he killed it with kisses
rating: pg, in the sense that this is very tame.
summary: five times Eames steals a kiss
disclaimer: not mine!
a/n: God help me, I wrote Inception fic. Entirely sarrni_korppi 's fault since she asked for it. Also, I blame whoever invented "cool effect fabric" because there's no way that shit is as effective as it sounds, right?! Thanks have to go to never_thinkx for being a wonderful audience \o/ lol no seriously what the hell is this 2500 WORDS OF SCHMOOP
warnings: word. vomit.
i.
In Rome, they encounter the hazards of REM dreams. Projections-or whatever the word is for giant dream pterodactyls that are all too real-keep lunging at them, swiping with those god-forsaken claws.
“Run!” Arthur yells as they sprint down sun-baked streets. Eames doesn’t even bother dignifying that with a response.
“Here,” he gasps, grabbing Arthur by the arm and pulling him behind a rather large and filthy dumpster.
“I fucking told you we should’ve sedated him!” Arthur snaps before Eames has a chance to clamp a hand over his mouth.
“Not now, pet,” he hisses.
Now, the glare that could freeze ice, Eames expects, but even he, the Master Observer he is, couldn’t predict the infuriatingly painful sting of teeth on fingers.
“The fuck was that for?” he shouts. He can’t be arsed about the damn pterodactyls at this point. The bloody things would skewer him even if he wasn’t yelling his head off.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Arthur promises.
This must be love, Eames thinks. This must be glorious, unselfish, Austenian love.
There’s a screech from above, and Arthur turns his head then, at the entirely wrong time, and his cheek brushes against Eames’ lips.
Not quite the romantic first he would have imagined, and besides, if Eames was being honest, then it was all an accident, except the part where it wasn’t an accident, but fate.
Arthur shoots him a look, dangerous and not quite as angry as Eames would have expected-but yes, dangerous nonetheless-and confused and oh, alright, maybe a little angry but Arthur looks so pretty red.
“Sorry, love,” Eames says quickly, still grinning as he brushes the spot with his finger.
On the flight to Vienna, the shot is still ringing in Eames’ ears.
(Eames regrets nothing, though he does deem the bullet to his eye a bit over dramatic on Arthur’s part. Anyway, point being: Eames doesn’t take any more jobs with paleontological obsessed archaeologists after that.)
ii.
At some point during a simple extraction job in Rockville, Eames decides to court Arthur properly. Not that the point man is actually around for Eames to try his hand, but the sentiment is the same: how many times can Eames flirt shamelessly before Arthur shoots him between the eyes, dream or not.
“Are you seriously that bored?” Stephanie asks when she finds him going through the archives of Cosmopolitan.
“How do they come up with these things?” he asks, ignoring her question. This is Rockville, Maryland, after all. (Next time, Eames gets to pick the rendezvous point. Somewhere with a little more spice, or at least some place where the leading cause of death isn’t dehydration from being bored to tears.) “I’ve never called my dick, my shaft. I call it my dick!”
“Eames,” Stephanie sighs in a tone that’s better suited for a Jesus Christ and moves away. She reminds him a bit of Arthur, but younger and more Asian what with her being the crazy Chinese dragon lady she is. She likes things organized and neat, lines straight and research properly and thoroughly conducted. It makes for a good extractor.
But what Eames likes best is the way she smiles at everyone she doesn’t trust-it’s a smile that’s best described as sleepily seductive. Her eyes narrow kindly, and her lips curve like a cat’s, wary and careful, but enticing all the same. It’s a very effective extraction technique, especially when she pairs it with her red qipao. Sometimes, Eames thinks the whole PASIV procedure is just a formality, that Stephanie just likes to use it because she can.
And there is the bit where her name isn’t really Stephanie, but Diana, only, Eames has been calling her Stephanie since they first met, and she’s never corrected him, just shook her head and went with it.
“Wherever you’re going,” he calls after her. “Don’t have sex in cars with leather seats! It’s the absolute worst.”
