Years
Title: Years
Author: yourpalkara
Pairing/characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: character death
Word count: 2,521
Summary: And Eames watches as the years go by. Arthur wonders where they went.
The first year, Eames watches from afar. Never getting too close, never crossing that thick line between them that seems to exist.
“I need one of you to help me with an important job,” Cobb says one day. Arthur volunteers, and the speed with which he does so leads Eames to suspect that Arthur thinks maybe a little too highly of Cobb. But no, that’s not it. Arthur’d more likely go for someone like Mal. Gorgoues Mal. Eames doubts, wishes with all his might, but doubts that men are Arthur’s thing. Then again, based on Eames’ close and careful observations of Arthur’s no-nonsense, all business all the time attitude, he doubts anyone is Arthur’s thing. Eames thinks that would almost be preferable.
The second year, Eames dares talk to Arthur. It isn’t much, a “hello” here, a “nice work today” there. Not the smooth, witty chatter that usual spews from his mouth with ease. No. A stutter here, an “um-I-uh-” there. He thinks he was better off before. Before when there was a chance that Arthur thought of him as anything other than an idiot. At least it gets better as the year progresses. Full sentences are formed and complete conversations are had. Arthur, well, he’s polite enough. But Eames doesn’t want polite.
The third year, Eames’ man of his dreams becomes quite literally that. Eames dreams up an imaginary Arthur, one that talks to and kisses him, fucks him like sex is air. It’s wonderful and perfect and all comes crashing down the moment two Arthurs happen to show up in a dream. Eames lets go of the waist of the projection and tries not to look either of them in the eye. So Arthur has decided he’s allowed to pop right into Eames’ dreams, that bastard. Acting quickly, Eames pulls out a gun, shoots Arthur, shoot himself, and upon waking, can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. At least now Arthur knows. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Arthur gets up, starts to walk away, stops and says,
"I’m sorry, Eames”, and for another year, doesn’t mention it again.
The fourth year, Eames kisses Arthur. It’s late one night and no one is around. He wouldn’t have thought of doing it, but he has grown sick of sitting there, trying to pretend Arthur isn’t sitting halfway across the room undressing Eames with his eyes. Eames knows he is.
When their tongues untangle, when they pull apart, Arthur smiles.
“I’m guessing you’ve done this before,” he says. Eames has almost forgotten about the dreams, but he knows Arthur never will. Eames nods involuntarily. Arthur leaves it at that, and is gone almost immediately.
They kiss twice more that year, the kisses getting shorter each time. The third one isn’t even on the lips. But then, Arthur hangs around longer after each one. Eames doesn’t know whether or not to call this progress.
The fifth year, Eames ensures that Arthur’s name is always accompanied by a term of endearment. Darling Arthur, dear Arthur. My love. My pet. Arthur gets the same look on his face each and every time, and Eames only smirks, confident that Arthur loves it. But after receiving that look for the five hundredth time, the only thing Eames is confident about is that Arthur hates it. To Arthur, Eames is nearly always Mr. Eames. Eames has never been called this before in his life. And they don’t kiss at all that year. No, Eames thinks. Definitely not progress.
The sixth year, Eames is pinned against a warehouse floor by Arthur. He isn’t entirely sure how he got into this situation, and isn’t sure where it’s going. But then Arthur presses his lips hard against Eames’ and simultaneously pulls off Eames’ shirt, and he’s sure where it’s going.
Once Arthur has done a thorough job of undressing Eames, he sits up as though admiring his work. Eames pulls him back down by his tie and more clothing comes off. What happens next is long and beautiful and was worth waiting six years for.
It starts off as a weekly thing, each time almost identical to the first, except taking place more often in the comfort of Eames’ or Arthur’s bed. But then, then Eames realizes that through the years of waiting for this man whom he fucks every week on a cold hard floor, against a wall, on a flimsy mattress; he was acquired a skill known as patience. He’s never had any need of this before, bringing women or men or sometimes more than one home before he knows their name, and waking up to find them gone before he has a chance to find it out. And Eames, well, he doesn’t want to take itslowly with Arthur, but what he wants is to have waited all that time for something more than casual sex. And thus it becomes a special occasion. Eames regrets this decision at the start, but then it’s the fourth time Eames has woken up next to Arthur, smiling in peaceful sleep, his arm around Eames’ waist, and patience, though Eames isn’t quite sure how to spell it, becomes his favorite word.
