the_ragnarok (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_ragnarok) wrote2011-03-19 08:53 pm
the_ragnarok) wrote2011-03-19 08:53 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Kiss Trick, 11/?
Fair warning - this section kinda ends in a cliffhanger. If that kind of thing bothers you, you might want to wait for the next installment.
They split up, after the job, taking separate routes. Ariadne nods at Eames as she turns away, mouthing Call me. Even Arthur takes another way home, veering sharply away at the platform. Eames rents a car.
It's only a few hours, but they're all his. He's grateful for it, actually, the chance to clear his head from this job, to think. Eames is slightly worried.
Alex was Alex; you don't always know how you'll react to characters before you try them on under field conditions, so Eames can't beat himself up too much about that. And anyway it worked out in the end, worked beautifully. Eames could tell as much from Cobb's satisfied expression as they left the dream.
But the mirrors. Those weren't entirely expected.
It's a classic technique. Forgers, especially careless or inexperienced ones, often can't keep a good hand on their reflections. What you see is sometimes painfully far from what you should get. Eames himself tends to come out in mirrors as – well, himself, but others are less fortunate. People become forgers for all manner of reasons, and self-loathing is hardly an uncommon one.
So he built this aversion into Alex, made her hate and fear mirrors, but he didn't know why until he came into her. Shockingly remiss of him, in hindsight; then again, hindsight. Nothing to be done for that.
The bit with the painting is the one that troubles him. Now that he's in his own right mind, he can think of it by name: Portrait of Emiliana Concha De Ossa. Not a particularly well known piece, by an artist most people have never heard of.
And still, she was Eames' first love. That she bubbled into the surface of the dream is... troubling.
But there's no use worrying about that now. Eames turns up the radio to muffle his thoughts. Home, soon. Home and Arthur. That should make everything better.
~~
In spite of everything, deep down inside, Arthur is a creature of habit. Eames has long known this, observed the fact over numerous jobs. After a job, Arthur will – almost without fail – get drunk off his arse and go searching for a good hard fuck. Contrarily, when he finds said fuck, Arthur will as often as not proceed to be as hostile as humanly possible.
This pattern has manifested in odd ways over the course of their relationship. Arthur does get drunk, becomes simultaneously handsy and sulky. Eames finds this endearing, more than anything, content to let Arthur play push-and-pull until he succumbs and drags Eames to bed, pawing at him and writhing.
As a matter of fact, Eames is quite looking forward to this. There's something reliable about Arthur's body. Eames is good with his hands, whatever other failings he may have, and it's comforting to know that he can give Arthur pleasure, especially when he so obviously needs it.
So it's something of a surprise to come home and find Arthur stone-cold sober and pacing the kitchen.
"Darling?" Eames says, uncertain of himself and exasperated with it.
Arthur looks up at him, his lovely face blank, and says, "Will you fuck me if I ask you to?"
"I – " Eames swallows his answer, because – well, satisfaction, right, obviously, and he did say he'd do whatever Arthur wanted, but –
But Arthur's ears are turning red, and he rapidly says, "I mean. Your fingers." The blush deepens, painful-looking. "I want – "
Relief blooms through Eames – that, yes, of course he will. "Of course," he repeats aloud. "Come to bed, Arthur."
It's strange, seeing all Arthur's accumulated post-job nervous energy focused so clearly, without the haze of alcohol or the distractions of the games played inside his own mind to take away from it. How he takes his clothes off to reveal lovely smooth skin that Eames' fingers itch to touch, how he lies in bed without a word.
Eames wastes no time undressing, coming to lie beside Arthur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, smoothing a hand down his back. "How do you want it?"
"Just," Arthur says, "this," and he rolls to lie on his back, legs spread.
There's a tube of lubricant in the nightstand drawer. Eames doesn't often need it but he knows Arthur does, hears the slick noises when Arthur's fingering himself in the dark of night. And now, with Arthur spread out and looking at him beseechingly, that seems like such a dreadfully lonely thought that Eames can't bear it.
So he kisses Arthur, deep and thorough and good, trying to put all the depth of his affection into it, as he touches Arthur in the way he asked for.
Eames enjoys this, too, in a strange way. The freedom to touch Arthur where no one else is allowed to, where he's vulnerable, easy to hurt or please. Eames is trying hard for the latter.
