Exchange Gift for knowmydark
Gift For: knowmydark
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex and violence. Canon character death. Capital punishment.
Title: I’d forget to smile (then I met you). (part 2)
Word Count: ~22,000
Summary: In the age of bootleggers and speakeasies, this is the story of a gangster and the detective assigned to break him. What ends up broken is entirely different.
Author Notes: Inspired by late-night forays into 1930s gangster movies and that film-noir-esque photo of JGL in a fedora and suit (incidentally, anyone know where that’s from?). Also, a huge thank you to writteninhaste for beta-ing this massive thing and catching all those mistakes!
part one
-
After that first night, they work together all the time, sitting in that dim basement at their desks that face each other. Eames hates that basement. He hates that he can see old blood stains on the concrete and hates that people have died here. He hates the door that leads outside because it isn’t sealed properly and lets in a draft of cold air, he hates that his desk is closer, that he chose that desk.
But it wasn’t such a bad choice, after all, because he’d seen the way Arthur had looked at him. It was surprise and wonderment, a bit of suspicion but gratitude as well. In any case, after that night, Arthur had been softer toward him, still cool and aloof but not hostile.
What Eames hates most about that basement is that it reminds him who Arthur really is. Away from their workspace, away from Cobb, he can pretend that Arthur is just another man, someone who works at a job that requires him to be as neat and stern and detail-oriented as naturally he is. In the basement, he sees Arthur walk right over the patches of old bloodstains without a second glance, and Eames realizes all over again that he is working for a dangerous man.
He likes Arthur. He likes being a tease and ruffling Arthur’s pristine feathers. He likes watching the other man grind his teeth, the taught muscles of his jaw working, likes seeing the tiny changes on Arthur’s face when he begins to get angry. First, the carefully neutral face that Arthur adopts to show Eames’ teasing isn’t bothering him; then, the tightening of his jaw. Then, grinding teeth. And last, right before threatening Eames with bodily harm, there’s a scowl that always threatens to turn into a smile.
So it’s always uncomfortable to be around Arthur, when his realizations are accompanied by an unpleasant jolt in his stomach, like missing a step going down the stairs, like dreaming of falling. He hates that he’s surprised when confronted with what kind of man Arthur is-because it means he wants so badly for it not to be true.
Because, the thing is, Eames hates what Arthur is. He hates what Arthur does. There is no reason in the world-not for money or booze or power-that calls for the kind of violence Eames knows the Cobb gang doles out in abundant measure. He knows what they do, what they’ve done, and what they will continue to do-and it sickens him. Right to the core of his being, it sickens him. Some of the detectives on his team may have been in Cobb’s pocket, or in Cobol’s, but Eames would never. Not ever.
“I was thinking that we should go over the details of the drop, just once more,” Arthur is saying but Eames isn’t paying attention.
“What? Sorry, love, I’m going a bit bonkers over here,” Eames tells him, flashing a smile. The truth is, he’s wondering if the shipment really will go over as well as they think it will. Browning’s itching to stop the shipment before it happens and Eames isn’t sure whether he’s convinced the man not to interfere until the right moment.
“Just focus for a few more,” Arthur stops in the middle of the sentence because someone comes bursting into the room.
“Sorry to bother you, Arthur,” a young woman says, panting slightly. Eames recognizes her as one of the singers he watched the first day he met Arthur.
“Ariadne, you know you’re not allowed down here. Cobb’s orders.” Arthur’s voice is sharp and he strides quickly over to her. Eames follows out of curiosity.
“I know that, Arthur,” she says, putting her small hand on his arm. “I know you and Cobb don’t want me to see whatever it is you do down here but I want to know.” The distress leaves her face for a second, chased away by indignation.
“Ari.” Arthur leans down and rests his forehead against hers, rubs her arms. She touches his chest and closes her eyes, and it’s so intimate Eames feels compelled to look away and a strange flash of jealousy surges through him. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Cobb. He needs you. Said for you to hurry.” She breaks away from him, urgent again. “He sounds bad.”
“Mal?”
“Yeah, think so. She was screaming.”
“Okay. If he calls, tell him five minutes.” Arthur leaves her abruptly, brushes past Eames without a glance, and gets his coat. After flashing a brief smile at the girl he has never officially met, he goes with Arthur. They walk side by side and Arthur’s shoulders occasionally brush his. He figures Arthur’s about to turn on him, snarl at him to go away but it doesn’t happen and they just walk down the streets that are piled with soot-blackened snow.
“You okay?” he asks softly. Beside him, he can sense Arthur stiffen and knows without looking that the corners of his mouth have turned into a frown.
“What’s it to you?”
“Just concerned is all,” Eames shrugs.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Arthur is not fine but he won’t push him any further.
They reach Cobb’s place in less than five minutes, and Eames is surprised that it’s not as grand as he had imagined. The building is unassuming and quiet, its interior painted in light, earthy colors, and they take the elevator.
Arthur lets himself into the apartment as comfortably as if he had been there a million times and, Eames thinks, he probably has. They step inside and there’s the faint sound of hysterical screaming, muffled through the doors. Cobb appears from one of the rooms, chased by a vase that shatters against the opposite wall, and he closes the door quickly behind him.
“Arthur, thank God,” he breathes. When he sees Eames, his face registers shock but he nods in greeting.
“She in there?” Arthur asks, motioning with his head to the room from which Cobb had come.
“Yeah. She’s not herself. She’s…I don’t know. She’s not herself. It’s like she thinks none of this is real, like it’s all a dream.” Cobb runs a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t believe me no matter what I say.”
“Think she’ll listen to me? If she won’t listen to you…” Arthur trails off, looking skeptical.
“I don’t know, Arthur. I don’t know! I can’t think of anything else. I’m at my wit’s end. Just try. Talk to her. Please.”
“I’ll do my best.” Arthur squares his shoulders and opens the door, ducks immediately as another vase comes flying toward him and steps inside.
“Come on. Get you a drink,” Cobb says, motioning Eames into the living area. He pours two liberal servings of scotch into a tumbler, one he knocks back and the other he hands to Eames.
“Who’s in there?” Eames asks, turning the glass in his hands. Cobb’s face creases with worry and regret, fear and desperation.
“My wife. Mal. She’s sick or…she’s not right. The doctors say I should send her to an asylum but,” Cobb shakes his head, “I wouldn’t.”
Eames is surprised, seeing the anguish on the man’s face, how his eyes flicker every few seconds to the door that hides his wife from view. There are lines around Cobb’s eyes and the set of his mouth is so very, very weary. It looks, in this room, as if Cobb is incapable of smiling, of feeling joy and happiness, not when the one he loves is suffering so.
“Daddy!” two little voices cry and Cobb is set upon by two small bodies. Cobb picks up the little boy, and both children eye Eames curiously.
“Hullo,” he says cheerfully, waving.
“Philippa,” Cobb says, patting his little girl on the head, “and James. This is Mr. Eames.”
“That’s a beautiful name you have, Philippa,” he says, kneeling to match her height, “just like you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eames,” she replies in a high, pretty voice. She is beautiful, with jewel-blue eyes and golden cornsilk hair that catches the light when she moves. James’ hair is light brown and curly, and his eyes are a lighter blue.
“Daddy, why is mommy so sad?” James asks, his lower lip trembling.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Cobb replies, pressing a kiss to his forehead and looking like he’s about to cry himself.
“Maybe if I give her my dessert, she’ll smile again?” The child is so sincere, so earnest, and Cobb has to swallow hard, force a smile that’s more of a grimace.
“Maybe.”
Eames has to leave then, because Philippa starts crying with her face buried in Cobb’s trousers and he can’t stand to hear little girls cry if he can’t do something to help. As he walks away, back toward the front door, he hears Cobb comforting his children and doesn’t know what’s worse: the children crying or their father’s broken attempts to reassure them.
“Mal.” It’s Arthur’s voice, resonating low and clear, and Eames follows the sound. The door has been left ajar and he peeks in, careful to remain unseen. The woman he had so admired in the club is curled in a fetal position on the bed, her head in Arthur’s lap. She is sobbing, gut-wrenching wails tearing from her throat, and her body trembles, her chest heaves, as if it hurts to cry. Arthur strokes her head, smoothing her curls, and whispers to her in French.
“Ecoutez, Mal.
Ma pauvre muse, hélas! Qu'as-tu donc ce matin?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.
Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin
T'ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes?
Le cauchemar, d'un poing despotique et mutin
T'a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes?
Je voudrais qu'exhalant l'odeur de la santé
Ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté,
Et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rythmiques,
Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques,
Où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons,
Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.”