The seventh year, Eames grudgingly agrees to keep it a secret. From the rest of the team, at least. They wouldn’t understand, apparently. But anything for Arthur, right?
"Still working with that stick-in-the-mud?” he cleverly says to Cobb, while his heart skips at beat at the mention of Arthur’s name. Then he goes on about a lack of imagination. Cobb finds this believable. He would, Eames thinks. Only because he hasn’t been in bed with Arthur.
“Mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling,” Eames slips up. Arthur shoots him a look. None of that. Eames walks away at this utter ridiculousness. Like anyone could’ve heard that. Like it would’ve mattered if they did.
Anything for Arthur.
The eighth year, Eames showers Arthur with apologies after everyone finds out.
“It’s okay,” Arthur tells him. “It isn’t your fault.” But they both know it sort of is.
Eames is the one who practically throws himself at Arthur upon waking up from a less-than-successful job. The one that straddles Arthur’s hips as two sets of lips crash against each other.
But then Arthur is the one who refuses to let his hands untangle from Eames’ hair, not even when the sound of Cobb clearing his throat rings loudly through the air.
“Well,” Saito pipes up when the two finally come to the realization that there are others in the room. “That was unexpected.”
“What the hell?” Yusuf says. “No it wasn’t. I saw that coming from a mile.” Ariadne just looks disappointed.
“See?” Eames says, looking at Arthur. “I told you they would understand.” He then takes Arthur’s hand and pulls him out of the chair where he remains firmly seated. Eames leads him out of the room to finish what they started.
The ninth year, Eames leaves Arthur’s apartment for probably the last time after probably their last fight. Outside it’s pouring and Arthur follows him into the rain. He’s wearing barely any clothing, nothing warm, anyway, and is quite obviously trying to suppress a shiver. Eames’ instinct is to take off his jacket and drape it with care over Arthur’s shoulders, but he knows he would never get it back.
Not that he cares about that.
“So…that’s it then,” Eames says, with one last look at Arthur.
Oh, who is he kidding? It’s not his last look. They’ll still have to work together, every damn day.
“That’s the end.”
Won’t that be fun.
Arthur nods. He nods. He says that yes, it’s the end. Eames figures he’ll just walk away, leave Arthur standing their alone in the rain.
Isn’t that what he deserves?
So with another last look, he is gone.
The tenth year, Eames and Arthur wake up in limbo. Eames takes Arthur’s hand and helps him out of the water. He doesn’t let go.
“So that’s it then,” Eames says, repeating words spoken not so long but forever ago. That had felt it too. “That’s the end.”
“No,” Arthur says, as his grip on Eames’ hand tightens, as he pulls Eames towards him. “The beginning.” They kiss, of course.
The beginning. The fucking beginning. This repeats in Eames’ head an annoying number of times for the rest of the day. But then it’s night and there he is, lying on the warm beach. There Arthur is, asleep in his arms, and maybe this is what he’s always wanted, he thinks. And they’re the only things that are real anymore, he thinks. The only things that matter. So the beginning of getting out of this together, it has to be; or the start of being stuck here alone.
The sixtieth year, Arthur wakes up in a dream. He knows it is because Eames is beside him. Eames, whom he hasn’t seen in years. They’re both young again, he also notices at last. But Eames has always been young in Arthur’s mind.
It’s a dream, but a little plastic cube, heavy in Arthur’s pocket is telling him differently. The weight of it feels foreign and wrong and disorienting. But it’s sitting there telling him, telling him that his peaceful existence of the last fifty years has been a lie and that this is the only thing that’s real, the only thing that matters. Arthur watches as Eames’ eyes open slowly and the smile on his face is so real, but it can’t be because Arthur hasn’t seen that smile in years. It’s a dream and that smile will be gone when he opens his eyes. He knows it will. Arthur knows it will.
Then it’s a week later and it was the totem that was right in the end.
