Fic: If You're Just Playing Along, I Promise We'll Be Fine
If You're Just Playing Along, I Promise We'll Be Fine
Arthur/Eames | R | 2000 words
The first mistake, he thinks, is to let Eames pick the bar.
I have no excuses for this. I really don't. The Google doc is literally titled "bar kissing". Sooo...yeah. Unbetad, all mistakes are mine, it's past my bedtime. Title lyrics from We Are Scientists.
The first mistake, he thinks, is to let Eames pick the bar.
No, scratch that. The first mistake is being in a bar with Eames, period.
“Stop that,” Arthur says in the most even, disinterested tone he can manage after having four shots of something German and unpronounceable.
Eames keeps tapping his index finger against Arthur’s nose. “But you wince so charmingly.” There’s a whiff alcohol on his breath, mingled with the cigarette he just finished smoking. It’s not sexy at all--it’s complete disgusting, and Arthur tells him as much.
Only it comes out as, “You smell like smoke and whiskey,” in slightly slurred words. His voice feels far too rough in his throat.
Eames blinks slowly, ridiculously long eyelashes spreading out across cheeks. “Are you trying to seduce me?” he asks, head tilting to one side. His knees knock against Arthur’s beneath the edge of the bar, and since when did their fucking stools get so damn close?
“I am not.” Arthur pauses, holds up one finger, and starts again, regaining his train of thought. “I am not trying to seduce anyone, I’m merely stating a fact.”
“I’ll state one as well: you are an absolutely adorable lush.”
He tips his chin up. “I didn’t eat anything all day, thanks, and unlike some people, I don’t make a hobby out of doing shots.”
“Or you could just be a precious lush. It’s not a bad thing, I promise.” Eames smirks at him, the corner of his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His mouth is wet, slightly pink, and his lip curves out in this really nice, slightly obscene arch of skin--
“Also, if you keep staring at my mouth like that, I’ll have no choice but to kiss you.”
Arthur blinks. “I’m not staring.”
Eames raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No, it’s just.” He reaches up, puts his palm on Eames’ warm cheek with every intention to shove his face out of his line of sight. “Your face is, like. Right there.” Arthur pushes slightly, but somehow his thumb ends up scraping across the rough stubble covering Eames’ jaw.
“It’s not entirely my fault you apparently lose all your respect for personal space when totally slaughtered,” Eames says, turning his face into Arthur’s palm, which is still curled over his cheek. Shit.
“This is your fault. Totally. Completely.” Arthur wishes Eames’ skin didn’t feel so...nice.
But nice isn’t the right word. Hot is more like it.
It takes a full minute before he realizes he’s also lost control of his internal monologue.
“So you’re saying I’m hot?” Eames gives him a leer that would be incredibly irritating, were it not for the way his mouth keeps skimming over the heel of Arthur’s hand, and why exactly is he still touching him?
“Hot. As in temperature. You’re too hot.” Arthur huffs and finally, finally drops his hand. He attempts to lean back, but Eames slides his fingers around Arthur’s wrist in a light, barely-there hold. He doesn’t even tug Arthur toward him, but Arthur still feels his center of gravity shift. He finds himself swaying into that wall of solid warmth, and the majority of his working mind doesn’t seem to care.
“That’s such a coincidence,” Eames whispers, right against Arthur’s ear as he splays a hand over Arthur’s chest, right above his heart. “Because so are you.”
Arthur snorts, even as he simultaneously has a horrible flash to that scene from Temple of Doom, where the guy nearly rips out Indiana Jones’ heart. He really hopes Eames doesn’t rip out his heart, not here. Not while he’s wearing Dior.
He jabs a finger against Eames’ chest. “Don’t you fucking steal my heart,” he says, very succinctly, very seriously. “I can’t bleed out here.”
Eames’ eyes widen for a moment, and he looks...young. Open. “I’m not going to steal your heart, Arthur,” he says quietly in a voice Arthur doesn’t recognize.
“Also.” Arthur frowns. “Also, stop looking at me like that, because I am not going to kiss you. Ever.”
The corner of Eames’ mouth curls up. “Never is a long time, love.”
“I can handle it. It’s not like you need me to kiss you, anyway.”
“Sorry, I missed the part where I was full up on kissing.”
“You’re not listening to me, Eames, god.”
He chuckles softly, lets his knuckles brush over Arthur’s chin. “Then explain it to me.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. Words seem extremely difficult right now. “There isn’t anything special about kissing me. You just want the game.”
