Inception - "This Above All: To Thine Ownself Be True" Part Two (Arthur/Eames, NC17)
Part One
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
- Hamlet
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. This isn’t in the script. But as Arthur sees Eames’ expression clear with something like understanding and awe, he can’t find it within himself to care.
Arthur reaches back with the hand not currently holding a gun on Eames to grab his knife, flicking it open in the scant space between them. Eames eyes widen slightly and his heart beats more quickly, Arthur keeps the switchblade steady in front of Eames’ eyes. He holds it there like a challenge, ‘do you trust me?’ it asks.
It’s too soon for gambles like this, they’re both too raw, but that’s part of the problem. There’s an ache settled deep in Arthur’s core and he doesn’t know how to make the pain stop, he just knows that he needs Eames to trust him still. Eames searches Arthur’s face, Arthur doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what he finds there but he relaxes again, like a man who doesn’t have a Glock 17 pressed against his pulse. The answer is ‘yes’, a nearly undetectable ‘for now’ lingering in the twitch of Eames’ jaw.
Arthur reaches around behind Eames, slicing through the zip tie binding his hands before leaning back to close the switchblade and return the knife to a pocket. Eames lets out a slight groan, stiffly bringing his hands in front of him, rubbing life and blood back into limbs which have been deprived of both for several hours. Arthur can feel every twitch of Eames body, the way his muscles pull and loosen as he moves his shoulders, the tension filling him now that his hands are free, the way his muscles tighten as he prepares to spring into action, grab the gun from Arthur. Maybe it’ll go off killing Eames, maybe he’ll get it away and kill Arthur, either way this is going to end in bloodshed and Arthur can feel it all before it even happens.
Only it doesn’t.
There’s no sudden movement, no action movie heroics, just Eames settling back into the chair still rubbing absently at his wrists. The motion draws Arthur’s gaze, the skin there is red, raw and broken in places where Eames strained against the ties. Arthur reaches out, taking one hand and drawing it up to his lips. Placing a gentle kiss on the torn flesh he breathes out a gentle “I’m sorry,” at the same time Eames rumbles out a “Thank you.”
Arthur’s startled eyes meet Eames’ calm ones. ‘Thank you for what?’ he wants to ask. ‘For kidnapping you, for shredding your wrists, for still holding a gun against your throat,’ Arthur’s grip on the gun tightens slightly. ‘For torturing people and thinking that it being an order made everything okay, for allowing Dreamshare back into our lives, for being such an awful person that you would assume I was planning on turning you over to them, for-’
“Shhh,” Eames brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s face. “Hush all those thoughts, darling,” and it’s like a slap. Arthur drops Eames’ wrist like he’s been burned.
All this time, not once did Eames call him by any of his stupid pet names. Not that Arthur blames him, he’d been kidnapped and held prisoner. It’s not exactly the sort of thing that would make a person want to coo endearments, especially not to their captor. So why does Eames choose now, now of all times, to start them up again?
Does he not understand that he’s being straddled by a crazy guy with a gun at his throat? Arthur’s already proven himself to be a monster, Eames has seen what Arthur is capable of. Eames thought Arthur capable of so much worse, thought that he would allow Eames to be taken by Dreamshare. How can he call Arthur, darling? How can he bare to have Arthur touching him? How can he resist the chance to steal Arthur’s gun away and use it against him? It’s right there, Arthur won’t even fight back.
Arthur doesn’t deserve to fight back.
Eames seems to sense the change in Arthur. He grabs Arthur’s gun hand, and when had he begun trembling again? Eames steadies Arthur, sliding the gun from where it had slipped to rest against the side of his neck until it’s positioned directly under Eames’ chin. Eames lets go of Arthur and the gun, moving his own hand to rest at Arthur’s waist.
“I trust you.” Unequivocal. A brief statement quietly said with all the calm assurance of a man proclaiming the Earth to revolve around the Sun. “I trust you, Arthur.”
Arthur lets something choked and vulnerable escape him and he’s on Eames in an instant. His lips searching out Eames’ own, chasing after that small, scared noise which had left Arthur and taken refuge in the strength of Eames beneath him.
It feels like a nightmare cold has seeped into his bones causing them to fracture at his weakest points and now he’s shaking apart. Arthur attempts to encroach further into Eames’s space, the open heat of his mouth like salvation leading Arthur deeper.
He uses his free hand to undo the top few buttons of Eames’ shirt, burrowing closer like a hypothermia victim seeking warmth. Eames lets out a pained moan, the barrel of Arthur’s Glock digging deeply into the soft tissue at his neck. Arthur begins to pull back, an apology already on his lips when Eames bucks up into him, brushing their cocks together through far too many layers of clothing, sending electricity racing across every inch of Arthur’s skin.
In the wake of electricity a curious calm rushes through him. Arthur can taste it in Eames’ helpless writhing and the steadiness of his own hand: control. Arthur harshly jabs the gun up against Eames’ jaw. This time the moan is less pained and more aroused and if Eames wasn’t hard before, he definitely is now.
“Seriously?” Arthur asks, incredulous and slightly lightheaded with power.
“Hey, he who makes out whilst holding a gun doesn’t get to complain when said gun takes on some…erotic aspects in the mind of the make out recipient.”
Arthur just stares at Eames, he’s flushed, sweaty, lips kiss swollen, eyes dark with lust and after an evening barhopping followed by spending the night in this chair, in need of a tic-tac. In short: He’s the most beautiful thing Arthur’s ever seen.
And if Eames likes the Glock, then Arthur is damn well keeping the Glock. Arthur chooses not to contemplate any other reason for keeping it or why the idea of getting rid of the gun makes his hand jerk dangerously and instead focuses on Eames. On how after everything Arthur’s done to him, he’s not only letting Arthur take control, Eames is giving it to him.
Another noise escapes from Arthur, but this one isn’t weak, it’s hungry.
Arthur surges forward, claiming Eames’ lips, using the Glock to adjust the angle of the kiss, forcing Eames’ head up. Eames dick twitches as he pushes back against the deadly metal, making choked sounding whines.
Arthur grabs Eames by his hair, yanking him out of the kiss and off the gun.
“Now, now,” Arthur purrs, tilting Eames’ head back, further exposing his throat. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself, do we Eames?” Arthur licks a strip up the center of Eames’ neck, digging his tongue into the sore spot under Eames’ chin where the gun had scraped and bruised. “That’s my job,” he whispers, shoving the Glock back beneath Eames’ chin, cutting off his gasp with lips and tongue.
