The Waking Years [1/3]
Artist: innueneko
Word Count: 25,800
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairings: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: SEX and also I think I should be warning for POV shifts fljf;eak;r
Notes: For inception_bang! :D
Summary: After the Fischer inception, Eames goes back to work as an extractor, and Arthur joins his team. Due to circumstances involving a guy who may or may not be from Greenland, pop astrology, someone's broken limb, hormones, and convenience, they end up learning that love is what starts down below (and makes its way up your spine).
“You know,” comes Eames’s voice, “there’s no need for subterfuge.”
Arthur raises his head, fork dipping into a corner of his terrine. Eames must see himself shine off of Arthur’s sunglasses, and he makes a show of peering closer to check his reflection, patting fastidiously at the part of his hair.
“I mean,” says Eames, “you’re not wanted here. Are you?”
“No,” says Arthur, and lowers his head again. “Why, are you? Do you have an arrest record here?”
“You know I’ve only been arrested once,” says Eames. “Besides, that was in Czechoslovakia, back when it was Czechoslovakia-- how does my hair look?”
“Like hair,” says Arthur. “Either sit down or leave me to my brunch, Eames. You’re making me feel inhospitable.”
Eames drags up a chair from the next table. It’s a fine Sunday in the foreign quarter of Seoul, and the morning light is bright where it pools around them on the cafe terrace. Arthur divvies up his terrine into even segments like he’s planning to put it back together later, and Eames watches him, slouched against his backrest.
“Honestly, though,” says Eames. “You’d look a lot less suspicious without the sunglasses. What’s it for? Is there an ex stalking you somewhere hereabouts, is that it? Are you running from a jilted lover?”
“It’s not-- I’m not--” says Arthur, and crosses his legs. “Look, I’m using sunglasses the way they were meant to be used -- to shield my eyes from the sun -- is that so unfashionable?”
“I knew it,” says Eames, pointing a finger at Arthur. “It’s your hotel! You slept terribly because you didn’t like your hotel room!”
“Well,” says Arthur, reluctantly, “I suppose there have been better.”
“I’m in a better,” says Eames. “Ask me about my hotel.”
“I’m not asking you about your hotel,” says Arthur. “Are you going to order anything?”
“It’s wonderful, by the way,” says Eames. “Ask me how wonderful it is.”
“Eames,” says Arthur, “I’m not asking you--”
“It’s so wonderful,” says Eames, “that the room is called the Wonderful Room. I was looking through their brochure, there’s this one that they call the Fabulous Room, it’s all white and grey, it might as well have a sign over the door that says For Arthur, the most exacting of all ponces--”
“Sorry,” calls Arthur into the cafe, “could we have the menu again, please?”
“It’s your own fault for being so stubborn,” says Eames. “You knew perfectly well that there were about a million better hotels all over the city, but no, you said we needed to work from the foreign quarter.”
“We do,” says Arthur. “That’s how I always--”
“You could have just booked this one to work out of,” says Eames, “and got a better one to sleep in-- but no, you didn’t want the commute. Half an hour by cab, Arthur. That’s all it takes to get me here from my wonderful, wonderful room.”
“Never mind the menu,” calls Arthur. “He’ll be having the endive salad.”
“What’s wrong with the endive salad?” asks Eames.
“Nothing,” says Arthur. “Can you stop it with the questions? Jesus Christ, I know what I’m doing, Cobb never asked--”
“Yes, well, Cobb may never have,” Eames says, light. “But you’re working point for me right now, aren’t you?”
He hooks an elbow onto the back of his chair, lets his fingers hang down, drumming them against the wood. Arthur flicks his eyes to Eames’s face and back, behind the cover of his sunglasses.
“Terrible life choices,” mutters Arthur. “I should have said no.”
And they both know, that’s as far from the truth as anything can be. That Arthur was flattered when Eames offered him the job, flattered in his own silent, peevish way. They know it well enough to take what Arthur says as an admission of defeat, or at least an acquiescence to a truce. Eames shifts in his seat, pulls free a rolled-up magazine from where he’s been sitting on it.
“Oh, god,” says Arthur when he sees it. “Please don’t tell me Teagan is still printing that thing. What is this, the third issue already?”
“Don’t you begrudge a person their hobby,” says Eames. “She isn’t going to get any recon done with that broken leg, so would you really prefer that she spend her time on her hospital bed staring up at the ceiling and thinking about all the work she’s missing out on? Shame on you, Arthur, you heartless bastard.”
“It’s just,” says Arthur, “the title--”
“I happen to think that Sweet Dreams is a lovely title,” says Eames. “And I’ll have you know that the magazine is an immensely effective way to maintain a finger on the pulse of the dreamshare community--”
“It’s not the pulse of anything,” protests Arthur. “It’s gossip! There are entire articles devoted to which regularly used forge has the best-looking legs!”
“That’s not fair,” says Eames. “You only mentioned that because you know I’m still bitter about it.”
“You’re the winner where it counts,” says Arthur. “In your own bloated ego.”
“Keep being a twat and I won’t let you have the mail-order forms,” says Eames. “I know you want those reinforced vial storage extensions.”
“Now who’s being unfair,” says Arthur, and breaks off a piece of bread for the last of his terrine.
Eames reads with excruciatingly affected slowness, letting the gloss of the page rustle in his hand as he turns it. He pores over every word like he can’t tear himself away, even though Arthur can see that the actual column has something to do with how to use isotopes to tweak the sensation of smells within dreams. It ought to bore both of them out of their mind. But Arthur has run out of food to distract himself with, and although he’s got his chin in the cradle of one hand in a cultivated display of nonchalance, Eames probably notices that he’s leaning in a bit on his elbow, trying to make out the words of the article. I’m being baited, thinks Arthur, but there’s nothing better to do than take it--
Then Eames flips the page, and for a moment, neither of them knows what to say.
Arthur’s arm shoots out, but Eames is closer. He snatches the magazine out of Arthur’s reach, and holds it to his face as he scans it, like proximity would help assuage his disbelief. Arthur’s chair crashes to the floor as he jumps up and lunges forward.
“Let me--” starts Arthur as he grapples against the edge of the table, sunglasses nearly slipping off his nose, “no, I must have-- I misread it, didn’t I?”
Eames turns the magazine over, lets Arthur mouth the words of the title text.
Poll of the month, it says in bright blue letters. Teagan asks: which two members of the dreamshare community should totally hook up?
“72% of voters,” reads Arthur, “say Arthur and Eames.”
“We beat out Nadira and Ellie B,” says Eames.
“How did we beat-- Nadira and Ellie B hooked up seven years ago and haven’t stopped since,” says Arthur in dismay. “They have a house in Perth, for fuck’s sake.”
Everything about this is ridiculous, thinks Arthur. The existence of Teagan’s magazine, the fact that she runs polls about potential hook-ups, that people vote in them, that people vote in them for him and Eames. The startled arch of Eames’s eyebrows lowering into something amused.
“What’s the reasoning,” asks Arthur, heavy with the inevitability of the question. “The voters, the ones that were quoted, why do they think we should--”
“Well, if you asked Jackson from Itto-- Ittoq-- what the fuck is this word?” asks Eames, outraged. “Ittoqqortoormiit? Is that even a real place? Anyway, if you found this Jackson bloke wherever he actually lives and asked him, he would tell you that Arthur and Eames are a natural match. Arthur, being a Virgo, may come across as someone who would be a cold fish in bed. This is a common stereotype about Virgos, but certainly an erroneous one; with the right partner to ignite them, Virgos will prove to be passionate and insatiable. Since Eames is a Cancer-- hold on, now, how does he know my sign? I’ve not told anyone, most definitely not Jackson from where the fuck.”
“How does he know I’m a Virgo?” demands Arthur. “Wait, no, before that, why is he fantasizing about--”
“Look, Arthur,” says Eames, “of course everyone knows you’re a Virgo. No one could miss that. I’ve heard it said that scientifically, the stick up your arse is visible from low Earth orbit--”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Arthur yanks the magazine out of Eames’s hands. “Since Eames is a Cancer, his expansive nature is well-suited to soothing away Arthur’s reservations. In return, Arthur will unveil a surprisingly depraved side of hims-- Eames, I am going to find this Jackson asshole and I am going to snap his spine like peppermint candy-- Virgo and Cancer will be a union of opposites who find that they share more similarities than they initially thought. Where there is friction, there are sparks; the physical attraction is undeniable.”
He drops the magazine down onto the table. The lids of his eyes feel raw in the light, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs over where his sunglasses dug in. He crosses his arms and looks at Eames, at the stretch of his shirt across his chest, the smile around his mouth patient and knowing. Eames is waiting for him to act, just waiting to laugh at him, but that crook of his lips--
Arthur remembers Eames in Ankara. His hair cropped short. The sinews of his neck taut as he snarled, Who the fuck are you? and the volley of bullets before Arthur could answer, because Eames was a rougher man then, sharper. They both were. But the tendril of a tattoo curls out over Eames’s collar just the way it did back then, and Arthur thinks, The physical attraction.
Eames asks, “How does this Jackson know so much about pop astrology, anyway,” and it’s just something to fill the air with.
He must be expecting Arthur to shake his head and turn away. It’s what Arthur has been doing all this while, since the beginning, all the way since Ankara. He’s noticed the occasional weight in Eames’s eyes, the unspoken intent, and he knows that Eames’s answer to any offer would be yes. But Eames is a sardonic son of a bitch who would be half in it only to laugh at him the morning after, and Arthur isn’t so desperate that he’d put up with that just to get a fuck out of it.
It’s not dislike, thinks Arthur. Not really. But there must be some part of Eames that thinks Arthur is a dull, dismissive prick who tastes like sawdust, who would need to be wheedled and wrangled to a lukewarm orgasm. As present as the physical attraction is, they must share some instinctual assumption that any sex between them could very well be terrible.
