#340 - [FIC] The Taste of Milk and Sugar (Eames/Yusuf)
Title: The Taste of Milk and Sugar
Word Count: 1,800
Pairing: Eames/Yusuf
Rating: R, but barely
Warnings: mutual masturbation, gratuitous abuse of tea as a plot device
Disclaimer: Not mine. The end.
Author's Note: Yusuf doesn't get enough attention. I'm doing my part to remedy that. Also, I read a fic where Eames' first name was Daniel, and it's kind of stuck with me since. I hope the author doesn't mind! Finally, I suck at titles. SO HARD.
There was, Yusuf reflected, nothing quite so comforting as a perfectly brewed cup of tea. Each flavor was imbued with a set of properties that made it as unique as any element on the periodic table, each with its own merits, depending on the circumstance. Chamomile for relaxation, spiced chai for contentment, English breakfast in the morning and golden Darjeeling in the afternoon. Currently, he was nursing a mug of Earl Grey to ward off the chill of another damp, English winter.
As far as his inferiors were concerned, Yusuf was laid up with a touch of flu. He’d left an apprentice to babysit his dreamers and now he was taking a much deserved vacation-and swearing off field work forever, no matter how tempting the reward.
If only he had remembered how bloody miserable London was this time of year.
His cat yowled from the floor, her long body weaving around his ankles. Yusuf set his tea aside and crouched down to tickle her chin.
“Radha, my sweet,” he murmured gently, “is the rain disturbing you?”
She rubbed her sleek head against his knuckles in response, pressing her cheek into his hand with a dismal mew. There was a draft coming from somewhere as Radha stared up at him with liquid-gold eyes and batted at his sleeve with a paw.
Yusuf smiled. “Ah, I see… you are lonely.”
He scooped her into his arms and straightened, turning back to the counter to retrieve his tea before it cooled. Radha’s ears pricked up in the seconds before a familiar voice spoke behind him.
“Still bent on becoming a mad, old cat lady, eh, Yusuf?”
The door closed with a bang and Radha flexed her claws against his arm, a growl rattling in her throat. She leapt from his arms as he turned, back arching as she hissed at a very bewildered looking Eames before trotting calmly in the direction of the bedroom.
There was a pause and then Eames laughed, raking a hand through his wet hair.
“Your cat still doesn’t like me, I see.”
“Radha is slow to warm up to new people,” he said. Eames snorted. “Very slow,” he amended.
“It’s been five years, mate. That bloody cat’s never going to come ‘round.”
Yusuf shrugged smoothly. “Perhaps she senses that she has a competitor for your affections.”
“I think she’d be hissing at you, then, darling.”
Yusuf hid his smile with a sip of tea. “I was talking about Sadie.” She was Eames’ Border collie-loveable, but mischievous to a fault. Not unlike her owner. “Have you had the opportunity to see her?”
Eames shook his head. “My mum’s looking after her.”
They stood in amiable silence for a moment, Yusuf observing the man who stood dripping on his threshold. He made no attempt to disguise his appraising gaze as Eames rocked back on his heels. His shoes looked freshly shined, though the soles were caked with mud, trousers neatly pressed below a lovely patterned shirt. Eames had always been rather handsome in warm colors.
“Remove your shoes,” Yusuf said eventually. “I’ll find you a towel.”
When he returned, Eames was sprawled gracelessly in Yusuf’s favorite armchair, rubbing his stocking feet over the carpet.
“If you are plotting to shock my cat,” he remarked conversationally, “Radha knows well enough to keep her distance from you. Here,” he said, handing Eames the towel.
The man’s fingers brushed his wrist, discharging the static electricity he had built up. Eames chuckled as he jerked back.
“She might, but you don’t.”
Yusuf let the comment pass and took a seat on the sofa, watching Eames scrub at his wet hair with the towel. It stuck out every which way; positively ridiculous.
“What brings you to London?”
“Blew in with the wind, I reckon.”