The technicalities aren't difficult, things Eames mastered years before in other relationships for far worse reasons. Arthur gasps when Eames pushes a finger into him, head tilting back into the pillow. His eyes shut when Eames strokes him deep, the shadow of his eyelashes falling across his cheek, beautiful and strangely fragile.
There is a method to this, a way to make Arthur come apart, and Eames follows it. He kisses Arthur, mumbles nonsense into his ear. He's not certain whether Arthur wants a hand on his cock or not, but the question's rendered moot when Arthur curses and grabs himself, coming messily over the two of them.
When Eames tries to move away to get a towel, Arthur holds on to him. Eames lies down, arms open, and lets Arthur burrow into him securely.
"You'll be filthy in the morning," he says, just as a reminder.
"I know." Arthur's forehead is damp against Eames' shoulder. The friction where their thighs meet is fascinating, a combination of the sharp drag of hair and the sweet cling of skin. Eames kisses Arthur's face, over and over, unable to stop, not wanting to.
Arthur doesn't push him away. Never did, not once since they started this – well, a few times perhaps, out of some misguided worry for Eames' feelings or some such nonsense. But not for sheer irritation, never out of an honest wish not to be touched. Arthur just turns his face up, falling fast asleep, a welcome weight growing steadily heavier.
He is truly, truly lovely, his Arthur, his face and his hands and his skill with a gun, and Eames is hopelessly consumed by devotion for him.
Eames has a tendency to fall in love with beautiful things, to desire them in the way that they were made to be experienced, and that's well enough when they're paintings or sculptures. Art is meant to be looked at, but people are meant to be touched. If Eames had to stay away from Arthur as they are, as this goes, he can't imagine what he'll do with himself. He tightens his arms around Arthur, who squirms sleepily within Eames' grasp.
Right now, with the warmth of them in their nest of blankets, it's hard to imagine refusing Arthur anything, hard to imagine anything but want. Eames smooths down Arthur's hair, a gesture turned into a habit by now. Arthur responds by stirring and trying to extricate himself.
"Going somewhere?" Eames says, nonsensical and maudlin after the exertions of the day.
"Gotta get clean," Arthur says blearily. His attempt to move away is half-hearted at best, and he stills when Eames presses him back against the bed.
"Stay here," Eames says, and moves to find a wet towel for to clean his darling with.
"That wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be," Arthur says, eyes half-open as Eames washes him clean.
"What?" Eames puts the towel aside where it'll dry without making everything smell of damp.
"Asking." Arthur's eyes flutter close. Eames feels odd for a second, unsure. He wishes he could be entirely certain Arthur wasn't being sarcastic, but Arthur's already asleep when he thinks to ask.
He can't fall asleep as easily so he moves away, to spend the night next to his laptop. No point in waking Arthur because he's restless. He's browsing idly when something pops – a Google search alert.
"Is that so," he says, to himself.
He's startled to hear, "What?" from behind him. Arthur's leaning against the wall, rumbled and sleepy, ridiculously soft-looking. Eames yields to temptation and leaves his chair to lean into the wall next to Arthur, tucking am arm around his waist.
"Why are you up?" he says into Arthur's neck.
He feels rather than sees Arthur shrug. "Woke up and you weren't there."
The burst of warmth this feels Eames with is truly ridiculous. "Go back to bed, darling. I'll be along shortly."
Arthur snorts. "Right. Shortly. By which you mean at five AM."
It's a short enough span of times by some comparisons, but Eames is too drained for even that familiar argument. He huffs and untangles himself from Arthur.
"And besides," Arthur says, closing the distance Eames opened between them, "I want to know what you were talking to yourself about."
No point keeping it, especially since it's likely to be relevant to the job. "I keep track," Eames says, "of several pieces – if they get sold I make sure to get a notification. Mostly it's for items of personal interest," Arthur nods understanding at this, "but I also tracked the sculpture we tried to capture Bayliss with."
"And something just pinged," Arthur says, lips curving into a small smile. "So what are you waiting for? Let's take a look."
But when Eames clicks on it, it's the wrong name. "It's a drawing," Arthur says, reaching for the screen and dropping his hand. His brow furrows in a small frown. "This looks familiar. I think I've seen it somewhere."
