The man who had none of the luck 6/6 + epilogue
Title: The man who had none of the luck part 6
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames
rating: R
warnings: mentions of violence, rape and sex
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: Recovery, revenge and other things beginning with 'R'
Author's note: This is not the end, there will be an epilogue. Even so, I can't quite believe this thing balloned as it did in to a 33,000 word plus epic. I'm almost disappointed to finish it.
Arthur - Los Angeles: 6th October, 9:43am
'Can I get you anything pet?'.
The question echoed in Arthur's mind, even as he sat staring blankly out over the garden of Cobb's house in LA. It had been barely a week since they'd flown here from Bangkok, all of them unwilling to spend too long in the city where it had happened, more unwilling to use up more of Saito's goodwill spending longer than necessary at the hospital he was providing.
No, that wasn't true, he was unwilling to spend longer there. But then he'd always uncomfortable with the level of involvement from the businessman who, the Fischer job aside, was still just another client. A well-respected, regular, loyal client, but still someone with whom maintaining a strictly professional relationship remained paramount.
So here he was, sitting in the Cobb family home, his own apartment barred to him thanks to the unfortunate combination of a broken foot, considerable flights of stairs and an out of order elevator, trying to make his way through Les Miserables, in French of course, to stave off boredom whilst Cobb and Eames clucked around him like mother hens.
'Can I get you anything pet?'
He could handle that, mostly. In some ways it was sweet, in more ways it was thoroughly, utterly exasperating because Arthur was not an invalid, and could get things for himself than you very much, crutches and all.
He was nonetheless used to a certain level of mother henning, he'd been subjected to it enough from Cobb whenever he had been injured during their partnership, some misplaced fatherly feelings no doubt given that he was unable to get home to his own children and comfort their own scrapes and bruises. He'd learned after a while to treat the whole thing with a level of resigned acceptance.
No, the worse wasn't the attention which was the problem, but the way Eames seemed to treat him as if he was made of fragile glass, as if he'd break from one wrong word or one misplaced gesture. It was almost unbearable, the way he seemed to constantly hover, ready to respond to his any minor need, crowding his space, suffocating him, whilst at the same time distinctly, definitely Not Touching Him.
'Can I get you anything pet?'
Despite what others, or a certain British forger in any case, might think, Arthur was reasonably self-aware. He would be willing to admit, albeit through somewhat gritted teeth, that he currently had something of a reaction to unexpected physical contact. It was, he would like to think, a perfectly normal reaction after being tortured for close to three weeks straight and no doubt something which would recede with time.
Of course, Eames had never previously been respectful of his boundaries around touching, even in the early days before they had started sleeping together, when the walls of Arthur's personal space had spikes and fences and large Keep Out signs. The Brit had just cheerfully disregarded them, pushing his way through and trampling all over Arthur's carefully laid defences. An arm over the shoulder here, a slap on the back there, small things that had gradually wormed their way into his heart. He wasn't doing that this time, which led to the sneaking, dreadful suspicion that he knew.
Really, the argument had been building all week.
“Can I get you anything pet?” The question had almost become a ritual, asked whenever he was alone for more than five minutes at a time, without a hot drink or a snack to occupy his hands. Arthur was getting sick of it.
“No Eames, I do not want anything.” he snapped out, “if I did, I would get it myself, since I am still capable of moving.” He half expected, hoped, for a caustic retort from the other man, their usual banter distinctly lacking in the last few days. When it didn't come he assumed the other man had given up and went back to the world of Victor Hugo, wrapping himself up in love, revolution and death on the streets of Paris.
Which was probably why he didn't hear the other man approach until he was almost behind him, which was why, despite Arthur's promise to himself that he was over it, that he was back in control, he reacted how did as soon as he was aware of that the other man was there. His body twisting around, moving instinctively to defend itself, and resulting in each of them staring at each other, breathing heavily, from across the veranda, an upturned table in between them and a pool of coffee spreading out from a broken mug, staining the wooden slats black.
Eames rubbed his cheek gingerly where Arthur's first had struck him, “Really pet, is that how you treat all the ...” the mocking response was almost instinctive and Eames bit it off as soon as he realised what he was saying.
It was that, more than anything, that set Arthur off, that and the oh so guilty look on the other man's face, that confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he knew. “Say it,” he demanded, “Go on, say it!” He wanted nothing more than to walk over there, to grab Eames and shake some sense into him but he could barely stay on his feet as it was, using the railing around the veranda for support, his broken foot throbbing in protest at the abuse.
“Arthur,” the voice was pained and did absolutely nothing to calm Arthur down. If anything it made him want to throw something at him.
“God, can you say anything other than my name and 'Can I get you anything pet?'” his voice was a mocking parody of Eames' British accent.
Arthur could see anger starting to creep into the other man's expression and he was glad, “Like what love, what would you like me to say?” the tone was harsh, frustration evident.
“Something, anything. I'm not made of glass, I won't shatter. Fuck Eames, it happened ok, it's over, I'm over it. In fact the only person I can see who's not over it is you!” He was almost shouting now, he was loosing control but he didn't care.
“Oh yes love, I can see you're over it,” Eames was stalking forward as he spoke, anger clear in every movement, crowding up Arthur up against the railings, “that's why your half way across the room any time someone happens to touch you unexpectedly. Now I don't mind it a bit rough on occasion darling, but what if that had been Cobb, or Ariadne, or Phillipa.”
Arthur flinched at that, guilt still coursing through him over than particular incident. Eames was in his space now, hands either side of him on the railings, face dark with anger, and the point man felt like he couldn't breath, his body trembling despite his best efforts to the contrary. Taking altogether too much effort, he pulled himself up straighter, bringing himself under control and forcing out through gritted teeth, “Get. Out.”
When the other man didn't move, he repeated himself, “Get out Eames. Just leave. Now!” The other man looked like he wanted to argue, but then decided against it.
“Fine love, if that's what you want!” He stalked out, the door slamming behind him as he did so, and Arthur hated that he flinched at the sound, instinctively reaching towards a die that wasn't there.
He wasn't certain how long he stood there, breathing heavily, trying to get his rolling emotions under control. Because Eames knew, he knew and could barely stand to touch him. Somehow that hurt more than any of his physical injuries, any of what happened to him. Eventually he had to move, the pain in his foot becoming overwhelming, his still battered body trembling just from the effort of staying standing.
This was getting him nowhere. He needed to get his head straight, to get some sort of resolution, regain some form of control and he knew just how to do it. With a renewed sense of purpose, he pulled himself up on his crutches and made his way up to his room. Once there he pulled out his laptop, and started to get to work. He had an Irishman to find.
++++
Eames, it seemed, had taken him at his word. He'd left.
Despite the fact Arthur was expecting it, had been expecting it since he woke up in the hospital to the forgers absence, expecting it since the man had turned up later smelling of alcohol and smoke and resolutely Not Touching Him, it still hurt.
Arthur dealt with the pain the same way he dealt with everything, throwing himself into his work and ignoring it. He sets up his office in Eames' room, the room they usually shared whenever they visited the Cobb house, the room Eames had resolutely insisted they didn't share whilst he was recovering.
He tells himself its because it's the only space in the house not otherwise occupied, the only space where he could get peace and quiet to work. He distinctly tells himself its not because the room smells of Eames and definitely not because of the paisley shirts and tweed jackets left there indicating that the other man, might, just might, be planning to return.
There was something satisfying about the research, of doing something he can control. He starts wearing suits again, trouser leg rolled up in deference to the cast on his foot even though his 'office' is just down the hall. He plans the job methodically, clinically and after a while he even starts being able to look at the face of the Irishman, Carnhain he learns the name is, without remembering.