“Shouldn’t I be able to decide that for myself?”
“Seriously, it’s not what you want. I’m just a conquest.”
“You seem quite sure of yourself on this.”
“I am. I know how that brain of yours works.”
“Really? And what am I thinking right now?” Eames’ hand is still spread over the front of Arthur’s shirt, just under his jacket, fingers skimming over the buttons as they press higher to Arthur’s collar.
“You’re thinking that I’m drunk and that you can totally take advantage of me,” Arthur replies matter-of-factly, and okay, so maybe he hasn’t looked away from Eames’ goddamn mouth in over a minute, but no one’s counting.
“Ah, see, and that’s where you’re wrong.” And then, slowly, that same mouth leans forward and touches the edge of Arthur’s jaw, slides closer until he can feel slick heat against the corner of his lips. “I really just want you to take advantage of me.”
Arthur’s stomach does a weird flip. He shivers without meaning to, mumbles, “Still not kissing you.”
“No, you’re not.” His mouth doesn’t press against Arthur’s so much as nuzzle it, a back and forth skim, his words a warm rush of air.
Somehow, Arthur’s hand finds its way to the front of Eames’ shirt and digs in. He needs a point of gravity. “‘m serious.”
“I would expect nothing less from you.” Eames pulls back just enough to let his lower lip roll over Arthur’s, painfully slow. Arthur makes a soft sound in his throat, and he closes his eyes tightly, reminding himself that they are sitting at a bar, in public, surrounded by smoke and bad 80’s rock. He knows exactly how he got here, how shitty the job went, how Eames all but shoved him into a car and drove them to the nearest seedy bar, ignoring all of Arthur’s protests.
He remembers all this and knows for a damn fact he’s not in a dream. And yet...
“I’m not your conquest, and I don’t need your pity,” he bites out, head clearing for a moment as he recalls a missed shot, angry projections, and watching Eames get ripped to shreds. It wasn’t entirely his fault, but it might as well have been, and that’s why he’s sloppy drunk with his hands tangled in Eames’ ugly shirt, why he’s shaking and a little overheated and kind of desperately wanting the taste of whiskey and smoke in his mouth.
It has nothing to do with three years of avoiding said desperate wanting. Nothing at all.
Eames huffs softly, and it sounds oddly disappointed, sad. “Of course you don’t, and you never were,” he says, almost as if he’s talking to himself than Arthur. “Bloody stupid--no goddamned sense at all.” He sighs, and his teeth nip ever so slightly at the edge of Arthur’s lip, like an afterthought.
“I have sense.” Arthur knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he doesn’t care. It’s getting harder to think the longer he stays perfectly still on his bar stool not kissing Eames.
He feels fingers pluck gently at his tie. “Not when it counts.”
“Shut up.” It’s an accident, the way his words cause his mouth to fit perfectly over Eames’. If he doesn’t exert pressure, it’s still not a kiss.
“Smartest idiot I ever met,” Eames breathes as his lips part beneath Arthur’s, which is an accident as well, and just because Arthur slips his tongue past the soft, slick, insane curve of Eames’ bottom lip doesn’t mean he’s doing this. He’s not. He’s really, really not.
But soon too much and not enough time has passed, and he’s breathless and shaking and Eames is making these stupid little moan noises deep in his throat that are making Arthur’s heart pound. His mouth feels wet, and he can taste alcohol and nicotine and Eames, everywhere, practically in his molars.
He’s also maybe, possibly, humping Eames’ knee.
“Jesus, Arthur,” Eames gasps, and Arthur opens his eyes, which he doesn’t remember closing. Eames looks utterly wrecked, flushed bright pink and eyes completely blown. He’s staring at Arthur as if he’s just discovered buried treasure.
Then he shifts his knee ever so slightly, and Arthur groans roughly, biting his way back into Eames’ mouth.
“Let me--let me--god, just--” Eames is panting, hands sliding inside Arthur’s jacket to palm his waist, and even through layers of cotton, Arthur can feel the heat of his skin like a brand. He thinks he could come like this, his body melting into Eames, nothing but taste and sound and touch and--
“Get a fucking room, you two,” an irritated voice says in passing. It’s enough to snap Arthur back to reality. A reality that doesn’t involve getting off on a bar stool in front of middle-aged bikers and townies.
