A Bad Dream, pt. two
Title: A Bad Dream
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~5000
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes, the recovery can be just as hard to cope with as the trauma. Arthur and Eames learn this the hard way.
Warnings: References to noncon/dubcon, language
Author's Note: Last update for two weeks! Thank goodness I managed to finish this bit. I hope it tides you all over!
part one, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine.
+++
When Arthur first brought him home, he hadn't known what to expect.
“So -- the kitchen -- obviously. There's not much in the fridge right now, but take whatever you want. And that's the kettle... Well. That's pretty much the kitchen, anyway.”
Eames nodded, taking it in, and kept glancing at him uncertainly. Obviously he wasn't sure what to expect, either.
“Down here's the bathroom,” Arthur went on, sidling into the short hall. “And -- well -- the bedroom.”
He pushed open the door, his hand faltering for just a second. He was aware that his bedroom had been part of Eames' dream, he just wasn't entirely sure in what capacity. He wondered nervously, was it alright? Had he changed something that had been integral to Eames' imitation room? Did it look like it was supposed to?
Eames was perfectly silent as he dropped to his knees on the threshold. He just stared.
“Okay,” said Arthur hastily. “Maybe we could sleep in the living room tonight. If it's too much for you?” This had been a bad idea, he knew it; he felt sick. “Eames?”
“No,” said Eames hoarsely, cutting into Arthur's thoughts. “It's... Could I... Could we sleep in here tonight? Please?”
“Yeah,” said Arthur, relief cascading into his chest. “That's fine.”
“Thank you,” Eames breathed. He reached down and touched the carpet with both hands. “Thank you so much.”
Arthur chose to hope that things would get better.
+
“No.”
Arthur was on his feet. Eames, still sitting on the couch, looked momentarily bewildered, then wounded, then blank-faced.
“No,” Arthur repeated. “That isn't ... what we're doing here, Eames, that's not what this is about.”
Eames just tilted his head and let his gaze slide past Arthur back onto the TV. They'd found a program in English, some old movie neither of them had heard of, and it was pretty terrible, but at least it wasn't in French. And Arthur wanted to tear his hair out. He didn't know how to keep Eames' scattered attention on him for more than a minute; or, for that matter, how to deflect his attention when it was unwanted. It had been a whole week and this was still happening.
“Eames,” he said, half frustrated, half begging.
“I only wanted to touch you, darling,” Eames drawled softly, surprising him. “That's all.”
“That's all?” Arthur echoed warily.
When Eames looked up at him and nodded, Arthur decided to remain on his guard but sank back down onto the couch. Eames looked at his knee, then stretched an arm over and placed his hand gingerly over it, then just looked at his hand on Arthur's knee. Arthur couldn't decide if he looked more sad or pensive.
“Maybe you could just say,” he said, inexplicably tired all of a sudden. “When you want to touch me, or anything, just tell me what you want beforehand. So I know.”
Without looking up, Eames said, “I want you to kiss me.”
Arthur could not deny him because he wanted that, too. He closed his hand over Eames' and leaned over and Eames turned his head into the kiss, and it was slow and chaste, and it was nice. It was all the things Arthur had guessed a kiss with Eames wouldn't be like, before. He would have expected teeth and tongue and bruising force, but this worked for him. This was good.
Maybe Eames just read his mind, though, because his hand left Arthur's grasp and came up to the back of his neck, and his other hand wrapped itself around Arthur's arm, and he was pulling their bodies together, pushing Arthur forcefully back against the armrest and prying into his mouth with naked want.
Arthur nearly fell over trying to get off the couch.
“I,” he started, and couldn't finish that sentence when he looked Eames in the eye. There were too many ways to end it.
Can't do this. Don't want this. Have to leave.
But he was looking Eames in the eye and it wasn't him. It wasn't his forger. He was looking at someone else. So many times he'd found himself setting eyes on a stranger and knowing, innately, that it was Eames in there, wreaking mischievous fun in another disguise. It felt very strange to be in the opposite position: this was supposed to be Eames. And he just wasn't in there.
“I'm going to bed,” Arthur managed to force out, and he retreated, not before seeing Eames bury his face in his hands. He'd never felt like such an asshole.
+
In Arthur's family, without aid of alcohol, physical affection was largely spurned. His parents had never felt comfortable indulging him with hugs or pats on the back, the same way they'd never really seen the need to say I love you. As an adult Arthur bristled away from such contact. He'd made an effort for Mal -- Mal gave nice hugs, the kind Arthur imagined a mother was supposed to give -- but when Ariadne returned to the team for the first time since the Fischer job and wrapped her arms around him, Arthur found that he'd gotten rusty, stiffening up uncomfortably all over again. Mal was gone: it had been a long time. Ariadne seemed to understand, because she'd given him a rueful smile and never done it again.
So he genuinely didn't know how to react when, that night, Eames finally slid into bed at around 1AM and said, falteringly, “Can I just ... put an arm around you, sort of?”
His voice was soft enough that it wouldn't have woken Arthur just in case he'd been asleep. He seriously considered faking it for a minute. At length, listening to Eames breathe behind him, he said, “Okay.”
He was tense, not sure what he should anticipate. He felt absurdly vulnerable, under the sheets in his own bed, with the warm solid weight of the forger behind him. That warmth shifted closer, and then Eames' arm was winding cautiously around his waist. Arthur swallowed. Every muscle was coiled, ready to react in case this turned sour.
But Eames' arm was slack. He didn't push his body up against Arthur's. He was just close enough that Arthur could feel the heat coming off him, but he didn't draw any closer. He pressed his face into Arthur's shoulder and breathed in, slowly, and Arthur found that he could breathe out.
He was pretty sure, after a minute, that Eames was crying, but he didn't dare roll over and remove his arm to find out.
+
They had one relatively good month; and then Arthur woke from a light sleep in the middle of the night, missing the warmth of Eames' body. He rolled over in bed and located the forger at once: standing on the balcony outside the bedroom in the dark.
Arthur got up and approached, and he could see Eames' hands shaking so badly he couldn't light the cigarette hanging between his lips. Arthur opened the door, causing him to jump, drop the lighter, and curse.
“Here.” Without another word, Arthur picked up the lighter, plucked the cigarette out of Eames' mouth, put it between his own lips, and lit up. He took one drag and then gave it to Eames.