Arthur never felt it would be worthwhile to convince Eames otherwise; until now, because Jackson from Ittoqqortoormiit says natural match, and Arthur catches himself listening. I’ve lost it, he thinks. I’m about to possibly have the worst sex of my life because I took the advice of some asshole who lives in a made-up city.
Arthur looks at Eames, sees the sun lighting flecks of copper through his hair. He folds his sunglasses carefully closed and tucks them into the throat of his shirt.
“Well, on second thought-- there’s no need to flip our shit over this,” he says, smooth, maybe a little too studied in his insouciance as he sinks back into his chair. “I guess we must have been amazed that a full 72% of Teagan’s readership appear to have actual taste in men.”
“Why, Arthur,” says Eames, “I’m intrigued with where this appears to be going.”
“Obviously you’ve thought about--” Arthur makes a vague gesture at himself, an impatient flourish. “I’m attractive, you’re attractive, our hours are long, we work out of hotel rooms, and besides, we’ve been prancing through each other’s minds for far too long to keep this up.”
“Keep what up?” asks Eames. “I admit, it’s no secret I’ve thought we might make a good shag out of this simmering tension between us, but you have always met my insinuations with--”
Arthur levels him a long, even look, the way he does when something is much too obvious to explain or refute. Eames knows when he’s been seen through, so he lowers his chin and grins, devious in the face of a welcome challenge.
“I hope this isn’t just your wildly cocked-up sense of humor,” he says. “Which, let me be the first to assure you that it is wildly cocked-up-- but it would be cruel to lead a man on with something like this, if you don’t mean to make good on it.”
“Please try to contain your excitement,” says Arthur. “You ought to know I don’t approach people without intent, I’m not that sort. I’m always willing to follow through.”
“Need I remind you of the time you were chatting up Svensson,” says Eames. “And Mrs. Navarro. Do you mean to say you--”
“Svensson, that was for the job!” says Arthur. “And Mrs. Navarro was-- I wasn’t flirting with her! She was eighty-seven and her daughter had sent her banana bread, god, Eames, are you serious?”
“Are you serious?” asks Eames, and just like that, they’ve got their guns trained on each other again. The murmur of Seoul around them like a whiff of Ankara, that first time with the singe of powder in the air, Eames’s brow knitted hard. They’re holding their breath, waiting for a move.
Arthur makes it.
“Yes,” he says, and raises his chin, defiant. That’s the way he meets a challenge. “So there it is, Mr. Eames-- are we going to fuck or not?”
Eames looks at him and he says, “Cancel my salad.”
Eames has never put much faith in living by the signs of the Zodiac, but Arthur pushes him up against the door of the second-rate hotel room as soon as they’re inside, and just for that, he’s willing to brave a little superstition. He’s not expecting the kiss; but Arthur comes in for it, a touch of warm lips that part and nudge his open. Arthur’s eyes are shut, lids flickering in concentration. Intent in it as in all things. Eames is flooded with a sneaking urge to nettle him, so he chances it and slips his tongue into the heat of Arthur’s mouth, running it along the ridges of Arthur’s teeth, the roof of his mouth where it makes him flinch, body pressed up tight against his own. Arthur makes a small noise of surprise, but then the quick lick of his own tongue taps softly against Eames’s. He tastes a little bitter from the terrine, a little like the trace of nuts.
“Shit,” says Arthur when they pull apart, touching his fingers to his lips. “You’re not bad.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” says Eames. “You’re a rather pleasant surprise yourself.”
He pulls his hips back, nudging his knee against the front of Arthur’s trousers. The weight there is solid, half-heavy with the hint of arousal, and Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as he drops his forehead to Eames’s shoulder.
He’s thought about Arthur before, of course, entertained some idle notions regarding the way his fancy trousers clung to his fancy arse. But Arthur always seemed the type to fight all the way to climax, irritable and demanding, distracted with trying to come up with some scathing criticism of Eames’s performance he would offer in place of an afterglow. It never seemed worth the effort.
But Arthur asks, “So this is how you want it?” and leans into Eames, straddling his bent thigh, lodging a leg in between his. There’s an edge of an adrenaline smirk playing across his mouth, and he’s eager, this Arthur. A pleasant surprise. Arthur braces his hands on the door on either side of Eames, caging him in, and then he rolls his hips forward, grinding the two of them together into each other.
“Fuck,” chokes Eames, blown with the drag of Arthur’s thigh against his cock. His head thunks back against the wood. “Jesus, alright--”
“Yeah?” asks Arthur, breathless. “Is that good?”
He pulls Eames’s head in, licking at his open lips with the tip of his tongue. It’s a light touch, teasing, even as they rub themselves onto each other’s legs, thirsting for that extra edge of friction. Eames splays his hand out over the small of Arthur’s back, resting his palm in the dip just above his arse. The motion of Arthur’s waist is shameless filth beneath his fingers. He can feel the shift of the muscles in Arthur’s back, and he rocks into Arthur’s hips, searching for the growing heat against his thigh.
“God, yes,” sighs Arthur, shaky against his jaw, “fuck, oh, Eames--”
It’s just the way Eames likes to fuck, long and close. Who knew he had it in him, Eames thinks indistinctly, and Ought to thank Jackson from the middle of bloody nowhere, as he hisses at the curl of pleasure in his stomach.
“Just like--” he says, “like that-- Arthur, fuck, Jesus.”
“Eames,” says Arthur, their words running into each other, “fuck, come on--”
The tempo turns erratic as Eames feels the fire coil inside him, a restless tingle along his back. Arthur grits his teeth against the uneven strokes, pushing himself against Eames, the hard line of his erection. They’re rutting like animals, ungraceful and unconcerned, and Eames lets the climax build all the way from the tips of his toes, lighting him up. Fuck, but it’s fantastic, and Arthur’s breath comes in wet gasps against the side of his neck.
“Yes,” says Arthur, “oh, god--”
Eames clenches his eyes shut, sparks starting to run through the damp heft of his cock, shivering all the way through him. He needs the heat of their bodies closer together, and he tangles his fingers in the back of Arthur’s hair, tucking him into the crook of his shoulder like something fierce and hungry, as his balls draw tight and he shoves himself up against Arthur.
“Arthur,” he says, “Arthur, fuck--”
He groans and comes in a mess inside his trousers, constellations behind his lids. Oh, fuck, it’s one of those orgasms like the world is being torn down, shaking apart inside and outside him, lurching and shattering into a million bright pieces. Arthur lets out a muffled keen as he brings himself to finish, his nails digging into Eames’s arms, leaving reddened half-moon circles in his skin. Even that twinge of pain is something pleasant in the aftershocks, and Eames lets his hand fall to his side, trailing past the beads of sweat at Arthur’s collar.
“Jesus,” says Arthur, “wow.”
“What,” says Eames, astonished, the breath rushing back to his lungs, “what the fuck was that?”
They sink to the floor, unsteady, in a tangle of limbs and sticky fabric. Arthur swipes the back of his hand across his crotch, face a strange blend of distaste and complete satisfaction.
“We waited this long,” says Arthur, “you’d think we’d be able to make it to the bed.”
“Fuck your bed,” says Eames. His head is still fuzzy. “Seriously, I don’t know what that was, but it was--”
“Tell me it was the best fuck you ever had,” says Arthur.
“Your bed probably can’t even fit-- sorry, what?” asks Eames. “Was it the best fuck I ever had?”
Arthur looks at him through hooded eyes and falls back onto the carpet, stains all across the front of his trousers. Bits of gravel scatter from the soles of his shoes. Yeah, one of the better, Eames would say, and probably the best I’ve had without taking my bloody trousers off. But he’s not about to concede that compliment, not after just the one shag.
“Since it made me feel like I was back in sixth form with no control over my own erection,” Eames tells him instead, “I’d say it was alright. Does that answer appease your delicate pride?”
“Yeah, I’ll take that,” says Arthur. “Is sex with you always like this?”
“Who’s asking?” Eames feels the mellow fatigue start to seep into his bones, and he slumps against the wall. It’s Arthur’s way of angling for more, and in light of what they’ve just managed, Eames is perfectly happy to play along. “What, once wasn’t enough? You think there might be something to this astrology rot?”
“Consider it-- we’re going to be on this job for about a month,” says Arthur. “It’s too long to go without, but too short to get to know the city properly. Of the team we’ll be working with, since Kang is steady with his girlfriend, and Leah mostly likes girls--”
“--or skinny boys named Dragomir who smell like clove cigarettes,” says Eames. “I must say, I’m well chuffed, Arthur. You chose me through a painstakingly precise process of elimination.”
“Didn’t hurt that the orgasm felt like a traffic collision,” says Arthur, his smile small and lazy.
Eames contemplates him, the open sprawl of his legs, strands of his hair coming loose. The wiry insistence of Arthur’s body against his own. Arthur, willing and available-- and an unexpectedly satisfying lay. It’s what I’ve wanted since Ankara, isn’t it? Eames licks at his lower lip and knows that Arthur is watching.
“You’re right,” says Eames, “we could do a lot worse.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” says Arthur.
Leah throws her duffel bag next to the bed and immediately starts sniffing at the air.
“It’s not musty, exactly,” she says, “but there’s a certain--”
“Don’t mind her,” Kang tells Arthur, “she’s been saying that about my car all the way from the airport.”
“That was different,” says Leah, “that was just your car being old and you not airing it out enough.”
“So ungrateful,” says Kang, but picks up her bag and sets it on a chair anyway. “Maybe this room hasn’t been aired out enough, either.”
“Oh,” says Eames, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’m sure that’s not the case. I’m sure Arthur was smart enough to leave the windows open yesterday, to let out any lingering odors, whatever they might have been-- isn’t that right, Arthur?”