Cobb is worried about him, says as much at breakfast one morning, but Arthur brushes him off, because he's fine now, he's back in control, and if he still flinches a little when touched unexpectedly that's just normal given the circumstances.
He distinctly does not tell Cobb what he is doing. Because the other man would try to talk him out of it. He'd give him arguments about morality, legality and ethics, about how this is not their way, about how he needs to move on, to put this behind him. Cobb was going at saying things he never did himself.
It's a week later when Eames returns.
He comes breezing into the room, all smiles and grins, but Arthur notes, making sure to make enough noise on his approach that Arthur knew he was coming, could compose himself before he burst in. He almost seemed like he was going to lean forward and kiss him and the point man tensed in anticipation, but then the other man changed tack going instead to slump down on the bed.
“Cobb told me you'd been hiding yourself up here. Really darling, I appreciate you missed me but did you have to cover my bed with so many files.”
“I didn't know if you were coming back, so I decided to put the space to good use.” He kept his voice neutral, factual, like it didn't mean anything. He couldn't help but see a stab of satisfaction however at the brief grimace of pain on the other man's face before it was gone, covered up by sardonic smile.
“Oh, I'm like a bad penny I am, I always turn up.”
“Where did you go?” He couldn't help a hint of accusation slip into his voice at that.
“Las Vegas and really driving in this country is oh so very boring, your roads are far too straight”
Las Vegas, figured, after all where else would the other man go to be able to gamble and drink in peace. To find someone to relieve his tension with, someone with a perfect body, not damaged or scarred. He stamped down on the feelings as he drily responded, “Oh, I hadn't realised there was still a casino there you hadn't been banned from.”
Something of his thoughts must have snuck through his mask however, because Eames sat bolt upright, his expression serious. “Wasn't there for the casinos, love,” and he's moving now, kneeling down in front of where the point man was sitting at his desk. Arthur noticed he had a small black velvet box in his hands and he had the brief, ridiculous thought that the other man may be going to propose.
“It was the only place I could get this.” Eames opened the box as he spoke so Arthur could see inside. His heart stopped briefly when he saw what the other man was holding out to him and he couldn't help a small smile of wonder twitch at the corner's of his mouth because sitting there, colours bright against the black velvet, was a small red die. He went to pick it up, rolling it against the table, once, twice, three times. It came up four every time. It wasn't his old totem of course, the weight, the balance was slightly different, but the number, the one only he and Eames knew, the number was the same and it was a start.
“You had to go all the way to Vegas for this?” he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, feeling the urge to smile, really smile, for the first time in weeks.
“Had to get it from the same place now didn't I? Surprised it was even still there.” Of course Eames would remember. It had been a gift, after their first job together, after Arthur had rebuffed the other man's advances to take a chance and live a little with a sharp, 'I never gamble unless I already know the outcome.'
Arthur did the only thing he could think of, he leaned forward and kissed him, wrapping his arms around the forgers broad chest. The move obviously caught Eames off-guard, taking him a few seconds to respond, before he returned the kiss with a gentle fervour, his own arms returning the embrace, touching him for the first time in weeks. Once they came up for air, Arthur moved down onto the floor besides him, not breaking their embrace, and rested his head on the other man's shoulder, his fingers tracing the lines to tattoos peaking out from under the other man's, horrifically orange, shirt.
Eventually he broke the silence, answering the question he knew was forming on the other man's lips. “They never managed to get the tattoos right, they were always changing. It's how I knew I was in a dream.” He kept his voice neutral as if he was discussing the weather not the nightmares which had come so close to breaking him.
He felt more than heard the other man's breath catch in his throat, somewhere between a choke and a sob, but when he answered his voice was playful and only through years of familiarity could Arthur detect the thick emotion behind it, “As romantic as the thought of being your totem is, I do think the dice may be a tad more practical. I doubt Cobb would appreciate you undressing me in the warehouse.”Arthur couldn't help but snort in amusement at that one.
They sat like that in silence for what seemed like an age, taking comfort in each others closeness. It was nice, gentle and entirely, frustratingly non-sexual. Arthur hated the treacherous part of himself which was somehow relieved at that.
“So this is what you've been up to?” Eames voice broke the silence and Arthur froze when he saw what he's holding. It was his file on Carnhain, his past, his habits, his known locations, his strengths and weaknesses, everything he could find.
Arthur pulled back from the other man, straightening up and nodded, “I need this Eames, I need it to be over.” He kept his voice calm but firm, clearly indicating that he was willing to fight for this, no matter what the other said or how he tried to dissuade him.
He should have known Eames better, should have guess he wouldn't shy away from the idea like Cobb, wouldn't bring up arguments of morals or ethics. Should have expected the other man to do exactly what he did, which was to nod and say conversationally, “I hate to say it love, given how you're usually so good with the details, but you seem to be forgetting that this is going to be a two-man job.”
And maybe Arthur is not over it, maybe he's not fine. But he knows in that moment that he will be.
++++
Eames - Brussels: 5th November, 10.51pm
They're sitting in one of the top floor rooms of the Merridian in Brussels, in the dark, waiting. The room is pleasantly large, well laid out with comfortable seats and an impressive view of the heart of the city. Which is good because they have been sitting here for three hours already. In the near distance Eames can see the nightly Son et Lumière playing out over the gothic architecture of the Grand-Place, buildings illuminated in ghostly colours. Further away he can see fireworks going off, a testament to the Anglo expat community in the city he supposed.
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” the childhood rhyme slips almost involuntarily from his lips, little more than a whisper but carrying in otherwise silent room.
“What?” Arthurs voice, sharp but low from the other side of the room.
“Guy Fawkes night, love.” he explained, before adding “One of these days I'm going to have take you to a proper bonfire night celebration, we can burn our very own Guy.”
He could hear the amusement in the other man's voice as he responded, “Only the British would celebrate a man failing to blow up the government.”
“The important thing is he tried, darling.” An amused snort from the point man before he feel silent again. Eames could hear the soft click of metal on metal and he didn't need to see the other man to know that he was checking the gun for what must have been the fifth time that evening. To anyone else the gesture may have seemed merely precautionary, but Eames knew it to be a sign of anxiety, the only one the point man would allow himself.
Half an hour later their patience was finally rewarded as they hear a key card in the lock and the door swings open. Both men tense, muscles coiled in anticipation, ready for action. Carnhain must have been confident in his new alias, in his ability to remain hidden, because he walked into the room with barely a look around, flipping the light switch on with a deft movement, his other hand occupied by a small briefcase. He looked the same as he had when they'd run across him in Singapore, and somehow Eames felt that something of what he'd done should show on his features.
He heard Arthur take a deep breath at the sight of the man and Eames glanced over, worried for a moment that the other man wouldn't be able to handle being faced with his tormentor. He should have known better, Arthur's face was impassive, cold and hard and there wasn't even the hint of a tremble in the hand holding the gun unerringly aimed at the Irishman's chest.
Carnhain obviously heard the noise too, looking up towards the sound, his hand almost instinctively going towards what was no doubt a gun secreted underneath the two-piece suit. From behind him, Eames cocked his gun, a pointless gesture with a semi-automatic but the sound conveyed the threat more effectively than anything else. He didn't say anything though, because this was Arthur's revenge not his, he was just here to make sure it went smoothly.
“Remember me. Laddie” and Eames almost flinched at the venom in Arthur's voice as he spat the words out.
Carnhain did flinch and from his vantage point Eames could see a faint trembling indicating that the man was more than aware of what was going to happen next. But the Irish lilt was steady as he spoke, “Should have killed you when I had the chance... laddie.”