“Thanks,” Eames said.
It had rained. The balcony under their feet was slick and wet and a fine drizzle still hung in the air around them. Eames wrapped an arm around himself and smoked in silence. Arthur stood next to him and tried to discern the street through the mist, shivering.
When Eames had smoked the cigarette down to a stub, Arthur said, “Bad dream?”
Eames nodded. Dropping the cigarette, he crushed it with his toe, turned, and let himself fall into Arthur's arms without so much as a heads-up. He didn't weep -- he just breathed in. And Arthur held him.
“'M sorry, love,” Eames mumbled into his shoulder. Arthur held him tighter.
Before he knew what was happening, Eames was sliding down his body onto his knees, his face buried in Arthur's thigh while his fingers worked at the loose drawstring of Arthur's pyjama pants. Arthur stiffened.
“Hey. Hey,” he said, reaching down to grab Eames' hands. Eames leaned into him more insistently, nuzzling his cheek into Arthur's crotch, his hands working roughly. “Eames, come on, okay-- Stop!”
He managed to prise Eames' hands off him. Eames breathed raggedly against him and they were both quiet for a minute.
“Stop,” Arthur said softly, sinking down in front of him without letting go of his hands. The balcony was cold and wet under his knees. “You don't have to, you don't have to do that, Eames. Why do you do that?”
He saw a hundred desperate responses flash through Eames' bleak expression before he found the right words. “I want to make you happy,” he said, helplessly.
Arthur closed his eyes for a second. “There are other ways to make people happy,” he said. Eames looked down at their hands and Arthur fucking hated that this was virtually new information to him now. “I mean ... I'm glad you want that. But you don't need to do that. That's not what I want.”
Eames' gaze flew back up to him, haunted. “You don't want--?”
“No, no, that's not what I meant.” Arthur leaned into him tiredly, their foreheads brushing. “I just mean ... I don't want you doing. That.”
“I want to, darling,” Eames pleaded. “It's different if I want to.”
“I know, but it's still not what I want. It's not that I don't want you, I just don't think you're making proper decisions right now. Maybe when you're better. But not right now.”
He was still holding Eames' hands. He realized this when Eames' relaxed a little in his. They were so close, almost breathing against each other's lips, and Arthur wanted so badly to kiss him. He wondered if Eames was desperate to do the same, and was holding himself back for Arthur's sake.
After several long minutes, Eames asked, “What other ways?”
His voice was huskier than usual, little more than a rasp. Arthur blinked. “What?”
“To make someone happy,” said Eames. “What other ways are there?”
“Oh.” Arthur paused. “Well... You can just spend time with them. Watch a movie with them. Have an ice cream with them.” He rubbed his thumb over Eames' hand gently, feeling out of his element. “Hold hands with them.”
“Go tie-shopping with them,” Eames suggested, an unfamiliar glint in his eye. “Rearrange all their DVDs in alphabetical order ... make spreadsheets for the chores.”
Arthur was so taken aback by the joke that he let a laugh slip out, a genuine laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed for real, and he realized: that new light in Eames' eye wasn't actually unfamiliar.
Eames kissed him and it wasn't forceful or aggressive or rushed. It was deep and gentle and exploring, like he wanted to map every inch of Arthur's mouth. It was slow and it was perfect. When Eames finally pulled away he was smiling, and it was the most beautiful fucking thing Arthur had seen in his life, and they kissed again as it started to rain.
+
It was like taking forty big steps forward, and then all at once taking forty-two steps back. So fucking close to good again, and now--
Now Arthur was sitting with his back to the locked bathroom door, his head bowed.
“I made tea,” he said. The words sounded hollow. “There's three sugars in yours, the way you like.”
Silence.
“Come out, Eames. I'm not upset with you.”
More silence.
“Please.”
Silence.
Arthur sighed. He got up and returned to his bedroom and started to clean the vomit off his carpet. Nearly threw up himself when he found that milky white mingled with the bile.
Eventually, while he was throwing the stained washcloths into the washing machine, he heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. He found Eames in the kitchen, heating up the two cups of tea in the microwave. He passed Arthur's to him wordlessly, way too casual a gesture, and took a seat at the small kitchen table. Arthur sat across from him.
“Sorry about that,” said Eames, again, too casually. “Made a bit of a mess of your carpet, didn't I?”
“That's okay,” said Arthur. His head hurt. “It's cleaned up now.”
Eames raised his eyebrows. He took a sip of tea and pulled a face. “You're going to have to work on your tea-brewing skills, darling. It's like I've taught you nothing.”
Arthur clamped his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. He was trying to figure out how this had happened and Eames was brushing past it just like that. He couldn't take it.
“I told you to stop,” he said abruptly. He wished at once that he could swallow the words back, not sure what had made him say them.
Eames' eyelids lowered. “You didn't mean it.”
The words came as a shock. Arthur floundered for a response. He'd expected defensiveness, or maybe aggression or hurt, but this...
“Yes, I did.”
“You were hard. You wanted it.”
It was like the ground had opened up underneath him. Arthur felt like he was falling. Like suddenly, he was very far away.
He could hear himself saying words he knew he'd regret even as they were coming out of his mouth: “Is that what you told yourself?”
Eames didn't look up from the table. Calmly, wordlessly, he swept his mug off the table and sent it smashing across the kitchen floor. Then he stood up and walked back to the bedroom. Arthur heard the door slam shut.
He got up numbly and started cleaning the kitchen floor, too. He wondered if Eames felt that like broken mug sometimes, shattered into little pieces, making Arthur clean him up and cut himself on all of Eames' sharp edges. His hands fumbled and his throat tightened, but he didn't cry. Arthur never did.
+
The flight from Paris to the States was very long and Arthur hadn't slept a wink, which meant he'd been awake for two days. He'd had to start working right away and by the time he slogged back into his hotel room, stepped out of his shoes and loosened his tie, he didn't even know what time it was in Chicago, let alone Paris. He picked up the phone and dialled anyway, and in the silence that came before the first ring, all his worries and fears suddenly came rushing back. Eames was doing so well, but he hadn't been apart from Arthur yet. He could be sitting on the couch with a beer, watching French TV with the captions on -- or he could be out drinking, brawling, gambling. He could be hurting himself. Fuck. He could be soliciting himself somewhere. Who knew?