Eames’ hands scramble furiously across Arthur’s body like he can’t decide what he wants to touch most. Thigh or shoulder? Hip or chest? One hand comes to rest quite happily on Arthur’s delectable ass, but the other continues to roam, caressing every inch of Arthur it can reach.
Arthur did this. Arthur managed to turn the most competent and guarded person he’s ever known into the openly desperate man currently raking his fingers down Arthur’s back.
And he is just getting started.
Arthur pulls away from Eames by inches, slowly extricating himself from the other man’s grasp. Eames makes disappointed noises as he tries to hold on to Arthur more firmly and Arthur nips his lip, an echo from earlier rising between them. Arthur soothes the bite before pulling off completely.
“Stay,” his voice is wrecked but firm as he climbs off Eames, slipping the Glock into his waistband.
Eames had been searched thoroughly when Arthur brought him here. Two guns, three knives, brass knuckles, a pair of handcuffs, and in a hidden interior pocket of his jacket, a travel size bottle of lube and a couple condoms, Arthur was impressed and more than a little turned on by his preparedness. Arthur had left the weapons in his office but Eames’ jacket along with its contents had been hung up with Arthur’s considerably more expensive suit jacket next to the backdoor. Since Arthur hadn’t exactly planned on jumping Eames when he kidnapped him it seems that the forger is the one ready for every eventuality this time.
Arthur grabs the supplies from Eames’ jacket, pausing momentarily over the handcuffs. No. Maybe some other time, please let there be some other time, they could experiment with bondage; but for right now Arthur wants Eames free, unbound and able to say “no” if that’s what he wants. More importantly, he wants Eames able to say “yes”, and have it be genuine. Logically Eames should be attempting to escape right now; Arthur picks up the pace feeling a bit selfish that he doesn’t want to give Eames a chance to return to his senses, hell he doesn’t want to give himself a chance to return to his senses.
Arthur turns to Eames, expecting to find him struggling to free himself. But Eames is still sitting in the chair his back to Arthur, legs still zip tied, shirt still half undone exactly how Arthur had left him. Arthur feels a thrill of power rush through him.
Eames hasn’t moved a muscle.
Arthur takes a deep breath as it hits him that Eames is still here, really here. A flush of desire drains all the blood from his brain and nimble fingers search out his tie, silk whispering as the cloth slides out of its knot. Eames’ shoulders tense slightly at the sound, but he makes no move to turn around. Instead remaining silent, trusting in Arthur; and that…well, that just makes Arthur’s hands work faster.
Every move he makes has Eames twitching in anticipation. Before long shirt joins tie on the floor and Arthur’s naked from the waist up with no intension of stopping anytime soon. The clink of his belt buckle makes Eames jump, the sound of his zipper being slowly drawn down causes Eames’ whole body to twitch with the need to turn around. To see. But still he resists, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled on chair arms, he stays. Just like Arthur told him.
Shoes and socks are the next to go, toed off with the usual lack of grace that accompanies the act and Arthur takes a moment to be thankful for Eames’ not seeing that particular move. He takes the Glock from his waistband next, double checking that the safety is still on. They’ve both been incredibly stupid, if their training officers could see them now…well they’d probably have issues with more than just Arthur and Eames’ lack of gun safety, but the point is they’re behaving irresponsibly and should stop.
Arthur should stop.
He lets his pants fall, stepping out of the legs and keeps walking until he’s standing in front of Eames wearing nothing but his briefs; condom and lube in one hand, Glock in the other. Eames’ eyes widen, his mouth forming a silent “oh” as he takes Arthur in. Looks at Arthur like he’s actually something worth looking at, and the things Arthur ‘should’ do have never seemed less important.
“Heads up,” Arthur says just before he tosses the bottle of lube to Eames, condom following quickly after. Eames catches both easily, but fumbles slightly when he recognizes them for what they are.
Eyes locked with Eames, Arthur dips the Glock’s barrel into his briefs. Using the gun he slowly starts to slip the thin material down. Bringing up his now free hand he hooks his thumb into the elastic of the brief, easing its slide downwards, putting on a real show for Eames.
Eames remains seated, seemingly unable to move a muscle as Arthur’s cock is freed and he casually kicks away his final article of clothing. Arthur straightens slightly and he can feel Eames study him with a meticulous eye to detail. Arthur would compare it to the way Eames studies a subject he needs to forge except…except that there’s always something a little cold in his eyes when he’s evaluating a potential mark. Something detached.
There is definitely nothing detached about the way Eames is looking at Arthur now, from the flush in his cheeks to the slope of his hips. Arthur can feel Eames’ gaze on him like a living thing, a warm touch caressing every inch of him, making him shiver in anticipation.
Eames breaks the silence first, brokenly whispering “Arthur,” into the stale air of the warehouse, and that’s all it takes. That’s it; one word and all of Arthur’s hard-won patience flies out the proverbial window. He wants Eames, and he’s going to have him.
Eames whines, small and needy in the back of his throat as Arthur steps closer, a nod of his head letting Eames know he’s allowed to touch. In a flash of ink and muscles Arthur is hauled once more onto Eames’ lap, straddling him while Eames runs his hands reverently over Arthur’s skin.
Skin, which is something very much lacking on Eames’ part.
“This simply will not do,” Arthur breathes across Eames lips. His fingers quickly unfasten the remaining buttons of Eames’ shirt. “Off,” he orders, voice barely above a growl.
Eames shivers and rushes to comply. Shrugging the shirt off his shoulders he reluctantly tears his hands away from Arthur’s body long enough to remove the offending garment completely.
Arthur greedily drinks in the wealth of skin before him, running hands and gun across Eames chest. Slowly he brings the Glock back up to Eames throat; gently he glides it down the side of Eames’ neck, along his shoulder, tracing the swirling black lines of his tattoo over deltoid, triceps and biceps with the deadly weapon.
Feeling a bit like a child who’s trying to color inside the lines, Arthur shifts closer to Eames, gingerly he nips at the spot where the gun had begun its journey. Eames’ sharp gasp has Arthur grinning against vulnerable flesh. Carefully Arthur licks the hurt away, following the path that the Glock had taken, and he could swear that he tastes the remnants of cold metal on Eames’ skin. It’s intoxicating.
Arthur returns the gun to Eames’ throat, this time moving down the other side of his neck, gliding across his shoulder- he stops.
There, marring the perfect imperfections of Eames’s skin, the scar left behind when a 9mm hollow point ripped into Eames shoulder, mushrooming on impact. Arthur presses against the scar tissue with his own 9mm, Eames hisses slightly at the pressure. Arthur replaces the gun with his tongue, tracing the edges of ragged flesh, cataloguing the differences between slick scar and unharmed skin. He sinks his teeth into the edges of the scar, scraping gently across the surface and Eames bucks up into him with a soft moan, the old wound still overly sensitive even after all this time.
