid ground and that was fine by him.
There was, Eames thought, something of control to be taken from such a transaction. After all, Arthur was the one being paid, here.
Arthur stood, and they were close, very close, almost touching but not quite. The air between them felt charged, full of potential energy. "Well, then, Mr. Everett. What is it you'd like?"
The low, promising tone made Eames dearly wish that he was using his own name. Well, not that Eames was his name, either, but it was certainly moreso than Everett.
Eames broke first, bridging that delightfully warm gap between them. He laid his hand on Arthur's hip and stepped close enough to murmur in his ear, leaving that one touch the only point of contact. "Right now," he said thoughtfully, "I'd like to peel you out of this lovely suit and get you into my lap so I can properly get my hands on you. After that I believe I'd like to see how long it will take to make you beg -- for real, of course, faking it is so crass, don't you think? Then we will need to build some recovery time into the schedule, as I am very much looking forward to you fucking the living daylights out of me before 6am, darling."
Arthur actually shivered. It trembled up Eames' hand where it was cupped around Arthur's hipbone.
Eames took exactly one step back, picking up his glass again. "Though I am, of course, open to suggestions. Never let it be said that I'm not...flexible."
Arthur's eyes had gone black with pupil. "I think that you have excellent ideas, Mr. Everett." He reached out, plucking the glass from Eames' hand and sliding it across the table, out of reach.
Oh, Eames thought, as Arthur stepped in, pulling himself close, pressing his erection into Eames' thigh, cupping the back of Eames' neck to hold him there as Arthur fucked his mouth with a gin-soaked tongue, this is going to be so much fun.