Mal is asleep by the time Arthur is finished speaking but her breath shudders with the echo of her cries. Arthur detaches his jacket from her fingers, slowly and gently, and slides away from her. She whimpers like a child and Arthur’s fingers stroke her forehead as he shushes her, helps her under the covers and tucks her in. He presses a kiss to her forehead and murmurs something, then straightens and turns to leave.
Eames is taken aback by the grief on Arthur’s face and backs away from the weight of the expression. He’s not sure whether he can handle it, just as he couldn’t handle the grief of Cobb and his children. Arthur, however, must be a master at composing himself because he appears cool and unruffled when he speaks with Cobb.
“I got her to fall asleep.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” Cobb says, the relief and gratitude starkly apparent on his face. “Thank you.” He’s sitting on the loveseat, James asleep in his arms and Philippa curled in his lap, and he struggles to stand without waking either of the children. Arthur reaches over and lifts Philippa, cradles her gently against his chest when she stirs and whimpers.
“Shh, Pippa, shhh,” Arthur murmurs, and begins to sing, “Dodo, dinette
Dodo, dino
Ma petite poulette
Va faire dodo
Dans les bras de sa maman
Qui la berce doucement
Dodo dinette
Dodo dino.”
Arthur sways slightly from side to side, more tranquil and at ease than Eames has ever seen. His singing voice isn’t perfect but it’s smooth and deep and soothing, like rich dark chocolate or coffee. Eames steps aside to make room for Arthur to pass and he sees the infinite care in the way Arthur holds the little girl. His hands are gentle and his arms are comforting around her, and she trusts him so implicitly that one of her hands has gone to his hair and curled a fist into it. Even his expression is softer, his gait smoother as he walks the little girl to bed.
It’s clear to Eames that Arthur is not only Cobb’s second-in-command, he’s part of the family. Arthur is a beloved member of the Cobb household, not just the Cobb gang, and he clearly cherishes his position.
“Let’s go,” Arthur says after he’s tucked Philippa into bed. They leave the house quietly, and Eames breathes a sigh of relief once he’s outside. Eames puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, meaning to comfort, but he jumps violently and whirls around, grabbing Eames’ wrist in a painful, vice-like grip.
“Don’t you breath a word to anyone about what you saw tonight, hear?” Arthur snarls, hackles raised once again. It’s like staring into the face of a wounded animal that’s striking out in warning, in self-defense, and Eames is suddenly overwhelmed with a rush of empathy. He doesn’t tense or pull away and calmly faces Arthur.
“I know.”
“Mal will get better,” Arthur says fiercely. “She’ll get better. She’ll be as good as new.” Eames remains silent, listening. “She’ll be okay. Cobb will be okay. Pippa and James will be okay.”
“You love them, don’t you?” Eames asks before he can stop himself. Arthur casts a sharp glance at him but doesn’t reply, just hauls him back to the nightclub’s basement.
He throws himself in his chair and hides his face in his hands for a long moment. The sudden display of vulnerability surprises Eames almost as much as the display of gentleness with Mal and Philippa. He is, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words and chooses not to say anything, feeling that silence may just be what Arthur needs. Empty or false reassurances won’t do anything and pity would only anger him. So he leans against Arthur’s desk, his leg very nearly touching Arthur’s knee, and he waits.
Presently, the man pulls out a cigarette and a match, lights the cigarette and inhales deeply. His hands shake less when he exhales, his eyes closed and his face framed by the bluish-grey smoke.
“Want some?” he asks Eames, who raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He takes the fag from Arthur-ignores the way their fingers brush-and raises it to his lips, thinks that this is the most intimate thing he has ever done with Arthur, sharing a cigarette in the dark of the basement with the light of the moon shining through the lone window.
-
Eames terrifies Arthur. That’s frightening in itself but Arthur can’t think about it too long lest he get dizzy.
He shouldn’t be terrified. He really shouldn’t. Eames may be a large man with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a strong chest, but Arthur is strong too. He’s lithe and lean and powerful though he doesn’t look it. Arthur is confident in his strength and knows that he could snap one of Eames’ arms in half if he wanted to.
What scares him is that he doesn’t want to. Anyone else mouthed off to him like Eames has and he’d have reduced them to a nameless John Doe in a dumpster or a ditch. Anyone else grinned at him with that much blatant disrespect and he’d have snapped their worthless necks within moments. Anyone else followed him to Cobb’s, watched him with that much pity and he’d have torn them apart and scattered the pieces for the dogs.
But Eames is not just anyone else. Eames is simply Eames. He is competent and smart, a terrible speller but otherwise brilliant. Eames smiles easily but knows when to be serious-or, rather, knows when to stop pushing Arthur’s buttons to avoid a messy death. And when Eames smiles, his eyes light up, his whole face lights up. When Eames smiles, he makes Arthur want to smile too, just a little.
So Eames terrifies Arthur because nobody has ever made Arthur want to smile-nobody who wasn’t Dom or Mal or their children, anyway-and Arthur is not about to let another person behind his defenses. He is not going to care because what he does, who he is, he can’t afford to care and he most certainly doesn’t deserve to.
So he doesn’t engage in Eames’ obvious flirting and doesn’t ever rise to the bait. He bites down on the retorts and the threats that could be misread as reciprocation and goes about his work with a stony expression, sometimes throwing a sharp glare when he really can’t help it.
“Tell me, Arthur, don’t you have a dame waiting at home for you?” Eames drawls late one night. Arthur is buried in paperwork and research; he’s been tracking the Fischers’ every movement, hoping for an indiscretion or a secret pleasure with which to threaten or bribe the two. Consequently, he does not have time for Eames today.
“Dry up,” he says absently, shifting aside a pile of papers to look for his notebook. “Move.”
“Oh, come on,” Eames protests, not budging an inch. “You have to have someone. What about that doll-whatsername-Ariadne? She your special lady?”
“No. She’s a friend.”
“But she’s a pretty little slip of a thing, isn’t she? With those doe eyes and that sexy voice. Makes you want to just...” Before he knows it, Arthur’s stood up and his papers are still floating to the floor when he has Eames’ collar in his hands. It’s not remarkably different from the first time he ever threatened the man, except he’s standing so much closer that he can feel Eames’ heat through their clothes.
“You say one more word, Eames, and I swear I’ll rip your head off.”
“Why so angry, huh?” the man challenges, his hazel eyes narrowing. “You upset I’m going to sully little Ariadne’s virtue or is this something else?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur scoffs but he can’t make himself let go or step back. He’s the one holding Eames by the throat but he feels like he’s the one being pinned into place.
“So tell me, Arthur dear, what am I talking about? Enlighten me.”
“You leave Ariadne out of this. You leave her alone.”
“Because you want her for yourself?”
“Yeah, that’s why,” Arthur growls, even if this is a bald-faced lie. “I got her. She’s mine and you keep your grubby hands off her.”
“Fine,” Eames concedes. “Fine.” They step away from each other and Arthur feels strangely bereft. Like he’s lost something. Eames smiles again, coldly.
They spend the rest of the day in silence. And Arthur does not feel the ghost of Eames’ body heat around him.
-
“What do you think?” Eames places a forged label in front of Arthur.
“This isn’t what I asked for.”
“Yes, it is. We decided we’d bring the booze in as tonic water. And I’ve crafted a label for the finest tonic water in the world.”
“This is hideous, Eames. Nobody’s going to believe that a legitimate company is selling tonic water labeled like this.” Arthur jabs a finger at the paper. “It’s garish.”
“Garish,” Eames snorts, “just because you’re afraid of anything brighter than grey doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have a healthy appreciation for color.”
“I have a healthy appreciation for color. This is just insane.”
“Arthur, this is art. It’ll be too nouveau for those overworked inspectors and they’ll pass it off as another company trying to be avant garde instead of looking too hard.”
“Looking too hard…” Arthur says, a growl of a warning in his voice.
“But that’s the beauty of it,” Eames cuts him off, “no matter how hard they look, they’ll never suspect.”
“What?”
“That the goods are booze. That the Cortez Tonic Company is a front.”
“Why?”
“They look any harder than this label, they’ll find this.” Eames leans against Arthur’s desk and places a file beside him. “Legal documents. Deeds. Receipts. Contracts. It’s all there.”
“I am impressed,” Arthur says in a low breath, rifling through the documents. “These are…”
“Stellar? Outstanding? The cat’s meow? I know.” The shock on Arthur’s face is almost insulting. “You don’t have to look so surprised,” he says, trying not to sound petulant.
Arthur looks up at him and his brown eyes seem to darken. It’s all the warning Eames gets before the other man pushes him. Eames stumbles and his back hits a door. Arthur reaches around him, pushes it open and pushes Eames into what appears to be a broom closet. The lock clicks and Eames has barely realized where he is when Arthur’s unbuckling his belt and undoing his trousers.