Arthur could do this forever. He could happily spend the rest of his life tasting Eames’ skin and learning all the ways to make him moan, cry out, come undone.
It’s one of the more terrifying thoughts that Arthur has had today.
“Eames,” Arthur breathes the name like he’s afraid anything louder will bring their enemies down on them.
“Tell me Arthur,” Eames begs. “Please, just once tell me what you want from me.”
“I want you to fuck me.” The blush he’s sure is spreading across his face is worth it for the way Eames’ eyes widen and the pleasure/pain from where Eames’ hands are crushing his hips.
“Yeah, okay,” Eames stammers out. “I can do that, darling.”
Arthur’s dick gives an involuntary twitch at the endearment but if Eames notices, which of course he does, he’s smart enough not to say anything. Instead Eames fumbles for the lube, forgotten in his lap and warmed by the crush of their bodies.
Eames quickly slicks up a finger, pressing it gently against Arthur’s hole, not pushing in, not yet.
“Are you ready?”
Arthur has to laugh, “I’ve been ready since you marched into that Dreamshare briefing and demanded to know who was responsible for that utter cock-up we’d just woken from,” Arthur pushes himself against Eames’ finger, slowly fucking down against him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a General look more surprised or pissed off,” Arthur smiles.
“That was,” Eames’ voice catches as Arthur moves on his finger. “Over five years ago.”
“More,” Arthur instructs and thankfully Eames second finger slides in, keeping him from needing to elaborate.
“Arthur,” Eames presses.
“I know- fuck!” It’s good, the burn is so good, as his body instinctively remembers what to do, how to relax around the penetration. How to take and take and only want- “More.”
“Not until you answer me, Arthur,” Eames says flatly, like they’re just going for a stroll. Like Arthur isn’t writhing against him. “Arthur,” Eames demands again, curling his fingers just so to make Arthur cry out and make his point at the same time.
“Fuck! Yes, okay. Yes, it was over five years ago,” Christ, this kind of interrogation should be against the Geneva Convention. “Yes, we’d been on the same team for about three months at that point. And yes, I’ve wanted this, maybe not steadily but off and on ever since…more on than off.”
“Why didn’t-,” Eames begins but Arthur cuts in.
“Why do you think? Risk/reward analysis. You know how the military was. Risk wasn’t worth the reward. Then we were both on the lam, quickly followed by each of us making,” Arthur cuts off with a high whine, gasping a moment while he reorders his thoughts. “Making our way into illegal dream sharing, it just- oh God! Just didn’t seem wise. Especially since I didn’t know how you felt.”
“Didn’t know,” Eames says, sounding genuinely incredulous. “Why do you think I was so pissed after that exorcise?” Eames shoves a third finger in, he’s not gentle and Arthur loves it. “What happened to you down there was- I may not be able to pinpoint the moment of epiphany, as I always wanted to fuck you at least a little, but by then it was more than just,” Eames cups his cheek with his free hand. “You were more than just a fuck.”
Arthur swallows harshly against the admission.
“Please Eames, I’m ready,” he says, and it’s the closest he can come to echoing the sentiment.
Eames smiles softly because he knows anyway, he always knows. He removes his fingers and Arthur groans at the loss, watching mesmerized as Eames fumbles open his jeans, immediately freeing his cock.
“You’re not wearing underwear,” Arthur states dumbly.
“I was out looking to celebrate when you nabbed me, wasn’t I?” Eames shrugs.
“Out looking to score you mean.”
“Semantics,” Eames says grinning wolfishly as he tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it on.
Slicking up his dick, Eames guides Arthur up, adjusting him until he’s hovering just over Eames cock.
“Okay?” He asks quietly.
Arthur slams his body down in one smooth motion, fully sheathing Eames’ dick, and the fierce burn is worth it for the way Eames’ eyes roll back in his head and the strangled scream choking out of him.
“Okay,” Arthur affirms, lifting himself up before slamming home again, not giving Eames a chance to recover.
Arthur loses track of time after that, it’s just heat and friction and oh God, right there. Eames’ legs are still tied down so he has limited ability to match thrusts with Arthur, but he still manages to control the pace, slow Arthur down with a simple touch and a word when he’s in danger of ending things too quickly and Arthur has no idea when the power balance shifted so radically.
The Glock stays clenched in Arthur’s hand; it runs up Eames’ arms and strokes the side of his face, as much a part of Arthur as the hand holding it. The steady, comforting weight is an anchor to reality, more certain than a totem, preventing Arthur from losing himself completely in Eames.
Not an easy task when Eames is biting his way up Arthur’s chest, teasing him with teeth and tongue. Eames stops at the pulse in his neck, biting down gently and feeling the way it leaps in his mouth, affirming that Arthur is very much alive.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Eames murmurs so quietly Arthur almost misses it in the slap of skin against skin, despite Eames’ lips being so close to his ear. As if to prove this point Eames nibbles on the lobe. Of course just because Arthur heard him doesn’t mean that he has any idea what the hell Eames is talking about. “Did you think you’d lost me?” He asks, stroking up Arthur’s thigh.
“Eames,” Arthur gasps as Eames’ hand comes close to his dick. “I don’t- I,” it’s incredibly hard to concentrate with Eames tracing his hip bones, so very close to where Arthur needs him most.
Arthur pulls away slightly, distancing himself to clear his head. His mind capturing each moment like a snapshot forever frozen in time: Eames’ hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise; the desperate, pleading expression hidden in the tilt of his mouth and the sadness in his eyes; the tremor running through Eames’ body as he tries so hard to hold back…what?
What is it?
Arthur absently brings the Glock up, tucking a wayward strand of hair back behind Eames’ ear- and it’s like a movie reel playing in his head, he gets it.
A Glock 17 pressed lazily against Eames head.
A governmental agency so shrouded in mystery and words like “classified” and “need to know” that they end up accountable to no one.
A young Arthur; filled with notions of duty and Country, trained to be perfect, trained to kill, trained to dream, and so very, very green.
A younger Eames; trained just as well but never so naïve as to think that what Dreamshare told them was the truth, already too cynical to believe in much of anything anymore.
A lifetime of stolen moments, both in dreams and reality, neither of them could ever bring themselves to acknowledge, potentially wiped away by a single act of betrayal.
Only that betrayal never happened. Eames isn’t one of the bad guys, and Arthur will never turn him over to Dreamshare. But those minutes when the sting of perceived deception clouded his reason to erase the man he thought he knew had been some of the worst of Arthur’s life…and considering his former occupation that’s saying quite a lot.