Of course it is. The question is vaguely insulting. Arthur handed Eames a wad of tissues and a spare pair of sweatpants, sent him off on his way with his underwear and slacks rolled up discreetly into a dark plastic bag. Don’t I get a wash, said Eames, and Arthur told him, You’ve gone on enough about that wonderful room of yours, why don’t you go get one there, but there was no bite to it in his exhaustion. Eames laughed when he heard it.
Then he opened the window, the room hot with the smell of sex, took a long shower and thought of Eames’s voice in his ear, Arthur, Arthur, fuck. He yanked the water to cold just in time and barely managed to save himself the indignity of jerking off to it. All in all, though, he considered the day a great success, now that he had someone else’s hand to borrow for at least the next month.
“Unfortunately it started getting a little chilly during the night,” he tells Eames. “But I’m sure that any suspicious smells caused by the bodily fluids of unexpected intruders would have dissipated long before then.”
“Is it intrusion if the homeowner invites the culprit in with his tongue down his throat?” asks Eames.
“You two, seriously,” says Leah, turning to glare. “The way you go on, it’s no wonder people assume-- have you read the latest Sweet Dreams? Wait, what am I saying, why would you read that trash, Teagan needs to get off her ass and get back to work--”
“Well,” says Kang, picking up the magazine from where it’s fallen under the bed, “someone has read it, at any rate.”
Leah stares at the magazine, up at Kang, then at Eames, at Arthur, and back at the magazine.
“Ew, what, come on!” she yells, slapping the magazine out of Kang’s hand. “Don’t touch that, Kang, there’s probably dried semen all over it-- so that’s what that smell is, you guys, you’re the absolute worst!”
“Why would there--” Arthur gesticulates in consternation. “What, you think we jerked each other off to the thought of people thinking we’d be hot together? You think we’re the sort of-- isn’t that offensive?”
“You’re exactly that sort, you dicks,” says Leah. “Can you swear in all honesty that no ejaculation happened in this room yesterday?”
“That really depends,” says Eames, “on whether the confines of trousers constitute a separate physical space--”
“I’m a little uneasy with the explicit nature of this conversation,” says Kang.
“Did you stay the night?” demands Leah, whirling on Eames.
“No, I’ve got this wonderful room about half an hour from here,” says Eames. “You should ask me how wonderful it--”
“Shut it,” says Leah. “Arthur, please follow Eames back to his hotel tonight, and book a room for yourself wherever it is that he’s staying. I really don’t want to work out of some sort of seedy semen-stained sex den where-- can I collapse on this bed, or should I worry?”
“It’s fine,” says Arthur, “we didn’t exactly manage to--”
“Stop, I get it,” she says. “Kang, I need you to introduce me to a hotel that is at least as swanky as Eames’s and also considerably far away from it.”
“As long as you don’t complain about my car on the way there,” says Kang.
“So now that you two are fucking,” says Leah, “is that going to let out some of that infamous steam? Am I going to have a good time on this job? I took it for the payout, but I was fully prepared to regret my decision.”
“We promise to behave,” says Arthur, solemnly.
“Except at night,” says Eames.
“By yourselves,” says Leah.
“If you insist,” says Eames. “Speaking of which, hey, are you still--”
“Mention Dragomir,” says Leah, “and I will wait until we are on the job, then I will shoot you in all the places that will hurt you the most.”
“Are all of you points like this?” Eames asks Arthur. “Aggressive and vindictive?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” says Arthur, “Leah is far more trigger-happy than I am. It’s why I wanted her for the job.”
“Also because you’re shit at voice surveillance,” says Leah.
“Excuse me,” says Arthur, offended, “I am not shit at--”
“And receipts and purchasing patterns, you don’t have a clue what to do with those,” says Leah. “It’s all right, Arthur. Together we will conquer the world.”
“If we’re going to start talking about the job,” says Kang, “can we do it over dinner? I’m starving and there’s a Taco Bell right across the street.”
“Taco Bell?” asks Leah. “Really?”
“I have very fond memories of Taco Bell,” says Kang. “Look, here’s a story-- when I was seven years old in Wisconsin, young and impressionable, living with my elderly aunt who had moved there to join her husband in his--”
“I think I’ve heard this one before,” says Arthur. “It ends with you stranded in the middle of an ocean of playpen balls, too afraid to move because you thought you would drown, and then some little girl with eyes like velvet led you by the hand to safety.”
“She was beautiful,” says Kang. “I wonder where she is now.”
“This is all very touching,” says Eames, “but as much as I’d enjoy continuing to doss around, we do want to complete the initial briefing before the day is out. You know I hate to be the grown-up here, but seeing as how I expect Leah will succumb to jet lag in a matter of hours--”
“How about I bring a couple things back from the Taco Bell?” asks Arthur. “Since you’ve already given me the general run-down on the job, and you could get everyone else up to speed while I’m getting us food.”
“Excellent,” says Eames. “Out come the dossiers. We’ll have so much fun while you’re away, but try not to be jealous.”
“Could you get me a huge thing of coffee,” says Leah. “I’m going to make it to midnight if I have to die doing it.”
“Your dedication is heart-wrenching,” says Arthur, and shuts the door behind him. Through the crack of it just before it closes, he sees Eames glance over his shoulder, giving him an honest-to-god wink.
Arthur is horrified that he is now apparently sleeping with a kitschy relic that the twenty-first century ought to have left behind, but then he thinks, Co-conspirators in fucking, and it’s really funnier than it should be.
“Our client,” says Eames, “the magnificent Van Dorsten.”
“He looks like a manatee,” says Kang.
“This manatee,” says Eames, “is the CEO of Van Dorsten Industries, one of the world’s leading large-scale wireless network providers. He’s set to attend the upcoming Business Summit here, which is when we’ll make the information drop and complete the job. That allows us a timeframe of a little over a month, which should be more than enough for a relatively simple extraction.”
“Do they call his company VD Industries for short?” asks Leah. “Because that would be hilarious.”
“Van Dorsten intends to lay out a massive grid over Southeast Asia within the next decade,” says Eames. “There’s no clear competitor for the project, and they can look forward to the financial and legislative support of the governments involved. No issues there. However -- as is so often the case in these modern times -- trouble comes from within.”
“I like your briefing style,” says Leah. “It’s very exciting.”
“Industrial espionage?” asks Kang. “Is he looking for a mole?”
“No, it’s more that his own ambition is creating problems for him,” says Eames. “Meet Samuel Weston, our mark.”
He opens up a second dossier, where a photograph of a man with a tragic hairline is paper-clipped to the stack of documents inside. Leah rubs her thumb over his forehead pityingly.
“Weston is the Head Engineer at the Division of Planning and Strategy for Elucorp,” says Eames. “The impenetrable ambiguity of corporate titles aside, Weston is in charge of approving technological advancements for a company that is the leading manufacturer of IT hardware. Naturally, it would be in Van Dorsten’s interests to work with Elucorp in the Southeast Asian development deal; but that’s not good enough for our client. What Van Dorsten wants is to complete the entire project in-house.”
“He wants to make his own hardware?” asks Kang. “Does he have the infra for that?”
“About a year or two back, they acquired a subsidiary who basically does what Elucorp does,” says Eames. “Only, of course, they can’t do it quite as well. Van Dorsten has hired us to extract some proprietary information from Weston, and they’ll hand that over to their subsidiary, who will implement the new technology. That’ll allow Van Dorsten to exercise control over the hardware aspect of the project as well.”
“Where’s Elucorp based?” asks Leah. “I’m guessing not in Korea, so I was wondering why we chose Seoul to work out of.”
“We’re here for location scouting,” says Eames. “Elucorp has its headquarters in New York, but due to the heavily tech-oriented nature of the company, Weston will be attending the business summit as part of the CEO’s entourage. Van Dorsten is leaving straight from the Summit to his contract tour of Southeast Asia, where he’ll have to finalize the decisions regarding his project-- so unfortunately, we won’t have time for a do-over if we muck it up.”
“We’ll just have to be extra careful then,” says Leah. “But using the Summit to get the client, the mark, and the team in the same geographical locale over a two-day period, that sounds great. The lag time between the job and the drop is going to be incredibly short. We won’t have that awkward window of liability where we have to transport the information to the client while staying under the mark’s radar.”
“And the mark is away from home ground,” says Eames, “so what physical evidence we might accidentally leave behind--”
“Won’t be immediately accessible to the mark,” says Leah. “I’m liking this, Eames.”
“On top of which,” says Kang, “any effort to trace things back to us will be confounded by the population turnover of the hotel where he’ll be staying. Too many different fingerprints and stray hairs to be considered evidence. That is, if we work the job from his hotel room.”
“I think we will,” says Eames. “We can survey the locations whenever we like, since we’re in town already. Ultimately it depends on what Arthur and Leah find out about Weston’s schedule and personal habits, but the hotel room sedation is a classic for a reason.”
“About Arthur,” begins Leah.
Eames blinks and sees Arthur struggle for breath, the thin press of his lips swollen open. Oh, god, his voice a wreck, Eames. The heavy heat of Arthur’s cock against his thigh.
“He’s not really shit at analyzing purchasing patterns,” says Leah. “Or any of that other stuff. I was just joking. I mean, I might be better at a couple things-- but overall, I know he’s still-- Eames?”
“Yes?” asks Eames. “Sorry, what?”
“Arthur’s a good point man,” she says. “I’m glad that Cobb is letting him work with you.”
“Cobb’s retired,” says Eames, and knows that he sounds short. “Besides, it’s not as though he was keeping Arthur from taking on other jobs, nor would Arthur have ever let him be that presumptuous.”
“Well, if he’s retired,” says Leah. “But you do know that the entire time Cobb was in the business, Arthur never worked with any other extractor?”