“Christ, Arthur, what the hell?” he groans. Arthur shushes him, pins him against the wall and grinds their hips together. “What about Ariadne?”
“Not a word, Mr. Eames,” Arthur whispers, breath hot and wet against the shell of his ear. “Not a fucking word.”
Eames’ head is spinning but he decides not to protest, not to ruin his chances at whatever is about to happen. He likes Ariadne, sure, but Arthur’s rutting against him like he’s in heat. He doesn’t really know what’s about to happen, not until he hears the sound of another zipper and the swish of fabric as it falls carelessly to the floor.
Arthur takes the lead, reaching between them and grasping Eames in a grip that could hurt but doesn’t, is only pleasurable. Eames gasps, moves to do the same but Arthur swats him away.
“No,” he orders, stepping away from Eames. They’re both panting and Eames’ body strains with want and he’s going to go insane if something doesn’t happen right now. But Arthur smirks at him, looks up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes, and props himself against the wall. He lifts one leg as best he can and spreads them as he sucks on his fingers before reaching down and pushing a finger into himself.
“God,” Arthur breathes, allowing his head to fall back, exposing the long line of his throat. He adds a second finger, and a third, and soon he’s pushing down on himself, his entire body quivering. Eames spits into his hand and slicks his cock, already anticipating Arthur’s next move. When Arthur’s ready, he hooks a leg around Eames’ waist and pulls him closer.
Eames braces his hands against the wall as Arthur lifts his other leg, supported by the wall and by Eames. Without warning, he pushes himself down onto Eames, and they both groan at the contact. Arthur’s hands go to Eames’ shoulders and grip them tightly, his legs wrapped around Eames’ waist.
They can’t seem to find a good rhythm; their paces don’t match. It’s worth it, though, because Eames focuses on the way Arthur’s eyes flutter shut, the way his mouth opens just enough to reveal a glimpse of his pink tongue, the way the crease between his eyebrows deepens with concentration.
Eames is so close-so close-but Arthur’s frowning and, frustratingly enough, looking almost bored, which isn’t fair. Then he shifts, thrusts-and Arthur arches his back and moans, a long, low, guttural sound that’s the most erotic thing Eames has ever heard. His long fingers spasm on Eames’ shoulder and he lets his head fall back again.
Then, suddenly, Arthur inhales deeply, sharply, and comes, his whole body tensing around Eames. It’s too much and one last weak push sends Eames into his own orgasm. Their ragged breathing fills the tiny closet as they calm themselves for a moment. Then Arthur is back to his crisp efficiency, fishing a rag from one of the shelves around them and wiping himself down. He tosses the rag at Eames before stepping back into his clothes and waits for Eames to do the same.
Arthur doesn’t have a hair out of place but there’s a slight flush in his cheeks and he’s breathing more rapidly than usual. He is as cool and unruffled as if he were watching Eames clean a gun, not his cock. When Eames has finished tucking his shirt back into his pants, Arthur turns on his heel and leaves the closet, leaves Eames watching the way he walks just the slightest bit differently.
When Eames walks back to their desks, Arthur’s got a file in front of him, marking a page with his neat, even handwriting. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge Eames, but he shifts in his seat and smirks.
Eames follows his lead but spends the rest of the day wondering how he can make Arthur moan like that again-and what it will take to make the man come apart.
-
“Eames,” he moans, threading his fingers through Eames’ hair. “God.” The word comes out pleading and he feels Eames grin against his cock. They’re in the broom closet again, with two minutes before Cobb’s guys come to hear the details of the drop, and Eames is doing things with his mouth the likes of which Arthur has never felt before.
“I’m serious,” he breathes, pulling slightly on his fistful of hair, “we need to finish th-.” His words are strangled when Eames pulls his full length into his mouth and swallows around him. The constriction of Eames’ throat, the press of his tongue, the light graze of his teeth-Arthur throws his head back, where it smacks against the wall, and comes with a long, low groan that he muffles with the crook of his elbow. His knees go weak but Eames holds him steady, pressing him against the wall with sure, strong hands. Eames takes all of his orgasm and, when he’s licked Arthur clean, he stands and pulls up Arthur’s trousers.
“Delicious,” he purrs, his hands warm on Arthur’s hips. There’s a white smear at the corner of his lips and Arthur unthinkingly reaches up and wipes it away. Eames catches his hand, sucks off the come from his thumb, and kisses it softly, never breaking eye contact with Arthur. He pulls his hand back, unsettled by the tenderness Eames is showing him and swallows convulsively.
“Don’t do that,” he says, but he would be lying if he said he meant it. “Don’t ever do that again.” Eames’ mouth thins in displeasure but he doesn’t say anything. He’s easy to read when he wants to be but this is not one of those times; his emotions are shuttered when he turns and walks away. Arthur tucks in his shirt and waits until he knows the flush of blood has drained from his cheeks and neck, waits until his heart has stopped racing.
See, Arthur has rules. No kissing, no intimacy, nothing gentle or loving. They’ll admit their mutual lust for each other but it ends there. They never fuck completely naked, don’t linger in the broom closet. They won’t go to each other’s places. They fuck only at night or in the early morning, only when it’s the two of them in the entire building. These are the rules and that’s that. Eames hasn’t complained so far.
He doesn’t have much time because soon after, the men Cobb’s entrusted with the drop are filing into the room. They listen as he and Eames outline the drop: Arthur, with the alias “Mr. Grant,” will meet the shipment and sign for it. They’ve got labels for the trucks, labels for the crates. Everything points to a legitimate tonic business. Cobb’s men will load the trucks and drive away, to a warehouse at the edge of Chicago, where they’ll meet Eames. From there, they’ll distribute the crates throughout town, to speakeasies and other nightclubs.
“That’s the plan, understand?” Arthur asks, glaring around the room. The men standing before him mumble and nod, staring at the floor to avoid eye contact. He’s got them cowed, which sends a surge of savage pleasure through him.
“From now until the drop’s finished, you call me ‘Mr. Grant.’ One of you calls me ‘Arthur’ and you’re dead. I’ll personally put the bullet in you myself.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Grant.”
“Good. I’ll see you two days from now. If you need anything, you come to me.” As the men shuffle away, Arthur catches sight of Eames, standing to the side. His brow is furrowed and the set of his mouth is stiff and uneasy, and Eames watches him with a pensive, anxious expression. It’s a more serious emotion than Arthur has ever seen on the man’s face and it makes him uneasy.
“I think, Mr. Eames,” he says when they’re alone in the room, “you should come with me.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I believe I will,” Eames winks, and his dark expression disappears in favor of a roguish smirk that’s all charm.
Two days later, Arthur’s at the edge of town, signing his false name “Charles Grant” for a seedy-looking deliveryman who eyes him suspiciously.
“Sure got a lotta tonic water for one man,” he says. “You sick or somethin’?”
“Or something,” Arthur replies vaguely, smiling as threateningly as he can. The man falls back a step and doffs his worn cap.
“Sure, sure, Mr. Grant. Don’t mean no harm.”
Arthur snaps his fingers and his men begin loading the crates onto their trucks. He sees the man inspecting the trucks’ logos and, satisfied, leaves to oversee another delivery. It’s the easiest he’s ever had a drop and he’s relieved but suspicious. It’s almost too easy, how well Eames’ plan worked. He dismisses the men and goes back to the basement with Eames, who’s flying high with their success.
“Arthur!” The shout is preceded by a clatter of footsteps and Arthur pulls away as Ariadne runs into the room. “Oh! Mr. Eames,” she says, blushing shyly. “Good evening.”
“Did you need something?” Arthur asks, cutting across Eames’ greeting. “We’re busy.”
“Oh.” Her face falls slightly and she bites her lip.
“Don’t mind him, Ari dear, Arthur’s just a stick in the mud. You know we’ll always spare a few moments for you.”
“Well, Tom wants me to ask you if you two are gonna be at the dance later? Mal’s feeling better so she and Cobb are stopping by. Think they’d like to see you. And Arthur.”
“And?”
“Well, I wondered if,” she falters under Eames’ playful stare and blushes deeply but squares her shoulders and says in a rush, “if Arthur wanted to go as my dance partner.”
“Ahh,” Eames says, turning to Arthur, “there’s the rub. Well?” He and Ariadne are both looking at him, expecting him to answer. Eames is teasing, laughter dancing in his eyes, and Ariadne looks calm but her fingers twist together, betraying her nervousness.