“Why are you having sex in cars?” Arthur asks from somewhere at his side, and Eames nearly drops the laptop in surprise.
“Arthur!” he says jovially, setting the computer back on the desk. “What’re you doing back here?”
Arthur’s lip quirks as it is want to do when there are any matters involving Eames. “Leaving,” he says factually, and Eames notes the silver PASIV case he’s got in his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Reading about sex in cars with leather seats,” he replies smoothly, unabashed. “For research.”
“Research,” Arthur repeats. His eyes narrow in a way that makes Eames resolve to keep him away from Cobb, because Arthur is clearly picking up some terrible habits.
“Research,” he echoes solemnly. “For courting you.”
He’s rewarded with a pair of pursed lips and a questioning stare. He doesn’t acknowledge any of it, but shuts down the laptop and claps his hands together. “Off we go then, love,” he says, smiling brightly. “Taiwan awaits.”
At the airport, Arthur busies himself with checking and re-checking his notes while Eames settles himself in the lounge bar. He’s learned from experience that it’s best to do a job involving Cobb as drunk as damned professionalism can allow.
Arthur finds him a few moments later, and he slides a glass of gin towards him. Arthur takes it, but doesn’t drink, just gets his own whiskey.
“Not good enough for you?” Eames teases for something to say.
Arthur sips his drink, close-lipped, and pointedly ignores him, which serves only to make Eames laugh.
“Oh darling,” he sighs, getting up and pressing deliberately too close so that his silk shirt molds itself around the curve of Arthur’s arm. He leans in, presses his lips to the top of Arthur’s head before murmuring, “See you later,” because they’ve got separate flights, and Arthur’s is leaving first.
He walks to the restrooms with a smirk in place because he knows Arthur hasn’t moved, has made a point of not moving because he thinks Eames won’t be satisfied by that, but he is so, so wrong.
When Eames re-emerges, Arthur is gone, and Eames lets his smile become a wide grin.
iii.
In Taipei, their job goes cockeyed.
It’s not that Eames has never had a job get blown straight through the seventh circle of Hell, but he’s never had a job get blown straight through the seventh circle of Hell when Arthur’s around. Things happen and yes, they lie low for a while, but they’ve never had to hide in an underwater cave for two hours, sharing an oxygen tank.
With Arthur around, these things just aren’t supposed to happen. There’s too much research, too many Plan Not-A’s, too many practice runs and escape routes.
It scares him the tiniest bit.
The sounds of rapid gunfire diminish as the needle on their tank hovers closer to empty than full. Eames moves to go up, but Arthur grabs his arm, shakes head firmly, and they wait until all the oxygen is gone and kick up to the surface.
Eames gasps and pants for fresh air, and Arthur does the same. They haul themselves up to the shore. His skin is wrinkled to the point its numb, and there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do that isn’t completely disorienting.
Arthur, who will never not be Arthur, coughs until he can speak, voice cracked and ironically dry. “Six,” he says, and Eames thinks he’s finally lost it, but before he can ask, Arthur is staggering to his feet and removing his waistcoat. “Six,” he repeats, not looking at Eames as he walks away, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.
Eames decidedly does not watch him leave, too intrigued by the discarded piece of clothing Arthur left behind. He picks it up gingerly, sand clinging to the wet wool like static.
“Six,” he says aloud, because it makes no sense. He brushes some of the sand away with impatient sweeps of his hand and pauses when he comes across the buttons-the six buttons. “Sly dog,” he murmurs, impressed.
The sixth button turns out not to be a button at all, but a slim metal container that takes Eames nearly a half hour to open. Inside is a scrap of paper that says AUCKLAND in Arthur’s sure, uppercase writing. Eames sits there for several minutes, watching the setting sun as his drying clothes shift uncomfortably against his skin. He laughs quietly and places the paper inside his mouth.
“Oh, darling,” he murmurs and swallows.
He hopes Cobb made it, because it’s Cobb, and Arthur’s always been a bit of a stupidly loyal nutter for him.