Yusuf smiled. “Considering your rather windswept appearance, I can almost believe it.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Eames chided lightly. “Got sick of Mombasa, did you? All that sunshine and nice weather-I can certainly see what convinced you to leave the safety of your little drug cartel.”
He bristled at that, though the sarcasm was good-natured enough.
“I seem to recall several occasions on which my ‘drug cartel,’” he scoffed, voice dripping with disdain, “proved to be of great use to you.”
“Mention Bucharest and I will not be held responsible for my actions.”
“I make no such promises.”
But he relented, as per Eames’ request, although it was a very good story indeed. It occurred to him that, in the midst of his surprise, he had forgotten to offer what was possibly the most critical marker of hospitality.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
Eames beamed. “Brilliant.”
“A moment, then. Make yourself comfortable.”
This was certainly unexpected, though that in itself he had come to expect from Eames’ visits in the time they had known one another. After a moment of consideration, he selected the Darjeeling for Eames and set the tea to steep. He had never been able to properly appreciate the taste of bergamot.
“Do you still take milk and sugar?” he called.
Eames’ answer came close to his ear. “Two sugars, love. Got a bit of a sweet-tooth tonight.”
Yusuf hadn’t realized the man had snuck up behind him, but he was not startled. He had known Eames for long enough to become accustomed to his more unsettling mannerisms. Besides, a man in his position did not do well to spook easily. Eames’ hands settled on his shoulders, massaging them with strong, thick fingers.
“And what would your Arthur have to say about this?”
The hands on his shoulders stilled. “What’s that now?”
Yusuf turned to face him, laying a hand on Eames’ chest to keep him at bay.
“Arthur,” he repeated. “You are seeing him, are you not?”
The expression on Eames’ face was one of shock. Abruptly, he began to laugh, throwing his head back with the force of it, eyes squeezed shut with mirth. After ten or fifteen seconds, Yusuf was feeling rather offended.
“You two seemed familiar with one another. I simply assumed-”
“Christ, no,” Eames said, only slightly breathless from his laughing jag. “Can you imagine?” He laughed again and shook his head. “Definitely not. Now,” he said, a smile curving his lips as he backed Yusuf into the counter, “where were we?”
“Your sweet-tooth, I believe,” Yusuf murmured, before Eames’ mouth settled warm and soft on his own. “You taste like those awful cigarettes,” he accused, speaking against Eames’ lips. But he opened his mouth to the kiss regardless, heat spreading through him at the slow caress of the man’s lips and tongue, the firm hands on his back.
This, he knew all too well and his brow furrowed even as he licked into Eames’ mouth, his hands busy with the man’s belt buckle. He had worn the same belt for the duration of their acquaintance and the familiar leather was worn soft under his hands.
Yusuf hesitated. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight, my friend?”
He declined to answer and Yusuf repressed a sigh as Eames nuzzled plaintively at his jaw, his resolve already cracking. He was getting so soft in his old age, falling for such tired tactics with the naivety of a boy.
“Surely you’ll let me kip on the couch for a night or two.”
“I somehow doubt that you will end up on my sofa,” he said, sourly, feeling Eames huff a laugh against his cheek. “I suppose you expect me to trust you again,” he said, sighing even as he let his head rest on Eames’ shoulder. “And I suppose you know also that I will, because I have apparently concluded that you are deserving of another chance, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
Eames’ lips brushed over his ear. “Mmm, you know I love it when you talk about me like a lab experiment, Yusuf.” The humor was evident in his voice. “Am I really so untrustworthy? I would have thought my actions were delightfully predictable to you by now.”
“Yes, you are a man of habit, Daniel,” he agreed. The man’s given name rolled unfamiliarly from his tongue. “Not a man of honor.”
“From one mercenary to another.”
Yusuf smiled softly. “Even we men of weak morality may admire the virtuous from afar.”
“Though we ourselves prefer to live in sin,” Eames murmured. Then his lips were on Yusuf’s once again, the taste of vice in his mouth and the weight of it in his hands.
