in our bedroom after the war.
The First Five Times
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, prompt: " They end up having to platonically share a bed for ages."
2778 words
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1.
The first time is in Slovenia.
After the job, Cobb makes a smooth exit to Western Europe by train. He disbands them, a wad of hundred dollar bills flippantly thrown their way and then disappears into a throng of people, hunched in his dark blue coat, fingers dug in his pockets. Eames watches him for awhile and then flicks his toothpick on the ground, stubbing it like one might a lit cigarette.
"So, where are we off to then?"
It starts to snow on their drive to the airport.
A few hours later, the rickety car Eames has decided to rent runs out of gas. Arthur chalks it up to exceptionally bad luck and the fact that he happens to be working with Eames. Working with Eames only brings out the worst in situations and often times Arthur has the misfortune to experience this firsthand. Eames is, in a way, tried and tested.
It is on foot that they trudge through the snow to the only inn for miles, teeth knocking together, Arthur nearly falling asleep on his feet. When they arrive at the inn, frostbitten, their eyelashes clumped together, they learn that it is tourist season in Slovenia and the place is crammed full of people. But there is only one room left -- the honeymoon suite, one bed, one bath, a nice view of the snowy mountains this time of year.
"We'll take it," Eames grunts. He drags his feet up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time and then gestures for Arthur to follow.
Arthur stares at his back for a long moment before following after him without another word, partly because he hates being forced into situations that require him to spend a considerable amount of time with Eames, and partly because his tongue has stopped working in the last half mile. His eyes hurt, and his joints feel stiff, frozen off.
They take separate hot showers in the tiny bathroom within the suite and that at least brings some semblance of warmth back into Arthur's bones. The room is homey, lived-in, but it isn't as grand as some of the places Arthur has seen. The wallpaper is a worn cornflower blue and the bed can hardly fit Eames, much less two grown men.
While in the shower, Arthur finds himself wondering about the logistics, the physical impossiblity of the two of them sharing a bed. He wonders if he should make Eames sleep on the floor. There is a rug by the fire, spotted and worn. Arthur spends forty minutes in the shower, thinking about their sleeping arrangements until his fingers have wrinkled into prunes.
He finds Eames on the stuffed armchair by the bed with his feet propped up on the coffee table. Eames left his clothes to dry by the fire and he is only in a complementary bathrobe with fuzzy slippers on and rubbing hands together. He smiles tiredly at Arthur then gestures absently towards the bed.
"You can have it." he says magnanimously.
Arthur says nothing and just grunts. He supposes he deserves it anyway, the bed, having done most of the work today, and not having the kind of tolerance Eames probably does with the kind of weather outside.
He makes himself comfortable under the covers, sinking his toes into the mattress and pulling the sheets over his shoulders. Eames watches him, hands tucked under his armpits, sniffing out a cold. His stare unnerves Arthur so he turns on his side to face the wall. Arthur opens his mouth to say goodnight but decides against it when he hears Eames get up and walk to the fire. It feels like a long time that he listens to Eames moving about in the room, picking things up, putting them back down again, sniffing and clearing his throat.
Arthur doesn't realise he's fallen asleep until he wakes three hours later, wedged between the wall and Eames' side.
"What the hell."
Arthur panics for a brief second, stiffening when Eames throws a heavy arm around his waist. The gesture throws Arthur off, makes his blood run hot, his skin prickle with goosebumps and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. But then he feels Eames' nosing the back of his ear, the grit of Eames' stubble raspy against the back of his neck. And then their legs are pushing together under the covers, and Eames sleepily murmurs go back to sleep, darling, accented and hoarse, and Arthur, for some reason he can't fathom, his heart stops accelerating wildly in his chest. He calms down.
In the morning, the roads have cleared. Arthur's joints ache and Eames laughs.
2.
Arthur forgets how it is in the real world sometimes where the rules of Physics are impossible to bend. They aren't gunmen, they're normal people caught in impossible circumstance, and learned how to wield their weapons through trial and error and painstaking practice. Sometimes, they get lucky and slip under the noses of their enemies, sometimes not so much.
In Vietnam, Arthur gets shot in the shoulder. It isn't like in the movies where all it takes to get a bullet wound out of the body is a bottle of whiskey and a swiss army knife, the whiskey there more for moral support. Arthur can't just man up and ignore the pain, not when it hurts like fucking hell. He staggers through the dank, damp alleyways of Hanoi, blood seeping through his clothes and staining the white of his dress shirt.