Then Eames picked up and Arthur could breathe again. “Morning.”
“Is it?”
“'Fraid so.”
“Sorry.”
“I wasn't asleep anyway.” He could hear a familiar creaking of couch cushions as Eames stretched. “How's Chicago?”
“Lonely. How's Paris?”
“Funny,” said Eames. “It didn't feel like that yesterday, but it's starting to. Perhaps it's a global warming thing.”
Arthur smiled, relaxing onto the bed. “I left my shirt--”
“On my pillow, I saw. Very cute. You think I'm that in love with the smell of you, don't you?”
“And how many times have you smelled it already?”
“Cheeky,” Eames scolded. “What a man does with his boyfriend's shirt in the privacy of their own bedroom is between him and the shirt.”
Arthur's mouth felt dry. They were boyfriends? He hadn't considered it like that before. He'd never really had a term for what he and Eames were, before. It made his heart feel full and strained, and he couldn't identify that emotion.
There didn't seem to be much left to say. “I miss you,” said Arthur.
“Already? You need to get a life, darling. I, on the other hand, don't have or need one, and am therefore allowed to miss you.”
“I'll call you again tomorrow.”
“I'll be right here,” Eames told him.
“I'll be home in two weeks.”
“I know, pet. I shall count the days.”
Arthur was just about to hang up when he heard Eames' faint voice say, “Wait.”
His heart gripped his throat. He snatched the phone back up to his ear.
“What is it?”
“It's ...” Eames seemed to struggle for words for a moment. Finally, a sigh. “I was trying to use the new espresso machine, and all the instructions are in French.”
The tension left Arthur's body in one smooth rush. He settled back down onto the mattress.
“I told you I'd show you how to use it once I got back.”
“I wanted an espresso. I didn't think it would be this difficult.”
“Aren't there diagrams?” Arthur asked.
“Of course there are diagrams. I just wasn't aware I was assembling the Hubble Space Telescope.”
In spite of himself, Arthur found himself smiling at the petulance in Eames' voice. “All that money spent on French classes, and you couldn't even learn enough to be able to use a coffeemaker.”
“I am exceedingly talented in many fields, love. Languages are not one of them.”
“Neither are coffee machines, I suppose.”
“Are you enjoying yourself, Arthur? Do my failings make you feel good about yourself?”
“Okay,” Arthur relented. “Go and find the instructions and read them to me.”
“Okay.” There was a silence, presumably as Eames got up with the cordless phone and went into the kitchen. “Okay, I'm looking at them now. They're--”
There was a faint sound and Arthur heard a muffled, “Oh, balls.”
“Did you just say 'oh, balls'?”
“I spilled my tea on the instructions.”
“You're drinking tea?”
“Well, since I couldn't have espresso.” Eames' tone sounded frayed.
“Is anything still legible?”
“Maybe... Do the words un double mousse système de cappuccino mean anything to you?”
“It means 'double foam cappuccino system', does that mean anything to you?”
“Oh, God.” Eames sighed. Arthur heard riffling paper. “Well, the German side is fine. Thank God we can still read the German side.”
“Actually, that'll do,” said Arthur. “Start reading them to me.”
“Wait, you speak German now too? God, Arthur, who are you?”
It took them far too long to be able to make Eames a cup of espresso, and they kept talking after that, and in the end Arthur only got about three hours of sleep, but he didn't care. He didn't mind at all, and if he stayed up talking to Eames like that every night for the next two weeks he wouldn't mind that, either.
Things had gotten better.
+
And yet.
Sometimes, when Arthur awoke in the middle of the night and felt the reassuring heat of Eames' body pressed against his, all he could think was that Eames deserved somebody better than him.
+++
The flight had been delayed.
“Call Saito,” Ariadne half-joked, slumped tiredly across an uncomfortable chair in the terminal. “He'll make them move the plane.”
“I somehow don't think so.” Cobb kept checking his watch, like he thought they were going to be late even though they were sitting right outside the gate, and had been for the past four hours. Arthur and Eames were sitting across from them. The forger had spent the past thirty minutes trying to make himself comfortable leaning against Arthur, but the plastic armrest that separated them hindered him greatly.
“Oh, to hell with this,” he said bitterly at last, and slid to the floor. Arthur watched as Eames scooted between his legs and leaned back against Arthur's chair. “Give me a massage, would you, pet?”
Arthur put down his magazine on Eames' vacated chair and obligingly dug his fingers into the taut muscle of Eames' shoulders. Eames tilted his head back and made a sound that was positively pornographic, causing the woman cradling a baby several seats down to shoot them a glare and then get up in search of another seat. Arthur flicked his gaze up to the ceiling and held it there steadily, trying to think of other things, even while his hands were expertly kneading Eames' shoulders.
“Get a room,” Ariadne said.
“They'll have one in New York, I only booked the one for Arthur,” Cobb interrupted distractedly. “With a queen-sized bed.”
“A queen-sized bed?” Eames echoed, letting his head loll forward. “Is that a joke? Did anyone else just hear Cobb try to make a joke?”
Arthur didn't want to think about the queen-sized bed that awaited them in New York. He bit his lip and dug his hands particularly tightly into either side of Eames' neck, causing the forger to wince. “Ow.”
“Sorry.” Arthur forcibly relaxed. “Why book a queen-sized bed for me beforehand, though?”
“Because I had a feeling we'd be bringing Eames along.”
“Your confidence in me is always appreciated and most touching, Cobb,” Eames said smoothly. “Almost makes me feel bad for nicking your boarding pass.”
“My--?” Cobb's brows furrowed, and he gave himself a quick pat-down. When he didn't find his boarding pass, he fixed Eames in a narrow gaze. Eames smiled and handed it to him.
Arthur knew what he was doing. He was putting on a show for Cobb -- all but singing, look at how adorably maddening and typical I am; nothing wrong here. Trying to cover up whatever disaster had gone down when they'd been under together. Arthur sighed inwardly. Cobb had not warned him beforehand that he would be confronting Eames with a trigger, and it made him furious when he thought about it too hard.
“He likes to push himself,” he'd told Eames, during the drive to the airport. “He thinks that makes it okay for him to push everyone else. You don't have to do this.”