“Oh, come on, Arthur, it’s only a few hours,” Eames says, walking to him and throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Surely you know how to cut loose? Dance?”
“It would be a lot of fun, Arthur,” she tells him. “Please?”
“Fine. Fine, I’ll be there.” Ariadne squeals in delight and Eames laughs, a bright sound that does not send a thrill up Arthur’s spine. “But I won’t enjoy it.” Ariadne runs upstairs, babbling about finding a dress and shoes and makeup. When she’s gone, Eames steps closer to him.
“Oh, but you will. I’ll make sure of that.” The whisper is punctuated by a bite to the lobe of his ear, a bite to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a lick behind his ear-and Arthur should punch Eames for overstepping the careful boundaries they’ve put between them but he can’t stop the strangled groan that leaves his lips.
“Later, Arthur. Later.” There’s a promise in Eames’ voice, then he’s gone.
-
Later, Arthur watches Eames dance with Ariadne. He moves with surprising ease on the dance floor, keeping up with her youthful enthusiasm, and they dance the Charleston, all energy and excitement. He watches Eames’ hands on her waist and remembers how they felt on his hips. Eames laughs breathlessly, his plush lips stretched wide, and Arthur pictures them wrapped around his cock. He’s half-hard already and angry, angry that he’s here when he doesn’t want to be, angry that Eames is dancing with Ariadne when he should be with Arthur.
A roar of laughter and applause rises up when Eames lifts Ariadne up in a complicated move and brings her back down, their bodies pressed tight against each other. Arthur flushes-with anger or arousal, he can’t really tell-and weaves his way through the crowd and catches Eames’ eye, jerks his head toward the stage and moves in that direction, certain that Eames understands.
He smirks in triumph when strong hands seize him around the hips as soon as they’re behind the curtain, when a strong body presses against his back.
“I saw you watching us,” Eames growls into the shell of his ear. “Like what you saw?”
“No, I can’t say I did,” he answers, as disdainfully as he can. Eames makes a frustrated noise and bites down on Arthur’s neck, then licks it-and, just like that, Arthur’s straining against his trousers.
“Downstairs,” Eames pants. “Now.” They nearly fall down the stairs in their haste and vaguely, in the back of his head, Arthur cringes at his loss of control. But Eames is so eager and he’s so riled up that he can’t help it.
They shed their trousers hurriedly, elbows bumping into each other and the walls and shelves in the tiny broom closet that barely fits. Things clatter to the floor and they’re making entirely too much noise but hopefully the music upstairs is loud enough to cover it up because Arthur can’t quite bring himself to care when Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock and presses a thumb into the slit. He’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves his lips, except that Eames’ panting becomes louder. He heaves himself up and moves his hand between his legs but Eames stops him.
“Let me, Arthur,” he whispers, nearly pleads. Before Arthur can protest, Eames has slicked his hand and is pressing a finger-a calloused, broad finger-inside him and it feels so good. Eames adds another finger, pushes in deeper and twists them, brushes just so against Arthur’s prostate, which makes him shudder and moan. Arthur watches blearily as Eames slicks himself.
“C’mere, you.” Eames’ voice is wrecked, husky and deep with lust, and he hoists Arthur’s legs up and pushes inside him.
It’s messy and rough and entirely too desperate. Eames thrusts almost brutally, his hands gripping Arthur’s hips hard enough to bruise and he growls expletives all the while. One of Arthur’s hands claws at Eames’ shoulder, while the other is tangled in Eames’ hair, and he’s making so much noise.
When Eames thrusts into his prostate-once, twice-Arthur has to bite down on his sleeve to keep from shouting as he comes. Eames bites down on Arthur’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, when he comes soon after.
Upstairs, Ariadne looks around for her dance partner. And can’t find him.
-
Eames really doesn’t know what he’s doing, fucking Arthur like he is. It’s unpleasant, to say the least, caught between his feelings of right and wrong and his undeniable and insatiable appetite for the man. For watching his face, for feeling his body, for knowing that he’s at Eames’ mercy during their sexual encounters.
He’s known what it is to feel such desire and to act upon it but he also knows that there is no good, at all, that could come from it. He’d had to move from London to Chicago to escape trouble-legal and otherwise-after being caught with another man. Eames is a man who knows what he wants and gets it, fuck the consequences.
With Arthur, though, it’s different. He’s never experienced an all-consuming need for someone else before. His previous flings were always purely hedonistic, sexual escapades that served the sole purpose of indulging in his vices. But Arthur-he’d be damned if he said he didn’t want to be the one Arthur leaned on, the one Arthur trusted. He wanted to make Arthur smile and laugh because he knew the stone-faced man was capable of it; he’d seen humor lurking in Arthur’s serious brown eyes.
The stakes are so much higher, though. He’s got Browning informed of all the Cobb gang’s moves, sneaking off in the middle of the night to bring him the latest details of the drop. Yusuf meets him at his apartment, sometimes, when Eames is sure nobody’s watching, and they listen to the radio and talk. Eames talks about the things he’s seen working with Arthur. He talks about the beating he witnessed when the man in charge of printing their labels smudges the ink on a batch and ruined them, about how Arthur had been merciless and cruel, how the beaten man had pleaded and begged through broken teeth and split lips. He talks about how Arthur drops threats like he breaths, simply and matter of fact. He tells Yusuf how much he hates Arthur and doesn’t say anything about how much he doesn’t hate Arthur-but Yusuf seems to know that anyway.
“Be careful, Eames,” he always warns when he leaves. He claps Eames on the shoulder and looks deep into his eyes. “Be careful.” Somehow, Eames knows his friend means something deeper than simply watching his back.
“Always am, Yusuf, you know that,” he always answers, grinning cheekily.
But he’s being careless with Arthur. Careless about fucking him, about his feelings for him, as if he’s some damn woman who can’t keep his heart in check. He can’t really, truly bring himself to do something about it, though. He could walk away from Arthur, could ignore the heated looks that always signal a romp in the broom closet, which is the only place that offers a substantial amount of privacy.
He doesn’t want to, though, because as much as he hates Arthur, he likes him in equal measure. He is complex and multi-faceted, flashing sides of him that are different from his stern and sometimes cruel attitude.
“Turn that up,” Arthur says suddenly one frigid morning, motioning to the radio Eames had brought in a few days previously. The clear, bright tones of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet and Bessie Smith’s voice float from the radio and Eames is surprised to hear Arthur humming along, his baritone melding perfectly with Smith’s dulcet voice.
“Well, well, well, I didn’t know you liked jazz,” he remarks, making Arthur jump. He laughs because it’s so dissimilar to who he thinks Arthur is.
“What’s so funny?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Darling, for someone so rigid to like music so fluid, it’s quite the paradox,” Eames says through his chuckles. “So that stick up your arse can be removed after all.”
“You of all people should know quite well that it can, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies with a wicked smirk that shows all his teeth.
They end up fucking to the rest of the song, and it’s frantic, as it always is. This time, this time they forget that anyone could walk in on them-or, perhaps, they don’t care-and it heightens the sex, that thrill of tension. It’s the first time Eames takes Arthur from behind, bending him over a desk and pushing into him so hard the table rattles. He holds Arthur’s hips to give himself leverage, and Arthur’s fingers grip the desk so hard his knuckles turn white.
Eames focuses on those slim, slender hands, the way they curl around the edge of the desk, the way they shift when Arthur takes the strength of Eames’ movements. He focuses on these to distract him from the wanton noises Arthur makes, muffled in his mouth because he’s biting his lip, from the way Arthur clenches around him, invites him all the way in, the way Arthur snaps his hips back to meet Eames’ forward thrusts.
They come together and that’s another first. Arthur drops his head as they ride their orgasms together. Eames pulls out of him, takes his clean handkerchief from his pocket and cleans Arthur.
“Hey.” Arthur says, his tone languid. Eames looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, wiping the remains of Arthur’s come from the floor and desk. Arthur’s smiling beatifically at him, revealing two dimples that frame his mouth, like parentheses that Eames never wants to close.
“Yes?”
Arthur doesn’t say anything else, just regards Eames with that smile and reaches down, presses the tips of his fingers questioningly against Eames’ cheek. Eames freezes at the touch, not wanting to startle him and not trusting himself to do something stupid like kiss him. He freezes and lets Arthur touch his face.
And it’s so strange because he sees the awareness coming back to Arthur, the awareness that their unspoken boundaries-Arthur’s unspoken rules-are slowly disappearing. Arthur snatches his hand away and the smile is replaced with a scowl that holds no heat, no fierceness. It’s an expression of such strange bewilderment that Eames is left breathless, the wind knocked completely out of him, because it’s the first time he’s ever seen Arthur look anything other than the picture of pure confidence.
part three
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex and violence. Canon character death. Capital punishment.