“Because Cobb was bloody brilliant at what he did, that’s why,” says Eames. “And it’s always easier to work with someone you’ve fallen into a pattern with.”
“I took a job with them in Cairo once,” says Kang. “I don’t think they ever stopped arguing for long enough to breathe. And then that projection, you know the one, Cobb’s wife-- she got to Arthur at a bank where he’d been running interference, and she made us watch while she--”
“Look, sprogs,” says Eames, “perhaps you ought to take this up with Arthur when he gets back. I think we’ve better things to do than hypothesize about his choice of extractors. I recognize that he’s an excellent point, and I am optimistic about his contributions to this job, full stop.”
“Did he tell you why he wanted me on board?” asks Leah. “I’m very thankful for the opportunity, et cetera, et cetera, but my skill set overlaps quite a bit with his.”
“The second- and third-largest problems we encountered on our previous job,” says Eames, “had to do with hostile projections and a lack of intel. My guess is that he’s erring on the side of caution this time, bringing you in as a hired gun and an analyst.”
Arthur frowned when Eames fell into step beside him at LAX, when he cleared his throat and said, I’ve got this job lined up. Arthur frowned like he was about to ask, Why would you want me to work it? Didn’t you see me almost fuck this one up? And Eames felt the acrid burn of anger flare inside him, because he wanted to work with Arthur, wanted to work with the best, and Arthur couldn’t be the best if he was busy doubting himself. He wasn’t allowed to balk his way into mediocrity, not when he’d only just become someone Eames could finally hire.
But then Arthur leaned against the baggage claim carousel and said, Let’s hire a second point, demanded it, and that wasn’t him trying to run away; that was him trying to fix things. And that was the Arthur he wanted, cocksure but never self-important. That was part of what made him the best. Sure thing, said Eames. Whoever you want.
“What was the largest problem on your previous job?” asks Leah.
“Cobb,” says Eames.
It’s dark out when they’ve finished eating, but not late enough to call it a day. They stroll outside into the neighborhood, inside a themed bar that Kang’s girlfriend recommended. They take off their shoes and walk into white sand.
“What does Mandy do again?” asks Arthur. “She’s a teacher, right?”
“Middle school English,” says Kang. “I don’t know how she does it. Middle schoolers, day in and day out-- it’s terrifying.”
“Does alcohol have a positive impact on jet lag, or a negative one?” asks Leah.
“You’ll have to order something anyway,” says Kang. “Get something that’ll put you to sleep.”
“So brandy and Nyquil with melatonin pills on the side,” says Leah.
“Something you’ll wake up from,” says Arthur, and slouches back into his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table.
He feels something catch against his foot and sees Eames twitch where he’s sitting across from him. Eames is waiting for the touch to pass, like most accidental brushes do, waiting for Arthur to jerk away like withdrawing from a burn. Arthur is about to, it’s only polite; but then he thinks, Where does politeness come into it, we’ve already fucked, and he inches his toes a little closer.
Eames flinches, the unspoken What are you playing at, and he shifts his foot, pressing the blade of it against Arthur’s sole.
“Of course not,” Arthur says to something Leah asks him. “You wouldn’t even need the alcohol, with Ambien.”
He slides his foot over Eames’s, nudging at his leg with his toes, the sand whispering between them. Traces an idle loop around Eames’s ankle, the edge of his toenail scraping across his skin. Tawdry, perhaps, but Eames has no right to complain. He’s the one that winks at people.
“But if I died,” Leah is saying, “you’d have to hire a new point. What a hassle that would be.”
Arthur gestures and talks into his Long Island Iced Tea and pats a mound of sand over Eames’s foot, swirling patterns into it as he drinks. At last Eames manages to catch his eye, half his face cast in the shadow of the bar, and Arthur looks at him steady over the rim of his glass. What’s a little touching, anyway. We’ll have all our clothes off in a matter of hours. Eames doesn’t look away, his eyes dark and thoughtful.
+
“My room is,” Eames says later, as he stumbles into a cab, “it’s going to blow your mind.”
“That’s what’s going to blow my mind?” asks Arthur, and pours himself in after Eames. “I’m going to be impressed with your room?”
“It’s a very nice room,” says Eames. “Walkerhill Hotel, please.”
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” Arthur shouts out of the window. “Hangover, jet lag, neither will be an acceptable excuse.”
Eames drags him back inside by his tie, and rolls the window up as Leah and Kang wave goodbye. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, flavored with alcohol, and Eames’s hand wanders up Arthur’s leg all the way to his belt.
“Someone’s impatient,” says Arthur. “Did I get you worked up?”
“In all my life,” Eames tells him, “never did I think I would play barefoot footsie with you.”
He’s slurring a little, and Arthur’s feeling light-headed himself, so he just shrugs and says, “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“Arthur,” says Eames, “you’re an odd one.”
In light of Eames’s previous opinions of him, this isn’t entirely displeasing. Arthur tells him so and lets him nip at a bit of skin under his jaw, turning his head up so that Eames can get at it better. Arthur shivers and leans his head against the window, watching the streetlights outside blur orange, feeling the inertia build up in him, pitching him forward.
He ends up on his knees, naked on Eames’s hotel bed, watching the poppy-red sheets swim in and out of focus as Eames crooks two fingers inside him. It sends a jolt shooting through him and he gasps, tasting salt at the corners of his lips.
“You fuck like,” hisses Arthur, “like some sort of pervert--”
“That’s going to need an explanation, isn’t it,” says Eames, and adds a third finger.
Arthur tenses when he feels it, clenching in around Eames’s hand, and he digs his nails into the mattress. The lube trickles down the insides of his thighs, and the sheet stretches taut between his knees when he spreads them a little wider.
“I mean,” says Arthur, “you’re very persistent-- god, oh.”
“I’m a considerate lay,” says Eames, and gives his fingers a slow twist inside Arthur. “Besides, if I put you out of commission today, how would we fuck tomorrow?”
“Doesn’t mean it should-- Jesus,” says Arthur, “it shouldn’t take you all night to get me ready.”
“Fuck, but you’re tight,” says Eames. “It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”
“Mister, I hardly know you.” Arthur laughs, a choked quiver. “Let’s save the dirty talk for our seven-year itch.”
Eames leans in closer, thrusts his fingers in a little deeper. Arthur whines and pushes back, taking him in, and the back of his thigh presses up against Eames’s cock. The hard, hot curve of flesh there makes Arthur shudder for it, and Eames bites off a groan that’s not all protest.
“I assume,” says Eames, “you’d want me to use a condom?”
“Roll one on,” says Arthur. “Fuck me, already.”
His elbows quiver and give out when Eames pushes into him, and he arches up, panting for air, ass raised high and stretched open around Eames. Fuck, fuck, the heat is unrelenting. Arthur feels him all around his insides, the thick solid length of Eames's cock filling him up, and Eames strokes the dip of Arthur’s back with his thumb, tracing up the notches of his spine.
“Eames,” says Arthur, breathless, “move, you son of a--”
“Honestly, you can relax,” Eames tells him, voice unsteady. “I know you’re no virgin, darling--”
Eames pulls back out just the slightest bit, tilts himself back inside, over and over again, shallow like coaxing him looser, and Arthur shakes beneath him, Eames’s hands firm on his hipbones. With the steady simmer of friction Arthur’s hands uncurl, falling slack onto the sheets, and bit by bit he feels himself open up, inviting Eames into him. His ass a slick, silky grip, loosening warm for Eames’s cock.
“Yes,” says Arthur, “god, god, like that, please.”
Eames lengthens his strokes, holding himself there when he’s in hilt-deep, and Arthur feels like he’s being overtaken. Like he’s being wrenched away from his own body, all the air pushed out of him when Eames moves, his throat dry and raw. Eames drives himself in at a slightly different angle, propping himself up higher on his knees and aiming for that tangle of nerves. The head of his cock scrapes against it, and Arthur feels himself go so unbearably tight around Eames, trembling all the way down to his fingertips, and he moans out loud before he can swallow it down.
“Fuck, Eames,” he says, frantic with want, “fuck, there, right there, again--”
“You like that I’m persistent,” says Eames, “don’t you?”
“This is--” says Arthur, “oh, god, so fucking good--”
Eames draws in a sharp breath behind him, and grinds harder into him, sending blazes shooting up into the back of Arthur’s head. He’s crawling out of his skin, filled to the brim with buzzing. It’s all Arthur can do to rock back and meet Eames when he thrusts in, clenching around him, and god, it’s exactly the rhythm he wants, exactly what he craves.
“How the fuck,” groans Eames, “have we not done this before?”
“I think,” says Arthur, “I think I’m going to-- fuck--”
Arthur’s hand stutters over his cock, and he comes with a gasp in a stark streak across the sheets, body tensing like a drawn bow, taut as a skin stretched over a drum. It wrings the climax from Eames, and he finishes with a strangled curse just as Arthur goes lax, sinking onto the bed with his cock still pulsing inside him.
“Oh, fuck,” wheezes Arthur, trying to blink his vision back, “There’s stuff all over the bed, goddammit.”
“I’ll try to wipe some of it off,” says Eames, “and ask for-- ask to have it--”
He trails off indistinctly, thumb rubbing absent circles into Arthur’s shoulders. Not laughing at me after all, thinks Arthur. On the contrary, there’s something very earnest about Eames like this-- something almost dependable. Like he’s a good person to want to lean on, as though you could trust him with more than schemes and gambits.
“Eames,” he says, “we can’t do this every day. It would kill us.”
“Maybe,” begins Eames, “but oh--”
“If you say what a way to go,” warns Arthur, “I will knife you as soon as I can move.”
A considerate lay, thinks Arthur. Or just a persistent fucking pervert. Either way, Eames is warm and solid against his back.