Likely he did, inside Eames' head if not elsewhere. "False alarm," Eames says, closing the tab.
"Are you coming to bed now?" Arthur asks.
Eames stands up and kisses him. "Two minutes. On the clock." Arthur rolls his eyes at him, but goes. Eames opens the tab again.
"Portrait of Emiliana" by Giovvani Boldini was sold to an unknown bidder for –
Eames shuts the laptop lid before looking at the price. Doubtlessly it won't be what she's worth. Arthur's expecting him in bed. Best not keep him waiting.
~~
They take another job soon after that, at Arthur's insistence.
"I need to get the taste of Cobb's idiocy out of my mouth," he mutters, but Eames knows his heart's not really into it since Arthur decorated the envelope with Cobb's share of the take with a little smiley face.
The job's a simple in-and-out, one level, the two of them putting it quickly together. It's a few hours by plane, then sneaking into the mark's apartment. It's almost fun, actually. It's no complicated art heist, but Eames will never cease to be charmed by the sight of Arthur wielding bolt cutters.
Arthur goes to poke at the mark's mental safes and Eames lurks around and sees that the projections don't get too unruly. Everything goes just fine, until he feels something cold at the base of his neck and everything goes black.
~~
The first thing he sees, coming awake, is Arthur's snarling face.
"Did we get it?" he says, blearily.
"That's not the fucking question," Arthur says. His face is white, tight-lipped with fury. "The question would be, where the fuck did you disappear to for an hour and a half?"
Eames opens his mouth to answer, closes it again. "Places," he says, briefly. The memory is vague, but it feels like it's fading in reverse, growing clearer as time passes instead of the other way around. There was a vault, and a hall, and a woman in a shawl... Something, perhaps he's just spouting bits of half-memorized poetry. Probably it's nothing.
Arthur's eyes are quick on him, darting up and down Eames' form. Checking for damage, most likely. Arthur's hardly going to ogle him in this place and time. From the slow relaxation of Arthur's posture, Eames supposes he passed inspection. More so when Arthur defrosts enough to nod and say, "We got the intel." A smile cracks across his face. "You should have seen the moves I pulled in the glasshouse section. Remind me to tell you about it later." The frown reappears. "But don't think I'm letting you off the hook."
"Darling," Eames says, motioning until Arthur gives him a hand up. "I'm well aware that I'm quite thoroughly hooked, with no hope of reprieve. There's really no need to grind it in further."
Arthur helps him up, and Eames briefly treasures the strength of Arthur's grasp, the rough
beauty of the skin of his palms. They're working hands, and Eames always had a weakness for well-wrought instruments.
"Puns won't get you out of this, either," Arthur says warningly, but Eames can see the cracks in his resolve.
"How about flattery?" he says, winningly, and Arthur flips him off. Eames grins, then, and settles next to Arthur for the ride home, already counting cash in the back of his mind, gleeful, the last ninety minutes of the dream all but forgotten.
~~
The envelope is a good one, heavy cream-colored paper that Eames runs an appreciative finger across before ripping open.
He must have made a sound, opening it. From across the room, Arthur swivels around in his chair and asks, "What is it?"
"A job offer," Eames says, slightly strangled. "Of sorts."
Arthur rises. "Who's it from?" He's frowning a little. Their offers mostly go through him, he's the one with all the formalized contacts in his little black book.
This, Eames realizes distantly, Is going to be very bad. "From Bayliss," he says, at length.
Arthur stops where he is. "A double-cross?" His voice is warier than the question warrants. Arthur's done his share of professional treachery.
"No." Eames closes his eyes. "He wants me to do something personal for him." The paper specifies nothing, only a time and a place, but Eames knows the rest already. In hindsight, it's pretty fucking obvious, isn't it?
"Does he," Arthur says, quiet. He comes no closer. "And what is he paying?"
"Doesn't say." Although Eames knows. The payment is in what Bayliss won't do, if Eames is obedient.
Arthur goes back to his chair, turning to his work. He doesn't say anything.
"So," Eames says, slipping the paper back into the envelope. "What do you think?"
Arthur's back is turned to Eames, but Eames can see tension writ plainly in the set of his shoulders. "Why the hell are you even bothering to ask me?" Arthur's voice is dull and flat.