Title: I’d forget to smile (then I met you). (part 2)
Word Count: ~22,000
Summary: In the age of bootleggers and speakeasies, this is the story of a gangster and the detective assigned to break him. What ends up broken is entirely different.
Author Notes: Inspired by late-night forays into 1930s gangster movies and that film-noir-esque photo of JGL in a fedora and suit (incidentally, anyone know where that’s from?). Also, a huge thank you to writteninhaste for beta-ing this massive thing and catching all those mistakes!
part one
-
After that first night, they work together all the time, sitting in that dim basement at their desks that face each other. Eames hates that basement. He hates that he can see old blood stains on the concrete and hates that people have died here. He hates the door that leads outside because it isn’t sealed properly and lets in a draft of cold air, he hates that his desk is closer, that he chose that desk.
But it wasn’t such a bad choice, after all, because he’d seen the way Arthur had looked at him. It was surprise and wonderment, a bit of suspicion but gratitude as well. In any case, after that night, Arthur had been softer toward him, still cool and aloof but not hostile.
What Eames hates most about that basement is that it reminds him who Arthur really is. Away from their workspace, away from Cobb, he can pretend that Arthur is just another man, someone who works at a job that requires him to be as neat and stern and detail-oriented as naturally he is. In the basement, he sees Arthur walk right over the patches of old bloodstains without a second glance, and Eames realizes all over again that he is working for a dangerous man.
He likes Arthur. He likes being a tease and ruffling Arthur’s pristine feathers. He likes watching the other man grind his teeth, the taught muscles of his jaw working, likes seeing the tiny changes on Arthur’s face when he begins to get angry. First, the carefully neutral face that Arthur adopts to show Eames’ teasing isn’t bothering him; then, the tightening of his jaw. Then, grinding teeth. And last, right before threatening Eames with bodily harm, there’s a scowl that always threatens to turn into a smile.
So it’s always uncomfortable to be around Arthur, when his realizations are accompanied by an unpleasant jolt in his stomach, like missing a step going down the stairs, like dreaming of falling. He hates that he’s surprised when confronted with what kind of man Arthur is-because it means he wants so badly for it not to be true.
Because, the thing is, Eames hates what Arthur is. He hates what Arthur does. There is no reason in the world-not for money or booze or power-that calls for the kind of violence Eames knows the Cobb gang doles out in abundant measure. He knows what they do, what they’ve done, and what they will continue to do-and it sickens him. Right to the core of his being, it sickens him. Some of the detectives on his team may have been in Cobb’s pocket, or in Cobol’s, but Eames would never. Not ever.
“I was thinking that we should go over the details of the drop, just once more,” Arthur is saying but Eames isn’t paying attention.
“What? Sorry, love, I’m going a bit bonkers over here,” Eames tells him, flashing a smile. The truth is, he’s wondering if the shipment really will go over as well as they think it will. Browning’s itching to stop the shipment before it happens and Eames isn’t sure whether he’s convinced the man not to interfere until the right moment.
“Just focus for a few more,” Arthur stops in the middle of the sentence because someone comes bursting into the room.
“Sorry to bother you, Arthur,” a young woman says, panting slightly. Eames recognizes her as one of the singers he watched the first day he met Arthur.
“Ariadne, you know you’re not allowed down here. Cobb’s orders.” Arthur’s voice is sharp and he strides quickly over to her. Eames follows out of curiosity.
“I know that, Arthur,” she says, putting her small hand on his arm. “I know you and Cobb don’t want me to see whatever it is you do down here but I want to know.” The distress leaves her face for a second, chased away by indignation.
“Ari.” Arthur leans down and rests his forehead against hers, rubs her arms. She touches his chest and closes her eyes, and it’s so intimate Eames feels compelled to look away and a strange flash of jealousy surges through him. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Cobb. He needs you. Said for you to hurry.” She breaks away from him, urgent again. “He sounds bad.”
“Mal?”
“Yeah, think so. She was screaming.”
“Okay. If he calls, tell him five minutes.” Arthur leaves her abruptly, brushes past Eames without a glance, and gets his coat. After flashing a brief smile at the girl he has never officially met, he goes with Arthur. They walk side by side and Arthur’s shoulders occasionally brush his. He figures Arthur’s about to turn on him, snarl at him to go away but it doesn’t happen and they just walk down the streets that are piled with soot-blackened snow.
“You okay?” he asks softly. Beside him, he can sense Arthur stiffen and knows without looking that the corners of his mouth have turned into a frown.
“What’s it to you?”
“Just concerned is all,” Eames shrugs.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Arthur is not fine but he won’t push him any further.
They reach Cobb’s place in less than five minutes, and Eames is surprised that it’s not as grand as he had imagined. The building is unassuming and quiet, its interior painted in light, earthy colors, and they take the elevator.
Arthur lets himself into the apartment as comfortably as if he had been there a million times and, Eames thinks, he probably has. They step inside and there’s the faint sound of hysterical screaming, muffled through the doors. Cobb appears from one of the rooms, chased by a vase that shatters against the opposite wall, and he closes the door quickly behind him.
“Arthur, thank God,” he breathes. When he sees Eames, his face registers shock but he nods in greeting.
“She in there?” Arthur asks, motioning with his head to the room from which Cobb had come.
“Yeah. She’s not herself. She’s…I don’t know. She’s not herself. It’s like she thinks none of this is real, like it’s all a dream.” Cobb runs a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t believe me no matter what I say.”
“Think she’ll listen to me? If she won’t listen to you…” Arthur trails off, looking skeptical.
“I don’t know, Arthur. I don’t know! I can’t think of anything else. I’m at my wit’s end. Just try. Talk to her. Please.”
“I’ll do my best.” Arthur squares his shoulders and opens the door, ducks immediately as another vase comes flying toward him and steps inside.
“Come on. Get you a drink,” Cobb says, motioning Eames into the living area. He pours two liberal servings of scotch into a tumbler, one he knocks back and the other he hands to Eames.
“Who’s in there?” Eames asks, turning the glass in his hands. Cobb’s face creases with worry and regret, fear and desperation.
“My wife. Mal. She’s sick or…she’s not right. The doctors say I should send her to an asylum but,” Cobb shakes his head, “I wouldn’t.”
Eames is surprised, seeing the anguish on the man’s face, how his eyes flicker every few seconds to the door that hides his wife from view. There are lines around Cobb’s eyes and the set of his mouth is so very, very weary. It looks, in this room, as if Cobb is incapable of smiling, of feeling joy and happiness, not when the one he loves is suffering so.
“Daddy!” two little voices cry and Cobb is set upon by two small bodies. Cobb picks up the little boy, and both children eye Eames curiously.
“Hullo,” he says cheerfully, waving.
“Philippa,” Cobb says, patting his little girl on the head, “and James. This is Mr. Eames.”
“That’s a beautiful name you have, Philippa,” he says, kneeling to match her height, “just like you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eames,” she replies in a high, pretty voice. She is beautiful, with jewel-blue eyes and golden cornsilk hair that catches the light when she moves. James’ hair is light brown and curly, and his eyes are a lighter blue.
“Daddy, why is mommy so sad?” James asks, his lower lip trembling.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Cobb replies, pressing a kiss to his forehead and looking like he’s about to cry himself.
“Maybe if I give her my dessert, she’ll smile again?” The child is so sincere, so earnest, and Cobb has to swallow hard, force a smile that’s more of a grimace.
“Maybe.”
Eames has to leave then, because Philippa starts crying with her face buried in Cobb’s trousers and he can’t stand to hear little girls cry if he can’t do something to help. As he walks away, back toward the front door, he hears Cobb comforting his children and doesn’t know what’s worse: the children crying or their father’s broken attempts to reassure them.
“Mal.” It’s Arthur’s voice, resonating low and clear, and Eames follows the sound. The door has been left ajar and he peeks in, careful to remain unseen. The woman he had so admired in the club is curled in a fetal position on the bed, her head in Arthur’s lap. She is sobbing, gut-wrenching wails tearing from her throat, and her body trembles, her chest heaves, as if it hurts to cry. Arthur strokes her head, smoothing her curls, and whispers to her in French.
“Ecoutez, Mal.
Ma pauvre muse, hélas! Qu'as-tu donc ce matin?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.
Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin
T'ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes?
Le cauchemar, d'un poing despotique et mutin
T'a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes?
Je voudrais qu'exhalant l'odeur de la santé
Ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté,
Et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rythmiques,
Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques,
Où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons,
Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.”