They pressed flush against one another, bodies aligned from chest to hip. Eames radiated a warmth that settled in his bones and left him indolent, almost drowsy. His was the kiss of the serpent, the kiss of Judas in the gardens of Gethsemane-an evil so exquisite he could not help but succumb. A warm hand found its way into his trousers and he breathed a sigh against Eames’ open mouth as it curled around him.
Familiar treachery, he reflected, but he gave in as he always did, reaching between them to free Eames’ erection. His hand encircled them both, jerking roughly as they stood mouth to mouth, eyes closed and exchanging oxygen with every harsh pant.
Yusuf spilled his release over the man’s hand, the fruition of his desire sweet and fleeting. Eames followed soon after, groaning low in his throat, heavy against him. They stayed there for a moment, catching their breath and gathering what was left of their respective wits. Eames kissed his forehead absently before moving to the sink to wash their combined climax from his hands.
Yusuf, relaxed and-for now-content, watched as Eames calmly zipped himself and buckled his belt.
He ran his tongue over his lips, as red as pomegranates. “How about that tea, love?”
They retired to the sitting room and settled on the couch. Radha chose that moment to appear from behind the armchair. Her golden eyes lighted on Eames, tail swishing dangerously, before she leapt smoothly into Yusuf’s lap. He chuckled to himself and ran his hand along the cartilaginous ridges of her spine to hear her purr.
“How long will you stay this time?” Yusuf asked quietly.
“I can’t promise anything.”
“Of course.”
“But I’m hopeful.”
Yusuf raised his head from the man’s shoulder. “And why is that?”
“My mum told me never to fall for a man who couldn’t make a decent cup of tea.”
“A wise woman.”
“You could meet her,” Eames suggested. “If you like. Sadie could come back with us and visit for a while.”
He chanced a smile. “We will see.”
As they sat, listening to the rain and the wind and the gentle breathing of the other, Yusuf felt a surge of optimism. Past results may not have been promising, but there was always the odd anomaly in the data.
Word Count: 1,800
Pairing: Eames/Yusuf
Rating: R, but barely
Warnings: mutual masturbation, gratuitous abuse of tea as a plot device
Disclaimer: Not mine. The end.
Author's Note: Yusuf doesn't get enough attention. I'm doing my part to remedy that. Also, I read a fic where Eames' first name was Daniel, and it's kind of stuck with me since. I hope the author doesn't mind! Finally, I suck at titles. SO HARD.
There was, Yusuf reflected, nothing quite so comforting as a perfectly brewed cup of tea. Each flavor was imbued with a set of properties that made it as unique as any element on the periodic table, each with its own merits, depending on the circumstance. Chamomile for relaxation, spiced chai for contentment, English breakfast in the morning and golden Darjeeling in the afternoon. Currently, he was nursing a mug of Earl Grey to ward off the chill of another damp, English winter.
As far as his inferiors were concerned, Yusuf was laid up with a touch of flu. He’d left an apprentice to babysit his dreamers and now he was taking a much deserved vacation-and swearing off field work forever, no matter how tempting the reward.
If only he had remembered how bloody miserable London was this time of year.
His cat yowled from the floor, her long body weaving around his ankles. Yusuf set his tea aside and crouched down to tickle her chin.
“Radha, my sweet,” he murmured gently, “is the rain disturbing you?”
She rubbed her sleek head against his knuckles in response, pressing her cheek into his hand with a dismal mew. There was a draft coming from somewhere as Radha stared up at him with liquid-gold eyes and batted at his sleeve with a paw.
Yusuf smiled. “Ah, I see… you are lonely.”
He scooped her into his arms and straightened, turning back to the counter to retrieve his tea before it cooled. Radha’s ears pricked up in the seconds before a familiar voice spoke behind him.
“Still bent on becoming a mad, old cat lady, eh, Yusuf?”