Still...it’s still his moment, damn it.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Arthur growls at the guy. He considers shoving him, but he figures the Look of Death is enough to get his point across.
Eames stares at him for a moment, stunned, then laughs. “Are you--did you just nearly defend my honor?” he asks, mouth trailing over Arthur’s jaw.
“No, he just. That guy’s really rude, is all.” Suddenly, Arthur looks around the room and notices all the eyes on them, watching with vague interest. More than a few eyes are trained on Eames.
His chest feels too tight with the urge to punch the living shit out every last person standing within arm’s reach. It’s a heady, terrifying thought, but he doesn’t want anyone watching them. He doesn’t want to share this moment.
Again, his internal monologue is totally shot to hell, and Eames is still laughing, only it's softer this time. He kisses Arthur’s temple and whispers, “You don’t have to share me, Arthur.”
A flustered, drunken heat spreads across Arthur’s cheeks. “We should get out of here,” he mumbles, ignoring the embarrassingly obvious hard-on pressing against the front of his trousers as he pushes off his stool and takes Eames by the wrist.
“Now you are definitely reading my mind,” he hears Eames say as they practically sprint out of the bar.
He fully intends to go back to his hotel room, but Arthur’s drunk and Eames drove and the car is a decent-sized Lincoln. He’s managed with far worse.
Granted, Arthur hasn’t come in his pants from simple grinding friction since he was, like, seventeen, but Eames doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t think Eames really cares, if the way his voice breaks on Arthur’s name is any indication. Arthur’s knee is jammed into the gear shift, and Eames probably slammed his elbow into the console hard enough to bruise, but it’s all semantics when it comes to losing himself in the feel of Eames skin, teasing patches barely exposed through his hastily unbuttoned shirt. There are hints of ink, dark patterns etched into muscle, and Arthur wants to learn every inch of them.
“Next time,” Eames gasps, smiling shakily, and Arthur bears his weight down against him, a sharp roll of his hips, and they break apart within seconds of each other, Arthur’s Dior suit be damned.
He falls rather gracelessly against Eames in a sweaty, bedraggled heap, and Eames slides his hands into Arthur’s damp hair, smoothing it back.
“You should never kiss me more often,” he whispers breathlessly with a smirk.
Arthur grunts noncommittally and buries his face in Eames’ neck to hide his smile.
Arthur/Eames | R | 2000 words
The first mistake, he thinks, is to let Eames pick the bar.
I have no excuses for this. I really don't. The Google doc is literally titled "bar kissing". Sooo...yeah. Unbetad, all mistakes are mine, it's past my bedtime. Title lyrics from We Are Scientists.
The first mistake, he thinks, is to let Eames pick the bar.
No, scratch that. The first mistake is being in a bar with Eames, period.
“Stop that,” Arthur says in the most even, disinterested tone he can manage after having four shots of something German and unpronounceable.
Eames keeps tapping his index finger against Arthur’s nose. “But you wince so charmingly.” There’s a whiff alcohol on his breath, mingled with the cigarette he just finished smoking. It’s not sexy at all--it’s complete disgusting, and Arthur tells him as much.
Only it comes out as, “You smell like smoke and whiskey,” in slightly slurred words. His voice feels far too rough in his throat.
Eames blinks slowly, ridiculously long eyelashes spreading out across cheeks. “Are you trying to seduce me?” he asks, head tilting to one side. His knees knock against Arthur’s beneath the edge of the bar, and since when did their fucking stools get so damn close?
“I am not.” Arthur pauses, holds up one finger, and starts again, regaining his train of thought. “I am not trying to seduce anyone, I’m merely stating a fact.”
“I’ll state one as well: you are an absolutely adorable lush.”
He tips his chin up. “I didn’t eat anything all day, thanks, and unlike some people, I don’t make a hobby out of doing shots.”
“Or you could just be a precious lush. It’s not a bad thing, I promise.” Eames smirks at him, the corner of his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His mouth is wet, slightly pink, and his lip curves out in this really nice, slightly obscene arch of skin--
“Also, if you keep staring at my mouth like that, I’ll have no choice but to kiss you.”
Arthur blinks. “I’m not staring.”
Eames raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No, it’s just.” He reaches up, puts his palm on Eames’ warm cheek with every intention to shove his face out of his line of sight. “Your face is, like. Right there.” Arthur pushes slightly, but somehow his thumb ends up scraping across the rough stubble covering Eames’ jaw.