Arthur shot him almost before the words were out of his mouth, two in the chest, one in the head. Clean, precise and far too quick a death for Eames' liking but even in revenge the point man was nothing if not professional.
The point man was calm and so in control as they disposed of the guns and the gloves, removing any evidence to link them to the crime and it was all Eames could do to keep his hands off him, because competent Arthur was nothing if not sex appeal on legs and it had been too long since he'd seen his lover like this.
But once it was done the point man let out a breath that neither of them realised he'd been holding, the tension ebbing from his frame leaving behind a barely perceptible trembling and Eames knew he'd made the right decision not to. The near flinch and the way Arthur refused to look him in the eye as the forger gathered him in his embrace merely served to reinforce what he already knew, that his lover wasn't ready.
++++
New York: 31st December, 10:54pm
They tracked down 'Charlie' in New York, Charles Kuang to be precise and Eames knew him by reputation because the world of dreamers, and forgers especially, was too small not to. He was celebrating New Years Eve in a plush bar within staggering distance of Times Square.
They'd missed Christmas, and Eames had had to promise profusely to make it up to his mother for that, hoping to catch him in Toronto but he'd skipped town just after they'd arrived and it had taken them near a week of frantic searching to pick up the trail again.
He waited until the curvaceous blonde date the other man was entertaining had slipped away to powder her nose and the buxom waitress had deposited further drinks, making little attempt as she did to avoid the other forgers wandering hands.
Eames slipped into the recently vacated chair opposite him as soon as the coast was clear, a predatory grin plastered on his face.
“Evening, Charlie.” he took great satisfaction at the look of panic that crossed the other man's face as he looked up in the face of the man he'd forged in so many dreams.
“Who... what...” he started to get up, words, questions, spilling incoherently from his mouth as he did so.
He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder pushing him forcefully back down, a gun subtly digging into his back offering further encouragement towards co-operation. Charlie went even paler, if that was possible, when he saw the face of the point man starring down at him impassively.
“Do finish your drink, it would be a shame to waste it after all, then the three of us are going to take a little walk,” Eames continued to smile at him as he spoke, despite wanting nothing more than to reach across the table and rip the man apart with his bare hands.
Charlie swallowed, hard, then nodded in mute acquiescence, finishing the drink with a trembling hand.
They made their way out of the bar with little fuss, the two of them flanking the smaller asian man, half carrying him and waving away concerned looks with an explanation of too many drinks too early in the evening. Of course the sedative that the forger had slipped into his drink nod doubt helped considerably with this pretence.
They did the deed in an disused industrial estate, the scenery horrifically reminiscent of the warehouse that Arthur had been kept in. Again, Eames stood back and allowed Arthur to carry it out, knowing that this needed to be done by the point man's own hand. And once the body had fallen to the ground, mouth open in a silent plea for mercy, he helped his lover put him in the boot of the stolen car, doused it with petrol and set it alight. For all the world looking like a gang-land hit.
It was nearing midnight when they made it back to Times Square and they waited there, in amongst the crowds and the revellers for the count-down. Arthur looked amazing in a sharp three-piece suit, dark woollen coat keeping out the chill in the air, all evidence of what had happened barely three months ago long gone, healed as if it was never there. Nothing left but the scars occasionally glimpsed underneath the silk pyjamas Arthur had now taken to wearing in bed. More than just that though he looked almost happy, his eyes with arousal and adrenaline from what they had just done and it was all Eames could do not to jump him there and then, to respect the boundaries that both public decency and Arthur's sense of personal space demanded.
So when at midnight the other man grabbed him, pulling him into a fierce kiss, he almost came undone. “A little public isn't this darling” he gasped out once he was able to breath again.
“It's New Years Eve, it's allowed” Arthur stated matter-of-factly, as if it was obvious, before kissing him again.
It was on the tip of Eames tongue to suggest they find a room or even to suggest finding out what else was aloud in public on New Years Eve but the subtle tension in the other man stopped him, the trembling which in no way could he mistake for anticipation and he pulled away regretfully, saying instead, “Come on love, we've got a plane to catch.”
He turned away quickly, not trusting his self-control otherwise, and so missed the brief look of hurt that passed the younger man's face before the implacable mask slipped back into place.
++++
Manchester: 21st January, 2:23pm
They got back to England soon after, ensconcing themselves firmly in Eames flat up in the Manchester over-looking the canal. The weather was inevitably dreary, a cold damp that seeped into the bones and always left him shivering no matter how many layers he wrapped himself in. It was a times like this that he had trouble, beyond some sort of nostalgic longing for the country of his birth, to figure out why he lived here are all.
It was also at times like these, that despite his usual appreciation for the crowds, the vibrancy of city, that he felt it would really be nice if all these people could kindly fuck off, as he tried desperately to do his shopping in weekly farmer's market, weaving his way in between the hordes of people out for the January sales.
His mood lifted somewhat however once he got back home, arms laden with groceries, to find Arthur curled up on the sofa, Eames' cat, recently rescued from the next door neighbour on his lap. He was looking positively informal for Arthur, barefoot, tie removed, top two buttons of his shirt undone and it took all of his willpower to draw his eyes away.
“Hey” he said in way of greeting.
“Hey yourself” there was a strange expression on the other man's face, a small tense smile at his lips and Eames tried to figure out what it could mean as he moved into the kitchen to start putting things away.
Arthur with perfect timing, or possibly he'd planned it that way, Eames wouldn't have put it past him, spoke up when Eames had his hands most full. “The results of the second blood test came through.” Eames whirled around at that almost dropping the bottle of Cote du Rhone he knew the point man liked so much.
He hadn't even realised that Arthur had gone for another blood test. Didn't know that Arthur knew he knew he'd had the first one, or why. The subject had never been broached, the perpetual elephant in the room of their relationship.
The other man continued before he had a chance to verbalise the obvious question, “I'm clean.”
“That's...” Eames didn't have a chance to finish the sentence as Arthur continued.
“So now you don't have any more excuses.” The point man appeared to be approaching the conversation, such as it was, with the same attitude as he approached all difficult and potentially painful problems, with calm determination.
Eames felt as if he had somehow walked into the conversation half way through missing the all important beginning which told him what the fuck they were talking about. He felt for his totem just to reassure himself that he was actually awake, before asking, “Any excuses for what love?”
“For not sleeping with me,” and now Eames was thoroughly bemused.
“And why, exactly pet, would I want to avoid doing that?” he said slowly, he was starting to get an inkling that somehow, somewhere along the line he had managed to get the very wrong end of a very important stick..
Arthur was advancing on him now frustration visible in every line of his body, “Because you're not! Every time we come close to having sex, You.” he was poking the forger in the chest now, “Pull. Away. If you can't stand to fuck me anymore, at least have the decency to tell me so.”
The words left the forger speechless and he mentally reviewed their interactions over the past few weeks. 'Oh. Oh!'
He couldn't help it, he started to laugh, because for someone who made his living being able to read people, he had somehow managed to get things so completely, so utterly wrong.
Arthur was glaring at him, anger evident and Eames pulled himself together before the other man inflicted permanent, and well-deserved damage. “I'm sorry love, really I am. It's just you have no idea how difficult it has been for me to keep my hands off you these past few months. I didn't want to push you into something you didn't want.”
The point man just stared at for what seemed for an age whilst he processed the words, anger battled with amusement at the absurdity of the situation on the other man's face. Finally, 'fortunately' Eames though since he liked being in one piece, amusement won out and an exasperated smile was twitching the corners of his mouth, “You.” he declared, “are an idiot!”
Eames let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and moved forward to capture the other man's lips in a kiss. The tension was still there, the slight jump when they first touched and he pulled back slightly, concerned despite the other man's earlier words.