Arthur thought he’d lost Eames, the Eames he cared for, fought beside, trusted. He had begun to fear that man never truly existed, that Arthur had made him up out of loneliness and a need to have someone he could count on.
So yeah, Arthur gets it.
The Glock clatters to the floor so Arthur can take hold of Eames with both hands.
~*~*~
There must have been a moment at the beginning, where we could have said no. Somehow we missed it
- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Neither of them last very long after that, Arthur dropping his last defense opened the proverbial flood gates and soon both were reduced to grunts and moans, only able to form the most basic of words.
Sex: Rewinding millions of years of evolution one earth-shattering orgasm at a time.
Eames doesn’t know exactly how long they stay like that, utterly spent, gasping into each others mouths, pressing messy kisses against every inch of skin they can reach without moving too much. But really, when faced with dramatic revelations and deep, personal truths, what does time matter anyway?
To Arthur, time still matters very much. At least, he’s the first to move; pulling off Eames as they both wince, far too sensitive. The condom is removed, tied off neatly and deposited, presumably as Eames can’t see where Arthur has gone, in the trash. Distantly there’s the sound of water running and Arthur returns wearing pants, which is a shame, and with a towel. He presses the towel against Eames chest, cleaning him off, and Eames would protest if he had the energy to do so.
Whether to tell Arthur that he doesn’t need to tend to Eames like an invalid or to beg him to leave the proof of what they’d just done, Eames isn’t sure.
“I’m afraid your pants are going to be rather obvious until you can wash them properly; the hotel I’m staying at has an excellent laundry service,” Arthur murmurs, still gently swiping at Eames’ skin like he’s afraid that if he stops he won’t be allowed to touch again.
Slowly Eames places his hand over Arthur’s halting his movement.
“I rather like them this way,” he says as he lifts Arthur’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across Arthur’s knuckles. “But if you insist on clean clothing, then who am I to refuse you?”
“In that case, we should probably do something about those last zip ties,” Arthur teases.
“Never fear, my love,” it takes Eames’ sex-addled brain an embarrassingly long time to realize what he just said and connect it to Arthur’s suddenly stiff posture. “I mean- I,” Eames falters, looking up into Arthur’s eyes. The hope he finds there is enough to take his breath away.
“My love,” Eames says again, softer this time. Arthur smiles and it feels like the room lights up with him.
They stay like that for another few heartbeats, grinning at each other with googly-eyes like lovesick teenagers. Naturally, Arthur is the first to regain his dignity.
“I’ll just,” he begins, patting down his pockets. “Wait, where’s my knife?”
“Ah, yes. Well, you left so suddenly earlier, to disrobe as it happens, but I didn’t know that at the time and as I wasn’t sure if you’d be coming back, I um…nicked it,” Eames babbles pulling the item in question from his own pocket.
“You stole it,” Arthur states.
“Yes.”
“While you were supposedly clinging to me in a fit of passion,” and maybe he’s listening with his hopeful ear, but Eames could swear that Arthur doesn’t sound upset so much as…turned on.
“To be fair, it wasn’t one or the other, more a happy combination of the two,” Eames defends just in case he’s wrong.
Arthur takes the knife from Eames; kneeling between Eames’ legs he flips the switchblade open.
“Do you have any idea how hot that is?” Arthur asks with a slight hitch in his breath.
“If you think that’s impressive, you should see what else I can get out of your pants without you noticing.” It’s a bad joke. One which is beneath Eames to make, but Arthur laughs and rolls his eyes and Eames doesn’t even care; he still hasn’t regained his dignity from the googly-eyes incident.
Arthur slices through the last of the zip ties and Eames is free. Only he’s not really because Arthur is still kneeling in front of him and has begun to rub his legs, massaging them back to life. Eames’ groan is a mixture of pleasure and pain, and it only makes Arthur rub harder.
“Enough, enough,” Eames finally gasps. “If you keep on that way, we’re never going to leave this bloody warehouse.”
Arthur stops abruptly and Eames’ legs protest by seizing up. Eames lets out a pained gasp, clutching at the tense muscles.
“Sorry,” Arthur quickly resumes his ministrations. “I just…you said ‘we’, and I,” Arthur swallows. “Where do we go from here,” he finally makes himself ask.
Eames closes his eyes: moment of truth.
“Roeser isn’t just a paranoid businessman with too much money, he’s an arms dealer,” Eames opens his eyes, meeting Arthur’s steady gaze. “Judging by your complete lack of surprise I’m guessing you already know this?” Arthur nods. “I swear I didn’t know before I agreed to the job, it wasn’t until I was in his subconscious that I learned his actual profession and by then it was too late to pull out. Not without risking unpleasant retribution from Roeser.”
“I understand, Eames,” Arthur assures him.
“I’m not sure you do,” Eames sighs. “Arthur, even if I had known, I might have still taken the job. You know how valuable a good arms dealer can be.”
“Eames,” Arthur interrupts. “I probably would have done the same thing. Morality isn’t as cut and dry on our side of the law.”
“Regardless, whatever Roeser’s done,” Eames says, more earnest than he’s ever been before. “Whatever it is that Dreamshare needs extracted from him, I want to help you.”
“Are you sure?” Arthur asks, his gaze searching. “It could get messy.”
“The best things in life always do,” Eames smiles, offering Arthur a hand up. “Now, as my legs seem tolerably restored and time is of the essence, we should find the rest of our clothing and get a move on.”
They dress in near silence, trading heated glances full of the promise to strip each other down to their skins again once they’re in the hotel room.
The truth now out in the open, Eames feels a great weight lift from his shoulders, relief rushing in to take its place. He’s never been more scared of screwing something up in his life; he’s never had something so worth wanting to hold onto either.
Eames doesn’t know why he bothered resisting; he didn’t stand a chance against Arthur. And Arthur’s just as far gone; he committed treason for Eames, even before he knew for sure that Eames hadn’t turned into public enemy number one.
It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. It’s love.
There must have been a moment, years ago, when they could have turned back. Some seemingly insignificant point in time where they could have traveled down a different path to become nothing more than colleagues, but they missed it.
Arthur turns back to Eames, his dimples on rare display, and Eames has never been more thankful for missed opportunities. Eames takes Arthur’s hand in his own, linking their fingers.
“Shall we exit stage left, darling?” Arthur replies by giving Eames’ hand a gentle squeeze, leading him out the door.
Somewhere behind them a curtain falls and the thunderous sound of applause fills the warehouse.