[ next part]
Word Count: 25,800
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairings: Arthur/Eames
Warnings: SEX and also I think I should be warning for POV shifts fljf;eak;r
Notes: For inception_bang! :D
Summary: After the Fischer inception, Eames goes back to work as an extractor, and Arthur joins his team. Due to circumstances involving a guy who may or may not be from Greenland, pop astrology, someone's broken limb, hormones, and convenience, they end up learning that love is what starts down below (and makes its way up your spine).
“You know,” comes Eames’s voice, “there’s no need for subterfuge.”
Arthur raises his head, fork dipping into a corner of his terrine. Eames must see himself shine off of Arthur’s sunglasses, and he makes a show of peering closer to check his reflection, patting fastidiously at the part of his hair.
“I mean,” says Eames, “you’re not wanted here. Are you?”
“No,” says Arthur, and lowers his head again. “Why, are you? Do you have an arrest record here?”
“You know I’ve only been arrested once,” says Eames. “Besides, that was in Czechoslovakia, back when it was Czechoslovakia-- how does my hair look?”
“Like hair,” says Arthur. “Either sit down or leave me to my brunch, Eames. You’re making me feel inhospitable.”
Eames drags up a chair from the next table. It’s a fine Sunday in the foreign quarter of Seoul, and the morning light is bright where it pools around them on the cafe terrace. Arthur divvies up his terrine into even segments like he’s planning to put it back together later, and Eames watches him, slouched against his backrest.
“Honestly, though,” says Eames. “You’d look a lot less suspicious without the sunglasses. What’s it for? Is there an ex stalking you somewhere hereabouts, is that it? Are you running from a jilted lover?”
“It’s not-- I’m not--” says Arthur, and crosses his legs. “Look, I’m using sunglasses the way they were meant to be used -- to shield my eyes from the sun -- is that so unfashionable?”
“I knew it,” says Eames, pointing a finger at Arthur. “It’s your hotel! You slept terribly because you didn’t like your hotel room!”
“Well,” says Arthur, reluctantly, “I suppose there have been better.”
“I’m in a better,” says Eames. “Ask me about my hotel.”
“I’m not asking you about your hotel,” says Arthur. “Are you going to order anything?”
“It’s wonderful, by the way,” says Eames. “Ask me how wonderful it is.”
“Eames,” says Arthur, “I’m not asking you--”
“It’s so wonderful,” says Eames, “that the room is called the Wonderful Room. I was looking through their brochure, there’s this one that they call the Fabulous Room, it’s all white and grey, it might as well have a sign over the door that says For Arthur, the most exacting of all ponces--”
“Sorry,” calls Arthur into the cafe, “could we have the menu again, please?”
“It’s your own fault for being so stubborn,” says Eames. “You knew perfectly well that there were about a million better hotels all over the city, but no, you said we needed to work from the foreign quarter.”
“We do,” says Arthur. “That’s how I always--”
“You could have just booked this one to work out of,” says Eames, “and got a better one to sleep in-- but no, you didn’t want the commute. Half an hour by cab, Arthur. That’s all it takes to get me here from my wonderful, wonderful room.”
“Never mind the menu,” calls Arthur. “He’ll be having the endive salad.”
“What’s wrong with the endive salad?” asks Eames.
“Nothing,” says Arthur. “Can you stop it with the questions? Jesus Christ, I know what I’m doing, Cobb never asked--”
“Yes, well, Cobb may never have,” Eames says, light. “But you’re working point for me right now, aren’t you?”
He hooks an elbow onto the back of his chair, lets his fingers hang down, drumming them against the wood. Arthur flicks his eyes to Eames’s face and back, behind the cover of his sunglasses.
“Terrible life choices,” mutters Arthur. “I should have said no.”
And they both know, that’s as far from the truth as anything can be. That Arthur was flattered when Eames offered him the job, flattered in his own silent, peevish way. They know it well enough to take what Arthur says as an admission of defeat, or at least an acquiescence to a truce. Eames shifts in his seat, pulls free a rolled-up magazine from where he’s been sitting on it.
“Oh, god,” says Arthur when he sees it. “Please don’t tell me Teagan is still printing that thing. What is this, the third issue already?”
“Don’t you begrudge a person their hobby,” says Eames. “She isn’t going to get any recon done with that broken leg, so would you really prefer that she spend her time on her hospital bed staring up at the ceiling and thinking about all the work she’s missing out on? Shame on you, Arthur, you heartless bastard.”
“It’s just,” says Arthur, “the title--”
“I happen to think that Sweet Dreams is a lovely title,” says Eames. “And I’ll have you know that the magazine is an immensely effective way to maintain a finger on the pulse of the dreamshare community--”
“It’s not the pulse of anything,” protests Arthur. “It’s gossip! There are entire articles devoted to which regularly used forge has the best-looking legs!”
“That’s not fair,” says Eames. “You only mentioned that because you know I’m still bitter about it.”
“You’re the winner where it counts,” says Arthur. “In your own bloated ego.”
“Keep being a twat and I won’t let you have the mail-order forms,” says Eames. “I know you want those reinforced vial storage extensions.”
“Now who’s being unfair,” says Arthur, and breaks off a piece of bread for the last of his terrine.
Eames reads with excruciatingly affected slowness, letting the gloss of the page rustle in his hand as he turns it. He pores over every word like he can’t tear himself away, even though Arthur can see that the actual column has something to do with how to use isotopes to tweak the sensation of smells within dreams. It ought to bore both of them out of their mind. But Arthur has run out of food to distract himself with, and although he’s got his chin in the cradle of one hand in a cultivated display of nonchalance, Eames probably notices that he’s leaning in a bit on his elbow, trying to make out the words of the article. I’m being baited, thinks Arthur, but there’s nothing better to do than take it--
Then Eames flips the page, and for a moment, neither of them knows what to say.
Arthur’s arm shoots out, but Eames is closer. He snatches the magazine out of Arthur’s reach, and holds it to his face as he scans it, like proximity would help assuage his disbelief. Arthur’s chair crashes to the floor as he jumps up and lunges forward.
“Let me--” starts Arthur as he grapples against the edge of the table, sunglasses nearly slipping off his nose, “no, I must have-- I misread it, didn’t I?”
Eames turns the magazine over, lets Arthur mouth the words of the title text.
Poll of the month, it says in bright blue letters. Teagan asks: which two members of the dreamshare community should totally hook up?
“72% of voters,” reads Arthur, “say Arthur and Eames.”
“We beat out Nadira and Ellie B,” says Eames.
“How did we beat-- Nadira and Ellie B hooked up seven years ago and haven’t stopped since,” says Arthur in dismay. “They have a house in Perth, for fuck’s sake.”
Everything about this is ridiculous, thinks Arthur. The existence of Teagan’s magazine, the fact that she runs polls about potential hook-ups, that people vote in them, that people vote in them for him and Eames. The startled arch of Eames’s eyebrows lowering into something amused.
“What’s the reasoning,” asks Arthur, heavy with the inevitability of the question. “The voters, the ones that were quoted, why do they think we should--”
“Well, if you asked Jackson from Itto-- Ittoq-- what the fuck is this word?” asks Eames, outraged. “Ittoqqortoormiit? Is that even a real place? Anyway, if you found this Jackson bloke wherever he actually lives and asked him, he would tell you that Arthur and Eames are a natural match. Arthur, being a Virgo, may come across as someone who would be a cold fish in bed. This is a common stereotype about Virgos, but certainly an erroneous one; with the right partner to ignite them, Virgos will prove to be passionate and insatiable. Since Eames is a Cancer-- hold on, now, how does he know my sign? I’ve not told anyone, most definitely not Jackson from where the fuck.”
“How does he know I’m a Virgo?” demands Arthur. “Wait, no, before that, why is he fantasizing about--”
“Look, Arthur,” says Eames, “of course everyone knows you’re a Virgo. No one could miss that. I’ve heard it said that scientifically, the stick up your arse is visible from low Earth orbit--”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Arthur yanks the magazine out of Eames’s hands. “Since Eames is a Cancer, his expansive nature is well-suited to soothing away Arthur’s reservations. In return, Arthur will unveil a surprisingly depraved side of hims-- Eames, I am going to find this Jackson asshole and I am going to snap his spine like peppermint candy-- Virgo and Cancer will be a union of opposites who find that they share more similarities than they initially thought. Where there is friction, there are sparks; the physical attraction is undeniable.”
He drops the magazine down onto the table. The lids of his eyes feel raw in the light, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs over where his sunglasses dug in. He crosses his arms and looks at Eames, at the stretch of his shirt across his chest, the smile around his mouth patient and knowing. Eames is waiting for him to act, just waiting to laugh at him, but that crook of his lips--
Arthur remembers Eames in Ankara. His hair cropped short. The sinews of his neck taut as he snarled, Who the fuck are you? and the volley of bullets before Arthur could answer, because Eames was a rougher man then, sharper. They both were. But the tendril of a tattoo curls out over Eames’s collar just the way it did back then, and Arthur thinks, The physical attraction.
Eames asks, “How does this Jackson know so much about pop astrology, anyway,” and it’s just something to fill the air with.
He must be expecting Arthur to shake his head and turn away. It’s what Arthur has been doing all this while, since the beginning, all the way since Ankara. He’s noticed the occasional weight in Eames’s eyes, the unspoken intent, and he knows that Eames’s answer to any offer would be yes. But Eames is a sardonic son of a bitch who would be half in it only to laugh at him the morning after, and Arthur isn’t so desperate that he’d put up with that just to get a fuck out of it.
It’s not dislike, thinks Arthur. Not really. But there must be some part of Eames that thinks Arthur is a dull, dismissive prick who tastes like sawdust, who would need to be wheedled and wrangled to a lukewarm orgasm. As present as the physical attraction is, they must share some instinctual assumption that any sex between them could very well be terrible.