“Arthur,” Eames had said, in a flat voice. “I'm going to New York.”
Presently Eames ran a hand down Arthur's shin. Arthur nearly bit his tongue. “That feels very good, pet.”
“Good,” Arthur said. Eames' broad shoulders were so warm between his knees. Arthur had to force his mind away from that. He stared determinedly out the window, at the runway, where planes taxied lazily back and forth.
“This is ridiculous.” Cobb sighed. “I'm going to the bathroom. Watch my hand luggage.”
“I'd better go, too,” said Arthur, once Cobb had disappeared. He let his hands drop away from Eames' shoulders. Eames sighed, but got back into his chair, and Arthur hurried away.
This would be his first and possibly only chance to speak to Cobb alone. When he reached the bathroom he found Cobb washing his hands, and pushed the door shut behind him. Arthur had never been one to beat around the bush.
“I told you he wasn't ready for this.”
“He thinks he is,” said Cobb, looking at Arthur over his shoulder in the mirror. Arthur snorted.
“And we all know Eames makes the best judgement calls about himself.” There was a pause. Arthur flushed angrily and said, “That was out of line. But you know what I mean.”
“I know. And don't you think he's had enough of people deciding things for him?”
While Arthur fumbled for a response to that, Cobb turned around to face him and grabbed a paper towel to wipe his hands with.
“Look, I was in his dream. He's got it under control now.”
“You scared the hell out of him!”
“But he didn't lose it,” said Cobb patiently. “He didn't let any projections in.”
“His nightmares are worse now, Cobb, not better. He might be able to control his dreams now but he's just shoving everything down further, where we won't see it. He still hasn't dealt with what happened to him. He's not okay. You haven't been with him for the past nine months -- I have.”
Cobb sighed. “I know. But this job -- it's important, Arthur. We can't do it without him, and he wants to do it.”
“What is it?” Arthur asked, realizing that he still didn't know the details. He'd been prepared to turn Cobb down if Eames wasn't up to scratch. Cobb looked aside, and that was Arthur's first indication that something was off.
“The client is a district attorney whose daughter was raped and killed last year. There was a man they charged with her murder, who was attached to a string of other killings, he was the boyfriend of one of the girls, but he got off on a technicality. Basically, our job is--”
He was cut off. Arthur had shoved him with all his strength into the counter. Cobb gripped the edge at his back and didn't straighten up.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Cobb?” Arthur shouted. His voice rang loudly in the small space. “You want Eames to seduce a rapist!”
“No, not exactly,” said Cobb, but he hadn't moved away from the counter, and he wasn't looking Arthur in the eyes. “It should have been a simple run, but the extractor who went in found out that the mark has some rudimentary form of subcon security. He has a history of bipolar disorder that may or may not account for that. The idea is just to provide a distraction so that we can extract the information we need. Then we wash our hands clean of it and let the DA do what he needs to do.”
“So we're murderers now,” said Arthur, breathing hard.
“This is a chance for us to do some actual good, Arthur. If the mark is the murderer, he's going to do this again until someone stops him. It doesn't have to be us directly.”
“No. We only facilitate it.” Arthur stepped closer, crowding his space. “You're not thinking, Cobb. This isn't a job for us. You're the only one of us who has kids, you're looking at this with a father's perspective. Not an extractor's. And not as our boss.”
Cobb narrowed his eyes. “You're telling me that if you had the chance to destroy one of the men who paid to go under with Eames--”
“Don't you dare.” Arthur's tone was flat and icy. “You know that if I could, I would put a bullet in every single one of them. I'm a point. My job is to protect my team. Not to let you expose them to unnecessary risks by agreeing to do something that doesn't even involve us.”
“We're getting paid for it.” Cobb turned away, finally, balled up the paper towel in his hand and threw it aggressively into the trash on his way out. “That makes us involved.”
Arthur leaned against the counter and stayed in the bathroom. It was a few minutes before he could take the frayed edge off of his breathing.
+
When Eames had nightmares, he didn't thrash around in the sheets. He didn't do anything clichéd like jolt awake in a cold sweat or scream or talk in his sleep. He suffered them with a quietness that was painful to Arthur, who couldn't always tell when a nightmare had struck, and therefore could not subsequently save him. But if he was awake, he knew. He knew by the way Eames' breathing grew faster, and the way his fingers twitched against the mattress, like a dog when it dreamt it was running. Arthur wondered what he was running away from.
Likewise, when Arthur dreamt, he was silent. And he was so glad for that.
He wasn't one to dream very often. They had started out small and fleeting and infrequent, ships in the night. But it seemed like the more Arthur experienced of Eames' post-traumatic tics and behaviours, the worse and more frequent the dreams became.
Dreams of Eames languidly wrapping those soft lips around Arthur's cock devolved gradually into dreams of him fucking Eames' mouth, making him choke. He dreamt about fucking Eames and making him hurt. And every time, he woke up achingly, obscenely hard.
Arthur's subconscious had always been an unfriendly place; it was a frequent complaint of his teammates. But he'd never been sickened by his own dreams. Originally he'd have just stayed flat on his stomach and willed his erection away, but it was so bad now that he had to slip away to the bathroom in the dark, bite his lip to keep from making a sound and jerk himself off quickly. He prayed that Eames, feigning sleep in the bedroom, wouldn't notice or hear.
He didn't understand. He was driving himself insane trying to claw these thoughts out of his head. Eames thought that Arthur didn't want to touch him, but the truth was that Arthur wanted too badly to touch him. He couldn't do it. He was so terrified that he would do something to hurt Eames or scare him off for good. He didn't even trust himself. The night he dreamt about someone else fucking Eames raw, he threw up in the toilet and felt sickeningly dizzy with lust.
Rationally, he thought perhaps it was because he didn't know what was in Eames' broken dreamscape, was the only one not to know, and in its own black, twisted way his brain was trying to fill in the gaps. Irrationally, he felt like the worst fucking scum on the planet.
And so. He lay awake at night next to Eames, who was equally awake, and they both faked sleep, and when Eames tried to cover up his bad dreams like Arthur hadn't just woken him up from one, because maybe he was afraid Arthur would leave him if he knew the content of those dreams, Arthur just laughed hollowly to himself. If Eames only knew.