THE END
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
- Hamlet
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. This isn’t in the script. But as Arthur sees Eames’ expression clear with something like understanding and awe, he can’t find it within himself to care.
Arthur reaches back with the hand not currently holding a gun on Eames to grab his knife, flicking it open in the scant space between them. Eames eyes widen slightly and his heart beats more quickly, Arthur keeps the switchblade steady in front of Eames’ eyes. He holds it there like a challenge, ‘do you trust me?’ it asks.
It’s too soon for gambles like this, they’re both too raw, but that’s part of the problem. There’s an ache settled deep in Arthur’s core and he doesn’t know how to make the pain stop, he just knows that he needs Eames to trust him still. Eames searches Arthur’s face, Arthur doesn’t know what he’s looking for or what he finds there but he relaxes again, like a man who doesn’t have a Glock 17 pressed against his pulse. The answer is ‘yes’, a nearly undetectable ‘for now’ lingering in the twitch of Eames’ jaw.
Arthur reaches around behind Eames, slicing through the zip tie binding his hands before leaning back to close the switchblade and return the knife to a pocket. Eames lets out a slight groan, stiffly bringing his hands in front of him, rubbing life and blood back into limbs which have been deprived of both for several hours. Arthur can feel every twitch of Eames body, the way his muscles pull and loosen as he moves his shoulders, the tension filling him now that his hands are free, the way his muscles tighten as he prepares to spring into action, grab the gun from Arthur. Maybe it’ll go off killing Eames, maybe he’ll get it away and kill Arthur, either way this is going to end in bloodshed and Arthur can feel it all before it even happens.
Only it doesn’t.
There’s no sudden movement, no action movie heroics, just Eames settling back into the chair still rubbing absently at his wrists. The motion draws Arthur’s gaze, the skin there is red, raw and broken in places where Eames strained against the ties. Arthur reaches out, taking one hand and drawing it up to his lips. Placing a gentle kiss on the torn flesh he breathes out a gentle “I’m sorry,” at the same time Eames rumbles out a “Thank you.”
Arthur’s startled eyes meet Eames’ calm ones. ‘Thank you for what?’ he wants to ask. ‘For kidnapping you, for shredding your wrists, for still holding a gun against your throat,’ Arthur’s grip on the gun tightens slightly. ‘For torturing people and thinking that it being an order made everything okay, for allowing Dreamshare back into our lives, for being such an awful person that you would assume I was planning on turning you over to them, for-’
“Shhh,” Eames brings his free hand up to cup Arthur’s face. “Hush all those thoughts, darling,” and it’s like a slap. Arthur drops Eames’ wrist like he’s been burned.
All this time, not once did Eames call him by any of his stupid pet names. Not that Arthur blames him, he’d been kidnapped and held prisoner. It’s not exactly the sort of thing that would make a person want to coo endearments, especially not to their captor. So why does Eames choose now, now of all times, to start them up again?
Does he not understand that he’s being straddled by a crazy guy with a gun at his throat? Arthur’s already proven himself to be a monster, Eames has seen what Arthur is capable of. Eames thought Arthur capable of so much worse, thought that he would allow Eames to be taken by Dreamshare. How can he call Arthur, darling? How can he bare to have Arthur touching him? How can he resist the chance to steal Arthur’s gun away and use it against him? It’s right there, Arthur won’t even fight back.
Arthur doesn’t deserve to fight back.
Eames seems to sense the change in Arthur. He grabs Arthur’s gun hand, and when had he begun trembling again? Eames steadies Arthur, sliding the gun from where it had slipped to rest against the side of his neck until it’s positioned directly under Eames’ chin. Eames lets go of Arthur and the gun, moving his own hand to rest at Arthur’s waist.
“I trust you.” Unequivocal. A brief statement quietly said with all the calm assurance of a man proclaiming the Earth to revolve around the Sun. “I trust you, Arthur.”
Arthur lets something choked and vulnerable escape him and he’s on Eames in an instant. His lips searching out Eames’ own, chasing after that small, scared noise which had left Arthur and taken refuge in the strength of Eames beneath him.
It feels like a nightmare cold has seeped into his bones causing them to fracture at his weakest points and now he’s shaking apart. Arthur attempts to encroach further into Eames’s space, the open heat of his mouth like salvation leading Arthur deeper.
He uses his free hand to undo the top few buttons of Eames’ shirt, burrowing closer like a hypothermia victim seeking warmth. Eames lets out a pained moan, the barrel of Arthur’s Glock digging deeply into the soft tissue at his neck. Arthur begins to pull back, an apology already on his lips when Eames bucks up into him, brushing their cocks together through far too many layers of clothing, sending electricity racing across every inch of Arthur’s skin.
In the wake of electricity a curious calm rushes through him. Arthur can taste it in Eames’ helpless writhing and the steadiness of his own hand: control. Arthur harshly jabs the gun up against Eames’ jaw. This time the moan is less pained and more aroused and if Eames wasn’t hard before, he definitely is now.
“Seriously?” Arthur asks, incredulous and slightly lightheaded with power.
“Hey, he who makes out whilst holding a gun doesn’t get to complain when said gun takes on some…erotic aspects in the mind of the make out recipient.”
Arthur just stares at Eames, he’s flushed, sweaty, lips kiss swollen, eyes dark with lust and after an evening barhopping followed by spending the night in this chair, in need of a tic-tac. In short: He’s the most beautiful thing Arthur’s ever seen.
And if Eames likes the Glock, then Arthur is damn well keeping the Glock. Arthur chooses not to contemplate any other reason for keeping it or why the idea of getting rid of the gun makes his hand jerk dangerously and instead focuses on Eames. On how after everything Arthur’s done to him, he’s not only letting Arthur take control, Eames is giving it to him.
Another noise escapes from Arthur, but this one isn’t weak, it’s hungry.
Arthur surges forward, claiming Eames’ lips, using the Glock to adjust the angle of the kiss, forcing Eames’ head up. Eames dick twitches as he pushes back against the deadly metal, making choked sounding whines.
Arthur grabs Eames by his hair, yanking him out of the kiss and off the gun.
“Now, now,” Arthur purrs, tilting Eames’ head back, further exposing his throat. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself, do we Eames?” Arthur licks a strip up the center of Eames’ neck, digging his tongue into the sore spot under Eames’ chin where the gun had scraped and bruised. “That’s my job,” he whispers, shoving the Glock back beneath Eames’ chin, cutting off his gasp with lips and tongue.