“Bloke’s going to get our heads shot off,” he mutters darkly as he rises to his feet, beginning the less than simple trek to the airport.
*
He arrives in Auckland no worse for wear.
“Darling,” he says, glancing around the room. The apartment they’re using is cramped, but good enough, and there’s a stack of photographs alongside a stack of notes on a desk that Eames presumes are meant for him.
“Eames,” Arthur acknowledges curtly without looking up.
“I’m very happy to see that you’ve made it alive,” he supplies helpfully, stepping closer.
Arthur meets his eyes for a quarter of a second, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips before he turns back to his work. “You sound surprised,” he says to his computer screen.
“Impressed,” Eames corrects, leaning against Arthur’s desk. “Always impressed.”
“I’m flattered you think so highly of me,” he replies, lips barely moving, and Eames simply cannot resist.
He puts a hand over Arthur’s and takes it, pressing his lips to the sharp knuckles.
Arthur’s expression carefully crafts itself into a stony glare, and before he can say a word, Cobb barges in, out of breath with an, “Oh good, Eames, you’re here,” to which Eames says, “Man of the hour,” and turns to smile at Cobb, bright and open.
iv.
In Prague, Eames actually does come pretty fucking close to actually dying. Well, not actual, physical dying, but getting trapped in your head with time folding in on itself isn’t such a comforting thought either.
“Arthur,” Eames whispers as Arthur pushes too painfully on the bullet hole in his thigh. “Bloody fuck, don’t go killing me faster, pet.”
“Shut up, Eames.” His voice trembles the tiniest bit, and Eames’ grip on his wrists tighten twofold. “The kick is in two minutes. I dare you to make it, Eames. I fucking dare you.”
The blood is staining too much too quickly, but Eames smiles up at Arthur. “I like a challenge,” he growls, and Arthur’s laugh is shaky at best. The timer on the charge has a minute and ten seconds, and Arthur makes him count each second aloud.
“Cobb is a dick,” he declares because it’s true. Arthur’s jaw twitches.
His vision starts to haze. He does his best to blink it away, but it doesn’t work like that, not even in dreams.
“Thirty seconds, Eames,” Arthur reminds him, fierce and desperate and undeniably scared, and Eames pulls him in, kisses him still, kisses him until he makes a strangled noise and pulls away, slow and hesitant.
“One last peck for the trip then, darling?” he breathes, and it’s so uncomfortably cold.
“You’re not going to die, Mr. Eames,” Arthur snaps, because there’s only ten seconds left, and Rick Astley has started to play.
“Not on you,” he chuckles darkly. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you going to shut up now?” Arthur asks, looking away to see the timer tick zero.
“Yes,” Eames declares, and they ride the stunning synchronized kick together, all the way back to reality.
v.
In Mombasa, he’s drenched in sweat.
It’s a massive heat wave that’s stretched for longer than imaginable, and the air conditioner in the warehouse they’re working out of has been-as things always are in Mombasa-most conveniently stolen.
Eames wears as little as possible, a beater and khakis mostly, while Ariadne complains and moves her work as close to the refrigerator as close as possible. Cobb disappears for mysterious amounts of time, and Yusuf is perfectly fine (“A day in the life,” he says when Ariadne glares).
And Arthur. Arthur somehow manages, inhumanely, to not break a sweat. There are no waistcoats or neatly pressed slacks, just a button-up and khakis that look more or less like a pair Eames wore last week. He’s even in sandals.
“So he is human,” Yusuf muses, and Arthur’s lips quirk.
Ariadne takes to calling him “Iceman,” but Eames still likes “Darling,” best, and Arthur ignores them all, hair slicked back and cuffs undone.
“Do you think he’s suffering from heatstroke?” Eames asks curiously when his hair is becoming one with his scalp, and Arthur is completely unbothered, typing away as his own hair remains fascinatingly normal.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to breathe if you’ve had heatstroke for more than a few hours,” Ariadne answers, popping another ice chip into her mouth.