They were fucked up. So hopelessly fucked up. And Arthur didn't know anymore if things would get better than this.
next
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~5000
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes, the recovery can be just as hard to cope with as the trauma. Arthur and Eames learn this the hard way.
Warnings: References to noncon/dubcon, language
Author's Note: Last update for two weeks! Thank goodness I managed to finish this bit. I hope it tides you all over!
part one, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine.
+++
When Arthur first brought him home, he hadn't known what to expect.
“So -- the kitchen -- obviously. There's not much in the fridge right now, but take whatever you want. And that's the kettle... Well. That's pretty much the kitchen, anyway.”
Eames nodded, taking it in, and kept glancing at him uncertainly. Obviously he wasn't sure what to expect, either.
“Down here's the bathroom,” Arthur went on, sidling into the short hall. “And -- well -- the bedroom.”
He pushed open the door, his hand faltering for just a second. He was aware that his bedroom had been part of Eames' dream, he just wasn't entirely sure in what capacity. He wondered nervously, was it alright? Had he changed something that had been integral to Eames' imitation room? Did it look like it was supposed to?
Eames was perfectly silent as he dropped to his knees on the threshold. He just stared.
“Okay,” said Arthur hastily. “Maybe we could sleep in the living room tonight. If it's too much for you?” This had been a bad idea, he knew it; he felt sick. “Eames?”
“No,” said Eames hoarsely, cutting into Arthur's thoughts. “It's... Could I... Could we sleep in here tonight? Please?”
“Yeah,” said Arthur, relief cascading into his chest. “That's fine.”
“Thank you,” Eames breathed. He reached down and touched the carpet with both hands. “Thank you so much.”
Arthur chose to hope that things would get better.
+
“No.”
Arthur was on his feet. Eames, still sitting on the couch, looked momentarily bewildered, then wounded, then blank-faced.
“No,” Arthur repeated. “That isn't ... what we're doing here, Eames, that's not what this is about.”
Eames just tilted his head and let his gaze slide past Arthur back onto the TV. They'd found a program in English, some old movie neither of them had heard of, and it was pretty terrible, but at least it wasn't in French. And Arthur wanted to tear his hair out. He didn't know how to keep Eames' scattered attention on him for more than a minute; or, for that matter, how to deflect his attention when it was unwanted. It had been a whole week and this was still happening.
“Eames,” he said, half frustrated, half begging.
“I only wanted to touch you, darling,” Eames drawled softly, surprising him. “That's all.”
“That's all?” Arthur echoed warily.
When Eames looked up at him and nodded, Arthur decided to remain on his guard but sank back down onto the couch. Eames looked at his knee, then stretched an arm over and placed his hand gingerly over it, then just looked at his hand on Arthur's knee. Arthur couldn't decide if he looked more sad or pensive.
“Maybe you could just say,” he said, inexplicably tired all of a sudden. “When you want to touch me, or anything, just tell me what you want beforehand. So I know.”
Without looking up, Eames said, “I want you to kiss me.”
Arthur could not deny him because he wanted that, too. He closed his hand over Eames' and leaned over and Eames turned his head into the kiss, and it was slow and chaste, and it was nice. It was all the things Arthur had guessed a kiss with Eames wouldn't be like, before. He would have expected teeth and tongue and bruising force, but this worked for him. This was good.
Maybe Eames just read his mind, though, because his hand left Arthur's grasp and came up to the back of his neck, and his other hand wrapped itself around Arthur's arm, and he was pulling their bodies together, pushing Arthur forcefully back against the armrest and prying into his mouth with naked want.
Arthur nearly fell over trying to get off the couch.
“I,” he started, and couldn't finish that sentence when he looked Eames in the eye. There were too many ways to end it.
Can't do this. Don't want this. Have to leave.
But he was looking Eames in the eye and it wasn't him. It wasn't his forger. He was looking at someone else. So many times he'd found himself setting eyes on a stranger and knowing, innately, that it was Eames in there, wreaking mischievous fun in another disguise. It felt very strange to be in the opposite position: this was supposed to be Eames. And he just wasn't in there.
“I'm going to bed,” Arthur managed to force out, and he retreated, not before seeing Eames bury his face in his hands. He'd never felt like such an asshole.
+
In Arthur's family, without aid of alcohol, physical affection was largely spurned. His parents had never felt comfortable indulging him with hugs or pats on the back, the same way they'd never really seen the need to say I love you. As an adult Arthur bristled away from such contact. He'd made an effort for Mal -- Mal gave nice hugs, the kind Arthur imagined a mother was supposed to give -- but when Ariadne returned to the team for the first time since the Fischer job and wrapped her arms around him, Arthur found that he'd gotten rusty, stiffening up uncomfortably all over again. Mal was gone: it had been a long time. Ariadne seemed to understand, because she'd given him a rueful smile and never done it again.
So he genuinely didn't know how to react when, that night, Eames finally slid into bed at around 1AM and said, falteringly, “Can I just ... put an arm around you, sort of?”
His voice was soft enough that it wouldn't have woken Arthur just in case he'd been asleep. He seriously considered faking it for a minute. At length, listening to Eames breathe behind him, he said, “Okay.”
He was tense, not sure what he should anticipate. He felt absurdly vulnerable, under the sheets in his own bed, with the warm solid weight of the forger behind him. That warmth shifted closer, and then Eames' arm was winding cautiously around his waist. Arthur swallowed. Every muscle was coiled, ready to react in case this turned sour.
But Eames' arm was slack. He didn't push his body up against Arthur's. He was just close enough that Arthur could feel the heat coming off him, but he didn't draw any closer. He pressed his face into Arthur's shoulder and breathed in, slowly, and Arthur found that he could breathe out.
He was pretty sure, after a minute, that Eames was crying, but he didn't dare roll over and remove his arm to find out.
+
They had one relatively good month; and then Arthur woke from a light sleep in the middle of the night, missing the warmth of Eames' body. He rolled over in bed and located the forger at once: standing on the balcony outside the bedroom in the dark.
Arthur got up and approached, and he could see Eames' hands shaking so badly he couldn't light the cigarette hanging between his lips. Arthur opened the door, causing him to jump, drop the lighter, and curse.
“Here.” Without another word, Arthur picked up the lighter, plucked the cigarette out of Eames' mouth, put it between his own lips, and lit up. He took one drag and then gave it to Eames.