Eames’ hands scramble furiously across Arthur’s body like he can’t decide what he wants to touch most. Thigh or shoulder? Hip or chest? One hand comes to rest quite happily on Arthur’s delectable ass, but the other continues to roam, caressing every inch of Arthur it can reach.
Arthur did this. Arthur managed to turn the most competent and guarded person he’s ever known into the openly desperate man currently raking his fingers down Arthur’s back.
And he is just getting started.
Arthur pulls away from Eames by inches, slowly extricating himself from the other man’s grasp. Eames makes disappointed noises as he tries to hold on to Arthur more firmly and Arthur nips his lip, an echo from earlier rising between them. Arthur soothes the bite before pulling off completely.
“Stay,” his voice is wrecked but firm as he climbs off Eames, slipping the Glock into his waistband.
Eames had been searched thoroughly when Arthur brought him here. Two guns, three knives, brass knuckles, a pair of handcuffs, and in a hidden interior pocket of his jacket, a travel size bottle of lube and a couple condoms, Arthur was impressed and more than a little turned on by his preparedness. Arthur had left the weapons in his office but Eames’ jacket along with its contents had been hung up with Arthur’s considerably more expensive suit jacket next to the backdoor. Since Arthur hadn’t exactly planned on jumping Eames when he kidnapped him it seems that the forger is the one ready for every eventuality this time.
Arthur grabs the supplies from Eames’ jacket, pausing momentarily over the handcuffs. No. Maybe some other time, please let there be some other time, they could experiment with bondage; but for right now Arthur wants Eames free, unbound and able to say “no” if that’s what he wants. More importantly, he wants Eames able to say “yes”, and have it be genuine. Logically Eames should be attempting to escape right now; Arthur picks up the pace feeling a bit selfish that he doesn’t want to give Eames a chance to return to his senses, hell he doesn’t want to give himself a chance to return to his senses.
Arthur turns to Eames, expecting to find him struggling to free himself. But Eames is still sitting in the chair his back to Arthur, legs still zip tied, shirt still half undone exactly how Arthur had left him. Arthur feels a thrill of power rush through him.
Eames hasn’t moved a muscle.
Arthur takes a deep breath as it hits him that Eames is still here, really here. A flush of desire drains all the blood from his brain and nimble fingers search out his tie, silk whispering as the cloth slides out of its knot. Eames’ shoulders tense slightly at the sound, but he makes no move to turn around. Instead remaining silent, trusting in Arthur; and that…well, that just makes Arthur’s hands work faster.
Every move he makes has Eames twitching in anticipation. Before long shirt joins tie on the floor and Arthur’s naked from the waist up with no intension of stopping anytime soon. The clink of his belt buckle makes Eames jump, the sound of his zipper being slowly drawn down causes Eames’ whole body to twitch with the need to turn around. To see. But still he resists, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled on chair arms, he stays. Just like Arthur told him.
Shoes and socks are the next to go, toed off with the usual lack of grace that accompanies the act and Arthur takes a moment to be thankful for Eames’ not seeing that particular move. He takes the Glock from his waistband next, double checking that the safety is still on. They’ve both been incredibly stupid, if their training officers could see them now…well they’d probably have issues with more than just Arthur and Eames’ lack of gun safety, but the point is they’re behaving irresponsibly and should stop.
Arthur should stop.
He lets his pants fall, stepping out of the legs and keeps walking until he’s standing in front of Eames wearing nothing but his briefs; condom and lube in one hand, Glock in the other. Eames’ eyes widen, his mouth forming a silent “oh” as he takes Arthur in. Looks at Arthur like he’s actually something worth looking at, and the things Arthur ‘should’ do have never seemed less important.
“Heads up,” Arthur says just before he tosses the bottle of lube to Eames, condom following quickly after. Eames catches both easily, but fumbles slightly when he recognizes them for what they are.
Eyes locked with Eames, Arthur dips the Glock’s barrel into his briefs. Using the gun he slowly starts to slip the thin material down. Bringing up his now free hand he hooks his thumb into the elastic of the brief, easing its slide downwards, putting on a real show for Eames.
Eames remains seated, seemingly unable to move a muscle as Arthur’s cock is freed and he casually kicks away his final article of clothing. Arthur straightens slightly and he can feel Eames study him with a meticulous eye to detail. Arthur would compare it to the way Eames studies a subject he needs to forge except…except that there’s always something a little cold in his eyes when he’s evaluating a potential mark. Something detached.
There is definitely nothing detached about the way Eames is looking at Arthur now, from the flush in his cheeks to the slope of his hips. Arthur can feel Eames’ gaze on him like a living thing, a warm touch caressing every inch of him, making him shiver in anticipation.
Eames breaks the silence first, brokenly whispering “Arthur,” into the stale air of the warehouse, and that’s all it takes. That’s it; one word and all of Arthur’s hard-won patience flies out the proverbial window. He wants Eames, and he’s going to have him.
Eames whines, small and needy in the back of his throat as Arthur steps closer, a nod of his head letting Eames know he’s allowed to touch. In a flash of ink and muscles Arthur is hauled once more onto Eames’ lap, straddling him while Eames runs his hands reverently over Arthur’s skin.
Skin, which is something very much lacking on Eames’ part.
“This simply will not do,” Arthur breathes across Eames lips. His fingers quickly unfasten the remaining buttons of Eames’ shirt. “Off,” he orders, voice barely above a growl.
Eames shivers and rushes to comply. Shrugging the shirt off his shoulders he reluctantly tears his hands away from Arthur’s body long enough to remove the offending garment completely.
Arthur greedily drinks in the wealth of skin before him, running hands and gun across Eames chest. Slowly he brings the Glock back up to Eames throat; gently he glides it down the side of Eames’ neck, along his shoulder, tracing the swirling black lines of his tattoo over deltoid, triceps and biceps with the deadly weapon.
Feeling a bit like a child who’s trying to color inside the lines, Arthur shifts closer to Eames, gingerly he nips at the spot where the gun had begun its journey. Eames’ sharp gasp has Arthur grinning against vulnerable flesh. Carefully Arthur licks the hurt away, following the path that the Glock had taken, and he could swear that he tastes the remnants of cold metal on Eames’ skin. It’s intoxicating.
Arthur returns the gun to Eames’ throat, this time moving down the other side of his neck, gliding across his shoulder- he stops.
There, marring the perfect imperfections of Eames’s skin, the scar left behind when a 9mm hollow point ripped into Eames shoulder, mushrooming on impact. Arthur presses against the scar tissue with his own 9mm, Eames hisses slightly at the pressure. Arthur replaces the gun with his tongue, tracing the edges of ragged flesh, cataloguing the differences between slick scar and unharmed skin. He sinks his teeth into the edges of the scar, scraping gently across the surface and Eames bucks up into him with a soft moan, the old wound still overly sensitive even after all this time.