He wakes up in a local hospital a few hours later, feeling drugged and hazy, Eames asleep on the chair next to the bed. Arthur sits up and opens his mouth to speak but his throat feels dry and it hurts to talk. Eames stirs slowly awake, rubbing the crust from his eyes with the heel of his hand. There's warmth in his eyes, in places there shouldn't be, and he reaches out across the bed to muss Arthur's hair. Arthur flattens it when Eames pulls away, feeling it curl awkwardly in all directions. The back of his neck burns. The drugs, probably, he thinks.
"I thought you'd never wake up," Eames says. "You fainted. Not from bloodloss, clearly, but the pain was too intense for you, it seemed."
Arthur snorts. "Have you ever tried getting shot?"
Eames smiles. "A few times. I know how it feels."
"It feels like shit." Arthur says. He clenches his eyes shut and leans back against the pillows. "We should call Cobb."
"You should rest."
"No, we need to leave." Arthur snaps. "We're attracting too much attention to ourselves."
"But you're hurt." Eames says. "And I can't have you fainting on me, again."
"I do not-- I do not faint!" Arthur says indignantly, gritting his teeth. He lowers his voice when it cracks. "I do not faint."
Eames nods, raising his eyebrows. "I believe you. Of course, pet. Of course."
"Shut up." Arthur says hotly, feeling the back of his neck prickle.
Eames smiles at him, patting him on the hand. "We can leave in a few hours after you get some well-deserved rest. I'll be on the lookout."
When Arthur throws him a doubtful look, Eames just laughs and rubs the pad of his thumb across Arthur's palm.
"I promise," he says. "I'll be good. Now, go to sleep, Arthur."
Arthur shivers and draws his hand away, folding his fingers across his lap before sliding under the covers. He watches Eames walk to the window and lean out out of it, smoking.
Arthur wonders what part of Hanoi they are in, if they're safe here at all and how Eames got them to a hospital in the first place. He falls asleep because of the drugs and dreams of Eames curled up next to him in the hospital bed, lying on top of the covers but so close Arthur can feel the rapid pound of his heartbeat against his back.
When Arthur wakes an hour and a half later, Eames is slouched in the chair by the window, drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup.
It's only later when they head out to HQ that Arthur notices Eames' clothes are more wrinkled than they ought to be.
3.
Dom and Mal decide to marry in Connecticut, in Dom's old ancestral home. The wedding is a gathering of family and friends which, much to their surprise, happen to include the both of them. They room together, both having forgotten to RSVP and arriving the night before the wedding.
Arthur lies on his back staring at the patterns of light on the ceiling while Eames shifts in his sleeping bag at the foot of the bed. They stay like that for a long while, not speaking, the lights on the ceiling beginning to crisscross, until Eames gets up and tosses the covers aside irritably, telling Arthur to make room for him.
The bed sinks when Eames slides under the covers next to Arthur. Arthur doesn't know which is worse, that their legs are touching under the covers or that their shoulders are pressed together and his skin is humming with frenetic energy. He waits for Eames to speak but it isn't until a few beats later that Eames opens his mouth.
"So, Dom and Mal." Eames says, laughing softly, and even in the dark, Arthur knows he's trying his best not to look bashful. "Who would've thought, right? They hated each other, absolutely. Well, they used to, at least. Now they're tying the knot. Can you believe it?"
Not, really no, Arthur thinks but keeps his mouth shut because he doesn't want to encourage conversation, not at this unlikely hour. He grunts and then rolls onto his side, facing the wall, pillowing his head on his arm.
When Eames rests a hand on Arthur's hip, Arthur's eyes snap open.
"What?" he snaps.
"Nothing." Eames says. Then he rubs Arthur's sides until Arthur shudders and inches further away, curling into himself.
Eames laughs. "Ticklish," he says, but his hand never leaves Arthur's side.
In the dark, Arthur's lips curl. "Go to sleep, Eames."
4.
The call comes at two in the morning when Arthur is about to leave for a flight to Los Angeles.
Mal is dead, Dom says. She jumped off a building, Dom says.
At the funeral, Arthur walks up to Dom to pay his respects. "It's going to be okay." he tells him even though he know that is a lie. Nothing is going to be okay from now on, he feels this, he knows this.
Dom looks like he hasn't slept in days and his suit is wrinkled miserably. Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder but Dom stiffens and turns away. "I need a minute, okay?" he says and then disappears into the sea of mourners.
Next to Arthur, Eames takes a sip of his drink. "Nothing will ever be the same again, will it?" he says. Arthur looks at Dom's retreating back, and then at Eames, thinking about this for a minute.
The realization makes him ache, somewhere deep inside. He runs his hands over the front of his suit, flicking a tiny leaf off his sleeve. "Yeah," he says after a beat.