This time Arthur didn't let him, “Did I ask you to stop?”
“Tell me darling, since I'm obviously being a little slow here, what exactly do you want me to do?” He questioned, needing to hear to words, the assurance from the other man's lips.
Arthur gave him the playful smile he only ever used in their most intimate moments and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I want you to fuck me, Mr Eames.”
That was a request Eames was only too happy to comply with. He did pull back briefly however once they'd gotten to the bedroom, after Arthur had tensed up as he started to undo the buttons on the point man's very expensive shirt. Because despite the other man's words, despite the best will in the world, Eames knew that saying you were willing to do something and actually doing it could be very different things.
He should have learnt by now not to underestimate the willpower the other man possessed.“I am not going to let what they did to me rule my life,” Arthur had told him firmly when he noticed the the hesitation, pulling him insistently back down onto the bed.
Later, as Arthur lay drowsily in his arms, a look of peace and contentment on his face as Eames reverently traced the new scars on his body with his fingers, the forger knew. He knew that even if Arthur wouldn't quite meet his eyes when he first took off his shirt, until the forger had him squirming and gasping as he mapped to scars with his tongue; even if he hesitated slightly before taking Eames in his mouth, a flash of memory across his face before he lost himself in the pleasure of the act and even if he took slightly longer to relax as he took him in, until Eames had hit that sweet spot that made him cry and beg with desire, that was all okay.
Because despite everything, Arthur was going to be alright. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, and Eames was going to be with him every step of the way.
Epilogue
London: 21st February, 10:15am
They're back in the same old run-down café and Eames couldn't help but smile at Arthur's slightly disgusted look at the run-down and grimy décor. The place was mostly empty, the morning commuters having been and gone, the lunchtime rush had yet to start.
Despite this she was sitting outside, the combination of the patio heater and the unseasonably warm weather meaning that she had forgone the heavy coat, revealing instead a smart suit. Off-the-rack of course, a shame because shop bought never quite brought out the best in her figure. He supposed that was the pains of living on a government salary, he didn't understand how she could stand it really.
“You missed Christmas, Mother was terribly disappointed,” she said by way of a greeting, getting up out of her chair to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“She'll get over it. Lovely to see you as always, Emms,” Eames said with as much sincerity as he could muster.
Clearly not enough however, as she gave him a sardonic smile, “Liar.” She then turned towards the man at his side, looking ever so out of place in his impeccably tailored suits. “You must be Arthur.” It was a statement more than a question.
“You must be Emily,” Arthur replied in the same tone and Eames often forgot that the point man had started off in her world. “I understand I owe you a thank you.”
“Don't mention it.” She waved the thanks away, before continuing more drily, “Really don't. Ever.”
The waiter came out to take their orders and they sat down in the uncomfortable rickety chairs, mugs of coffee steaming. Arthur pulled the ashtray towards their side of the table, whilst Eames fished out a smoke. Once it was lit, he rescued the sugar from where his sister seemed to be turning her coffee into syrup and pulled it over to the point man. As he did, he noticed that his sister was watching them intently with an amused grin.
He scowled at the observation and in a manoeuvre reminiscent of their encounter all those months ago threw out the name, “Lee Sun Tsang.”
As he hoped, the name caught her off guard and she gave him a puzzled look, “I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate on that one, James.”
Eames felt Arthur stiffen slightly besides him and he realised this was probably the first time the other man had heard anyone else use his given name, an otherwise intimate gesture usually reserved for their most private moments. “The leak you were hoping we'd find,” he elaborated, satisfied at her slightly guilty look, “you do need to be more subtle with your manipulations, Emms, it really was painfully obvious.”
She recovered quickly however, the guilt replaced with a dry smile, “Ah, so you did get something off Carnhain before you killed him.” She was fishing for information and they all knew it.
“We have no idea what you're talking about,” Arthur interjected smoothly, “I heard he had an unfortunate run in with some old employers in Brussels. Russian mafia hit they're calling it.” His tone challenged her to contradict him and Eames sat back to admire the verbal sparring. Arthur was magnificent when he was like this, clam and composed, expression impassive with only a twitch of a smile that the forger imagined only he could see.
“I'm sure, just the same as Charles Kuang unfortunately got in the middle of a turf war in New York.” she was enjoying herself, typical.
“As you say.” Not even a twitch at that and Eames wondered briefly if this was the Arthur the spook he was getting to see, all suave and calm, fighting with words as much as bullets. It was highly appealing to watch.
Emily gave him a dry grin, “I'm almost surprised that Mr Tsang didn't have an unfortunate run-in with the Yakuza too, given the role he had in all of this.” Eames perked up at that one, because he hadn't quite managed to worm out of Arthur exactly how the two events lined up.
“We thought it best to let you clean up that mess, it was your payment data after all.” even as his sister grimaced at the accusation of ineptitude, the wheels were turning in Eames head and things were starting to fall into place.
He turned accusingly to Arthur, “You knew didn't you.”
“Of course I knew,” his tone suggesting that to imply otherwise was, frankly, insulting.
“So which job was it, come on then love, when did you decided to involve us with working for them,” he gestured at his sister as his spoke, as if to encompass the whole British government in a single person
Arthur gave a long suffering sigh, “The Quan Son job.” Anticipating Eames next question, he continued, “and I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be unreasonable about it.”
Eames opened his mouth to protest that, given the circumstances, it was hardly being unreasonable to think that getting caught up with the government who was trying so hard to arrest him for treason was frankly downright dangerous when he heard a throat clearing from across the table.
His sister was looking at them with a highly amused look, “If you two have quite finished with your bickering.” She slid a package across the table, it was wrapped in Christmas paper and Eames guiltily realised that he'd forgotten to get her a present. Still, he hadn't got her one in previous years either, she always forgave him for that. “Your present, James, since you didn't make it down and,” she continued, her voice lower, “a little something for the information. Don't say I never do anything for you.” Given the way it was wrapped, she'd clearly anticipated that they'd come through. Either that or she knew a lot more about their movements that he was comfortable with.
She got up, holding out her hand to Arthur, “Mr Miller,” Arthur stiffened at that and Eames wondered briefly if he should have warned him about that one, “a pleasure to meet you.” She leaned slightly closer in, her voice low so that Eames had to struggle to make out the words, “Take care of him. I know he can be a git at times, but his heart's always in the right place.”
“Dr Eames,” Arthur responded with a small nod and a quiet smile, demonstrating his own research skills.
She made her way round further round to her sibling, and he stood up so that she wouldn't have to bend over. Well, that and he always liked to emphasis their height difference, it stopped her getting too many ideas. She frowned at him, then went up on tiptoes to give him a kiss. “Take care James, do make sure you invite me to the wedding won't you.”
“You too Emily, and do give my love to Mother when next you see her.” With a final wave she made her way out the café.
Eames chanced a look at his lover, wondering if he'd overheard the wedding comment and saw that the other man had a slightly bemused expression on his face. “So, that was your sister”
“You should meet the rest of the family love, she's a barrel of laughs in comparison.” he said with a grin, slinging his arm around the other man's shoulders. He moved away, as expected, he wouldn't be Arthur if he didn't, a frown on his face, but Eames was glad that there had been no flinch at the contact, just regular Arthur annoyance.
The point man looked over at him with a small smile, however, saying “Well I imagine I will have to, if there's going to be a wedding.” The statement was made lightly but Eames could hear the question in the other man's voice, could see the anxious tension in him as he waited for the answer.
“Yes, I imagine you will love.” he answered in a similar tone, before continuing “Just please, don't let Mother anywhere near planning the bloody thing.” he threaded his hand through Arthur's as he spoke and was only half surprised when the other man left it there, one of those rare, genuine smiles on the point man's face.