The door closed with a bang and Radha flexed her claws against his arm, a growl rattling in her throat. She leapt from his arms as he turned, back arching as she hissed at a very bewildered looking Eames before trotting calmly in the direction of the bedroom.
There was a pause and then Eames laughed, raking a hand through his wet hair.
“Your cat still doesn’t like me, I see.”
“Radha is slow to warm up to new people,” he said. Eames snorted. “Very slow,” he amended.
“It’s been five years, mate. That bloody cat’s never going to come ‘round.”
Yusuf shrugged smoothly. “Perhaps she senses that she has a competitor for your affections.”
“I think she’d be hissing at you, then, darling.”
Yusuf hid his smile with a sip of tea. “I was talking about Sadie.” She was Eames’ Border collie-loveable, but mischievous to a fault. Not unlike her owner. “Have you had the opportunity to see her?”
Eames shook his head. “My mum’s looking after her.”
They stood in amiable silence for a moment, Yusuf observing the man who stood dripping on his threshold. He made no attempt to disguise his appraising gaze as Eames rocked back on his heels. His shoes looked freshly shined, though the soles were caked with mud, trousers neatly pressed below a lovely patterned shirt. Eames had always been rather handsome in warm colors.
“Remove your shoes,” Yusuf said eventually. “I’ll find you a towel.”
When he returned, Eames was sprawled gracelessly in Yusuf’s favorite armchair, rubbing his stocking feet over the carpet.
“If you are plotting to shock my cat,” he remarked conversationally, “Radha knows well enough to keep her distance from you. Here,” he said, handing Eames the towel.
The man’s fingers brushed his wrist, discharging the static electricity he had built up. Eames chuckled as he jerked back.
“She might, but you don’t.”
Yusuf let the comment pass and took a seat on the sofa, watching Eames scrub at his wet hair with the towel. It stuck out every which way; positively ridiculous.
“What brings you to London?”
“Blew in with the wind, I reckon.”
Yusuf smiled. “Considering your rather windswept appearance, I can almost believe it.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Eames chided lightly. “Got sick of Mombasa, did you? All that sunshine and nice weather-I can certainly see what convinced you to leave the safety of your little drug cartel.”
He bristled at that, though the sarcasm was good-natured enough.
“I seem to recall several occasions on which my ‘drug cartel,’” he scoffed, voice dripping with disdain, “proved to be of great use to you.”
“Mention Bucharest and I will not be held responsible for my actions.”
“I make no such promises.”
But he relented, as per Eames’ request, although it was a very good story indeed. It occurred to him that, in the midst of his surprise, he had forgotten to offer what was possibly the most critical marker of hospitality.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
Eames beamed. “Brilliant.”
“A moment, then. Make yourself comfortable.”
This was certainly unexpected, though that in itself he had come to expect from Eames’ visits in the time they had known one another. After a moment of consideration, he selected the Darjeeling for Eames and set the tea to steep. He had never been able to properly appreciate the taste of bergamot.
“Do you still take milk and sugar?” he called.
Eames’ answer came close to his ear. “Two sugars, love. Got a bit of a sweet-tooth tonight.”
Yusuf hadn’t realized the man had snuck up behind him, but he was not startled. He had known Eames for long enough to become accustomed to his more unsettling mannerisms. Besides, a man in his position did not do well to spook easily. Eames’ hands settled on his shoulders, massaging them with strong, thick fingers.
“And what would your Arthur have to say about this?”
The hands on his shoulders stilled. “What’s that now?”
Yusuf turned to face him, laying a hand on Eames’ chest to keep him at bay.
“Arthur,” he repeated. “You are seeing him, are you not?”
The expression on Eames’ face was one of shock. Abruptly, he began to laugh, throwing his head back with the force of it, eyes squeezed shut with mirth. After ten or fifteen seconds, Yusuf was feeling rather offended.