“Maybe he’s just half-human,” Yusuf says hopefully.
Terminator theories aside, Cobb returns after the third miserably sweltering day, and bless him, he’s got a new A/C unit.
“I take back everything I’ve never said to your face,” Eames sighs contentedly, welcoming the low rumble of the generator.
Cobb squints at him suspiciously; Ariadne lingers by the refrigerator for a few more hours, and Yusuf complains loudly that he’s only just finished adjusting his chemicals to account for the high heat.
They leave for the night in much better spirits.
“How do you do it?” Eames asks later, when he’s got Arthur cornered at a bar, Cobb nowhere to be found, Yusuf gone to tend to his cats, and Ariadne gone to wherever that pretty little head of hers likes to go.
“How do I do what?”
“Be superhuman,” he states, very serious.
Arthur stares at him, lips pressed together tight in a terribly restrained smile.
“Eames, I’m flattered,” he says like he may actually mean it, and Eames grins.
“What’s it going to take, darling?” he asks, easily taking Arthur’s drink and draining it.
Arthur’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Take to what?”
Eames doesn’t answer, just moves closer so Arthur is pressed against him, and his mouth is on Arthur’s, and it’s soft and quite nice. He hums quietly, pulling back just a breath, before pressing quick, close-mouthed kisses to the line of Arthur’s jaw.
Arthur is still, but not cold. He lets Eames do what he wants, until Eames stops of his on accord and looks at him. “Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, grinning.
“Next time, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, with a tone that suggests things that don’t quite involve his dick in Eames’ mouth, but don’t not suggest it either. “Just ask.”
Eames pretends it’s fondness he hears and not exasperation because that’s what it is. Arthur just has trouble with inflections. But that’s how Arthur is, heady and headstrong, and Eames will take all he has to give until he stops, until he runs out, until it’s over and done, and there’s nothing more.
Eames sighs and leans against him, and Arthur traces a finger around the rim of his empty glass, smiling to himself.
summary: five times Eames steals a kiss
disclaimer: not mine!
a/n: God help me, I wrote Inception fic. Entirely sarrni_korppi 's fault since she asked for it. Also, I blame whoever invented "cool effect fabric" because there's no way that shit is as effective as it sounds, right?! Thanks have to go to never_thinkx for being a wonderful audience \o/ lol no seriously what the hell is this 2500 WORDS OF SCHMOOP
warnings: word. vomit.
i.
In Rome, they encounter the hazards of REM dreams. Projections-or whatever the word is for giant dream pterodactyls that are all too real-keep lunging at them, swiping with those god-forsaken claws.
“Run!” Arthur yells as they sprint down sun-baked streets. Eames doesn’t even bother dignifying that with a response.
“Here,” he gasps, grabbing Arthur by the arm and pulling him behind a rather large and filthy dumpster.
“I fucking told you we should’ve sedated him!” Arthur snaps before Eames has a chance to clamp a hand over his mouth.
“Not now, pet,” he hisses.
Now, the glare that could freeze ice, Eames expects, but even he, the Master Observer he is, couldn’t predict the infuriatingly painful sting of teeth on fingers.
“The fuck was that for?” he shouts. He can’t be arsed about the damn pterodactyls at this point. The bloody things would skewer him even if he wasn’t yelling his head off.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Arthur promises.
This must be love, Eames thinks. This must be glorious, unselfish, Austenian love.
There’s a screech from above, and Arthur turns his head then, at the entirely wrong time, and his cheek brushes against Eames’ lips.
Not quite the romantic first he would have imagined, and besides, if Eames was being honest, then it was all an accident, except the part where it wasn’t an accident, but fate.
Arthur shoots him a look, dangerous and not quite as angry as Eames would have expected-but yes, dangerous nonetheless-and confused and oh, alright, maybe a little angry but Arthur looks so pretty red.
“Sorry, love,” Eames says quickly, still grinning as he brushes the spot with his finger.