“It’s not entirely my fault you apparently lose all your respect for personal space when totally slaughtered,” Eames says, turning his face into Arthur’s palm, which is still curled over his cheek. Shit.
“This is your fault. Totally. Completely.” Arthur wishes Eames’ skin didn’t feel so...nice.
But nice isn’t the right word. Hot is more like it.
It takes a full minute before he realizes he’s also lost control of his internal monologue.
“So you’re saying I’m hot?” Eames gives him a leer that would be incredibly irritating, were it not for the way his mouth keeps skimming over the heel of Arthur’s hand, and why exactly is he still touching him?
“Hot. As in temperature. You’re too hot.” Arthur huffs and finally, finally drops his hand. He attempts to lean back, but Eames slides his fingers around Arthur’s wrist in a light, barely-there hold. He doesn’t even tug Arthur toward him, but Arthur still feels his center of gravity shift. He finds himself swaying into that wall of solid warmth, and the majority of his working mind doesn’t seem to care.
“That’s such a coincidence,” Eames whispers, right against Arthur’s ear as he splays a hand over Arthur’s chest, right above his heart. “Because so are you.”
Arthur snorts, even as he simultaneously has a horrible flash to that scene from Temple of Doom, where the guy nearly rips out Indiana Jones’ heart. He really hopes Eames doesn’t rip out his heart, not here. Not while he’s wearing Dior.
He jabs a finger against Eames’ chest. “Don’t you fucking steal my heart,” he says, very succinctly, very seriously. “I can’t bleed out here.”
Eames’ eyes widen for a moment, and he looks...young. Open. “I’m not going to steal your heart, Arthur,” he says quietly in a voice Arthur doesn’t recognize.
“Also.” Arthur frowns. “Also, stop looking at me like that, because I am not going to kiss you. Ever.”
The corner of Eames’ mouth curls up. “Never is a long time, love.”
“I can handle it. It’s not like you need me to kiss you, anyway.”
“Sorry, I missed the part where I was full up on kissing.”
“You’re not listening to me, Eames, god.”
He chuckles softly, lets his knuckles brush over Arthur’s chin. “Then explain it to me.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. Words seem extremely difficult right now. “There isn’t anything special about kissing me. You just want the game.”
“Shouldn’t I be able to decide that for myself?”
“Seriously, it’s not what you want. I’m just a conquest.”
“You seem quite sure of yourself on this.”
“I am. I know how that brain of yours works.”
“Really? And what am I thinking right now?” Eames’ hand is still spread over the front of Arthur’s shirt, just under his jacket, fingers skimming over the buttons as they press higher to Arthur’s collar.
“You’re thinking that I’m drunk and that you can totally take advantage of me,” Arthur replies matter-of-factly, and okay, so maybe he hasn’t looked away from Eames’ goddamn mouth in over a minute, but no one’s counting.
“Ah, see, and that’s where you’re wrong.” And then, slowly, that same mouth leans forward and touches the edge of Arthur’s jaw, slides closer until he can feel slick heat against the corner of his lips. “I really just want you to take advantage of me.”
Arthur’s stomach does a weird flip. He shivers without meaning to, mumbles, “Still not kissing you.”
“No, you’re not.” His mouth doesn’t press against Arthur’s so much as nuzzle it, a back and forth skim, his words a warm rush of air.
Somehow, Arthur’s hand finds its way to the front of Eames’ shirt and digs in. He needs a point of gravity. “‘m serious.”
“I would expect nothing less from you.” Eames pulls back just enough to let his lower lip roll over Arthur’s, painfully slow. Arthur makes a soft sound in his throat, and he closes his eyes tightly, reminding himself that they are sitting at a bar, in public, surrounded by smoke and bad 80’s rock. He knows exactly how he got here, how shitty the job went, how Eames all but shoved him into a car and drove them to the nearest seedy bar, ignoring all of Arthur’s protests.
He remembers all this and knows for a damn fact he’s not in a dream. And yet...
“I’m not your conquest, and I don’t need your pity,” he bites out, head clearing for a moment as he recalls a missed shot, angry projections, and watching Eames get ripped to shreds. It wasn’t entirely his fault, but it might as well have been, and that’s why he’s sloppy drunk with his hands tangled in Eames’ ugly shirt, why he’s shaking and a little overheated and kind of desperately wanting the taste of whiskey and smoke in his mouth.
It has nothing to do with three years of avoiding said desperate wanting. Nothing at all.