"Oh, I don't know," Eames says, in the sing-song voice he knows Arthur detests."Perhaps because I believed we were a team. Or because I respect your bloody opinion, how about that?"
"But you know what I'm going to say." If Arthur doesn't turn around in the next two minutes, Eames silently vows, I will strangle him until he's sorry. "And you're going to do it anyway. So why bother asking?"
Eames is oddly hurt by this. "I wouldn't," he says. Arthur, at last, turns to him, with such a disbelieving look that it's practically an insult. "I wouldn't," Eames says again, softer. "For all that you may think of me, I wouldn't involve you in something like this without your approval."
"No," Arthur says, tensely. "You'd just go and do it yourself, because that's much better, you taking a job like this with no fail-safes and no backup. That's just great."
"Believe it or not, Arthur, I have managed to take perfectly good care of myself before you came along," Eames snaps, out of patience at last. "If I'm going to talk to you about this, you could at least do me the kindness of listening to the actual bloody words coming out of my mouth."
Arthur stands up and walks to Eames, determination written in the set of his shoulders and the rigid lines of his arms. "This isn't a choice for me," Arthur says, quiet and intense. "If you go in, so do I. So if you've already made that choice for me, at least have the decency to stop being such a fucking asshole about it."
Eames stares at Arthur. "You shouldn't come into this," he says at last. "This is a bad deal. I know it is."
Arthur leans closer, right up in Eames' personal space. "Then why," his voice rises momentarily, then quieted again, "take it?"
Eames lets out a long breath. He'd close his eyes if he thought it would do any good.
"Because I've no choice, either," he says, and Arthur blinks and takes a step back.
"There's always a choice," he says, the bloody hypocrite. "You know what? I have a choice. You're right. I made it, and I'll stand by it. What's your excuse?"
"Why, Arthur," Eames says, a mirthless smile stretching across his lips. "Can't you tell? I'm doing it in the name of love."
"The fuck you are," Arthur says, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I don't even know why I'm trying. I knew this wasn't going to go anywhere." He turns to the office and shuts the door quietly behind him. Eames has a feeling he won't see Arthur again tonight.
And the hell of it is, Eames was completely fucking honest. He meant every single goddamned word.
They split up, after the job, taking separate routes. Ariadne nods at Eames as she turns away, mouthing Call me. Even Arthur takes another way home, veering sharply away at the platform. Eames rents a car.
It's only a few hours, but they're all his. He's grateful for it, actually, the chance to clear his head from this job, to think. Eames is slightly worried.
Alex was Alex; you don't always know how you'll react to characters before you try them on under field conditions, so Eames can't beat himself up too much about that. And anyway it worked out in the end, worked beautifully. Eames could tell as much from Cobb's satisfied expression as they left the dream.
But the mirrors. Those weren't entirely expected.
It's a classic technique. Forgers, especially careless or inexperienced ones, often can't keep a good hand on their reflections. What you see is sometimes painfully far from what you should get. Eames himself tends to come out in mirrors as – well, himself, but others are less fortunate. People become forgers for all manner of reasons, and self-loathing is hardly an uncommon one.
So he built this aversion into Alex, made her hate and fear mirrors, but he didn't know why until he came into her. Shockingly remiss of him, in hindsight; then again, hindsight. Nothing to be done for that.
The bit with the painting is the one that troubles him. Now that he's in his own right mind, he can think of it by name: Portrait of Emiliana Concha De Ossa. Not a particularly well known piece, by an artist most people have never heard of.
And still, she was Eames' first love. That she bubbled into the surface of the dream is... troubling.
But there's no use worrying about that now. Eames turns up the radio to muffle his thoughts. Home, soon. Home and Arthur. That should make everything better.
~~
In spite of everything, deep down inside, Arthur is a creature of habit. Eames has long known this, observed the fact over numerous jobs. After a job, Arthur will – almost without fail – get drunk off his arse and go searching for a good hard fuck. Contrarily, when he finds said fuck, Arthur will as often as not proceed to be as hostile as humanly possible.
This pattern has manifested in odd ways over the course of their relationship. Arthur does get drunk, becomes simultaneously handsy and sulky. Eames finds this endearing, more than anything, content to let Arthur play push-and-pull until he succumbs and drags Eames to bed, pawing at him and writhing.