Arthur thinks that maybe if Eames’d known Mal better, this wouldn’t have happened. But of course it would’ve because Arthur himself can barely remember her. She killed herself, right? After spending decades stuck in limbo?
He guesses that’s how the story always ends.
At the funeral a few days later, Arthur is dressed as clean-cut as ever, his shirt tucked neatly into wrinkle-free pants, his tie perfectly even, though it took him four tries to get it right. There’s not a hair out of place, slicked back with an obscene amount of gel, though that’s mostly to keep himself from running his fingers through it in frustration, sorrow, and other emotions he couldn’t quite put a name to.. His tear-stained face, however, is a mess, he notices as he accidentally catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. But it’s probably his imagination.
Then suddenly he’s gone from half-heartedly worrying about his appearance to having about a minute and a half to think of something to say to sum up Eames’ existence. He probably should’ve thought of something before this point, he doesn’t realize until now. Everybody else did, with their fucking note cards, with their perfectly composed speeches. But everybody else didn’t…didn’t know him like Arthur did.
Arthur goes up there and talks for a moment, just a moment, all the while thinking about everything he isn’t talking about.
Arthur doesn’t talk about the first time he met Eames. Or the months that followed. Watching Eames watching him. Thinking, what the hell is he looking at? There’s something on my face, something on shirt. Hoping that Eames didn’t see him looking at Eames looking at Arthur looking at Eames looking at Arthur looking at Eames.
Arthur doesn’t talk about all the things he didn’t talk about with Eames once words finally escaped his trembling lips. Hearing the brilliantly executed jokes Eames threw around in endless conversations with others, and Arthur couldn’t possibly keep up with it. So he kept it casual and that made it awkward and so around Arthur and nobody else in the world, Eames barely uttered a word.
Arthur doesn’t talk about the jealousy he felt for the projection of himself upon learning of the intense relationship he was apparently having with Eames in his mind. Arthur had shown up once, just in time to almost see something, and found out that kind of seeing yourself with the one you kind of love is the best kind of porn, and the worst kind of nightmare.
Arthur doesn’t talk about Eames’ tongue in Arthur’s mouth. It took them four years to get to that point. Took them four minutes to let go of each other the first time, and four rolls of Arthur’s loaded die when he got home that night to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how at first he’d figured Eames didn’t know his name. Figured Eames was calling him patronizing name after patronizing name because Arthur didn’t really mean anything to him. But then “Darling” became “Arthur darling” became “Arthur, my darling” and Arthur could hear the meaning spilling out of these words and if only he could bring himself to say something other than Mr. Eames, but those were the only words that ever came out.
Kiss me again, Mr. Eames.
Harder, Mr. Eames, that feels so good.
Mr. Eames, will you marry me?
Arthur was sure he’d sooner drop the title than get to that point.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how he didn’t even know how it happened. How one minute he’d been innocently working on researching their mark, and the next, there he was, his lips on Eames’ lips, and his hands on Eames’ buttons. How he had absolutely nothing at all to do with bringing on what happened next.
He doesn’t talk about it because he had everything to do with it.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how he wanted to tell the rest of the team, he did. But what about the problem where they had something nearly perfect happening and though Arthur had strived for it in everything he’d done his whole entire life, he had never had anything nearly perfect? What about the problem where making this about something more than just he and Eames could ruin that perfection?
Of course in the end it had been not telling everyone that almost ruined everything.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how why he would have followed Eames out into the fucking rain if he really wanted him to leave. Standing there, everything, his eyes, his arms, his dripping wet hair, everything begging Eames to be begging Arthur to change his mind. In his imagination, Arthur stopped being stubborn and started taking Eames’ hand and leading him back in to his apartment where they’d strip off all their soggy clothing, crawl into bed, fuck going to work, fuck the miserable weather, and fuck each other for the rest of the day.
Then suddenly Eames was gone and he knew that was what he deserved
Arthur definitely doesn’t talk about the beginning that ended it all.
Instead, he holds back tears and says like he means it, which he does, there’s just so much he means more:
He was a wonderful man.
I’ve known him for years and years.
I’ll miss him very much.