On the flight to Vienna, the shot is still ringing in Eames’ ears.
(Eames regrets nothing, though he does deem the bullet to his eye a bit over dramatic on Arthur’s part. Anyway, point being: Eames doesn’t take any more jobs with paleontological obsessed archaeologists after that.)
ii.
At some point during a simple extraction job in Rockville, Eames decides to court Arthur properly. Not that the point man is actually around for Eames to try his hand, but the sentiment is the same: how many times can Eames flirt shamelessly before Arthur shoots him between the eyes, dream or not.
“Are you seriously that bored?” Stephanie asks when she finds him going through the archives of Cosmopolitan.
“How do they come up with these things?” he asks, ignoring her question. This is Rockville, Maryland, after all. (Next time, Eames gets to pick the rendezvous point. Somewhere with a little more spice, or at least some place where the leading cause of death isn’t dehydration from being bored to tears.) “I’ve never called my dick, my shaft. I call it my dick!”
“Eames,” Stephanie sighs in a tone that’s better suited for a Jesus Christ and moves away. She reminds him a bit of Arthur, but younger and more Asian what with her being the crazy Chinese dragon lady she is. She likes things organized and neat, lines straight and research properly and thoroughly conducted. It makes for a good extractor.
But what Eames likes best is the way she smiles at everyone she doesn’t trust-it’s a smile that’s best described as sleepily seductive. Her eyes narrow kindly, and her lips curve like a cat’s, wary and careful, but enticing all the same. It’s a very effective extraction technique, especially when she pairs it with her red qipao. Sometimes, Eames thinks the whole PASIV procedure is just a formality, that Stephanie just likes to use it because she can.
And there is the bit where her name isn’t really Stephanie, but Diana, only, Eames has been calling her Stephanie since they first met, and she’s never corrected him, just shook her head and went with it.
“Wherever you’re going,” he calls after her. “Don’t have sex in cars with leather seats! It’s the absolute worst.”
“Why are you having sex in cars?” Arthur asks from somewhere at his side, and Eames nearly drops the laptop in surprise.
“Arthur!” he says jovially, setting the computer back on the desk. “What’re you doing back here?”
Arthur’s lip quirks as it is want to do when there are any matters involving Eames. “Leaving,” he says factually, and Eames notes the silver PASIV case he’s got in his hands. “What are you doing?”
“Reading about sex in cars with leather seats,” he replies smoothly, unabashed. “For research.”
“Research,” Arthur repeats. His eyes narrow in a way that makes Eames resolve to keep him away from Cobb, because Arthur is clearly picking up some terrible habits.
“Research,” he echoes solemnly. “For courting you.”
He’s rewarded with a pair of pursed lips and a questioning stare. He doesn’t acknowledge any of it, but shuts down the laptop and claps his hands together. “Off we go then, love,” he says, smiling brightly. “Taiwan awaits.”
At the airport, Arthur busies himself with checking and re-checking his notes while Eames settles himself in the lounge bar. He’s learned from experience that it’s best to do a job involving Cobb as drunk as damned professionalism can allow.
Arthur finds him a few moments later, and he slides a glass of gin towards him. Arthur takes it, but doesn’t drink, just gets his own whiskey.
“Not good enough for you?” Eames teases for something to say.
Arthur sips his drink, close-lipped, and pointedly ignores him, which serves only to make Eames laugh.
“Oh darling,” he sighs, getting up and pressing deliberately too close so that his silk shirt molds itself around the curve of Arthur’s arm. He leans in, presses his lips to the top of Arthur’s head before murmuring, “See you later,” because they’ve got separate flights, and Arthur’s is leaving first.
He walks to the restrooms with a smirk in place because he knows Arthur hasn’t moved, has made a point of not moving because he thinks Eames won’t be satisfied by that, but he is so, so wrong.
When Eames re-emerges, Arthur is gone, and Eames lets his smile become a wide grin.
iii.
In Taipei, their job goes cockeyed.