Arthur never felt it would be worthwhile to convince Eames otherwise; until now, because Jackson from Ittoqqortoormiit says natural match, and Arthur catches himself listening. I’ve lost it, he thinks. I’m about to possibly have the worst sex of my life because I took the advice of some asshole who lives in a made-up city.
Arthur looks at Eames, sees the sun lighting flecks of copper through his hair. He folds his sunglasses carefully closed and tucks them into the throat of his shirt.
“Well, on second thought-- there’s no need to flip our shit over this,” he says, smooth, maybe a little too studied in his insouciance as he sinks back into his chair. “I guess we must have been amazed that a full 72% of Teagan’s readership appear to have actual taste in men.”
“Why, Arthur,” says Eames, “I’m intrigued with where this appears to be going.”
“Obviously you’ve thought about--” Arthur makes a vague gesture at himself, an impatient flourish. “I’m attractive, you’re attractive, our hours are long, we work out of hotel rooms, and besides, we’ve been prancing through each other’s minds for far too long to keep this up.”
“Keep what up?” asks Eames. “I admit, it’s no secret I’ve thought we might make a good shag out of this simmering tension between us, but you have always met my insinuations with--”
Arthur levels him a long, even look, the way he does when something is much too obvious to explain or refute. Eames knows when he’s been seen through, so he lowers his chin and grins, devious in the face of a welcome challenge.
“I hope this isn’t just your wildly cocked-up sense of humor,” he says. “Which, let me be the first to assure you that it is wildly cocked-up-- but it would be cruel to lead a man on with something like this, if you don’t mean to make good on it.”
“Please try to contain your excitement,” says Arthur. “You ought to know I don’t approach people without intent, I’m not that sort. I’m always willing to follow through.”
“Need I remind you of the time you were chatting up Svensson,” says Eames. “And Mrs. Navarro. Do you mean to say you--”
“Svensson, that was for the job!” says Arthur. “And Mrs. Navarro was-- I wasn’t flirting with her! She was eighty-seven and her daughter had sent her banana bread, god, Eames, are you serious?”
“Are you serious?” asks Eames, and just like that, they’ve got their guns trained on each other again. The murmur of Seoul around them like a whiff of Ankara, that first time with the singe of powder in the air, Eames’s brow knitted hard. They’re holding their breath, waiting for a move.
Arthur makes it.
“Yes,” he says, and raises his chin, defiant. That’s the way he meets a challenge. “So there it is, Mr. Eames-- are we going to fuck or not?”
Eames looks at him and he says, “Cancel my salad.”
Eames has never put much faith in living by the signs of the Zodiac, but Arthur pushes him up against the door of the second-rate hotel room as soon as they’re inside, and just for that, he’s willing to brave a little superstition. He’s not expecting the kiss; but Arthur comes in for it, a touch of warm lips that part and nudge his open. Arthur’s eyes are shut, lids flickering in concentration. Intent in it as in all things. Eames is flooded with a sneaking urge to nettle him, so he chances it and slips his tongue into the heat of Arthur’s mouth, running it along the ridges of Arthur’s teeth, the roof of his mouth where it makes him flinch, body pressed up tight against his own. Arthur makes a small noise of surprise, but then the quick lick of his own tongue taps softly against Eames’s. He tastes a little bitter from the terrine, a little like the trace of nuts.
“Shit,” says Arthur when they pull apart, touching his fingers to his lips. “You’re not bad.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” says Eames. “You’re a rather pleasant surprise yourself.”
He pulls his hips back, nudging his knee against the front of Arthur’s trousers. The weight there is solid, half-heavy with the hint of arousal, and Arthur’s eyes flutter closed as he drops his forehead to Eames’s shoulder.
He’s thought about Arthur before, of course, entertained some idle notions regarding the way his fancy trousers clung to his fancy arse. But Arthur always seemed the type to fight all the way to climax, irritable and demanding, distracted with trying to come up with some scathing criticism of Eames’s performance he would offer in place of an afterglow. It never seemed worth the effort.
But Arthur asks, “So this is how you want it?” and leans into Eames, straddling his bent thigh, lodging a leg in between his. There’s an edge of an adrenaline smirk playing across his mouth, and he’s eager, this Arthur. A pleasant surprise. Arthur braces his hands on the door on either side of Eames, caging him in, and then he rolls his hips forward, grinding the two of them together into each other.
“Fuck,” chokes Eames, blown with the drag of Arthur’s thigh against his cock. His head thunks back against the wood. “Jesus, alright--”
“Yeah?” asks Arthur, breathless. “Is that good?”
He pulls Eames’s head in, licking at his open lips with the tip of his tongue. It’s a light touch, teasing, even as they rub themselves onto each other’s legs, thirsting for that extra edge of friction. Eames splays his hand out over the small of Arthur’s back, resting his palm in the dip just above his arse. The motion of Arthur’s waist is shameless filth beneath his fingers. He can feel the shift of the muscles in Arthur’s back, and he rocks into Arthur’s hips, searching for the growing heat against his thigh.
“God, yes,” sighs Arthur, shaky against his jaw, “fuck, oh, Eames--”
It’s just the way Eames likes to fuck, long and close. Who knew he had it in him, Eames thinks indistinctly, and Ought to thank Jackson from the middle of bloody nowhere, as he hisses at the curl of pleasure in his stomach.
“Just like--” he says, “like that-- Arthur, fuck, Jesus.”
“Eames,” says Arthur, their words running into each other, “fuck, come on--”
The tempo turns erratic as Eames feels the fire coil inside him, a restless tingle along his back. Arthur grits his teeth against the uneven strokes, pushing himself against Eames, the hard line of his erection. They’re rutting like animals, ungraceful and unconcerned, and Eames lets the climax build all the way from the tips of his toes, lighting him up. Fuck, but it’s fantastic, and Arthur’s breath comes in wet gasps against the side of his neck.
“Yes,” says Arthur, “oh, god--”
Eames clenches his eyes shut, sparks starting to run through the damp heft of his cock, shivering all the way through him. He needs the heat of their bodies closer together, and he tangles his fingers in the back of Arthur’s hair, tucking him into the crook of his shoulder like something fierce and hungry, as his balls draw tight and he shoves himself up against Arthur.
“Arthur,” he says, “Arthur, fuck--”
He groans and comes in a mess inside his trousers, constellations behind his lids. Oh, fuck, it’s one of those orgasms like the world is being torn down, shaking apart inside and outside him, lurching and shattering into a million bright pieces. Arthur lets out a muffled keen as he brings himself to finish, his nails digging into Eames’s arms, leaving reddened half-moon circles in his skin. Even that twinge of pain is something pleasant in the aftershocks, and Eames lets his hand fall to his side, trailing past the beads of sweat at Arthur’s collar.
“Jesus,” says Arthur, “wow.”
“What,” says Eames, astonished, the breath rushing back to his lungs, “what the fuck was that?”
They sink to the floor, unsteady, in a tangle of limbs and sticky fabric. Arthur swipes the back of his hand across his crotch, face a strange blend of distaste and complete satisfaction.
“We waited this long,” says Arthur, “you’d think we’d be able to make it to the bed.”
“Fuck your bed,” says Eames. His head is still fuzzy. “Seriously, I don’t know what that was, but it was--”
“Tell me it was the best fuck you ever had,” says Arthur.
“Your bed probably can’t even fit-- sorry, what?” asks Eames. “Was it the best fuck I ever had?”
Arthur looks at him through hooded eyes and falls back onto the carpet, stains all across the front of his trousers. Bits of gravel scatter from the soles of his shoes. Yeah, one of the better, Eames would say, and probably the best I’ve had without taking my bloody trousers off. But he’s not about to concede that compliment, not after just the one shag.
“Since it made me feel like I was back in sixth form with no control over my own erection,” Eames tells him instead, “I’d say it was alright. Does that answer appease your delicate pride?”
“Yeah, I’ll take that,” says Arthur. “Is sex with you always like this?”
“Who’s asking?” Eames feels the mellow fatigue start to seep into his bones, and he slumps against the wall. It’s Arthur’s way of angling for more, and in light of what they’ve just managed, Eames is perfectly happy to play along. “What, once wasn’t enough? You think there might be something to this astrology rot?”
“Consider it-- we’re going to be on this job for about a month,” says Arthur. “It’s too long to go without, but too short to get to know the city properly. Of the team we’ll be working with, since Kang is steady with his girlfriend, and Leah mostly likes girls--”
“--or skinny boys named Dragomir who smell like clove cigarettes,” says Eames. “I must say, I’m well chuffed, Arthur. You chose me through a painstakingly precise process of elimination.”
“Didn’t hurt that the orgasm felt like a traffic collision,” says Arthur, his smile small and lazy.
Eames contemplates him, the open sprawl of his legs, strands of his hair coming loose. The wiry insistence of Arthur’s body against his own. Arthur, willing and available-- and an unexpectedly satisfying lay. It’s what I’ve wanted since Ankara, isn’t it? Eames licks at his lower lip and knows that Arthur is watching.
“You’re right,” says Eames, “we could do a lot worse.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” says Arthur.
Leah throws her duffel bag next to the bed and immediately starts sniffing at the air.
“It’s not musty, exactly,” she says, “but there’s a certain--”
“Don’t mind her,” Kang tells Arthur, “she’s been saying that about my car all the way from the airport.”
“That was different,” says Leah, “that was just your car being old and you not airing it out enough.”
“So ungrateful,” says Kang, but picks up her bag and sets it on a chair anyway. “Maybe this room hasn’t been aired out enough, either.”
“Oh,” says Eames, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’m sure that’s not the case. I’m sure Arthur was smart enough to leave the windows open yesterday, to let out any lingering odors, whatever they might have been-- isn’t that right, Arthur?”