Author: yourpalkara
Pairing/characters: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: character death
Word count: 2,521
Summary: And Eames watches as the years go by. Arthur wonders where they went.
The first year, Eames watches from afar. Never getting too close, never crossing that thick line between them that seems to exist.
“I need one of you to help me with an important job,” Cobb says one day. Arthur volunteers, and the speed with which he does so leads Eames to suspect that Arthur thinks maybe a little too highly of Cobb. But no, that’s not it. Arthur’d more likely go for someone like Mal. Gorgoues Mal. Eames doubts, wishes with all his might, but doubts that men are Arthur’s thing. Then again, based on Eames’ close and careful observations of Arthur’s no-nonsense, all business all the time attitude, he doubts anyone is Arthur’s thing. Eames thinks that would almost be preferable.
The second year, Eames dares talk to Arthur. It isn’t much, a “hello” here, a “nice work today” there. Not the smooth, witty chatter that usual spews from his mouth with ease. No. A stutter here, an “um-I-uh-” there. He thinks he was better off before. Before when there was a chance that Arthur thought of him as anything other than an idiot. At least it gets better as the year progresses. Full sentences are formed and complete conversations are had. Arthur, well, he’s polite enough. But Eames doesn’t want polite.
The third year, Eames’ man of his dreams becomes quite literally that. Eames dreams up an imaginary Arthur, one that talks to and kisses him, fucks him like sex is air. It’s wonderful and perfect and all comes crashing down the moment two Arthurs happen to show up in a dream. Eames lets go of the waist of the projection and tries not to look either of them in the eye. So Arthur has decided he’s allowed to pop right into Eames’ dreams, that bastard. Acting quickly, Eames pulls out a gun, shoots Arthur, shoot himself, and upon waking, can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. At least now Arthur knows. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Arthur gets up, starts to walk away, stops and says,
"I’m sorry, Eames”, and for another year, doesn’t mention it again.
The fourth year, Eames kisses Arthur. It’s late one night and no one is around. He wouldn’t have thought of doing it, but he has grown sick of sitting there, trying to pretend Arthur isn’t sitting halfway across the room undressing Eames with his eyes. Eames knows he is.
When their tongues untangle, when they pull apart, Arthur smiles.
“I’m guessing you’ve done this before,” he says. Eames has almost forgotten about the dreams, but he knows Arthur never will. Eames nods involuntarily. Arthur leaves it at that, and is gone almost immediately.
They kiss twice more that year, the kisses getting shorter each time. The third one isn’t even on the lips. But then, Arthur hangs around longer after each one. Eames doesn’t know whether or not to call this progress.
The fifth year, Eames ensures that Arthur’s name is always accompanied by a term of endearment. Darling Arthur, dear Arthur. My love. My pet. Arthur gets the same look on his face each and every time, and Eames only smirks, confident that Arthur loves it. But after receiving that look for the five hundredth time, the only thing Eames is confident about is that Arthur hates it. To Arthur, Eames is nearly always Mr. Eames. Eames has never been called this before in his life. And they don’t kiss at all that year. No, Eames thinks. Definitely not progress.
The sixth year, Eames is pinned against a warehouse floor by Arthur. He isn’t entirely sure how he got into this situation, and isn’t sure where it’s going. But then Arthur presses his lips hard against Eames’ and simultaneously pulls off Eames’ shirt, and he’s sure where it’s going.
Once Arthur has done a thorough job of undressing Eames, he sits up as though admiring his work. Eames pulls him back down by his tie and more clothing comes off. What happens next is long and beautiful and was worth waiting six years for.
It starts off as a weekly thing, each time almost identical to the first, except taking place more often in the comfort of Eames’ or Arthur’s bed. But then, then Eames realizes that through the years of waiting for this man whom he fucks every week on a cold hard floor, against a wall, on a flimsy mattress; he was acquired a skill known as patience. He’s never had any need of this before, bringing women or men or sometimes more than one home before he knows their name, and waking up to find them gone before he has a chance to find it out. And Eames, well, he doesn’t want to take itslowly with Arthur, but what he wants is to have waited all that time for something more than casual sex. And thus it becomes a special occasion. Eames regrets this decision at the start, but then it’s the fourth time Eames has woken up next to Arthur, smiling in peaceful sleep, his arm around Eames’ waist, and patience, though Eames isn’t quite sure how to spell it, becomes his favorite word.