Mal is asleep by the time Arthur is finished speaking but her breath shudders with the echo of her cries. Arthur detaches his jacket from her fingers, slowly and gently, and slides away from her. She whimpers like a child and Arthur’s fingers stroke her forehead as he shushes her, helps her under the covers and tucks her in. He presses a kiss to her forehead and murmurs something, then straightens and turns to leave.
Eames is taken aback by the grief on Arthur’s face and backs away from the weight of the expression. He’s not sure whether he can handle it, just as he couldn’t handle the grief of Cobb and his children. Arthur, however, must be a master at composing himself because he appears cool and unruffled when he speaks with Cobb.
“I got her to fall asleep.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” Cobb says, the relief and gratitude starkly apparent on his face. “Thank you.” He’s sitting on the loveseat, James asleep in his arms and Philippa curled in his lap, and he struggles to stand without waking either of the children. Arthur reaches over and lifts Philippa, cradles her gently against his chest when she stirs and whimpers.
“Shh, Pippa, shhh,” Arthur murmurs, and begins to sing, “Dodo, dinette
Dodo, dino
Ma petite poulette
Va faire dodo
Dans les bras de sa maman
Qui la berce doucement
Dodo dinette
Dodo dino.”
Arthur sways slightly from side to side, more tranquil and at ease than Eames has ever seen. His singing voice isn’t perfect but it’s smooth and deep and soothing, like rich dark chocolate or coffee. Eames steps aside to make room for Arthur to pass and he sees the infinite care in the way Arthur holds the little girl. His hands are gentle and his arms are comforting around her, and she trusts him so implicitly that one of her hands has gone to his hair and curled a fist into it. Even his expression is softer, his gait smoother as he walks the little girl to bed.
It’s clear to Eames that Arthur is not only Cobb’s second-in-command, he’s part of the family. Arthur is a beloved member of the Cobb household, not just the Cobb gang, and he clearly cherishes his position.
“Let’s go,” Arthur says after he’s tucked Philippa into bed. They leave the house quietly, and Eames breathes a sigh of relief once he’s outside. Eames puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, meaning to comfort, but he jumps violently and whirls around, grabbing Eames’ wrist in a painful, vice-like grip.
“Don’t you breath a word to anyone about what you saw tonight, hear?” Arthur snarls, hackles raised once again. It’s like staring into the face of a wounded animal that’s striking out in warning, in self-defense, and Eames is suddenly overwhelmed with a rush of empathy. He doesn’t tense or pull away and calmly faces Arthur.
“I know.”
“Mal will get better,” Arthur says fiercely. “She’ll get better. She’ll be as good as new.” Eames remains silent, listening. “She’ll be okay. Cobb will be okay. Pippa and James will be okay.”
“You love them, don’t you?” Eames asks before he can stop himself. Arthur casts a sharp glance at him but doesn’t reply, just hauls him back to the nightclub’s basement.
He throws himself in his chair and hides his face in his hands for a long moment. The sudden display of vulnerability surprises Eames almost as much as the display of gentleness with Mal and Philippa. He is, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words and chooses not to say anything, feeling that silence may just be what Arthur needs. Empty or false reassurances won’t do anything and pity would only anger him. So he leans against Arthur’s desk, his leg very nearly touching Arthur’s knee, and he waits.
Presently, the man pulls out a cigarette and a match, lights the cigarette and inhales deeply. His hands shake less when he exhales, his eyes closed and his face framed by the bluish-grey smoke.
“Want some?” he asks Eames, who raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He takes the fag from Arthur-ignores the way their fingers brush-and raises it to his lips, thinks that this is the most intimate thing he has ever done with Arthur, sharing a cigarette in the dark of the basement with the light of the moon shining through the lone window.
-
Eames terrifies Arthur. That’s frightening in itself but Arthur can’t think about it too long lest he get dizzy.
He shouldn’t be terrified. He really shouldn’t. Eames may be a large man with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a strong chest, but Arthur is strong too. He’s lithe and lean and powerful though he doesn’t look it. Arthur is confident in his strength and knows that he could snap one of Eames’ arms in half if he wanted to.
What scares him is that he doesn’t want to. Anyone else mouthed off to him like Eames has and he’d have reduced them to a nameless John Doe in a dumpster or a ditch. Anyone else grinned at him with that much blatant disrespect and he’d have snapped their worthless necks within moments. Anyone else followed him to Cobb’s, watched him with that much pity and he’d have torn them apart and scattered the pieces for the dogs.
But Eames is not just anyone else. Eames is simply Eames. He is competent and smart, a terrible speller but otherwise brilliant. Eames smiles easily but knows when to be serious-or, rather, knows when to stop pushing Arthur’s buttons to avoid a messy death. And when Eames smiles, his eyes light up, his whole face lights up. When Eames smiles, he makes Arthur want to smile too, just a little.
So Eames terrifies Arthur because nobody has ever made Arthur want to smile-nobody who wasn’t Dom or Mal or their children, anyway-and Arthur is not about to let another person behind his defenses. He is not going to care because what he does, who he is, he can’t afford to care and he most certainly doesn’t deserve to.
So he doesn’t engage in Eames’ obvious flirting and doesn’t ever rise to the bait. He bites down on the retorts and the threats that could be misread as reciprocation and goes about his work with a stony expression, sometimes throwing a sharp glare when he really can’t help it.
“Tell me, Arthur, don’t you have a dame waiting at home for you?” Eames drawls late one night. Arthur is buried in paperwork and research; he’s been tracking the Fischers’ every movement, hoping for an indiscretion or a secret pleasure with which to threaten or bribe the two. Consequently, he does not have time for Eames today.
“Dry up,” he says absently, shifting aside a pile of papers to look for his notebook. “Move.”
“Oh, come on,” Eames protests, not budging an inch. “You have to have someone. What about that doll-whatsername-Ariadne? She your special lady?”
“No. She’s a friend.”
“But she’s a pretty little slip of a thing, isn’t she? With those doe eyes and that sexy voice. Makes you want to just...” Before he knows it, Arthur’s stood up and his papers are still floating to the floor when he has Eames’ collar in his hands. It’s not remarkably different from the first time he ever threatened the man, except he’s standing so much closer that he can feel Eames’ heat through their clothes.
“You say one more word, Eames, and I swear I’ll rip your head off.”
“Why so angry, huh?” the man challenges, his hazel eyes narrowing. “You upset I’m going to sully little Ariadne’s virtue or is this something else?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur scoffs but he can’t make himself let go or step back. He’s the one holding Eames by the throat but he feels like he’s the one being pinned into place.
“So tell me, Arthur dear, what am I talking about? Enlighten me.”
“You leave Ariadne out of this. You leave her alone.”
“Because you want her for yourself?”
“Yeah, that’s why,” Arthur growls, even if this is a bald-faced lie. “I got her. She’s mine and you keep your grubby hands off her.”
“Fine,” Eames concedes. “Fine.” They step away from each other and Arthur feels strangely bereft. Like he’s lost something. Eames smiles again, coldly.
They spend the rest of the day in silence. And Arthur does not feel the ghost of Eames’ body heat around him.
-
“What do you think?” Eames places a forged label in front of Arthur.
“This isn’t what I asked for.”
“Yes, it is. We decided we’d bring the booze in as tonic water. And I’ve crafted a label for the finest tonic water in the world.”
“This is hideous, Eames. Nobody’s going to believe that a legitimate company is selling tonic water labeled like this.” Arthur jabs a finger at the paper. “It’s garish.”
“Garish,” Eames snorts, “just because you’re afraid of anything brighter than grey doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have a healthy appreciation for color.”
“I have a healthy appreciation for color. This is just insane.”
“Arthur, this is art. It’ll be too nouveau for those overworked inspectors and they’ll pass it off as another company trying to be avant garde instead of looking too hard.”
“Looking too hard…” Arthur says, a growl of a warning in his voice.
“But that’s the beauty of it,” Eames cuts him off, “no matter how hard they look, they’ll never suspect.”
“What?”
“That the goods are booze. That the Cortez Tonic Company is a front.”
“Why?”
“They look any harder than this label, they’ll find this.” Eames leans against Arthur’s desk and places a file beside him. “Legal documents. Deeds. Receipts. Contracts. It’s all there.”
“I am impressed,” Arthur says in a low breath, rifling through the documents. “These are…”
“Stellar? Outstanding? The cat’s meow? I know.” The shock on Arthur’s face is almost insulting. “You don’t have to look so surprised,” he says, trying not to sound petulant.
Arthur looks up at him and his brown eyes seem to darken. It’s all the warning Eames gets before the other man pushes him. Eames stumbles and his back hits a door. Arthur reaches around him, pushes it open and pushes Eames into what appears to be a broom closet. The lock clicks and Eames has barely realized where he is when Arthur’s unbuckling his belt and undoing his trousers.