Of course it is. The question is vaguely insulting. Arthur handed Eames a wad of tissues and a spare pair of sweatpants, sent him off on his way with his underwear and slacks rolled up discreetly into a dark plastic bag. Don’t I get a wash, said Eames, and Arthur told him, You’ve gone on enough about that wonderful room of yours, why don’t you go get one there, but there was no bite to it in his exhaustion. Eames laughed when he heard it.
Then he opened the window, the room hot with the smell of sex, took a long shower and thought of Eames’s voice in his ear, Arthur, Arthur, fuck. He yanked the water to cold just in time and barely managed to save himself the indignity of jerking off to it. All in all, though, he considered the day a great success, now that he had someone else’s hand to borrow for at least the next month.
“Unfortunately it started getting a little chilly during the night,” he tells Eames. “But I’m sure that any suspicious smells caused by the bodily fluids of unexpected intruders would have dissipated long before then.”
“Is it intrusion if the homeowner invites the culprit in with his tongue down his throat?” asks Eames.
“You two, seriously,” says Leah, turning to glare. “The way you go on, it’s no wonder people assume-- have you read the latest Sweet Dreams? Wait, what am I saying, why would you read that trash, Teagan needs to get off her ass and get back to work--”
“Well,” says Kang, picking up the magazine from where it’s fallen under the bed, “someone has read it, at any rate.”
Leah stares at the magazine, up at Kang, then at Eames, at Arthur, and back at the magazine.
“Ew, what, come on!” she yells, slapping the magazine out of Kang’s hand. “Don’t touch that, Kang, there’s probably dried semen all over it-- so that’s what that smell is, you guys, you’re the absolute worst!”
“Why would there--” Arthur gesticulates in consternation. “What, you think we jerked each other off to the thought of people thinking we’d be hot together? You think we’re the sort of-- isn’t that offensive?”
“You’re exactly that sort, you dicks,” says Leah. “Can you swear in all honesty that no ejaculation happened in this room yesterday?”
“That really depends,” says Eames, “on whether the confines of trousers constitute a separate physical space--”
“I’m a little uneasy with the explicit nature of this conversation,” says Kang.
“Did you stay the night?” demands Leah, whirling on Eames.
“No, I’ve got this wonderful room about half an hour from here,” says Eames. “You should ask me how wonderful it--”
“Shut it,” says Leah. “Arthur, please follow Eames back to his hotel tonight, and book a room for yourself wherever it is that he’s staying. I really don’t want to work out of some sort of seedy semen-stained sex den where-- can I collapse on this bed, or should I worry?”
“It’s fine,” says Arthur, “we didn’t exactly manage to--”
“Stop, I get it,” she says. “Kang, I need you to introduce me to a hotel that is at least as swanky as Eames’s and also considerably far away from it.”
“As long as you don’t complain about my car on the way there,” says Kang.
“So now that you two are fucking,” says Leah, “is that going to let out some of that infamous steam? Am I going to have a good time on this job? I took it for the payout, but I was fully prepared to regret my decision.”
“We promise to behave,” says Arthur, solemnly.
“Except at night,” says Eames.
“By yourselves,” says Leah.
“If you insist,” says Eames. “Speaking of which, hey, are you still--”
“Mention Dragomir,” says Leah, “and I will wait until we are on the job, then I will shoot you in all the places that will hurt you the most.”
“Are all of you points like this?” Eames asks Arthur. “Aggressive and vindictive?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” says Arthur, “Leah is far more trigger-happy than I am. It’s why I wanted her for the job.”
“Also because you’re shit at voice surveillance,” says Leah.
“Excuse me,” says Arthur, offended, “I am not shit at--”
“And receipts and purchasing patterns, you don’t have a clue what to do with those,” says Leah. “It’s all right, Arthur. Together we will conquer the world.”
“If we’re going to start talking about the job,” says Kang, “can we do it over dinner? I’m starving and there’s a Taco Bell right across the street.”
“Taco Bell?” asks Leah. “Really?”
“I have very fond memories of Taco Bell,” says Kang. “Look, here’s a story-- when I was seven years old in Wisconsin, young and impressionable, living with my elderly aunt who had moved there to join her husband in his--”
“I think I’ve heard this one before,” says Arthur. “It ends with you stranded in the middle of an ocean of playpen balls, too afraid to move because you thought you would drown, and then some little girl with eyes like velvet led you by the hand to safety.”
“She was beautiful,” says Kang. “I wonder where she is now.”
“This is all very touching,” says Eames, “but as much as I’d enjoy continuing to doss around, we do want to complete the initial briefing before the day is out. You know I hate to be the grown-up here, but seeing as how I expect Leah will succumb to jet lag in a matter of hours--”
“How about I bring a couple things back from the Taco Bell?” asks Arthur. “Since you’ve already given me the general run-down on the job, and you could get everyone else up to speed while I’m getting us food.”
“Excellent,” says Eames. “Out come the dossiers. We’ll have so much fun while you’re away, but try not to be jealous.”
“Could you get me a huge thing of coffee,” says Leah. “I’m going to make it to midnight if I have to die doing it.”
“Your dedication is heart-wrenching,” says Arthur, and shuts the door behind him. Through the crack of it just before it closes, he sees Eames glance over his shoulder, giving him an honest-to-god wink.
Arthur is horrified that he is now apparently sleeping with a kitschy relic that the twenty-first century ought to have left behind, but then he thinks, Co-conspirators in fucking, and it’s really funnier than it should be.
“Our client,” says Eames, “the magnificent Van Dorsten.”
“He looks like a manatee,” says Kang.
“This manatee,” says Eames, “is the CEO of Van Dorsten Industries, one of the world’s leading large-scale wireless network providers. He’s set to attend the upcoming Business Summit here, which is when we’ll make the information drop and complete the job. That allows us a timeframe of a little over a month, which should be more than enough for a relatively simple extraction.”
“Do they call his company VD Industries for short?” asks Leah. “Because that would be hilarious.”
“Van Dorsten intends to lay out a massive grid over Southeast Asia within the next decade,” says Eames. “There’s no clear competitor for the project, and they can look forward to the financial and legislative support of the governments involved. No issues there. However -- as is so often the case in these modern times -- trouble comes from within.”
“I like your briefing style,” says Leah. “It’s very exciting.”
“Industrial espionage?” asks Kang. “Is he looking for a mole?”
“No, it’s more that his own ambition is creating problems for him,” says Eames. “Meet Samuel Weston, our mark.”
He opens up a second dossier, where a photograph of a man with a tragic hairline is paper-clipped to the stack of documents inside. Leah rubs her thumb over his forehead pityingly.
“Weston is the Head Engineer at the Division of Planning and Strategy for Elucorp,” says Eames. “The impenetrable ambiguity of corporate titles aside, Weston is in charge of approving technological advancements for a company that is the leading manufacturer of IT hardware. Naturally, it would be in Van Dorsten’s interests to work with Elucorp in the Southeast Asian development deal; but that’s not good enough for our client. What Van Dorsten wants is to complete the entire project in-house.”
“He wants to make his own hardware?” asks Kang. “Does he have the infra for that?”
“About a year or two back, they acquired a subsidiary who basically does what Elucorp does,” says Eames. “Only, of course, they can’t do it quite as well. Van Dorsten has hired us to extract some proprietary information from Weston, and they’ll hand that over to their subsidiary, who will implement the new technology. That’ll allow Van Dorsten to exercise control over the hardware aspect of the project as well.”
“Where’s Elucorp based?” asks Leah. “I’m guessing not in Korea, so I was wondering why we chose Seoul to work out of.”
“We’re here for location scouting,” says Eames. “Elucorp has its headquarters in New York, but due to the heavily tech-oriented nature of the company, Weston will be attending the business summit as part of the CEO’s entourage. Van Dorsten is leaving straight from the Summit to his contract tour of Southeast Asia, where he’ll have to finalize the decisions regarding his project-- so unfortunately, we won’t have time for a do-over if we muck it up.”
“We’ll just have to be extra careful then,” says Leah. “But using the Summit to get the client, the mark, and the team in the same geographical locale over a two-day period, that sounds great. The lag time between the job and the drop is going to be incredibly short. We won’t have that awkward window of liability where we have to transport the information to the client while staying under the mark’s radar.”
“And the mark is away from home ground,” says Eames, “so what physical evidence we might accidentally leave behind--”
“Won’t be immediately accessible to the mark,” says Leah. “I’m liking this, Eames.”
“On top of which,” says Kang, “any effort to trace things back to us will be confounded by the population turnover of the hotel where he’ll be staying. Too many different fingerprints and stray hairs to be considered evidence. That is, if we work the job from his hotel room.”
“I think we will,” says Eames. “We can survey the locations whenever we like, since we’re in town already. Ultimately it depends on what Arthur and Leah find out about Weston’s schedule and personal habits, but the hotel room sedation is a classic for a reason.”
“About Arthur,” begins Leah.
Eames blinks and sees Arthur struggle for breath, the thin press of his lips swollen open. Oh, god, his voice a wreck, Eames. The heavy heat of Arthur’s cock against his thigh.
“He’s not really shit at analyzing purchasing patterns,” says Leah. “Or any of that other stuff. I was just joking. I mean, I might be better at a couple things-- but overall, I know he’s still-- Eames?”
“Yes?” asks Eames. “Sorry, what?”
“Arthur’s a good point man,” she says. “I’m glad that Cobb is letting him work with you.”
“Cobb’s retired,” says Eames, and knows that he sounds short. “Besides, it’s not as though he was keeping Arthur from taking on other jobs, nor would Arthur have ever let him be that presumptuous.”
“Well, if he’s retired,” says Leah. “But you do know that the entire time Cobb was in the business, Arthur never worked with any other extractor?”