“Thanks,” Eames said.
It had rained. The balcony under their feet was slick and wet and a fine drizzle still hung in the air around them. Eames wrapped an arm around himself and smoked in silence. Arthur stood next to him and tried to discern the street through the mist, shivering.
When Eames had smoked the cigarette down to a stub, Arthur said, “Bad dream?”
Eames nodded. Dropping the cigarette, he crushed it with his toe, turned, and let himself fall into Arthur's arms without so much as a heads-up. He didn't weep -- he just breathed in. And Arthur held him.
“'M sorry, love,” Eames mumbled into his shoulder. Arthur held him tighter.
Before he knew what was happening, Eames was sliding down his body onto his knees, his face buried in Arthur's thigh while his fingers worked at the loose drawstring of Arthur's pyjama pants. Arthur stiffened.
“Hey. Hey,” he said, reaching down to grab Eames' hands. Eames leaned into him more insistently, nuzzling his cheek into Arthur's crotch, his hands working roughly. “Eames, come on, okay-- Stop!”
He managed to prise Eames' hands off him. Eames breathed raggedly against him and they were both quiet for a minute.
“Stop,” Arthur said softly, sinking down in front of him without letting go of his hands. The balcony was cold and wet under his knees. “You don't have to, you don't have to do that, Eames. Why do you do that?”
He saw a hundred desperate responses flash through Eames' bleak expression before he found the right words. “I want to make you happy,” he said, helplessly.
Arthur closed his eyes for a second. “There are other ways to make people happy,” he said. Eames looked down at their hands and Arthur fucking hated that this was virtually new information to him now. “I mean ... I'm glad you want that. But you don't need to do that. That's not what I want.”
Eames' gaze flew back up to him, haunted. “You don't want--?”
“No, no, that's not what I meant.” Arthur leaned into him tiredly, their foreheads brushing. “I just mean ... I don't want you doing. That.”
“I want to, darling,” Eames pleaded. “It's different if I want to.”
“I know, but it's still not what I want. It's not that I don't want you, I just don't think you're making proper decisions right now. Maybe when you're better. But not right now.”
He was still holding Eames' hands. He realized this when Eames' relaxed a little in his. They were so close, almost breathing against each other's lips, and Arthur wanted so badly to kiss him. He wondered if Eames was desperate to do the same, and was holding himself back for Arthur's sake.
After several long minutes, Eames asked, “What other ways?”
His voice was huskier than usual, little more than a rasp. Arthur blinked. “What?”
“To make someone happy,” said Eames. “What other ways are there?”
“Oh.” Arthur paused. “Well... You can just spend time with them. Watch a movie with them. Have an ice cream with them.” He rubbed his thumb over Eames' hand gently, feeling out of his element. “Hold hands with them.”
“Go tie-shopping with them,” Eames suggested, an unfamiliar glint in his eye. “Rearrange all their DVDs in alphabetical order ... make spreadsheets for the chores.”
Arthur was so taken aback by the joke that he let a laugh slip out, a genuine laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed for real, and he realized: that new light in Eames' eye wasn't actually unfamiliar.
Eames kissed him and it wasn't forceful or aggressive or rushed. It was deep and gentle and exploring, like he wanted to map every inch of Arthur's mouth. It was slow and it was perfect. When Eames finally pulled away he was smiling, and it was the most beautiful fucking thing Arthur had seen in his life, and they kissed again as it started to rain.
+
It was like taking forty big steps forward, and then all at once taking forty-two steps back. So fucking close to good again, and now--
Now Arthur was sitting with his back to the locked bathroom door, his head bowed.
“I made tea,” he said. The words sounded hollow. “There's three sugars in yours, the way you like.”
Silence.
“Come out, Eames. I'm not upset with you.”
More silence.
“Please.”
Silence.
Arthur sighed. He got up and returned to his bedroom and started to clean the vomit off his carpet. Nearly threw up himself when he found that milky white mingled with the bile.
Eventually, while he was throwing the stained washcloths into the washing machine, he heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. He found Eames in the kitchen, heating up the two cups of tea in the microwave. He passed Arthur's to him wordlessly, way too casual a gesture, and took a seat at the small kitchen table. Arthur sat across from him.
“Sorry about that,” said Eames, again, too casually. “Made a bit of a mess of your carpet, didn't I?”
“That's okay,” said Arthur. His head hurt. “It's cleaned up now.”
Eames raised his eyebrows. He took a sip of tea and pulled a face. “You're going to have to work on your tea-brewing skills, darling. It's like I've taught you nothing.”
Arthur clamped his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. He was trying to figure out how this had happened and Eames was brushing past it just like that. He couldn't take it.
“I told you to stop,” he said abruptly. He wished at once that he could swallow the words back, not sure what had made him say them.
Eames' eyelids lowered. “You didn't mean it.”
The words came as a shock. Arthur floundered for a response. He'd expected defensiveness, or maybe aggression or hurt, but this...
“Yes, I did.”
“You were hard. You wanted it.”
It was like the ground had opened up underneath him. Arthur felt like he was falling. Like suddenly, he was very far away.
He could hear himself saying words he knew he'd regret even as they were coming out of his mouth: “Is that what you told yourself?”
Eames didn't look up from the table. Calmly, wordlessly, he swept his mug off the table and sent it smashing across the kitchen floor. Then he stood up and walked back to the bedroom. Arthur heard the door slam shut.
He got up numbly and started cleaning the kitchen floor, too. He wondered if Eames felt that like broken mug sometimes, shattered into little pieces, making Arthur clean him up and cut himself on all of Eames' sharp edges. His hands fumbled and his throat tightened, but he didn't cry. Arthur never did.
+
The flight from Paris to the States was very long and Arthur hadn't slept a wink, which meant he'd been awake for two days. He'd had to start working right away and by the time he slogged back into his hotel room, stepped out of his shoes and loosened his tie, he didn't even know what time it was in Chicago, let alone Paris. He picked up the phone and dialled anyway, and in the silence that came before the first ring, all his worries and fears suddenly came rushing back. Eames was doing so well, but he hadn't been apart from Arthur yet. He could be sitting on the couch with a beer, watching French TV with the captions on -- or he could be out drinking, brawling, gambling. He could be hurting himself. Fuck. He could be soliciting himself somewhere. Who knew?