The End
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames
rating: R
warnings: mentions of violence, rape and sex
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: Recovery, revenge and other things beginning with 'R'
Author's note: This is not the end, there will be an epilogue. Even so, I can't quite believe this thing balloned as it did in to a 33,000 word plus epic. I'm almost disappointed to finish it.
Arthur - Los Angeles: 6th October, 9:43am
'Can I get you anything pet?'.
The question echoed in Arthur's mind, even as he sat staring blankly out over the garden of Cobb's house in LA. It had been barely a week since they'd flown here from Bangkok, all of them unwilling to spend too long in the city where it had happened, more unwilling to use up more of Saito's goodwill spending longer than necessary at the hospital he was providing.
No, that wasn't true, he was unwilling to spend longer there. But then he'd always uncomfortable with the level of involvement from the businessman who, the Fischer job aside, was still just another client. A well-respected, regular, loyal client, but still someone with whom maintaining a strictly professional relationship remained paramount.
So here he was, sitting in the Cobb family home, his own apartment barred to him thanks to the unfortunate combination of a broken foot, considerable flights of stairs and an out of order elevator, trying to make his way through Les Miserables, in French of course, to stave off boredom whilst Cobb and Eames clucked around him like mother hens.
'Can I get you anything pet?'
He could handle that, mostly. In some ways it was sweet, in more ways it was thoroughly, utterly exasperating because Arthur was not an invalid, and could get things for himself than you very much, crutches and all.
He was nonetheless used to a certain level of mother henning, he'd been subjected to it enough from Cobb whenever he had been injured during their partnership, some misplaced fatherly feelings no doubt given that he was unable to get home to his own children and comfort their own scrapes and bruises. He'd learned after a while to treat the whole thing with a level of resigned acceptance.
No, the worse wasn't the attention which was the problem, but the way Eames seemed to treat him as if he was made of fragile glass, as if he'd break from one wrong word or one misplaced gesture. It was almost unbearable, the way he seemed to constantly hover, ready to respond to his any minor need, crowding his space, suffocating him, whilst at the same time distinctly, definitely Not Touching Him.
'Can I get you anything pet?'
Despite what others, or a certain British forger in any case, might think, Arthur was reasonably self-aware. He would be willing to admit, albeit through somewhat gritted teeth, that he currently had something of a reaction to unexpected physical contact. It was, he would like to think, a perfectly normal reaction after being tortured for close to three weeks straight and no doubt something which would recede with time.
Of course, Eames had never previously been respectful of his boundaries around touching, even in the early days before they had started sleeping together, when the walls of Arthur's personal space had spikes and fences and large Keep Out signs. The Brit had just cheerfully disregarded them, pushing his way through and trampling all over Arthur's carefully laid defences. An arm over the shoulder here, a slap on the back there, small things that had gradually wormed their way into his heart. He wasn't doing that this time, which led to the sneaking, dreadful suspicion that he knew.
Really, the argument had been building all week.
“Can I get you anything pet?” The question had almost become a ritual, asked whenever he was alone for more than five minutes at a time, without a hot drink or a snack to occupy his hands. Arthur was getting sick of it.
“No Eames, I do not want anything.” he snapped out, “if I did, I would get it myself, since I am still capable of moving.” He half expected, hoped, for a caustic retort from the other man, their usual banter distinctly lacking in the last few days. When it didn't come he assumed the other man had given up and went back to the world of Victor Hugo, wrapping himself up in love, revolution and death on the streets of Paris.
Which was probably why he didn't hear the other man approach until he was almost behind him, which was why, despite Arthur's promise to himself that he was over it, that he was back in control, he reacted how did as soon as he was aware of that the other man was there. His body twisting around, moving instinctively to defend itself, and resulting in each of them staring at each other, breathing heavily, from across the veranda, an upturned table in between them and a pool of coffee spreading out from a broken mug, staining the wooden slats black.
Eames rubbed his cheek gingerly where Arthur's first had struck him, “Really pet, is that how you treat all the ...” the mocking response was almost instinctive and Eames bit it off as soon as he realised what he was saying.
It was that, more than anything, that set Arthur off, that and the oh so guilty look on the other man's face, that confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he knew. “Say it,” he demanded, “Go on, say it!” He wanted nothing more than to walk over there, to grab Eames and shake some sense into him but he could barely stay on his feet as it was, using the railing around the veranda for support, his broken foot throbbing in protest at the abuse.
“Arthur,” the voice was pained and did absolutely nothing to calm Arthur down. If anything it made him want to throw something at him.
“God, can you say anything other than my name and 'Can I get you anything pet?'” his voice was a mocking parody of Eames' British accent.
Arthur could see anger starting to creep into the other man's expression and he was glad, “Like what love, what would you like me to say?” the tone was harsh, frustration evident.
“Something, anything. I'm not made of glass, I won't shatter. Fuck Eames, it happened ok, it's over, I'm over it. In fact the only person I can see who's not over it is you!” He was almost shouting now, he was loosing control but he didn't care.
“Oh yes love, I can see you're over it,” Eames was stalking forward as he spoke, anger clear in every movement, crowding up Arthur up against the railings, “that's why your half way across the room any time someone happens to touch you unexpectedly. Now I don't mind it a bit rough on occasion darling, but what if that had been Cobb, or Ariadne, or Phillipa.”
Arthur flinched at that, guilt still coursing through him over than particular incident. Eames was in his space now, hands either side of him on the railings, face dark with anger, and the point man felt like he couldn't breath, his body trembling despite his best efforts to the contrary. Taking altogether too much effort, he pulled himself up straighter, bringing himself under control and forcing out through gritted teeth, “Get. Out.”
When the other man didn't move, he repeated himself, “Get out Eames. Just leave. Now!” The other man looked like he wanted to argue, but then decided against it.
“Fine love, if that's what you want!” He stalked out, the door slamming behind him as he did so, and Arthur hated that he flinched at the sound, instinctively reaching towards a die that wasn't there.
He wasn't certain how long he stood there, breathing heavily, trying to get his rolling emotions under control. Because Eames knew, he knew and could barely stand to touch him. Somehow that hurt more than any of his physical injuries, any of what happened to him. Eventually he had to move, the pain in his foot becoming overwhelming, his still battered body trembling just from the effort of staying standing.
This was getting him nowhere. He needed to get his head straight, to get some sort of resolution, regain some form of control and he knew just how to do it. With a renewed sense of purpose, he pulled himself up on his crutches and made his way up to his room. Once there he pulled out his laptop, and started to get to work. He had an Irishman to find.
++++
Eames, it seemed, had taken him at his word. He'd left.
Despite the fact Arthur was expecting it, had been expecting it since he woke up in the hospital to the forgers absence, expecting it since the man had turned up later smelling of alcohol and smoke and resolutely Not Touching Him, it still hurt.
Arthur dealt with the pain the same way he dealt with everything, throwing himself into his work and ignoring it. He sets up his office in Eames' room, the room they usually shared whenever they visited the Cobb house, the room Eames had resolutely insisted they didn't share whilst he was recovering.
He tells himself its because it's the only space in the house not otherwise occupied, the only space where he could get peace and quiet to work. He distinctly tells himself its not because the room smells of Eames and definitely not because of the paisley shirts and tweed jackets left there indicating that the other man, might, just might, be planning to return.
There was something satisfying about the research, of doing something he can control. He starts wearing suits again, trouser leg rolled up in deference to the cast on his foot even though his 'office' is just down the hall. He plans the job methodically, clinically and after a while he even starts being able to look at the face of the Irishman, Carnhain he learns the name is, without remembering.