As a matter of fact, Eames is quite looking forward to this. There's something reliable about Arthur's body. Eames is good with his hands, whatever other failings he may have, and it's comforting to know that he can give Arthur pleasure, especially when he so obviously needs it.
So it's something of a surprise to come home and find Arthur stone-cold sober and pacing the kitchen.
"Darling?" Eames says, uncertain of himself and exasperated with it.
Arthur looks up at him, his lovely face blank, and says, "Will you fuck me if I ask you to?"
"I – " Eames swallows his answer, because – well, satisfaction, right, obviously, and he did say he'd do whatever Arthur wanted, but –
But Arthur's ears are turning red, and he rapidly says, "I mean. Your fingers." The blush deepens, painful-looking. "I want – "
Relief blooms through Eames – that, yes, of course he will. "Of course," he repeats aloud. "Come to bed, Arthur."
It's strange, seeing all Arthur's accumulated post-job nervous energy focused so clearly, without the haze of alcohol or the distractions of the games played inside his own mind to take away from it. How he takes his clothes off to reveal lovely smooth skin that Eames' fingers itch to touch, how he lies in bed without a word.
Eames wastes no time undressing, coming to lie beside Arthur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, smoothing a hand down his back. "How do you want it?"
"Just," Arthur says, "this," and he rolls to lie on his back, legs spread.
There's a tube of lubricant in the nightstand drawer. Eames doesn't often need it but he knows Arthur does, hears the slick noises when Arthur's fingering himself in the dark of night. And now, with Arthur spread out and looking at him beseechingly, that seems like such a dreadfully lonely thought that Eames can't bear it.
So he kisses Arthur, deep and thorough and good, trying to put all the depth of his affection into it, as he touches Arthur in the way he asked for.
Eames enjoys this, too, in a strange way. The freedom to touch Arthur where no one else is allowed to, where he's vulnerable, easy to hurt or please. Eames is trying hard for the latter.
The technicalities aren't difficult, things Eames mastered years before in other relationships for far worse reasons. Arthur gasps when Eames pushes a finger into him, head tilting back into the pillow. His eyes shut when Eames strokes him deep, the shadow of his eyelashes falling across his cheek, beautiful and strangely fragile.
There is a method to this, a way to make Arthur come apart, and Eames follows it. He kisses Arthur, mumbles nonsense into his ear. He's not certain whether Arthur wants a hand on his cock or not, but the question's rendered moot when Arthur curses and grabs himself, coming messily over the two of them.
When Eames tries to move away to get a towel, Arthur holds on to him. Eames lies down, arms open, and lets Arthur burrow into him securely.
"You'll be filthy in the morning," he says, just as a reminder.
"I know." Arthur's forehead is damp against Eames' shoulder. The friction where their thighs meet is fascinating, a combination of the sharp drag of hair and the sweet cling of skin. Eames kisses Arthur's face, over and over, unable to stop, not wanting to.
Arthur doesn't push him away. Never did, not once since they started this – well, a few times perhaps, out of some misguided worry for Eames' feelings or some such nonsense. But not for sheer irritation, never out of an honest wish not to be touched. Arthur just turns his face up, falling fast asleep, a welcome weight growing steadily heavier.
He is truly, truly lovely, his Arthur, his face and his hands and his skill with a gun, and Eames is hopelessly consumed by devotion for him.
Eames has a tendency to fall in love with beautiful things, to desire them in the way that they were made to be experienced, and that's well enough when they're paintings or sculptures. Art is meant to be looked at, but people are meant to be touched. If Eames had to stay away from Arthur as they are, as this goes, he can't imagine what he'll do with himself. He tightens his arms around Arthur, who squirms sleepily within Eames' grasp.
Right now, with the warmth of them in their nest of blankets, it's hard to imagine refusing Arthur anything, hard to imagine anything but want. Eames smooths down Arthur's hair, a gesture turned into a habit by now. Arthur responds by stirring and trying to extricate himself.
"Going somewhere?" Eames says, nonsensical and maudlin after the exertions of the day.
"Gotta get clean," Arthur says blearily. His attempt to move away is half-hearted at best, and he stills when Eames presses him back against the bed.