“You two seemed familiar with one another. I simply assumed-”
“Christ, no,” Eames said, only slightly breathless from his laughing jag. “Can you imagine?” He laughed again and shook his head. “Definitely not. Now,” he said, a smile curving his lips as he backed Yusuf into the counter, “where were we?”
“Your sweet-tooth, I believe,” Yusuf murmured, before Eames’ mouth settled warm and soft on his own. “You taste like those awful cigarettes,” he accused, speaking against Eames’ lips. But he opened his mouth to the kiss regardless, heat spreading through him at the slow caress of the man’s lips and tongue, the firm hands on his back.
This, he knew all too well and his brow furrowed even as he licked into Eames’ mouth, his hands busy with the man’s belt buckle. He had worn the same belt for the duration of their acquaintance and the familiar leather was worn soft under his hands.
Yusuf hesitated. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight, my friend?”
He declined to answer and Yusuf repressed a sigh as Eames nuzzled plaintively at his jaw, his resolve already cracking. He was getting so soft in his old age, falling for such tired tactics with the naivety of a boy.
“Surely you’ll let me kip on the couch for a night or two.”
“I somehow doubt that you will end up on my sofa,” he said, sourly, feeling Eames huff a laugh against his cheek. “I suppose you expect me to trust you again,” he said, sighing even as he let his head rest on Eames’ shoulder. “And I suppose you know also that I will, because I have apparently concluded that you are deserving of another chance, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
Eames’ lips brushed over his ear. “Mmm, you know I love it when you talk about me like a lab experiment, Yusuf.” The humor was evident in his voice. “Am I really so untrustworthy? I would have thought my actions were delightfully predictable to you by now.”
“Yes, you are a man of habit, Daniel,” he agreed. The man’s given name rolled unfamiliarly from his tongue. “Not a man of honor.”
“From one mercenary to another.”
Yusuf smiled softly. “Even we men of weak morality may admire the virtuous from afar.”
“Though we ourselves prefer to live in sin,” Eames murmured. Then his lips were on Yusuf’s once again, the taste of vice in his mouth and the weight of it in his hands.
They pressed flush against one another, bodies aligned from chest to hip. Eames radiated a warmth that settled in his bones and left him indolent, almost drowsy. His was the kiss of the serpent, the kiss of Judas in the gardens of Gethsemane-an evil so exquisite he could not help but succumb. A warm hand found its way into his trousers and he breathed a sigh against Eames’ open mouth as it curled around him.
Familiar treachery, he reflected, but he gave in as he always did, reaching between them to free Eames’ erection. His hand encircled them both, jerking roughly as they stood mouth to mouth, eyes closed and exchanging oxygen with every harsh pant.
Yusuf spilled his release over the man’s hand, the fruition of his desire sweet and fleeting. Eames followed soon after, groaning low in his throat, heavy against him. They stayed there for a moment, catching their breath and gathering what was left of their respective wits. Eames kissed his forehead absently before moving to the sink to wash their combined climax from his hands.
Yusuf, relaxed and-for now-content, watched as Eames calmly zipped himself and buckled his belt.
He ran his tongue over his lips, as red as pomegranates. “How about that tea, love?”
They retired to the sitting room and settled on the couch. Radha chose that moment to appear from behind the armchair. Her golden eyes lighted on Eames, tail swishing dangerously, before she leapt smoothly into Yusuf’s lap. He chuckled to himself and ran his hand along the cartilaginous ridges of her spine to hear her purr.
“How long will you stay this time?” Yusuf asked quietly.
“I can’t promise anything.”
“Of course.”
“But I’m hopeful.”
Yusuf raised his head from the man’s shoulder. “And why is that?”
“My mum told me never to fall for a man who couldn’t make a decent cup of tea.”
“A wise woman.”
“You could meet her,” Eames suggested. “If you like. Sadie could come back with us and visit for a while.”
He chanced a smile. “We will see.”
As they sat, listening to the rain and the wind and the gentle breathing of the other, Yusuf felt a surge of optimism. Past results may not have been promising, but there was always the odd anomaly in the data.