Cobb is worried about him, says as much at breakfast one morning, but Arthur brushes him off, because he's fine now, he's back in control, and if he still flinches a little when touched unexpectedly that's just normal given the circumstances.
He distinctly does not tell Cobb what he is doing. Because the other man would try to talk him out of it. He'd give him arguments about morality, legality and ethics, about how this is not their way, about how he needs to move on, to put this behind him. Cobb was going at saying things he never did himself.
It's a week later when Eames returns.
He comes breezing into the room, all smiles and grins, but Arthur notes, making sure to make enough noise on his approach that Arthur knew he was coming, could compose himself before he burst in. He almost seemed like he was going to lean forward and kiss him and the point man tensed in anticipation, but then the other man changed tack going instead to slump down on the bed.
“Cobb told me you'd been hiding yourself up here. Really darling, I appreciate you missed me but did you have to cover my bed with so many files.”
“I didn't know if you were coming back, so I decided to put the space to good use.” He kept his voice neutral, factual, like it didn't mean anything. He couldn't help but see a stab of satisfaction however at the brief grimace of pain on the other man's face before it was gone, covered up by sardonic smile.
“Oh, I'm like a bad penny I am, I always turn up.”
“Where did you go?” He couldn't help a hint of accusation slip into his voice at that.
“Las Vegas and really driving in this country is oh so very boring, your roads are far too straight”
Las Vegas, figured, after all where else would the other man go to be able to gamble and drink in peace. To find someone to relieve his tension with, someone with a perfect body, not damaged or scarred. He stamped down on the feelings as he drily responded, “Oh, I hadn't realised there was still a casino there you hadn't been banned from.”
Something of his thoughts must have snuck through his mask however, because Eames sat bolt upright, his expression serious. “Wasn't there for the casinos, love,” and he's moving now, kneeling down in front of where the point man was sitting at his desk. Arthur noticed he had a small black velvet box in his hands and he had the brief, ridiculous thought that the other man may be going to propose.
“It was the only place I could get this.” Eames opened the box as he spoke so Arthur could see inside. His heart stopped briefly when he saw what the other man was holding out to him and he couldn't help a small smile of wonder twitch at the corner's of his mouth because sitting there, colours bright against the black velvet, was a small red die. He went to pick it up, rolling it against the table, once, twice, three times. It came up four every time. It wasn't his old totem of course, the weight, the balance was slightly different, but the number, the one only he and Eames knew, the number was the same and it was a start.
“You had to go all the way to Vegas for this?” he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, feeling the urge to smile, really smile, for the first time in weeks.
“Had to get it from the same place now didn't I? Surprised it was even still there.” Of course Eames would remember. It had been a gift, after their first job together, after Arthur had rebuffed the other man's advances to take a chance and live a little with a sharp, 'I never gamble unless I already know the outcome.'
Arthur did the only thing he could think of, he leaned forward and kissed him, wrapping his arms around the forgers broad chest. The move obviously caught Eames off-guard, taking him a few seconds to respond, before he returned the kiss with a gentle fervour, his own arms returning the embrace, touching him for the first time in weeks. Once they came up for air, Arthur moved down onto the floor besides him, not breaking their embrace, and rested his head on the other man's shoulder, his fingers tracing the lines to tattoos peaking out from under the other man's, horrifically orange, shirt.
Eventually he broke the silence, answering the question he knew was forming on the other man's lips. “They never managed to get the tattoos right, they were always changing. It's how I knew I was in a dream.” He kept his voice neutral as if he was discussing the weather not the nightmares which had come so close to breaking him.
He felt more than heard the other man's breath catch in his throat, somewhere between a choke and a sob, but when he answered his voice was playful and only through years of familiarity could Arthur detect the thick emotion behind it, “As romantic as the thought of being your totem is, I do think the dice may be a tad more practical. I doubt Cobb would appreciate you undressing me in the warehouse.”Arthur couldn't help but snort in amusement at that one.
They sat like that in silence for what seemed like an age, taking comfort in each others closeness. It was nice, gentle and entirely, frustratingly non-sexual. Arthur hated the treacherous part of himself which was somehow relieved at that.
“So this is what you've been up to?” Eames voice broke the silence and Arthur froze when he saw what he's holding. It was his file on Carnhain, his past, his habits, his known locations, his strengths and weaknesses, everything he could find.
Arthur pulled back from the other man, straightening up and nodded, “I need this Eames, I need it to be over.” He kept his voice calm but firm, clearly indicating that he was willing to fight for this, no matter what the other said or how he tried to dissuade him.
He should have known Eames better, should have guess he wouldn't shy away from the idea like Cobb, wouldn't bring up arguments of morals or ethics. Should have expected the other man to do exactly what he did, which was to nod and say conversationally, “I hate to say it love, given how you're usually so good with the details, but you seem to be forgetting that this is going to be a two-man job.”
And maybe Arthur is not over it, maybe he's not fine. But he knows in that moment that he will be.
++++
Eames - Brussels: 5th November, 10.51pm
They're sitting in one of the top floor rooms of the Merridian in Brussels, in the dark, waiting. The room is pleasantly large, well laid out with comfortable seats and an impressive view of the heart of the city. Which is good because they have been sitting here for three hours already. In the near distance Eames can see the nightly Son et Lumière playing out over the gothic architecture of the Grand-Place, buildings illuminated in ghostly colours. Further away he can see fireworks going off, a testament to the Anglo expat community in the city he supposed.
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” the childhood rhyme slips almost involuntarily from his lips, little more than a whisper but carrying in otherwise silent room.
“What?” Arthurs voice, sharp but low from the other side of the room.
“Guy Fawkes night, love.” he explained, before adding “One of these days I'm going to have take you to a proper bonfire night celebration, we can burn our very own Guy.”
He could hear the amusement in the other man's voice as he responded, “Only the British would celebrate a man failing to blow up the government.”
“The important thing is he tried, darling.” An amused snort from the point man before he feel silent again. Eames could hear the soft click of metal on metal and he didn't need to see the other man to know that he was checking the gun for what must have been the fifth time that evening. To anyone else the gesture may have seemed merely precautionary, but Eames knew it to be a sign of anxiety, the only one the point man would allow himself.
Half an hour later their patience was finally rewarded as they hear a key card in the lock and the door swings open. Both men tense, muscles coiled in anticipation, ready for action. Carnhain must have been confident in his new alias, in his ability to remain hidden, because he walked into the room with barely a look around, flipping the light switch on with a deft movement, his other hand occupied by a small briefcase. He looked the same as he had when they'd run across him in Singapore, and somehow Eames felt that something of what he'd done should show on his features.
He heard Arthur take a deep breath at the sight of the man and Eames glanced over, worried for a moment that the other man wouldn't be able to handle being faced with his tormentor. He should have known better, Arthur's face was impassive, cold and hard and there wasn't even the hint of a tremble in the hand holding the gun unerringly aimed at the Irishman's chest.
Carnhain obviously heard the noise too, looking up towards the sound, his hand almost instinctively going towards what was no doubt a gun secreted underneath the two-piece suit. From behind him, Eames cocked his gun, a pointless gesture with a semi-automatic but the sound conveyed the threat more effectively than anything else. He didn't say anything though, because this was Arthur's revenge not his, he was just here to make sure it went smoothly.
“Remember me. Laddie” and Eames almost flinched at the venom in Arthur's voice as he spat the words out.
Carnhain did flinch and from his vantage point Eames could see a faint trembling indicating that the man was more than aware of what was going to happen next. But the Irish lilt was steady as he spoke, “Should have killed you when I had the chance... laddie.”
Arthur shot him almost before the words were out of his mouth, two in the chest, one in the head. Clean, precise and far too quick a death for Eames' liking but even in revenge the point man was nothing if not professional.