It’s not that Eames has never had a job get blown straight through the seventh circle of Hell, but he’s never had a job get blown straight through the seventh circle of Hell when Arthur’s around. Things happen and yes, they lie low for a while, but they’ve never had to hide in an underwater cave for two hours, sharing an oxygen tank.
With Arthur around, these things just aren’t supposed to happen. There’s too much research, too many Plan Not-A’s, too many practice runs and escape routes.
It scares him the tiniest bit.
The sounds of rapid gunfire diminish as the needle on their tank hovers closer to empty than full. Eames moves to go up, but Arthur grabs his arm, shakes head firmly, and they wait until all the oxygen is gone and kick up to the surface.
Eames gasps and pants for fresh air, and Arthur does the same. They haul themselves up to the shore. His skin is wrinkled to the point its numb, and there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do that isn’t completely disorienting.
Arthur, who will never not be Arthur, coughs until he can speak, voice cracked and ironically dry. “Six,” he says, and Eames thinks he’s finally lost it, but before he can ask, Arthur is staggering to his feet and removing his waistcoat. “Six,” he repeats, not looking at Eames as he walks away, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.
Eames decidedly does not watch him leave, too intrigued by the discarded piece of clothing Arthur left behind. He picks it up gingerly, sand clinging to the wet wool like static.
“Six,” he says aloud, because it makes no sense. He brushes some of the sand away with impatient sweeps of his hand and pauses when he comes across the buttons-the six buttons. “Sly dog,” he murmurs, impressed.
The sixth button turns out not to be a button at all, but a slim metal container that takes Eames nearly a half hour to open. Inside is a scrap of paper that says AUCKLAND in Arthur’s sure, uppercase writing. Eames sits there for several minutes, watching the setting sun as his drying clothes shift uncomfortably against his skin. He laughs quietly and places the paper inside his mouth.
“Oh, darling,” he murmurs and swallows.
He hopes Cobb made it, because it’s Cobb, and Arthur’s always been a bit of a stupidly loyal nutter for him.
“Bloke’s going to get our heads shot off,” he mutters darkly as he rises to his feet, beginning the less than simple trek to the airport.
*
He arrives in Auckland no worse for wear.
“Darling,” he says, glancing around the room. The apartment they’re using is cramped, but good enough, and there’s a stack of photographs alongside a stack of notes on a desk that Eames presumes are meant for him.
“Eames,” Arthur acknowledges curtly without looking up.
“I’m very happy to see that you’ve made it alive,” he supplies helpfully, stepping closer.
Arthur meets his eyes for a quarter of a second, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips before he turns back to his work. “You sound surprised,” he says to his computer screen.
“Impressed,” Eames corrects, leaning against Arthur’s desk. “Always impressed.”
“I’m flattered you think so highly of me,” he replies, lips barely moving, and Eames simply cannot resist.
He puts a hand over Arthur’s and takes it, pressing his lips to the sharp knuckles.
Arthur’s expression carefully crafts itself into a stony glare, and before he can say a word, Cobb barges in, out of breath with an, “Oh good, Eames, you’re here,” to which Eames says, “Man of the hour,” and turns to smile at Cobb, bright and open.
iv.
In Prague, Eames actually does come pretty fucking close to actually dying. Well, not actual, physical dying, but getting trapped in your head with time folding in on itself isn’t such a comforting thought either.
“Arthur,” Eames whispers as Arthur pushes too painfully on the bullet hole in his thigh. “Bloody fuck, don’t go killing me faster, pet.”
“Shut up, Eames.” His voice trembles the tiniest bit, and Eames’ grip on his wrists tighten twofold. “The kick is in two minutes. I dare you to make it, Eames. I fucking dare you.”
The blood is staining too much too quickly, but Eames smiles up at Arthur. “I like a challenge,” he growls, and Arthur’s laugh is shaky at best. The timer on the charge has a minute and ten seconds, and Arthur makes him count each second aloud.