Arthur could do this forever. He could happily spend the rest of his life tasting Eames’ skin and learning all the ways to make him moan, cry out, come undone.
It’s one of the more terrifying thoughts that Arthur has had today.
“Eames,” Arthur breathes the name like he’s afraid anything louder will bring their enemies down on them.
“Tell me Arthur,” Eames begs. “Please, just once tell me what you want from me.”
“I want you to fuck me.” The blush he’s sure is spreading across his face is worth it for the way Eames’ eyes widen and the pleasure/pain from where Eames’ hands are crushing his hips.
“Yeah, okay,” Eames stammers out. “I can do that, darling.”
Arthur’s dick gives an involuntary twitch at the endearment but if Eames notices, which of course he does, he’s smart enough not to say anything. Instead Eames fumbles for the lube, forgotten in his lap and warmed by the crush of their bodies.
Eames quickly slicks up a finger, pressing it gently against Arthur’s hole, not pushing in, not yet.
“Are you ready?”
Arthur has to laugh, “I’ve been ready since you marched into that Dreamshare briefing and demanded to know who was responsible for that utter cock-up we’d just woken from,” Arthur pushes himself against Eames’ finger, slowly fucking down against him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a General look more surprised or pissed off,” Arthur smiles.
“That was,” Eames’ voice catches as Arthur moves on his finger. “Over five years ago.”
“More,” Arthur instructs and thankfully Eames second finger slides in, keeping him from needing to elaborate.
“Arthur,” Eames presses.
“I know- fuck!” It’s good, the burn is so good, as his body instinctively remembers what to do, how to relax around the penetration. How to take and take and only want- “More.”
“Not until you answer me, Arthur,” Eames says flatly, like they’re just going for a stroll. Like Arthur isn’t writhing against him. “Arthur,” Eames demands again, curling his fingers just so to make Arthur cry out and make his point at the same time.
“Fuck! Yes, okay. Yes, it was over five years ago,” Christ, this kind of interrogation should be against the Geneva Convention. “Yes, we’d been on the same team for about three months at that point. And yes, I’ve wanted this, maybe not steadily but off and on ever since…more on than off.”
“Why didn’t-,” Eames begins but Arthur cuts in.
“Why do you think? Risk/reward analysis. You know how the military was. Risk wasn’t worth the reward. Then we were both on the lam, quickly followed by each of us making,” Arthur cuts off with a high whine, gasping a moment while he reorders his thoughts. “Making our way into illegal dream sharing, it just- oh God! Just didn’t seem wise. Especially since I didn’t know how you felt.”
“Didn’t know,” Eames says, sounding genuinely incredulous. “Why do you think I was so pissed after that exorcise?” Eames shoves a third finger in, he’s not gentle and Arthur loves it. “What happened to you down there was- I may not be able to pinpoint the moment of epiphany, as I always wanted to fuck you at least a little, but by then it was more than just,” Eames cups his cheek with his free hand. “You were more than just a fuck.”
Arthur swallows harshly against the admission.
“Please Eames, I’m ready,” he says, and it’s the closest he can come to echoing the sentiment.
Eames smiles softly because he knows anyway, he always knows. He removes his fingers and Arthur groans at the loss, watching mesmerized as Eames fumbles open his jeans, immediately freeing his cock.
“You’re not wearing underwear,” Arthur states dumbly.
“I was out looking to celebrate when you nabbed me, wasn’t I?” Eames shrugs.
“Out looking to score you mean.”
“Semantics,” Eames says grinning wolfishly as he tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it on.
Slicking up his dick, Eames guides Arthur up, adjusting him until he’s hovering just over Eames cock.
“Okay?” He asks quietly.
Arthur slams his body down in one smooth motion, fully sheathing Eames’ dick, and the fierce burn is worth it for the way Eames’ eyes roll back in his head and the strangled scream choking out of him.
“Okay,” Arthur affirms, lifting himself up before slamming home again, not giving Eames a chance to recover.
Arthur loses track of time after that, it’s just heat and friction and oh God, right there. Eames’ legs are still tied down so he has limited ability to match thrusts with Arthur, but he still manages to control the pace, slow Arthur down with a simple touch and a word when he’s in danger of ending things too quickly and Arthur has no idea when the power balance shifted so radically.
The Glock stays clenched in Arthur’s hand; it runs up Eames’ arms and strokes the side of his face, as much a part of Arthur as the hand holding it. The steady, comforting weight is an anchor to reality, more certain than a totem, preventing Arthur from losing himself completely in Eames.
Not an easy task when Eames is biting his way up Arthur’s chest, teasing him with teeth and tongue. Eames stops at the pulse in his neck, biting down gently and feeling the way it leaps in his mouth, affirming that Arthur is very much alive.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Eames murmurs so quietly Arthur almost misses it in the slap of skin against skin, despite Eames’ lips being so close to his ear. As if to prove this point Eames nibbles on the lobe. Of course just because Arthur heard him doesn’t mean that he has any idea what the hell Eames is talking about. “Did you think you’d lost me?” He asks, stroking up Arthur’s thigh.
“Eames,” Arthur gasps as Eames’ hand comes close to his dick. “I don’t- I,” it’s incredibly hard to concentrate with Eames tracing his hip bones, so very close to where Arthur needs him most.
Arthur pulls away slightly, distancing himself to clear his head. His mind capturing each moment like a snapshot forever frozen in time: Eames’ hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise; the desperate, pleading expression hidden in the tilt of his mouth and the sadness in his eyes; the tremor running through Eames’ body as he tries so hard to hold back…what?
What is it?
Arthur absently brings the Glock up, tucking a wayward strand of hair back behind Eames’ ear- and it’s like a movie reel playing in his head, he gets it.
A Glock 17 pressed lazily against Eames head.
A governmental agency so shrouded in mystery and words like “classified” and “need to know” that they end up accountable to no one.
A young Arthur; filled with notions of duty and Country, trained to be perfect, trained to kill, trained to dream, and so very, very green.
A younger Eames; trained just as well but never so naïve as to think that what Dreamshare told them was the truth, already too cynical to believe in much of anything anymore.
A lifetime of stolen moments, both in dreams and reality, neither of them could ever bring themselves to acknowledge, potentially wiped away by a single act of betrayal.
Only that betrayal never happened. Eames isn’t one of the bad guys, and Arthur will never turn him over to Dreamshare. But those minutes when the sting of perceived deception clouded his reason to erase the man he thought he knew had been some of the worst of Arthur’s life…and considering his former occupation that’s saying quite a lot.