"Stay here," Eames says, and moves to find a wet towel for to clean his darling with.
"That wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be," Arthur says, eyes half-open as Eames washes him clean.
"What?" Eames puts the towel aside where it'll dry without making everything smell of damp.
"Asking." Arthur's eyes flutter close. Eames feels odd for a second, unsure. He wishes he could be entirely certain Arthur wasn't being sarcastic, but Arthur's already asleep when he thinks to ask.
He can't fall asleep as easily so he moves away, to spend the night next to his laptop. No point in waking Arthur because he's restless. He's browsing idly when something pops – a Google search alert.
"Is that so," he says, to himself.
He's startled to hear, "What?" from behind him. Arthur's leaning against the wall, rumbled and sleepy, ridiculously soft-looking. Eames yields to temptation and leaves his chair to lean into the wall next to Arthur, tucking am arm around his waist.
"Why are you up?" he says into Arthur's neck.
He feels rather than sees Arthur shrug. "Woke up and you weren't there."
The burst of warmth this feels Eames with is truly ridiculous. "Go back to bed, darling. I'll be along shortly."
Arthur snorts. "Right. Shortly. By which you mean at five AM."
It's a short enough span of times by some comparisons, but Eames is too drained for even that familiar argument. He huffs and untangles himself from Arthur.
"And besides," Arthur says, closing the distance Eames opened between them, "I want to know what you were talking to yourself about."
No point keeping it, especially since it's likely to be relevant to the job. "I keep track," Eames says, "of several pieces – if they get sold I make sure to get a notification. Mostly it's for items of personal interest," Arthur nods understanding at this, "but I also tracked the sculpture we tried to capture Bayliss with."
"And something just pinged," Arthur says, lips curving into a small smile. "So what are you waiting for? Let's take a look."
But when Eames clicks on it, it's the wrong name. "It's a drawing," Arthur says, reaching for the screen and dropping his hand. His brow furrows in a small frown. "This looks familiar. I think I've seen it somewhere."
Likely he did, inside Eames' head if not elsewhere. "False alarm," Eames says, closing the tab.
"Are you coming to bed now?" Arthur asks.
Eames stands up and kisses him. "Two minutes. On the clock." Arthur rolls his eyes at him, but goes. Eames opens the tab again.
"Portrait of Emiliana" by Giovvani Boldini was sold to an unknown bidder for –
Eames shuts the laptop lid before looking at the price. Doubtlessly it won't be what she's worth. Arthur's expecting him in bed. Best not keep him waiting.
~~
They take another job soon after that, at Arthur's insistence.
"I need to get the taste of Cobb's idiocy out of my mouth," he mutters, but Eames knows his heart's not really into it since Arthur decorated the envelope with Cobb's share of the take with a little smiley face.
The job's a simple in-and-out, one level, the two of them putting it quickly together. It's a few hours by plane, then sneaking into the mark's apartment. It's almost fun, actually. It's no complicated art heist, but Eames will never cease to be charmed by the sight of Arthur wielding bolt cutters.
Arthur goes to poke at the mark's mental safes and Eames lurks around and sees that the projections don't get too unruly. Everything goes just fine, until he feels something cold at the base of his neck and everything goes black.
~~
The first thing he sees, coming awake, is Arthur's snarling face.
"Did we get it?" he says, blearily.
"That's not the fucking question," Arthur says. His face is white, tight-lipped with fury. "The question would be, where the fuck did you disappear to for an hour and a half?"
Eames opens his mouth to answer, closes it again. "Places," he says, briefly. The memory is vague, but it feels like it's fading in reverse, growing clearer as time passes instead of the other way around. There was a vault, and a hall, and a woman in a shawl... Something, perhaps he's just spouting bits of half-memorized poetry. Probably it's nothing.
Arthur's eyes are quick on him, darting up and down Eames' form. Checking for damage, most likely. Arthur's hardly going to ogle him in this place and time. From the slow relaxation of Arthur's posture, Eames supposes he passed inspection. More so when Arthur defrosts enough to nod and say, "We got the intel." A smile cracks across his face. "You should have seen the moves I pulled in the glasshouse section. Remind me to tell you about it later." The frown reappears. "But don't think I'm letting you off the hook."