“Cobb is a dick,” he declares because it’s true. Arthur’s jaw twitches.
His vision starts to haze. He does his best to blink it away, but it doesn’t work like that, not even in dreams.
“Thirty seconds, Eames,” Arthur reminds him, fierce and desperate and undeniably scared, and Eames pulls him in, kisses him still, kisses him until he makes a strangled noise and pulls away, slow and hesitant.
“One last peck for the trip then, darling?” he breathes, and it’s so uncomfortably cold.
“You’re not going to die, Mr. Eames,” Arthur snaps, because there’s only ten seconds left, and Rick Astley has started to play.
“Not on you,” he chuckles darkly. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Are you going to shut up now?” Arthur asks, looking away to see the timer tick zero.
“Yes,” Eames declares, and they ride the stunning synchronized kick together, all the way back to reality.
v.
In Mombasa, he’s drenched in sweat.
It’s a massive heat wave that’s stretched for longer than imaginable, and the air conditioner in the warehouse they’re working out of has been-as things always are in Mombasa-most conveniently stolen.
Eames wears as little as possible, a beater and khakis mostly, while Ariadne complains and moves her work as close to the refrigerator as close as possible. Cobb disappears for mysterious amounts of time, and Yusuf is perfectly fine (“A day in the life,” he says when Ariadne glares).
And Arthur. Arthur somehow manages, inhumanely, to not break a sweat. There are no waistcoats or neatly pressed slacks, just a button-up and khakis that look more or less like a pair Eames wore last week. He’s even in sandals.
“So he is human,” Yusuf muses, and Arthur’s lips quirk.
Ariadne takes to calling him “Iceman,” but Eames still likes “Darling,” best, and Arthur ignores them all, hair slicked back and cuffs undone.
“Do you think he’s suffering from heatstroke?” Eames asks curiously when his hair is becoming one with his scalp, and Arthur is completely unbothered, typing away as his own hair remains fascinatingly normal.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to breathe if you’ve had heatstroke for more than a few hours,” Ariadne answers, popping another ice chip into her mouth.
“Maybe he’s just half-human,” Yusuf says hopefully.
Terminator theories aside, Cobb returns after the third miserably sweltering day, and bless him, he’s got a new A/C unit.
“I take back everything I’ve never said to your face,” Eames sighs contentedly, welcoming the low rumble of the generator.
Cobb squints at him suspiciously; Ariadne lingers by the refrigerator for a few more hours, and Yusuf complains loudly that he’s only just finished adjusting his chemicals to account for the high heat.
They leave for the night in much better spirits.
“How do you do it?” Eames asks later, when he’s got Arthur cornered at a bar, Cobb nowhere to be found, Yusuf gone to tend to his cats, and Ariadne gone to wherever that pretty little head of hers likes to go.
“How do I do what?”
“Be superhuman,” he states, very serious.
Arthur stares at him, lips pressed together tight in a terribly restrained smile.
“Eames, I’m flattered,” he says like he may actually mean it, and Eames grins.
“What’s it going to take, darling?” he asks, easily taking Arthur’s drink and draining it.
Arthur’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Take to what?”
Eames doesn’t answer, just moves closer so Arthur is pressed against him, and his mouth is on Arthur’s, and it’s soft and quite nice. He hums quietly, pulling back just a breath, before pressing quick, close-mouthed kisses to the line of Arthur’s jaw.
Arthur is still, but not cold. He lets Eames do what he wants, until Eames stops of his on accord and looks at him. “Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, grinning.
“Next time, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, with a tone that suggests things that don’t quite involve his dick in Eames’ mouth, but don’t not suggest it either. “Just ask.”
Eames pretends it’s fondness he hears and not exasperation because that’s what it is. Arthur just has trouble with inflections. But that’s how Arthur is, heady and headstrong, and Eames will take all he has to give until he stops, until he runs out, until it’s over and done, and there’s nothing more.
Eames sighs and leans against him, and Arthur traces a finger around the rim of his empty glass, smiling to himself.