“Christ, Arthur, what the hell?” he groans. Arthur shushes him, pins him against the wall and grinds their hips together. “What about Ariadne?”
“Not a word, Mr. Eames,” Arthur whispers, breath hot and wet against the shell of his ear. “Not a fucking word.”
Eames’ head is spinning but he decides not to protest, not to ruin his chances at whatever is about to happen. He likes Ariadne, sure, but Arthur’s rutting against him like he’s in heat. He doesn’t really know what’s about to happen, not until he hears the sound of another zipper and the swish of fabric as it falls carelessly to the floor.
Arthur takes the lead, reaching between them and grasping Eames in a grip that could hurt but doesn’t, is only pleasurable. Eames gasps, moves to do the same but Arthur swats him away.
“No,” he orders, stepping away from Eames. They’re both panting and Eames’ body strains with want and he’s going to go insane if something doesn’t happen right now. But Arthur smirks at him, looks up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes, and props himself against the wall. He lifts one leg as best he can and spreads them as he sucks on his fingers before reaching down and pushing a finger into himself.
“God,” Arthur breathes, allowing his head to fall back, exposing the long line of his throat. He adds a second finger, and a third, and soon he’s pushing down on himself, his entire body quivering. Eames spits into his hand and slicks his cock, already anticipating Arthur’s next move. When Arthur’s ready, he hooks a leg around Eames’ waist and pulls him closer.
Eames braces his hands against the wall as Arthur lifts his other leg, supported by the wall and by Eames. Without warning, he pushes himself down onto Eames, and they both groan at the contact. Arthur’s hands go to Eames’ shoulders and grip them tightly, his legs wrapped around Eames’ waist.
They can’t seem to find a good rhythm; their paces don’t match. It’s worth it, though, because Eames focuses on the way Arthur’s eyes flutter shut, the way his mouth opens just enough to reveal a glimpse of his pink tongue, the way the crease between his eyebrows deepens with concentration.
Eames is so close-so close-but Arthur’s frowning and, frustratingly enough, looking almost bored, which isn’t fair. Then he shifts, thrusts-and Arthur arches his back and moans, a long, low, guttural sound that’s the most erotic thing Eames has ever heard. His long fingers spasm on Eames’ shoulder and he lets his head fall back again.
Then, suddenly, Arthur inhales deeply, sharply, and comes, his whole body tensing around Eames. It’s too much and one last weak push sends Eames into his own orgasm. Their ragged breathing fills the tiny closet as they calm themselves for a moment. Then Arthur is back to his crisp efficiency, fishing a rag from one of the shelves around them and wiping himself down. He tosses the rag at Eames before stepping back into his clothes and waits for Eames to do the same.
Arthur doesn’t have a hair out of place but there’s a slight flush in his cheeks and he’s breathing more rapidly than usual. He is as cool and unruffled as if he were watching Eames clean a gun, not his cock. When Eames has finished tucking his shirt back into his pants, Arthur turns on his heel and leaves the closet, leaves Eames watching the way he walks just the slightest bit differently.
When Eames walks back to their desks, Arthur’s got a file in front of him, marking a page with his neat, even handwriting. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge Eames, but he shifts in his seat and smirks.
Eames follows his lead but spends the rest of the day wondering how he can make Arthur moan like that again-and what it will take to make the man come apart.
-
“Eames,” he moans, threading his fingers through Eames’ hair. “God.” The word comes out pleading and he feels Eames grin against his cock. They’re in the broom closet again, with two minutes before Cobb’s guys come to hear the details of the drop, and Eames is doing things with his mouth the likes of which Arthur has never felt before.
“I’m serious,” he breathes, pulling slightly on his fistful of hair, “we need to finish th-.” His words are strangled when Eames pulls his full length into his mouth and swallows around him. The constriction of Eames’ throat, the press of his tongue, the light graze of his teeth-Arthur throws his head back, where it smacks against the wall, and comes with a long, low groan that he muffles with the crook of his elbow. His knees go weak but Eames holds him steady, pressing him against the wall with sure, strong hands. Eames takes all of his orgasm and, when he’s licked Arthur clean, he stands and pulls up Arthur’s trousers.
“Delicious,” he purrs, his hands warm on Arthur’s hips. There’s a white smear at the corner of his lips and Arthur unthinkingly reaches up and wipes it away. Eames catches his hand, sucks off the come from his thumb, and kisses it softly, never breaking eye contact with Arthur. He pulls his hand back, unsettled by the tenderness Eames is showing him and swallows convulsively.
“Don’t do that,” he says, but he would be lying if he said he meant it. “Don’t ever do that again.” Eames’ mouth thins in displeasure but he doesn’t say anything. He’s easy to read when he wants to be but this is not one of those times; his emotions are shuttered when he turns and walks away. Arthur tucks in his shirt and waits until he knows the flush of blood has drained from his cheeks and neck, waits until his heart has stopped racing.
See, Arthur has rules. No kissing, no intimacy, nothing gentle or loving. They’ll admit their mutual lust for each other but it ends there. They never fuck completely naked, don’t linger in the broom closet. They won’t go to each other’s places. They fuck only at night or in the early morning, only when it’s the two of them in the entire building. These are the rules and that’s that. Eames hasn’t complained so far.
He doesn’t have much time because soon after, the men Cobb’s entrusted with the drop are filing into the room. They listen as he and Eames outline the drop: Arthur, with the alias “Mr. Grant,” will meet the shipment and sign for it. They’ve got labels for the trucks, labels for the crates. Everything points to a legitimate tonic business. Cobb’s men will load the trucks and drive away, to a warehouse at the edge of Chicago, where they’ll meet Eames. From there, they’ll distribute the crates throughout town, to speakeasies and other nightclubs.
“That’s the plan, understand?” Arthur asks, glaring around the room. The men standing before him mumble and nod, staring at the floor to avoid eye contact. He’s got them cowed, which sends a surge of savage pleasure through him.
“From now until the drop’s finished, you call me ‘Mr. Grant.’ One of you calls me ‘Arthur’ and you’re dead. I’ll personally put the bullet in you myself.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Grant.”
“Good. I’ll see you two days from now. If you need anything, you come to me.” As the men shuffle away, Arthur catches sight of Eames, standing to the side. His brow is furrowed and the set of his mouth is stiff and uneasy, and Eames watches him with a pensive, anxious expression. It’s a more serious emotion than Arthur has ever seen on the man’s face and it makes him uneasy.
“I think, Mr. Eames,” he says when they’re alone in the room, “you should come with me.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I believe I will,” Eames winks, and his dark expression disappears in favor of a roguish smirk that’s all charm.
Two days later, Arthur’s at the edge of town, signing his false name “Charles Grant” for a seedy-looking deliveryman who eyes him suspiciously.
“Sure got a lotta tonic water for one man,” he says. “You sick or somethin’?”
“Or something,” Arthur replies vaguely, smiling as threateningly as he can. The man falls back a step and doffs his worn cap.
“Sure, sure, Mr. Grant. Don’t mean no harm.”
Arthur snaps his fingers and his men begin loading the crates onto their trucks. He sees the man inspecting the trucks’ logos and, satisfied, leaves to oversee another delivery. It’s the easiest he’s ever had a drop and he’s relieved but suspicious. It’s almost too easy, how well Eames’ plan worked. He dismisses the men and goes back to the basement with Eames, who’s flying high with their success.
“Arthur!” The shout is preceded by a clatter of footsteps and Arthur pulls away as Ariadne runs into the room. “Oh! Mr. Eames,” she says, blushing shyly. “Good evening.”
“Did you need something?” Arthur asks, cutting across Eames’ greeting. “We’re busy.”
“Oh.” Her face falls slightly and she bites her lip.
“Don’t mind him, Ari dear, Arthur’s just a stick in the mud. You know we’ll always spare a few moments for you.”
“Well, Tom wants me to ask you if you two are gonna be at the dance later? Mal’s feeling better so she and Cobb are stopping by. Think they’d like to see you. And Arthur.”
“And?”
“Well, I wondered if,” she falters under Eames’ playful stare and blushes deeply but squares her shoulders and says in a rush, “if Arthur wanted to go as my dance partner.”
“Ahh,” Eames says, turning to Arthur, “there’s the rub. Well?” He and Ariadne are both looking at him, expecting him to answer. Eames is teasing, laughter dancing in his eyes, and Ariadne looks calm but her fingers twist together, betraying her nervousness.
“Oh, come on, Arthur, it’s only a few hours,” Eames says, walking to him and throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Surely you know how to cut loose? Dance?”