Then Eames picked up and Arthur could breathe again. “Morning.”
“Is it?”
“'Fraid so.”
“Sorry.”
“I wasn't asleep anyway.” He could hear a familiar creaking of couch cushions as Eames stretched. “How's Chicago?”
“Lonely. How's Paris?”
“Funny,” said Eames. “It didn't feel like that yesterday, but it's starting to. Perhaps it's a global warming thing.”
Arthur smiled, relaxing onto the bed. “I left my shirt--”
“On my pillow, I saw. Very cute. You think I'm that in love with the smell of you, don't you?”
“And how many times have you smelled it already?”
“Cheeky,” Eames scolded. “What a man does with his boyfriend's shirt in the privacy of their own bedroom is between him and the shirt.”
Arthur's mouth felt dry. They were boyfriends? He hadn't considered it like that before. He'd never really had a term for what he and Eames were, before. It made his heart feel full and strained, and he couldn't identify that emotion.
There didn't seem to be much left to say. “I miss you,” said Arthur.
“Already? You need to get a life, darling. I, on the other hand, don't have or need one, and am therefore allowed to miss you.”
“I'll call you again tomorrow.”
“I'll be right here,” Eames told him.
“I'll be home in two weeks.”
“I know, pet. I shall count the days.”
Arthur was just about to hang up when he heard Eames' faint voice say, “Wait.”
His heart gripped his throat. He snatched the phone back up to his ear.
“What is it?”
“It's ...” Eames seemed to struggle for words for a moment. Finally, a sigh. “I was trying to use the new espresso machine, and all the instructions are in French.”
The tension left Arthur's body in one smooth rush. He settled back down onto the mattress.
“I told you I'd show you how to use it once I got back.”
“I wanted an espresso. I didn't think it would be this difficult.”
“Aren't there diagrams?” Arthur asked.
“Of course there are diagrams. I just wasn't aware I was assembling the Hubble Space Telescope.”
In spite of himself, Arthur found himself smiling at the petulance in Eames' voice. “All that money spent on French classes, and you couldn't even learn enough to be able to use a coffeemaker.”
“I am exceedingly talented in many fields, love. Languages are not one of them.”
“Neither are coffee machines, I suppose.”
“Are you enjoying yourself, Arthur? Do my failings make you feel good about yourself?”
“Okay,” Arthur relented. “Go and find the instructions and read them to me.”
“Okay.” There was a silence, presumably as Eames got up with the cordless phone and went into the kitchen. “Okay, I'm looking at them now. They're--”
There was a faint sound and Arthur heard a muffled, “Oh, balls.”
“Did you just say 'oh, balls'?”
“I spilled my tea on the instructions.”
“You're drinking tea?”
“Well, since I couldn't have espresso.” Eames' tone sounded frayed.
“Is anything still legible?”
“Maybe... Do the words un double mousse système de cappuccino mean anything to you?”
“It means 'double foam cappuccino system', does that mean anything to you?”
“Oh, God.” Eames sighed. Arthur heard riffling paper. “Well, the German side is fine. Thank God we can still read the German side.”
“Actually, that'll do,” said Arthur. “Start reading them to me.”
“Wait, you speak German now too? God, Arthur, who are you?”
It took them far too long to be able to make Eames a cup of espresso, and they kept talking after that, and in the end Arthur only got about three hours of sleep, but he didn't care. He didn't mind at all, and if he stayed up talking to Eames like that every night for the next two weeks he wouldn't mind that, either.
Things had gotten better.
+
And yet.
Sometimes, when Arthur awoke in the middle of the night and felt the reassuring heat of Eames' body pressed against his, all he could think was that Eames deserved somebody better than him.
+++
The flight had been delayed.
“Call Saito,” Ariadne half-joked, slumped tiredly across an uncomfortable chair in the terminal. “He'll make them move the plane.”
“I somehow don't think so.” Cobb kept checking his watch, like he thought they were going to be late even though they were sitting right outside the gate, and had been for the past four hours. Arthur and Eames were sitting across from them. The forger had spent the past thirty minutes trying to make himself comfortable leaning against Arthur, but the plastic armrest that separated them hindered him greatly.
“Oh, to hell with this,” he said bitterly at last, and slid to the floor. Arthur watched as Eames scooted between his legs and leaned back against Arthur's chair. “Give me a massage, would you, pet?”
Arthur put down his magazine on Eames' vacated chair and obligingly dug his fingers into the taut muscle of Eames' shoulders. Eames tilted his head back and made a sound that was positively pornographic, causing the woman cradling a baby several seats down to shoot them a glare and then get up in search of another seat. Arthur flicked his gaze up to the ceiling and held it there steadily, trying to think of other things, even while his hands were expertly kneading Eames' shoulders.
“Get a room,” Ariadne said.
“They'll have one in New York, I only booked the one for Arthur,” Cobb interrupted distractedly. “With a queen-sized bed.”
“A queen-sized bed?” Eames echoed, letting his head loll forward. “Is that a joke? Did anyone else just hear Cobb try to make a joke?”
Arthur didn't want to think about the queen-sized bed that awaited them in New York. He bit his lip and dug his hands particularly tightly into either side of Eames' neck, causing the forger to wince. “Ow.”
“Sorry.” Arthur forcibly relaxed. “Why book a queen-sized bed for me beforehand, though?”
“Because I had a feeling we'd be bringing Eames along.”
“Your confidence in me is always appreciated and most touching, Cobb,” Eames said smoothly. “Almost makes me feel bad for nicking your boarding pass.”
“My--?” Cobb's brows furrowed, and he gave himself a quick pat-down. When he didn't find his boarding pass, he fixed Eames in a narrow gaze. Eames smiled and handed it to him.
Arthur knew what he was doing. He was putting on a show for Cobb -- all but singing, look at how adorably maddening and typical I am; nothing wrong here. Trying to cover up whatever disaster had gone down when they'd been under together. Arthur sighed inwardly. Cobb had not warned him beforehand that he would be confronting Eames with a trigger, and it made him furious when he thought about it too hard.
“He likes to push himself,” he'd told Eames, during the drive to the airport. “He thinks that makes it okay for him to push everyone else. You don't have to do this.”
“Arthur,” Eames had said, in a flat voice. “I'm going to New York.”