Eames next laugh is colored with irony but Arthur chooses to say nothing.
--
Arthur takes a cab to Eames' hotel. His feet drag through the plush carpeting as he walks through the sprawl of hallways, locating Eames' room through trial and error. When he knocks on the door, Eames answers quickly and doesn't look all that surprised to see him.
"Arthur," he says. "Just the man I wanted to see."
He smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Eames smells like champagne and his hair is dishevelled. Arthur hates Eames' hair right now more than anything, the way it sticks up all over the place and curls over his ears, limp without hairgel.
Arthur pushes through the door without preamble and almost falls onto his hands and knees on the floor, and it is only then that he realizes he is drunk. He is drunk even as he peels off his shoes and worms his way under the covers of Eames' bed, wading through the curves of its topography. He is drunk even as he curls against Eames' side and screws his eyes shut, thinking of Mal, Mal with her dark eyes and beautiful smile, Mal with all her loveliness and sympathy.
"We're too old for this, pet," Eames says, pushing aside Arthur's hair. "We can't just share a bed all the time and expect nothing to happen."
"Shut up." Arthur says against his throat. "Just, shut up okay? I need to think."
"Okay," Eames says. He doesn't push it. Eventually, Arthur's breathing slows down. Eames strokes the soft skin of his ribs under his shirt and Arthur closes his eyes, shivering all the way down his spine.
Eames kisses him, once on the forehead, and then again on the lips just before he falls asleep.
5.
Seven months later, Eames flies in from Mombasa for the Fischer job.
They set up shop in an abandoned warehouse where light seeps in from the tiny, dusty windows near the ceiling and the ventilation is bad. There is no central heating system, they have to grit their teeth to the fierce Parisian weather, hands shaking sometimes, sweat rolling down their temples.
The Fischer job takes them a month.
During that month, Arthur shows Ariadne the ropes, explaining to her the intricacies of the PASIV device. She nods her head at all the appropriate points, touching her elbows self-consciously and smiling when Arthur stands too close. Arthur knows she likes him and that it is unfair to lead her on, but she is doing everything by herself, batting her eyes and giggling even when he knows for sure he isn't being funny on purpose.
They all have their own corners of the warehouse, Yusuf has what is essentially a make-shift lab with shelves filled with beakers and test tubes that froth with colored liquid, Arthur has his own space, separate from everyone else, where he can brood quietly and go over his plans without disruption.
He is the last one to leave the night before the Fischer job, with Ariadne heading out just before him into the crisp November night. Arthur gathers his reports and stuffs them inside a duffel bag, picking up his coat from the back of a chair.
He finds Eames asleep in one of the lawnchairs. Even in the half-dark, Eames' hair looks soft. He isn't hooked up to the machine, he's just lying there, asleep, legs crossed at the ankles. Arthur walks closer and pulls a lawnchair next to him. The lawnchair scrapes across the floor noisily.
Eames must be sleeping deeply, Arthur thinks, because when he reaches over and runs his thumb over the bristles of Eames' stubble, he doesn't stir. Arthur stands, blinks once, then turns towards the door. He hears Eames moving behind him but doesn't glance over to check if this true.
"Arthur," Eames says.
Arthur's hand clenches around the handle of his duffel. "I was just leaving."
"Were you?" Eames says. Arthur turns. Eames is grinning but everything else in his face is soft and subtle. He looks terrible with bags under eyes and newly formed wrinkles in his forehead.
"Come join me, darling." Eames says, "For old time's sake." He pats the empty lawnchair next to him.
It takes Arthur a moment to deliberate. Finally, he puts his things down on a nearby desk and sits on the lawnchair opposite Eames. He breathes deep, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling where light streams in from the street outside.
Eames puts his hand over Arthur's. His palm is warm. Arthur listens to the familiar sound of his breathing and closes his eyes.
"After the Fischer job," Eames says. "I'm going to bed you properly. I'm going to buy a nice four poster with billowy drapes, and I'm going to have my way with you over and over and over. And over."
Arthur laughs, shoulders shaking, but doesn't open his eyes. Eames leans toward him, touching the side of his neck with his fingernails. His breath is warm too like everything else about him and Arthur blinks and shivers.
"I'm not joking," Eames murmurs.
Arthur nods, once. "I know."
They don't kiss, they sleep, side by side. Eames curves a hand over Arthur's and runs a thumb along his knuckles. Arthur sighs and his breathing slows down. When Eames threads their fingers together, Arthur curls his hand, palm up, into his.
He sleeps peacefully until morning.