“It would be a lot of fun, Arthur,” she tells him. “Please?”
“Fine. Fine, I’ll be there.” Ariadne squeals in delight and Eames laughs, a bright sound that does not send a thrill up Arthur’s spine. “But I won’t enjoy it.” Ariadne runs upstairs, babbling about finding a dress and shoes and makeup. When she’s gone, Eames steps closer to him.
“Oh, but you will. I’ll make sure of that.” The whisper is punctuated by a bite to the lobe of his ear, a bite to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a lick behind his ear-and Arthur should punch Eames for overstepping the careful boundaries they’ve put between them but he can’t stop the strangled groan that leaves his lips.
“Later, Arthur. Later.” There’s a promise in Eames’ voice, then he’s gone.
-
Later, Arthur watches Eames dance with Ariadne. He moves with surprising ease on the dance floor, keeping up with her youthful enthusiasm, and they dance the Charleston, all energy and excitement. He watches Eames’ hands on her waist and remembers how they felt on his hips. Eames laughs breathlessly, his plush lips stretched wide, and Arthur pictures them wrapped around his cock. He’s half-hard already and angry, angry that he’s here when he doesn’t want to be, angry that Eames is dancing with Ariadne when he should be with Arthur.
A roar of laughter and applause rises up when Eames lifts Ariadne up in a complicated move and brings her back down, their bodies pressed tight against each other. Arthur flushes-with anger or arousal, he can’t really tell-and weaves his way through the crowd and catches Eames’ eye, jerks his head toward the stage and moves in that direction, certain that Eames understands.
He smirks in triumph when strong hands seize him around the hips as soon as they’re behind the curtain, when a strong body presses against his back.
“I saw you watching us,” Eames growls into the shell of his ear. “Like what you saw?”
“No, I can’t say I did,” he answers, as disdainfully as he can. Eames makes a frustrated noise and bites down on Arthur’s neck, then licks it-and, just like that, Arthur’s straining against his trousers.
“Downstairs,” Eames pants. “Now.” They nearly fall down the stairs in their haste and vaguely, in the back of his head, Arthur cringes at his loss of control. But Eames is so eager and he’s so riled up that he can’t help it.
They shed their trousers hurriedly, elbows bumping into each other and the walls and shelves in the tiny broom closet that barely fits. Things clatter to the floor and they’re making entirely too much noise but hopefully the music upstairs is loud enough to cover it up because Arthur can’t quite bring himself to care when Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock and presses a thumb into the slit. He’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves his lips, except that Eames’ panting becomes louder. He heaves himself up and moves his hand between his legs but Eames stops him.
“Let me, Arthur,” he whispers, nearly pleads. Before Arthur can protest, Eames has slicked his hand and is pressing a finger-a calloused, broad finger-inside him and it feels so good. Eames adds another finger, pushes in deeper and twists them, brushes just so against Arthur’s prostate, which makes him shudder and moan. Arthur watches blearily as Eames slicks himself.
“C’mere, you.” Eames’ voice is wrecked, husky and deep with lust, and he hoists Arthur’s legs up and pushes inside him.
It’s messy and rough and entirely too desperate. Eames thrusts almost brutally, his hands gripping Arthur’s hips hard enough to bruise and he growls expletives all the while. One of Arthur’s hands claws at Eames’ shoulder, while the other is tangled in Eames’ hair, and he’s making so much noise.
When Eames thrusts into his prostate-once, twice-Arthur has to bite down on his sleeve to keep from shouting as he comes. Eames bites down on Arthur’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, when he comes soon after.
Upstairs, Ariadne looks around for her dance partner. And can’t find him.
-
Eames really doesn’t know what he’s doing, fucking Arthur like he is. It’s unpleasant, to say the least, caught between his feelings of right and wrong and his undeniable and insatiable appetite for the man. For watching his face, for feeling his body, for knowing that he’s at Eames’ mercy during their sexual encounters.
He’s known what it is to feel such desire and to act upon it but he also knows that there is no good, at all, that could come from it. He’d had to move from London to Chicago to escape trouble-legal and otherwise-after being caught with another man. Eames is a man who knows what he wants and gets it, fuck the consequences.
With Arthur, though, it’s different. He’s never experienced an all-consuming need for someone else before. His previous flings were always purely hedonistic, sexual escapades that served the sole purpose of indulging in his vices. But Arthur-he’d be damned if he said he didn’t want to be the one Arthur leaned on, the one Arthur trusted. He wanted to make Arthur smile and laugh because he knew the stone-faced man was capable of it; he’d seen humor lurking in Arthur’s serious brown eyes.
The stakes are so much higher, though. He’s got Browning informed of all the Cobb gang’s moves, sneaking off in the middle of the night to bring him the latest details of the drop. Yusuf meets him at his apartment, sometimes, when Eames is sure nobody’s watching, and they listen to the radio and talk. Eames talks about the things he’s seen working with Arthur. He talks about the beating he witnessed when the man in charge of printing their labels smudges the ink on a batch and ruined them, about how Arthur had been merciless and cruel, how the beaten man had pleaded and begged through broken teeth and split lips. He talks about how Arthur drops threats like he breaths, simply and matter of fact. He tells Yusuf how much he hates Arthur and doesn’t say anything about how much he doesn’t hate Arthur-but Yusuf seems to know that anyway.
“Be careful, Eames,” he always warns when he leaves. He claps Eames on the shoulder and looks deep into his eyes. “Be careful.” Somehow, Eames knows his friend means something deeper than simply watching his back.
“Always am, Yusuf, you know that,” he always answers, grinning cheekily.
But he’s being careless with Arthur. Careless about fucking him, about his feelings for him, as if he’s some damn woman who can’t keep his heart in check. He can’t really, truly bring himself to do something about it, though. He could walk away from Arthur, could ignore the heated looks that always signal a romp in the broom closet, which is the only place that offers a substantial amount of privacy.
He doesn’t want to, though, because as much as he hates Arthur, he likes him in equal measure. He is complex and multi-faceted, flashing sides of him that are different from his stern and sometimes cruel attitude.
“Turn that up,” Arthur says suddenly one frigid morning, motioning to the radio Eames had brought in a few days previously. The clear, bright tones of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet and Bessie Smith’s voice float from the radio and Eames is surprised to hear Arthur humming along, his baritone melding perfectly with Smith’s dulcet voice.
“Well, well, well, I didn’t know you liked jazz,” he remarks, making Arthur jump. He laughs because it’s so dissimilar to who he thinks Arthur is.
“What’s so funny?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Darling, for someone so rigid to like music so fluid, it’s quite the paradox,” Eames says through his chuckles. “So that stick up your arse can be removed after all.”
“You of all people should know quite well that it can, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies with a wicked smirk that shows all his teeth.
They end up fucking to the rest of the song, and it’s frantic, as it always is. This time, this time they forget that anyone could walk in on them-or, perhaps, they don’t care-and it heightens the sex, that thrill of tension. It’s the first time Eames takes Arthur from behind, bending him over a desk and pushing into him so hard the table rattles. He holds Arthur’s hips to give himself leverage, and Arthur’s fingers grip the desk so hard his knuckles turn white.
Eames focuses on those slim, slender hands, the way they curl around the edge of the desk, the way they shift when Arthur takes the strength of Eames’ movements. He focuses on these to distract him from the wanton noises Arthur makes, muffled in his mouth because he’s biting his lip, from the way Arthur clenches around him, invites him all the way in, the way Arthur snaps his hips back to meet Eames’ forward thrusts.
They come together and that’s another first. Arthur drops his head as they ride their orgasms together. Eames pulls out of him, takes his clean handkerchief from his pocket and cleans Arthur.
“Hey.” Arthur says, his tone languid. Eames looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, wiping the remains of Arthur’s come from the floor and desk. Arthur’s smiling beatifically at him, revealing two dimples that frame his mouth, like parentheses that Eames never wants to close.
“Yes?”
Arthur doesn’t say anything else, just regards Eames with that smile and reaches down, presses the tips of his fingers questioningly against Eames’ cheek. Eames freezes at the touch, not wanting to startle him and not trusting himself to do something stupid like kiss him. He freezes and lets Arthur touch his face.
And it’s so strange because he sees the awareness coming back to Arthur, the awareness that their unspoken boundaries-Arthur’s unspoken rules-are slowly disappearing. Arthur snatches his hand away and the smile is replaced with a scowl that holds no heat, no fierceness. It’s an expression of such strange bewilderment that Eames is left breathless, the wind knocked completely out of him, because it’s the first time he’s ever seen Arthur look anything other than the picture of pure confidence.
part three