“Because Cobb was bloody brilliant at what he did, that’s why,” says Eames. “And it’s always easier to work with someone you’ve fallen into a pattern with.”
“I took a job with them in Cairo once,” says Kang. “I don’t think they ever stopped arguing for long enough to breathe. And then that projection, you know the one, Cobb’s wife-- she got to Arthur at a bank where he’d been running interference, and she made us watch while she--”
“Look, sprogs,” says Eames, “perhaps you ought to take this up with Arthur when he gets back. I think we’ve better things to do than hypothesize about his choice of extractors. I recognize that he’s an excellent point, and I am optimistic about his contributions to this job, full stop.”
“Did he tell you why he wanted me on board?” asks Leah. “I’m very thankful for the opportunity, et cetera, et cetera, but my skill set overlaps quite a bit with his.”
“The second- and third-largest problems we encountered on our previous job,” says Eames, “had to do with hostile projections and a lack of intel. My guess is that he’s erring on the side of caution this time, bringing you in as a hired gun and an analyst.”
Arthur frowned when Eames fell into step beside him at LAX, when he cleared his throat and said, I’ve got this job lined up. Arthur frowned like he was about to ask, Why would you want me to work it? Didn’t you see me almost fuck this one up? And Eames felt the acrid burn of anger flare inside him, because he wanted to work with Arthur, wanted to work with the best, and Arthur couldn’t be the best if he was busy doubting himself. He wasn’t allowed to balk his way into mediocrity, not when he’d only just become someone Eames could finally hire.
But then Arthur leaned against the baggage claim carousel and said, Let’s hire a second point, demanded it, and that wasn’t him trying to run away; that was him trying to fix things. And that was the Arthur he wanted, cocksure but never self-important. That was part of what made him the best. Sure thing, said Eames. Whoever you want.
“What was the largest problem on your previous job?” asks Leah.
“Cobb,” says Eames.
It’s dark out when they’ve finished eating, but not late enough to call it a day. They stroll outside into the neighborhood, inside a themed bar that Kang’s girlfriend recommended. They take off their shoes and walk into white sand.
“What does Mandy do again?” asks Arthur. “She’s a teacher, right?”
“Middle school English,” says Kang. “I don’t know how she does it. Middle schoolers, day in and day out-- it’s terrifying.”
“Does alcohol have a positive impact on jet lag, or a negative one?” asks Leah.
“You’ll have to order something anyway,” says Kang. “Get something that’ll put you to sleep.”
“So brandy and Nyquil with melatonin pills on the side,” says Leah.
“Something you’ll wake up from,” says Arthur, and slouches back into his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table.
He feels something catch against his foot and sees Eames twitch where he’s sitting across from him. Eames is waiting for the touch to pass, like most accidental brushes do, waiting for Arthur to jerk away like withdrawing from a burn. Arthur is about to, it’s only polite; but then he thinks, Where does politeness come into it, we’ve already fucked, and he inches his toes a little closer.
Eames flinches, the unspoken What are you playing at, and he shifts his foot, pressing the blade of it against Arthur’s sole.
“Of course not,” Arthur says to something Leah asks him. “You wouldn’t even need the alcohol, with Ambien.”
He slides his foot over Eames’s, nudging at his leg with his toes, the sand whispering between them. Traces an idle loop around Eames’s ankle, the edge of his toenail scraping across his skin. Tawdry, perhaps, but Eames has no right to complain. He’s the one that winks at people.
“But if I died,” Leah is saying, “you’d have to hire a new point. What a hassle that would be.”
Arthur gestures and talks into his Long Island Iced Tea and pats a mound of sand over Eames’s foot, swirling patterns into it as he drinks. At last Eames manages to catch his eye, half his face cast in the shadow of the bar, and Arthur looks at him steady over the rim of his glass. What’s a little touching, anyway. We’ll have all our clothes off in a matter of hours. Eames doesn’t look away, his eyes dark and thoughtful.
+
“My room is,” Eames says later, as he stumbles into a cab, “it’s going to blow your mind.”
“That’s what’s going to blow my mind?” asks Arthur, and pours himself in after Eames. “I’m going to be impressed with your room?”
“It’s a very nice room,” says Eames. “Walkerhill Hotel, please.”
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” Arthur shouts out of the window. “Hangover, jet lag, neither will be an acceptable excuse.”
Eames drags him back inside by his tie, and rolls the window up as Leah and Kang wave goodbye. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, flavored with alcohol, and Eames’s hand wanders up Arthur’s leg all the way to his belt.
“Someone’s impatient,” says Arthur. “Did I get you worked up?”
“In all my life,” Eames tells him, “never did I think I would play barefoot footsie with you.”
He’s slurring a little, and Arthur’s feeling light-headed himself, so he just shrugs and says, “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“Arthur,” says Eames, “you’re an odd one.”
In light of Eames’s previous opinions of him, this isn’t entirely displeasing. Arthur tells him so and lets him nip at a bit of skin under his jaw, turning his head up so that Eames can get at it better. Arthur shivers and leans his head against the window, watching the streetlights outside blur orange, feeling the inertia build up in him, pitching him forward.
He ends up on his knees, naked on Eames’s hotel bed, watching the poppy-red sheets swim in and out of focus as Eames crooks two fingers inside him. It sends a jolt shooting through him and he gasps, tasting salt at the corners of his lips.
“You fuck like,” hisses Arthur, “like some sort of pervert--”
“That’s going to need an explanation, isn’t it,” says Eames, and adds a third finger.
Arthur tenses when he feels it, clenching in around Eames’s hand, and he digs his nails into the mattress. The lube trickles down the insides of his thighs, and the sheet stretches taut between his knees when he spreads them a little wider.
“I mean,” says Arthur, “you’re very persistent-- god, oh.”
“I’m a considerate lay,” says Eames, and gives his fingers a slow twist inside Arthur. “Besides, if I put you out of commission today, how would we fuck tomorrow?”
“Doesn’t mean it should-- Jesus,” says Arthur, “it shouldn’t take you all night to get me ready.”
“Fuck, but you’re tight,” says Eames. “It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”
“Mister, I hardly know you.” Arthur laughs, a choked quiver. “Let’s save the dirty talk for our seven-year itch.”
Eames leans in closer, thrusts his fingers in a little deeper. Arthur whines and pushes back, taking him in, and the back of his thigh presses up against Eames’s cock. The hard, hot curve of flesh there makes Arthur shudder for it, and Eames bites off a groan that’s not all protest.
“I assume,” says Eames, “you’d want me to use a condom?”
“Roll one on,” says Arthur. “Fuck me, already.”
His elbows quiver and give out when Eames pushes into him, and he arches up, panting for air, ass raised high and stretched open around Eames. Fuck, fuck, the heat is unrelenting. Arthur feels him all around his insides, the thick solid length of Eames's cock filling him up, and Eames strokes the dip of Arthur’s back with his thumb, tracing up the notches of his spine.
“Eames,” says Arthur, breathless, “move, you son of a--”
“Honestly, you can relax,” Eames tells him, voice unsteady. “I know you’re no virgin, darling--”
Eames pulls back out just the slightest bit, tilts himself back inside, over and over again, shallow like coaxing him looser, and Arthur shakes beneath him, Eames’s hands firm on his hipbones. With the steady simmer of friction Arthur’s hands uncurl, falling slack onto the sheets, and bit by bit he feels himself open up, inviting Eames into him. His ass a slick, silky grip, loosening warm for Eames’s cock.
“Yes,” says Arthur, “god, god, like that, please.”
Eames lengthens his strokes, holding himself there when he’s in hilt-deep, and Arthur feels like he’s being overtaken. Like he’s being wrenched away from his own body, all the air pushed out of him when Eames moves, his throat dry and raw. Eames drives himself in at a slightly different angle, propping himself up higher on his knees and aiming for that tangle of nerves. The head of his cock scrapes against it, and Arthur feels himself go so unbearably tight around Eames, trembling all the way down to his fingertips, and he moans out loud before he can swallow it down.
“Fuck, Eames,” he says, frantic with want, “fuck, there, right there, again--”
“You like that I’m persistent,” says Eames, “don’t you?”
“This is--” says Arthur, “oh, god, so fucking good--”
Eames draws in a sharp breath behind him, and grinds harder into him, sending blazes shooting up into the back of Arthur’s head. He’s crawling out of his skin, filled to the brim with buzzing. It’s all Arthur can do to rock back and meet Eames when he thrusts in, clenching around him, and god, it’s exactly the rhythm he wants, exactly what he craves.
“How the fuck,” groans Eames, “have we not done this before?”
“I think,” says Arthur, “I think I’m going to-- fuck--”
Arthur’s hand stutters over his cock, and he comes with a gasp in a stark streak across the sheets, body tensing like a drawn bow, taut as a skin stretched over a drum. It wrings the climax from Eames, and he finishes with a strangled curse just as Arthur goes lax, sinking onto the bed with his cock still pulsing inside him.
“Oh, fuck,” wheezes Arthur, trying to blink his vision back, “There’s stuff all over the bed, goddammit.”
“I’ll try to wipe some of it off,” says Eames, “and ask for-- ask to have it--”
He trails off indistinctly, thumb rubbing absent circles into Arthur’s shoulders. Not laughing at me after all, thinks Arthur. On the contrary, there’s something very earnest about Eames like this-- something almost dependable. Like he’s a good person to want to lean on, as though you could trust him with more than schemes and gambits.
“Eames,” he says, “we can’t do this every day. It would kill us.”
“Maybe,” begins Eames, “but oh--”
“If you say what a way to go,” warns Arthur, “I will knife you as soon as I can move.”
A considerate lay, thinks Arthur. Or just a persistent fucking pervert. Either way, Eames is warm and solid against his back.
[ next part]