"Darling," Eames says, motioning until Arthur gives him a hand up. "I'm well aware that I'm quite thoroughly hooked, with no hope of reprieve. There's really no need to grind it in further."
Arthur helps him up, and Eames briefly treasures the strength of Arthur's grasp, the rough
beauty of the skin of his palms. They're working hands, and Eames always had a weakness for well-wrought instruments.
"Puns won't get you out of this, either," Arthur says warningly, but Eames can see the cracks in his resolve.
"How about flattery?" he says, winningly, and Arthur flips him off. Eames grins, then, and settles next to Arthur for the ride home, already counting cash in the back of his mind, gleeful, the last ninety minutes of the dream all but forgotten.
~~
The envelope is a good one, heavy cream-colored paper that Eames runs an appreciative finger across before ripping open.
He must have made a sound, opening it. From across the room, Arthur swivels around in his chair and asks, "What is it?"
"A job offer," Eames says, slightly strangled. "Of sorts."
Arthur rises. "Who's it from?" He's frowning a little. Their offers mostly go through him, he's the one with all the formalized contacts in his little black book.
This, Eames realizes distantly, Is going to be very bad. "From Bayliss," he says, at length.
Arthur stops where he is. "A double-cross?" His voice is warier than the question warrants. Arthur's done his share of professional treachery.
"No." Eames closes his eyes. "He wants me to do something personal for him." The paper specifies nothing, only a time and a place, but Eames knows the rest already. In hindsight, it's pretty fucking obvious, isn't it?
"Does he," Arthur says, quiet. He comes no closer. "And what is he paying?"
"Doesn't say." Although Eames knows. The payment is in what Bayliss won't do, if Eames is obedient.
Arthur goes back to his chair, turning to his work. He doesn't say anything.
"So," Eames says, slipping the paper back into the envelope. "What do you think?"
Arthur's back is turned to Eames, but Eames can see tension writ plainly in the set of his shoulders. "Why the hell are you even bothering to ask me?" Arthur's voice is dull and flat.
"Oh, I don't know," Eames says, in the sing-song voice he knows Arthur detests."Perhaps because I believed we were a team. Or because I respect your bloody opinion, how about that?"
"But you know what I'm going to say." If Arthur doesn't turn around in the next two minutes, Eames silently vows, I will strangle him until he's sorry. "And you're going to do it anyway. So why bother asking?"
Eames is oddly hurt by this. "I wouldn't," he says. Arthur, at last, turns to him, with such a disbelieving look that it's practically an insult. "I wouldn't," Eames says again, softer. "For all that you may think of me, I wouldn't involve you in something like this without your approval."
"No," Arthur says, tensely. "You'd just go and do it yourself, because that's much better, you taking a job like this with no fail-safes and no backup. That's just great."
"Believe it or not, Arthur, I have managed to take perfectly good care of myself before you came along," Eames snaps, out of patience at last. "If I'm going to talk to you about this, you could at least do me the kindness of listening to the actual bloody words coming out of my mouth."
Arthur stands up and walks to Eames, determination written in the set of his shoulders and the rigid lines of his arms. "This isn't a choice for me," Arthur says, quiet and intense. "If you go in, so do I. So if you've already made that choice for me, at least have the decency to stop being such a fucking asshole about it."
Eames stares at Arthur. "You shouldn't come into this," he says at last. "This is a bad deal. I know it is."
Arthur leans closer, right up in Eames' personal space. "Then why," his voice rises momentarily, then quieted again, "take it?"
Eames lets out a long breath. He'd close his eyes if he thought it would do any good.
"Because I've no choice, either," he says, and Arthur blinks and takes a step back.
"There's always a choice," he says, the bloody hypocrite. "You know what? I have a choice. You're right. I made it, and I'll stand by it. What's your excuse?"
"Why, Arthur," Eames says, a mirthless smile stretching across his lips. "Can't you tell? I'm doing it in the name of love."
"The fuck you are," Arthur says, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I don't even know why I'm trying. I knew this wasn't going to go anywhere." He turns to the office and shuts the door quietly behind him. Eames has a feeling he won't see Arthur again tonight.
And the hell of it is, Eames was completely fucking honest. He meant every single goddamned word.