The point man was calm and so in control as they disposed of the guns and the gloves, removing any evidence to link them to the crime and it was all Eames could do to keep his hands off him, because competent Arthur was nothing if not sex appeal on legs and it had been too long since he'd seen his lover like this.
But once it was done the point man let out a breath that neither of them realised he'd been holding, the tension ebbing from his frame leaving behind a barely perceptible trembling and Eames knew he'd made the right decision not to. The near flinch and the way Arthur refused to look him in the eye as the forger gathered him in his embrace merely served to reinforce what he already knew, that his lover wasn't ready.
++++
New York: 31st December, 10:54pm
They tracked down 'Charlie' in New York, Charles Kuang to be precise and Eames knew him by reputation because the world of dreamers, and forgers especially, was too small not to. He was celebrating New Years Eve in a plush bar within staggering distance of Times Square.
They'd missed Christmas, and Eames had had to promise profusely to make it up to his mother for that, hoping to catch him in Toronto but he'd skipped town just after they'd arrived and it had taken them near a week of frantic searching to pick up the trail again.
He waited until the curvaceous blonde date the other man was entertaining had slipped away to powder her nose and the buxom waitress had deposited further drinks, making little attempt as she did to avoid the other forgers wandering hands.
Eames slipped into the recently vacated chair opposite him as soon as the coast was clear, a predatory grin plastered on his face.
“Evening, Charlie.” he took great satisfaction at the look of panic that crossed the other man's face as he looked up in the face of the man he'd forged in so many dreams.
“Who... what...” he started to get up, words, questions, spilling incoherently from his mouth as he did so.
He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder pushing him forcefully back down, a gun subtly digging into his back offering further encouragement towards co-operation. Charlie went even paler, if that was possible, when he saw the face of the point man starring down at him impassively.
“Do finish your drink, it would be a shame to waste it after all, then the three of us are going to take a little walk,” Eames continued to smile at him as he spoke, despite wanting nothing more than to reach across the table and rip the man apart with his bare hands.
Charlie swallowed, hard, then nodded in mute acquiescence, finishing the drink with a trembling hand.
They made their way out of the bar with little fuss, the two of them flanking the smaller asian man, half carrying him and waving away concerned looks with an explanation of too many drinks too early in the evening. Of course the sedative that the forger had slipped into his drink nod doubt helped considerably with this pretence.
They did the deed in an disused industrial estate, the scenery horrifically reminiscent of the warehouse that Arthur had been kept in. Again, Eames stood back and allowed Arthur to carry it out, knowing that this needed to be done by the point man's own hand. And once the body had fallen to the ground, mouth open in a silent plea for mercy, he helped his lover put him in the boot of the stolen car, doused it with petrol and set it alight. For all the world looking like a gang-land hit.
It was nearing midnight when they made it back to Times Square and they waited there, in amongst the crowds and the revellers for the count-down. Arthur looked amazing in a sharp three-piece suit, dark woollen coat keeping out the chill in the air, all evidence of what had happened barely three months ago long gone, healed as if it was never there. Nothing left but the scars occasionally glimpsed underneath the silk pyjamas Arthur had now taken to wearing in bed. More than just that though he looked almost happy, his eyes with arousal and adrenaline from what they had just done and it was all Eames could do not to jump him there and then, to respect the boundaries that both public decency and Arthur's sense of personal space demanded.
So when at midnight the other man grabbed him, pulling him into a fierce kiss, he almost came undone. “A little public isn't this darling” he gasped out once he was able to breath again.
“It's New Years Eve, it's allowed” Arthur stated matter-of-factly, as if it was obvious, before kissing him again.
It was on the tip of Eames tongue to suggest they find a room or even to suggest finding out what else was aloud in public on New Years Eve but the subtle tension in the other man stopped him, the trembling which in no way could he mistake for anticipation and he pulled away regretfully, saying instead, “Come on love, we've got a plane to catch.”
He turned away quickly, not trusting his self-control otherwise, and so missed the brief look of hurt that passed the younger man's face before the implacable mask slipped back into place.
++++
Manchester: 21st January, 2:23pm
They got back to England soon after, ensconcing themselves firmly in Eames flat up in the Manchester over-looking the canal. The weather was inevitably dreary, a cold damp that seeped into the bones and always left him shivering no matter how many layers he wrapped himself in. It was a times like this that he had trouble, beyond some sort of nostalgic longing for the country of his birth, to figure out why he lived here are all.
It was also at times like these, that despite his usual appreciation for the crowds, the vibrancy of city, that he felt it would really be nice if all these people could kindly fuck off, as he tried desperately to do his shopping in weekly farmer's market, weaving his way in between the hordes of people out for the January sales.
His mood lifted somewhat however once he got back home, arms laden with groceries, to find Arthur curled up on the sofa, Eames' cat, recently rescued from the next door neighbour on his lap. He was looking positively informal for Arthur, barefoot, tie removed, top two buttons of his shirt undone and it took all of his willpower to draw his eyes away.
“Hey” he said in way of greeting.
“Hey yourself” there was a strange expression on the other man's face, a small tense smile at his lips and Eames tried to figure out what it could mean as he moved into the kitchen to start putting things away.
Arthur with perfect timing, or possibly he'd planned it that way, Eames wouldn't have put it past him, spoke up when Eames had his hands most full. “The results of the second blood test came through.” Eames whirled around at that almost dropping the bottle of Cote du Rhone he knew the point man liked so much.
He hadn't even realised that Arthur had gone for another blood test. Didn't know that Arthur knew he knew he'd had the first one, or why. The subject had never been broached, the perpetual elephant in the room of their relationship.
The other man continued before he had a chance to verbalise the obvious question, “I'm clean.”
“That's...” Eames didn't have a chance to finish the sentence as Arthur continued.
“So now you don't have any more excuses.” The point man appeared to be approaching the conversation, such as it was, with the same attitude as he approached all difficult and potentially painful problems, with calm determination.
Eames felt as if he had somehow walked into the conversation half way through missing the all important beginning which told him what the fuck they were talking about. He felt for his totem just to reassure himself that he was actually awake, before asking, “Any excuses for what love?”
“For not sleeping with me,” and now Eames was thoroughly bemused.
“And why, exactly pet, would I want to avoid doing that?” he said slowly, he was starting to get an inkling that somehow, somewhere along the line he had managed to get the very wrong end of a very important stick..
Arthur was advancing on him now frustration visible in every line of his body, “Because you're not! Every time we come close to having sex, You.” he was poking the forger in the chest now, “Pull. Away. If you can't stand to fuck me anymore, at least have the decency to tell me so.”
The words left the forger speechless and he mentally reviewed their interactions over the past few weeks. 'Oh. Oh!'
He couldn't help it, he started to laugh, because for someone who made his living being able to read people, he had somehow managed to get things so completely, so utterly wrong.
Arthur was glaring at him, anger evident and Eames pulled himself together before the other man inflicted permanent, and well-deserved damage. “I'm sorry love, really I am. It's just you have no idea how difficult it has been for me to keep my hands off you these past few months. I didn't want to push you into something you didn't want.”
The point man just stared at for what seemed for an age whilst he processed the words, anger battled with amusement at the absurdity of the situation on the other man's face. Finally, 'fortunately' Eames though since he liked being in one piece, amusement won out and an exasperated smile was twitching the corners of his mouth, “You.” he declared, “are an idiot!”
Eames let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and moved forward to capture the other man's lips in a kiss. The tension was still there, the slight jump when they first touched and he pulled back slightly, concerned despite the other man's earlier words.
This time Arthur didn't let him, “Did I ask you to stop?”