Eames huffs softly, and it sounds oddly disappointed, sad. “Of course you don’t, and you never were,” he says, almost as if he’s talking to himself than Arthur. “Bloody stupid--no goddamned sense at all.” He sighs, and his teeth nip ever so slightly at the edge of Arthur’s lip, like an afterthought.
“I have sense.” Arthur knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he doesn’t care. It’s getting harder to think the longer he stays perfectly still on his bar stool not kissing Eames.
He feels fingers pluck gently at his tie. “Not when it counts.”
“Shut up.” It’s an accident, the way his words cause his mouth to fit perfectly over Eames’. If he doesn’t exert pressure, it’s still not a kiss.
“Smartest idiot I ever met,” Eames breathes as his lips part beneath Arthur’s, which is an accident as well, and just because Arthur slips his tongue past the soft, slick, insane curve of Eames’ bottom lip doesn’t mean he’s doing this. He’s not. He’s really, really not.
But soon too much and not enough time has passed, and he’s breathless and shaking and Eames is making these stupid little moan noises deep in his throat that are making Arthur’s heart pound. His mouth feels wet, and he can taste alcohol and nicotine and Eames, everywhere, practically in his molars.
He’s also maybe, possibly, humping Eames’ knee.
“Jesus, Arthur,” Eames gasps, and Arthur opens his eyes, which he doesn’t remember closing. Eames looks utterly wrecked, flushed bright pink and eyes completely blown. He’s staring at Arthur as if he’s just discovered buried treasure.
Then he shifts his knee ever so slightly, and Arthur groans roughly, biting his way back into Eames’ mouth.
“Let me--let me--god, just--” Eames is panting, hands sliding inside Arthur’s jacket to palm his waist, and even through layers of cotton, Arthur can feel the heat of his skin like a brand. He thinks he could come like this, his body melting into Eames, nothing but taste and sound and touch and--
“Get a fucking room, you two,” an irritated voice says in passing. It’s enough to snap Arthur back to reality. A reality that doesn’t involve getting off on a bar stool in front of middle-aged bikers and townies.
Still...it’s still his moment, damn it.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Arthur growls at the guy. He considers shoving him, but he figures the Look of Death is enough to get his point across.
Eames stares at him for a moment, stunned, then laughs. “Are you--did you just nearly defend my honor?” he asks, mouth trailing over Arthur’s jaw.
“No, he just. That guy’s really rude, is all.” Suddenly, Arthur looks around the room and notices all the eyes on them, watching with vague interest. More than a few eyes are trained on Eames.
His chest feels too tight with the urge to punch the living shit out every last person standing within arm’s reach. It’s a heady, terrifying thought, but he doesn’t want anyone watching them. He doesn’t want to share this moment.
Again, his internal monologue is totally shot to hell, and Eames is still laughing, only it's softer this time. He kisses Arthur’s temple and whispers, “You don’t have to share me, Arthur.”
A flustered, drunken heat spreads across Arthur’s cheeks. “We should get out of here,” he mumbles, ignoring the embarrassingly obvious hard-on pressing against the front of his trousers as he pushes off his stool and takes Eames by the wrist.
“Now you are definitely reading my mind,” he hears Eames say as they practically sprint out of the bar.
He fully intends to go back to his hotel room, but Arthur’s drunk and Eames drove and the car is a decent-sized Lincoln. He’s managed with far worse.
Granted, Arthur hasn’t come in his pants from simple grinding friction since he was, like, seventeen, but Eames doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t think Eames really cares, if the way his voice breaks on Arthur’s name is any indication. Arthur’s knee is jammed into the gear shift, and Eames probably slammed his elbow into the console hard enough to bruise, but it’s all semantics when it comes to losing himself in the feel of Eames skin, teasing patches barely exposed through his hastily unbuttoned shirt. There are hints of ink, dark patterns etched into muscle, and Arthur wants to learn every inch of them.
“Next time,” Eames gasps, smiling shakily, and Arthur bears his weight down against him, a sharp roll of his hips, and they break apart within seconds of each other, Arthur’s Dior suit be damned.
He falls rather gracelessly against Eames in a sweaty, bedraggled heap, and Eames slides his hands into Arthur’s damp hair, smoothing it back.
“You should never kiss me more often,” he whispers breathlessly with a smirk.
Arthur grunts noncommittally and buries his face in Eames’ neck to hide his smile.