Presently Eames ran a hand down Arthur's shin. Arthur nearly bit his tongue. “That feels very good, pet.”
“Good,” Arthur said. Eames' broad shoulders were so warm between his knees. Arthur had to force his mind away from that. He stared determinedly out the window, at the runway, where planes taxied lazily back and forth.
“This is ridiculous.” Cobb sighed. “I'm going to the bathroom. Watch my hand luggage.”
“I'd better go, too,” said Arthur, once Cobb had disappeared. He let his hands drop away from Eames' shoulders. Eames sighed, but got back into his chair, and Arthur hurried away.
This would be his first and possibly only chance to speak to Cobb alone. When he reached the bathroom he found Cobb washing his hands, and pushed the door shut behind him. Arthur had never been one to beat around the bush.
“I told you he wasn't ready for this.”
“He thinks he is,” said Cobb, looking at Arthur over his shoulder in the mirror. Arthur snorted.
“And we all know Eames makes the best judgement calls about himself.” There was a pause. Arthur flushed angrily and said, “That was out of line. But you know what I mean.”
“I know. And don't you think he's had enough of people deciding things for him?”
While Arthur fumbled for a response to that, Cobb turned around to face him and grabbed a paper towel to wipe his hands with.
“Look, I was in his dream. He's got it under control now.”
“You scared the hell out of him!”
“But he didn't lose it,” said Cobb patiently. “He didn't let any projections in.”
“His nightmares are worse now, Cobb, not better. He might be able to control his dreams now but he's just shoving everything down further, where we won't see it. He still hasn't dealt with what happened to him. He's not okay. You haven't been with him for the past nine months -- I have.”
Cobb sighed. “I know. But this job -- it's important, Arthur. We can't do it without him, and he wants to do it.”
“What is it?” Arthur asked, realizing that he still didn't know the details. He'd been prepared to turn Cobb down if Eames wasn't up to scratch. Cobb looked aside, and that was Arthur's first indication that something was off.
“The client is a district attorney whose daughter was raped and killed last year. There was a man they charged with her murder, who was attached to a string of other killings, he was the boyfriend of one of the girls, but he got off on a technicality. Basically, our job is--”
He was cut off. Arthur had shoved him with all his strength into the counter. Cobb gripped the edge at his back and didn't straighten up.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Cobb?” Arthur shouted. His voice rang loudly in the small space. “You want Eames to seduce a rapist!”
“No, not exactly,” said Cobb, but he hadn't moved away from the counter, and he wasn't looking Arthur in the eyes. “It should have been a simple run, but the extractor who went in found out that the mark has some rudimentary form of subcon security. He has a history of bipolar disorder that may or may not account for that. The idea is just to provide a distraction so that we can extract the information we need. Then we wash our hands clean of it and let the DA do what he needs to do.”
“So we're murderers now,” said Arthur, breathing hard.
“This is a chance for us to do some actual good, Arthur. If the mark is the murderer, he's going to do this again until someone stops him. It doesn't have to be us directly.”
“No. We only facilitate it.” Arthur stepped closer, crowding his space. “You're not thinking, Cobb. This isn't a job for us. You're the only one of us who has kids, you're looking at this with a father's perspective. Not an extractor's. And not as our boss.”
Cobb narrowed his eyes. “You're telling me that if you had the chance to destroy one of the men who paid to go under with Eames--”
“Don't you dare.” Arthur's tone was flat and icy. “You know that if I could, I would put a bullet in every single one of them. I'm a point. My job is to protect my team. Not to let you expose them to unnecessary risks by agreeing to do something that doesn't even involve us.”
“We're getting paid for it.” Cobb turned away, finally, balled up the paper towel in his hand and threw it aggressively into the trash on his way out. “That makes us involved.”
Arthur leaned against the counter and stayed in the bathroom. It was a few minutes before he could take the frayed edge off of his breathing.
+
When Eames had nightmares, he didn't thrash around in the sheets. He didn't do anything clichéd like jolt awake in a cold sweat or scream or talk in his sleep. He suffered them with a quietness that was painful to Arthur, who couldn't always tell when a nightmare had struck, and therefore could not subsequently save him. But if he was awake, he knew. He knew by the way Eames' breathing grew faster, and the way his fingers twitched against the mattress, like a dog when it dreamt it was running. Arthur wondered what he was running away from.
Likewise, when Arthur dreamt, he was silent. And he was so glad for that.
He wasn't one to dream very often. They had started out small and fleeting and infrequent, ships in the night. But it seemed like the more Arthur experienced of Eames' post-traumatic tics and behaviours, the worse and more frequent the dreams became.
Dreams of Eames languidly wrapping those soft lips around Arthur's cock devolved gradually into dreams of him fucking Eames' mouth, making him choke. He dreamt about fucking Eames and making him hurt. And every time, he woke up achingly, obscenely hard.
Arthur's subconscious had always been an unfriendly place; it was a frequent complaint of his teammates. But he'd never been sickened by his own dreams. Originally he'd have just stayed flat on his stomach and willed his erection away, but it was so bad now that he had to slip away to the bathroom in the dark, bite his lip to keep from making a sound and jerk himself off quickly. He prayed that Eames, feigning sleep in the bedroom, wouldn't notice or hear.
He didn't understand. He was driving himself insane trying to claw these thoughts out of his head. Eames thought that Arthur didn't want to touch him, but the truth was that Arthur wanted too badly to touch him. He couldn't do it. He was so terrified that he would do something to hurt Eames or scare him off for good. He didn't even trust himself. The night he dreamt about someone else fucking Eames raw, he threw up in the toilet and felt sickeningly dizzy with lust.
Rationally, he thought perhaps it was because he didn't know what was in Eames' broken dreamscape, was the only one not to know, and in its own black, twisted way his brain was trying to fill in the gaps. Irrationally, he felt like the worst fucking scum on the planet.
And so. He lay awake at night next to Eames, who was equally awake, and they both faked sleep, and when Eames tried to cover up his bad dreams like Arthur hadn't just woken him up from one, because maybe he was afraid Arthur would leave him if he knew the content of those dreams, Arthur just laughed hollowly to himself. If Eames only knew.
They were fucked up. So hopelessly fucked up. And Arthur didn't know anymore if things would get better than this.
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