“Tell me darling, since I'm obviously being a little slow here, what exactly do you want me to do?” He questioned, needing to hear to words, the assurance from the other man's lips.
Arthur gave him the playful smile he only ever used in their most intimate moments and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I want you to fuck me, Mr Eames.”
That was a request Eames was only too happy to comply with. He did pull back briefly however once they'd gotten to the bedroom, after Arthur had tensed up as he started to undo the buttons on the point man's very expensive shirt. Because despite the other man's words, despite the best will in the world, Eames knew that saying you were willing to do something and actually doing it could be very different things.
He should have learnt by now not to underestimate the willpower the other man possessed.“I am not going to let what they did to me rule my life,” Arthur had told him firmly when he noticed the the hesitation, pulling him insistently back down onto the bed.
Later, as Arthur lay drowsily in his arms, a look of peace and contentment on his face as Eames reverently traced the new scars on his body with his fingers, the forger knew. He knew that even if Arthur wouldn't quite meet his eyes when he first took off his shirt, until the forger had him squirming and gasping as he mapped to scars with his tongue; even if he hesitated slightly before taking Eames in his mouth, a flash of memory across his face before he lost himself in the pleasure of the act and even if he took slightly longer to relax as he took him in, until Eames had hit that sweet spot that made him cry and beg with desire, that was all okay.
Because despite everything, Arthur was going to be alright. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, and Eames was going to be with him every step of the way.
Epilogue
London: 21st February, 10:15am
They're back in the same old run-down café and Eames couldn't help but smile at Arthur's slightly disgusted look at the run-down and grimy décor. The place was mostly empty, the morning commuters having been and gone, the lunchtime rush had yet to start.
Despite this she was sitting outside, the combination of the patio heater and the unseasonably warm weather meaning that she had forgone the heavy coat, revealing instead a smart suit. Off-the-rack of course, a shame because shop bought never quite brought out the best in her figure. He supposed that was the pains of living on a government salary, he didn't understand how she could stand it really.
“You missed Christmas, Mother was terribly disappointed,” she said by way of a greeting, getting up out of her chair to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“She'll get over it. Lovely to see you as always, Emms,” Eames said with as much sincerity as he could muster.
Clearly not enough however, as she gave him a sardonic smile, “Liar.” She then turned towards the man at his side, looking ever so out of place in his impeccably tailored suits. “You must be Arthur.” It was a statement more than a question.
“You must be Emily,” Arthur replied in the same tone and Eames often forgot that the point man had started off in her world. “I understand I owe you a thank you.”
“Don't mention it.” She waved the thanks away, before continuing more drily, “Really don't. Ever.”
The waiter came out to take their orders and they sat down in the uncomfortable rickety chairs, mugs of coffee steaming. Arthur pulled the ashtray towards their side of the table, whilst Eames fished out a smoke. Once it was lit, he rescued the sugar from where his sister seemed to be turning her coffee into syrup and pulled it over to the point man. As he did, he noticed that his sister was watching them intently with an amused grin.
He scowled at the observation and in a manoeuvre reminiscent of their encounter all those months ago threw out the name, “Lee Sun Tsang.”
As he hoped, the name caught her off guard and she gave him a puzzled look, “I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate on that one, James.”
Eames felt Arthur stiffen slightly besides him and he realised this was probably the first time the other man had heard anyone else use his given name, an otherwise intimate gesture usually reserved for their most private moments. “The leak you were hoping we'd find,” he elaborated, satisfied at her slightly guilty look, “you do need to be more subtle with your manipulations, Emms, it really was painfully obvious.”
She recovered quickly however, the guilt replaced with a dry smile, “Ah, so you did get something off Carnhain before you killed him.” She was fishing for information and they all knew it.
“We have no idea what you're talking about,” Arthur interjected smoothly, “I heard he had an unfortunate run in with some old employers in Brussels. Russian mafia hit they're calling it.” His tone challenged her to contradict him and Eames sat back to admire the verbal sparring. Arthur was magnificent when he was like this, clam and composed, expression impassive with only a twitch of a smile that the forger imagined only he could see.
“I'm sure, just the same as Charles Kuang unfortunately got in the middle of a turf war in New York.” she was enjoying herself, typical.
“As you say.” Not even a twitch at that and Eames wondered briefly if this was the Arthur the spook he was getting to see, all suave and calm, fighting with words as much as bullets. It was highly appealing to watch.
Emily gave him a dry grin, “I'm almost surprised that Mr Tsang didn't have an unfortunate run-in with the Yakuza too, given the role he had in all of this.” Eames perked up at that one, because he hadn't quite managed to worm out of Arthur exactly how the two events lined up.
“We thought it best to let you clean up that mess, it was your payment data after all.” even as his sister grimaced at the accusation of ineptitude, the wheels were turning in Eames head and things were starting to fall into place.
He turned accusingly to Arthur, “You knew didn't you.”
“Of course I knew,” his tone suggesting that to imply otherwise was, frankly, insulting.
“So which job was it, come on then love, when did you decided to involve us with working for them,” he gestured at his sister as his spoke, as if to encompass the whole British government in a single person
Arthur gave a long suffering sigh, “The Quan Son job.” Anticipating Eames next question, he continued, “and I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be unreasonable about it.”
Eames opened his mouth to protest that, given the circumstances, it was hardly being unreasonable to think that getting caught up with the government who was trying so hard to arrest him for treason was frankly downright dangerous when he heard a throat clearing from across the table.
His sister was looking at them with a highly amused look, “If you two have quite finished with your bickering.” She slid a package across the table, it was wrapped in Christmas paper and Eames guiltily realised that he'd forgotten to get her a present. Still, he hadn't got her one in previous years either, she always forgave him for that. “Your present, James, since you didn't make it down and,” she continued, her voice lower, “a little something for the information. Don't say I never do anything for you.” Given the way it was wrapped, she'd clearly anticipated that they'd come through. Either that or she knew a lot more about their movements that he was comfortable with.
She got up, holding out her hand to Arthur, “Mr Miller,” Arthur stiffened at that and Eames wondered briefly if he should have warned him about that one, “a pleasure to meet you.” She leaned slightly closer in, her voice low so that Eames had to struggle to make out the words, “Take care of him. I know he can be a git at times, but his heart's always in the right place.”
“Dr Eames,” Arthur responded with a small nod and a quiet smile, demonstrating his own research skills.
She made her way round further round to her sibling, and he stood up so that she wouldn't have to bend over. Well, that and he always liked to emphasis their height difference, it stopped her getting too many ideas. She frowned at him, then went up on tiptoes to give him a kiss. “Take care James, do make sure you invite me to the wedding won't you.”
“You too Emily, and do give my love to Mother when next you see her.” With a final wave she made her way out the café.
Eames chanced a look at his lover, wondering if he'd overheard the wedding comment and saw that the other man had a slightly bemused expression on his face. “So, that was your sister”
“You should meet the rest of the family love, she's a barrel of laughs in comparison.” he said with a grin, slinging his arm around the other man's shoulders. He moved away, as expected, he wouldn't be Arthur if he didn't, a frown on his face, but Eames was glad that there had been no flinch at the contact, just regular Arthur annoyance.
The point man looked over at him with a small smile, however, saying “Well I imagine I will have to, if there's going to be a wedding.” The statement was made lightly but Eames could hear the question in the other man's voice, could see the anxious tension in him as he waited for the answer.
“Yes, I imagine you will love.” he answered in a similar tone, before continuing “Just please, don't let Mother anywhere near planning the bloody thing.” he threaded his hand through Arthur's as he spoke and was only half surprised when the other man left it there, one of those rare, genuine smiles on the point man's face.
The End