The seventh year, Eames grudgingly agrees to keep it a secret. From the rest of the team, at least. They wouldn’t understand, apparently. But anything for Arthur, right?
"Still working with that stick-in-the-mud?” he cleverly says to Cobb, while his heart skips at beat at the mention of Arthur’s name. Then he goes on about a lack of imagination. Cobb finds this believable. He would, Eames thinks. Only because he hasn’t been in bed with Arthur.
“Mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling,” Eames slips up. Arthur shoots him a look. None of that. Eames walks away at this utter ridiculousness. Like anyone could’ve heard that. Like it would’ve mattered if they did.
Anything for Arthur.
The eighth year, Eames showers Arthur with apologies after everyone finds out.
“It’s okay,” Arthur tells him. “It isn’t your fault.” But they both know it sort of is.
Eames is the one who practically throws himself at Arthur upon waking up from a less-than-successful job. The one that straddles Arthur’s hips as two sets of lips crash against each other.
But then Arthur is the one who refuses to let his hands untangle from Eames’ hair, not even when the sound of Cobb clearing his throat rings loudly through the air.
“Well,” Saito pipes up when the two finally come to the realization that there are others in the room. “That was unexpected.”
“What the hell?” Yusuf says. “No it wasn’t. I saw that coming from a mile.” Ariadne just looks disappointed.
“See?” Eames says, looking at Arthur. “I told you they would understand.” He then takes Arthur’s hand and pulls him out of the chair where he remains firmly seated. Eames leads him out of the room to finish what they started.
The ninth year, Eames leaves Arthur’s apartment for probably the last time after probably their last fight. Outside it’s pouring and Arthur follows him into the rain. He’s wearing barely any clothing, nothing warm, anyway, and is quite obviously trying to suppress a shiver. Eames’ instinct is to take off his jacket and drape it with care over Arthur’s shoulders, but he knows he would never get it back.
Not that he cares about that.
“So…that’s it then,” Eames says, with one last look at Arthur.
Oh, who is he kidding? It’s not his last look. They’ll still have to work together, every damn day.
“That’s the end.”
Won’t that be fun.
Arthur nods. He nods. He says that yes, it’s the end. Eames figures he’ll just walk away, leave Arthur standing their alone in the rain.
Isn’t that what he deserves?
So with another last look, he is gone.
The tenth year, Eames and Arthur wake up in limbo. Eames takes Arthur’s hand and helps him out of the water. He doesn’t let go.
“So that’s it then,” Eames says, repeating words spoken not so long but forever ago. That had felt it too. “That’s the end.”
“No,” Arthur says, as his grip on Eames’ hand tightens, as he pulls Eames towards him. “The beginning.” They kiss, of course.
The beginning. The fucking beginning. This repeats in Eames’ head an annoying number of times for the rest of the day. But then it’s night and there he is, lying on the warm beach. There Arthur is, asleep in his arms, and maybe this is what he’s always wanted, he thinks. And they’re the only things that are real anymore, he thinks. The only things that matter. So the beginning of getting out of this together, it has to be; or the start of being stuck here alone.
The sixtieth year, Arthur wakes up in a dream. He knows it is because Eames is beside him. Eames, whom he hasn’t seen in years. They’re both young again, he also notices at last. But Eames has always been young in Arthur’s mind.
It’s a dream, but a little plastic cube, heavy in Arthur’s pocket is telling him differently. The weight of it feels foreign and wrong and disorienting. But it’s sitting there telling him, telling him that his peaceful existence of the last fifty years has been a lie and that this is the only thing that’s real, the only thing that matters. Arthur watches as Eames’ eyes open slowly and the smile on his face is so real, but it can’t be because Arthur hasn’t seen that smile in years. It’s a dream and that smile will be gone when he opens his eyes. He knows it will. Arthur knows it will.
Then it’s a week later and it was the totem that was right in the end.