Arthur thought he’d lost Eames, the Eames he cared for, fought beside, trusted. He had begun to fear that man never truly existed, that Arthur had made him up out of loneliness and a need to have someone he could count on.
So yeah, Arthur gets it.
The Glock clatters to the floor so Arthur can take hold of Eames with both hands.
~*~*~
There must have been a moment at the beginning, where we could have said no. Somehow we missed it
- Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
Neither of them last very long after that, Arthur dropping his last defense opened the proverbial flood gates and soon both were reduced to grunts and moans, only able to form the most basic of words.
Sex: Rewinding millions of years of evolution one earth-shattering orgasm at a time.
Eames doesn’t know exactly how long they stay like that, utterly spent, gasping into each others mouths, pressing messy kisses against every inch of skin they can reach without moving too much. But really, when faced with dramatic revelations and deep, personal truths, what does time matter anyway?
To Arthur, time still matters very much. At least, he’s the first to move; pulling off Eames as they both wince, far too sensitive. The condom is removed, tied off neatly and deposited, presumably as Eames can’t see where Arthur has gone, in the trash. Distantly there’s the sound of water running and Arthur returns wearing pants, which is a shame, and with a towel. He presses the towel against Eames chest, cleaning him off, and Eames would protest if he had the energy to do so.
Whether to tell Arthur that he doesn’t need to tend to Eames like an invalid or to beg him to leave the proof of what they’d just done, Eames isn’t sure.
“I’m afraid your pants are going to be rather obvious until you can wash them properly; the hotel I’m staying at has an excellent laundry service,” Arthur murmurs, still gently swiping at Eames’ skin like he’s afraid that if he stops he won’t be allowed to touch again.
Slowly Eames places his hand over Arthur’s halting his movement.
“I rather like them this way,” he says as he lifts Arthur’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across Arthur’s knuckles. “But if you insist on clean clothing, then who am I to refuse you?”
“In that case, we should probably do something about those last zip ties,” Arthur teases.
“Never fear, my love,” it takes Eames’ sex-addled brain an embarrassingly long time to realize what he just said and connect it to Arthur’s suddenly stiff posture. “I mean- I,” Eames falters, looking up into Arthur’s eyes. The hope he finds there is enough to take his breath away.
“My love,” Eames says again, softer this time. Arthur smiles and it feels like the room lights up with him.
They stay like that for another few heartbeats, grinning at each other with googly-eyes like lovesick teenagers. Naturally, Arthur is the first to regain his dignity.
“I’ll just,” he begins, patting down his pockets. “Wait, where’s my knife?”
“Ah, yes. Well, you left so suddenly earlier, to disrobe as it happens, but I didn’t know that at the time and as I wasn’t sure if you’d be coming back, I um…nicked it,” Eames babbles pulling the item in question from his own pocket.
“You stole it,” Arthur states.
“Yes.”
“While you were supposedly clinging to me in a fit of passion,” and maybe he’s listening with his hopeful ear, but Eames could swear that Arthur doesn’t sound upset so much as…turned on.
“To be fair, it wasn’t one or the other, more a happy combination of the two,” Eames defends just in case he’s wrong.
Arthur takes the knife from Eames; kneeling between Eames’ legs he flips the switchblade open.
“Do you have any idea how hot that is?” Arthur asks with a slight hitch in his breath.
“If you think that’s impressive, you should see what else I can get out of your pants without you noticing.” It’s a bad joke. One which is beneath Eames to make, but Arthur laughs and rolls his eyes and Eames doesn’t even care; he still hasn’t regained his dignity from the googly-eyes incident.
Arthur slices through the last of the zip ties and Eames is free. Only he’s not really because Arthur is still kneeling in front of him and has begun to rub his legs, massaging them back to life. Eames’ groan is a mixture of pleasure and pain, and it only makes Arthur rub harder.
“Enough, enough,” Eames finally gasps. “If you keep on that way, we’re never going to leave this bloody warehouse.”
Arthur stops abruptly and Eames’ legs protest by seizing up. Eames lets out a pained gasp, clutching at the tense muscles.
“Sorry,” Arthur quickly resumes his ministrations. “I just…you said ‘we’, and I,” Arthur swallows. “Where do we go from here,” he finally makes himself ask.
Eames closes his eyes: moment of truth.
“Roeser isn’t just a paranoid businessman with too much money, he’s an arms dealer,” Eames opens his eyes, meeting Arthur’s steady gaze. “Judging by your complete lack of surprise I’m guessing you already know this?” Arthur nods. “I swear I didn’t know before I agreed to the job, it wasn’t until I was in his subconscious that I learned his actual profession and by then it was too late to pull out. Not without risking unpleasant retribution from Roeser.”
“I understand, Eames,” Arthur assures him.
“I’m not sure you do,” Eames sighs. “Arthur, even if I had known, I might have still taken the job. You know how valuable a good arms dealer can be.”
“Eames,” Arthur interrupts. “I probably would have done the same thing. Morality isn’t as cut and dry on our side of the law.”
“Regardless, whatever Roeser’s done,” Eames says, more earnest than he’s ever been before. “Whatever it is that Dreamshare needs extracted from him, I want to help you.”
“Are you sure?” Arthur asks, his gaze searching. “It could get messy.”
“The best things in life always do,” Eames smiles, offering Arthur a hand up. “Now, as my legs seem tolerably restored and time is of the essence, we should find the rest of our clothing and get a move on.”
They dress in near silence, trading heated glances full of the promise to strip each other down to their skins again once they’re in the hotel room.
The truth now out in the open, Eames feels a great weight lift from his shoulders, relief rushing in to take its place. He’s never been more scared of screwing something up in his life; he’s never had something so worth wanting to hold onto either.
Eames doesn’t know why he bothered resisting; he didn’t stand a chance against Arthur. And Arthur’s just as far gone; he committed treason for Eames, even before he knew for sure that Eames hadn’t turned into public enemy number one.
It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s foolish. It’s love.
There must have been a moment, years ago, when they could have turned back. Some seemingly insignificant point in time where they could have traveled down a different path to become nothing more than colleagues, but they missed it.
Arthur turns back to Eames, his dimples on rare display, and Eames has never been more thankful for missed opportunities. Eames takes Arthur’s hand in his own, linking their fingers.
“Shall we exit stage left, darling?” Arthur replies by giving Eames’ hand a gentle squeeze, leading him out the door.
Somewhere behind them a curtain falls and the thunderous sound of applause fills the warehouse.
THE END