Arthur thinks that maybe if Eames’d known Mal better, this wouldn’t have happened. But of course it would’ve because Arthur himself can barely remember her. She killed herself, right? After spending decades stuck in limbo?
He guesses that’s how the story always ends.
At the funeral a few days later, Arthur is dressed as clean-cut as ever, his shirt tucked neatly into wrinkle-free pants, his tie perfectly even, though it took him four tries to get it right. There’s not a hair out of place, slicked back with an obscene amount of gel, though that’s mostly to keep himself from running his fingers through it in frustration, sorrow, and other emotions he couldn’t quite put a name to.. His tear-stained face, however, is a mess, he notices as he accidentally catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror. But it’s probably his imagination.
Then suddenly he’s gone from half-heartedly worrying about his appearance to having about a minute and a half to think of something to say to sum up Eames’ existence. He probably should’ve thought of something before this point, he doesn’t realize until now. Everybody else did, with their fucking note cards, with their perfectly composed speeches. But everybody else didn’t…didn’t know him like Arthur did.
Arthur goes up there and talks for a moment, just a moment, all the while thinking about everything he isn’t talking about.
Arthur doesn’t talk about the first time he met Eames. Or the months that followed. Watching Eames watching him. Thinking, what the hell is he looking at? There’s something on my face, something on shirt. Hoping that Eames didn’t see him looking at Eames looking at Arthur looking at Eames looking at Arthur looking at Eames.
Arthur doesn’t talk about all the things he didn’t talk about with Eames once words finally escaped his trembling lips. Hearing the brilliantly executed jokes Eames threw around in endless conversations with others, and Arthur couldn’t possibly keep up with it. So he kept it casual and that made it awkward and so around Arthur and nobody else in the world, Eames barely uttered a word.
Arthur doesn’t talk about the jealousy he felt for the projection of himself upon learning of the intense relationship he was apparently having with Eames in his mind. Arthur had shown up once, just in time to almost see something, and found out that kind of seeing yourself with the one you kind of love is the best kind of porn, and the worst kind of nightmare.
Arthur doesn’t talk about Eames’ tongue in Arthur’s mouth. It took them four years to get to that point. Took them four minutes to let go of each other the first time, and four rolls of Arthur’s loaded die when he got home that night to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how at first he’d figured Eames didn’t know his name. Figured Eames was calling him patronizing name after patronizing name because Arthur didn’t really mean anything to him. But then “Darling” became “Arthur darling” became “Arthur, my darling” and Arthur could hear the meaning spilling out of these words and if only he could bring himself to say something other than Mr. Eames, but those were the only words that ever came out.
Kiss me again, Mr. Eames.
Harder, Mr. Eames, that feels so good.
Mr. Eames, will you marry me?
Arthur was sure he’d sooner drop the title than get to that point.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how he didn’t even know how it happened. How one minute he’d been innocently working on researching their mark, and the next, there he was, his lips on Eames’ lips, and his hands on Eames’ buttons. How he had absolutely nothing at all to do with bringing on what happened next.
He doesn’t talk about it because he had everything to do with it.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how he wanted to tell the rest of the team, he did. But what about the problem where they had something nearly perfect happening and though Arthur had strived for it in everything he’d done his whole entire life, he had never had anything nearly perfect? What about the problem where making this about something more than just he and Eames could ruin that perfection?
Of course in the end it had been not telling everyone that almost ruined everything.
Arthur doesn’t talk about how why he would have followed Eames out into the fucking rain if he really wanted him to leave. Standing there, everything, his eyes, his arms, his dripping wet hair, everything begging Eames to be begging Arthur to change his mind. In his imagination, Arthur stopped being stubborn and started taking Eames’ hand and leading him back in to his apartment where they’d strip off all their soggy clothing, crawl into bed, fuck going to work, fuck the miserable weather, and fuck each other for the rest of the day.
Then suddenly Eames was gone and he knew that was what he deserved
Arthur definitely doesn’t talk about the beginning that ended it all.
Instead, he holds back tears and says like he means it, which he does, there’s just so much he means more:
He was a wonderful man.
I’ve known him for years and years.
I’ll miss him very much.