FIC: Kiss Trick (2/?)
Feb. 19th, 2011 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_ragnarokSmatterings of Arthur/Projection in this part.
~~
Eames is leafing through Arthur's research, taking his own notes – Mark appears to be fond of double-dealing, solitary man (choice or lack thereof?), art collector, likely militarized – when Arthur calls him from the study.
When Eames putters over, Arthur is going through his sketches of Alex. "These are good," Arthur says. "Could you show her to me?"
"Right at this moment?" Eames thinks it over. "All right, but you have to set up the equipment."
He waits until Arthur drags the PASIV from where it lives under their bed and uncoils the tubing before adding, "You know, it's commonly considered rude to go through people's private belongings like this."
Arthur frowns. "This is for work," he says.
"This is for me," Eames corrects. He doesn't want to make this into a fight, but it's an important distinction.
Thankfully, Arthur accepts this with a small nod and says, "Sorry," so Eames can smile and extend his wrist for the IV.
They come under in one of Arthur's generic settings, a martial arts dojo that's extremely useful for showing off his creations' physical abilities. The wall-length mirror doesn't hurt, either. Eames tries to relax, to put himself in the mindspace where he can change his skin. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and reaching for focus.
Forging is a lot like singing, Eames finds, in that the training appears to consist mainly of metaphors people either swear by or declare to be complete bullshit. What works best for Eames is the dot method, in which one imagines the target to be forged as a matrix of coordinates similar to old motion-capture technologies. It's very effective but rather a lot to hold in one's mind all at once, which means Eames can't afford to be distracted by annoyance.
So Eames opens his eyes and pins Arthur with a look. "I just want to make this absolutely clear," he says. "I do not appreciate you looking at my private work. Please refrain from doing so without permission, and in return I won't invade your privacy. Is this understood?"
"Fine," Arthur says with a shrug. "There's nothing I can think of that I mind you looking at. Feel free." He narrows his eyes at Eames. "I said I was sorry already. Is this going to be a thing?"
Eames stares at Arthur. For once, Arthur is the first who breaks, coming close to rest his head against Eames' shoulder. "It's not a thing," Eames says, his hand rising to slide through Arthur's hair. "I just needed to know everything was clear."
"I promise to ask permission next time," Arthur says, and pulls away. "Okay. Now I want to see her."
There's something like hunger in Arthur's expression, an expectant look that warms Eames straight through. Arthur doesn't pay him compliments often, but this is better.
Getting into Alex's physical form is only a matter of spacial thinking. Her mindset is more difficult, her worldview a complex half-lit thing, changing by the angle it's viewed and yet always the same; mistrustful, hard and self-serving. Eames likes her.
Then Alex opens her eyes, and stares down the man in front of her. She sizes him up as an opponent, eyes darting glances at the spots where he's likely to be hiding weapons. She smirks when he gives her the same measuring look.
She should be polite. "Alex," she says, offering him her hand to shake.
He doesn't give her his name, only shakes her hand and nods. Then he blinks, and the everyday clothes he was wearing – jeans and a sweater-vest, comfortable house clothes – shift into a pair of loose black cotton pants and nothing else. The expression he's wearing is a challenge, and she's glad to accept.
She takes off everything she's wearing but the tank top and pants, and goes into position to face him, her weapons all discarded on the floor. He kicks at her without warning, high enough that he'd have hit her in the chin if she hadn't known to duck.
He moves in a pattern that makes sense to her, in some innate way she can't articulate. She punches and he dodges, he attempts a hold and she twists out of it; it's a fight and a dance and just plain fun, and he seems to sense this and turn it into almost a game. He feints a punch and reaches to grab her ankle; she does a backflip and comes to stand a few yards away, staring him down, the both of them breathing hard.
Arthur's the first to start laughing. Eames only realizes he dropped the forge when he finds himself joining him, delighted, nearly giddy.
"She's pretty decent," Arthur says. "Hey, did you base her moves on mine?"
"Guilty as charged," Eames says, cheerful.
Arthur shakes his head. "And to think you gave me crap for going through your papers."
"Shouldn't I have?" Eames gives Arthur his best searching look. Arthur is still grinning widely, though, the dimples Eames enjoys so much coming out in full force.
"Kidding, jeez," Arthur says. He lies down on one of the mats, arms behind his head. Eames lies down to join him. "No, really. She's good. What do you think you'll use her for?"
This is the problem with Arthur's normally admirable practicality. No appreciation of art for its own sake. "I don't know," Eames says. "Surely an opportunity will present itself."
Arthur turns to look at Eames, his eyes narrowing. "You want to use her for seductions, don't you?"
No point beating around the bush, even though a small part of Eames wants to groan, Not this again. "I might," Eames says evenly. "She is based on you in part, though. I'll understand if you don't want me to use her that way."
"I – no, that's not it." Arthur sits up, cross-legged, and rakes a hand through his hair. "I don't care about her. Or not her in particular." Arthur's expression is the calm one he wears when everything goes to absolute shit. "I don't want you doing seductions at all," he says, with a tone of finality. "I mean, I realize I don't have a vote in that. But if you're asking me, don't."
Eames stays where he is, only moving as far as he needs to meet Arthur's eyes. "It's a way for me to do my job, Arthur. An incredibly efficient way, you might want to bear in mind."
Arthur comes closer. He hesitates for a moment before lying down again, now with his head pillowed on Eames' stomach. Eames exhales, his hand coming to rest on Arthur's shoulder of its own volition.
"I know," Arthur says.
Eames rubs slowly up and down Arthur's back, consciously slowing down his breathing. "Are you jealous?" Putting it in softer terms won't help. Eames doesn't entirely understand Arthur's unwavering insistence on monogamy, but it seems to be important to him, so Eames plays along.
"What? No." Arthur pushes up to grace Eames with the full strength of his frown. "It's just something I don't think you should have to do."
"I hardly have to," Eames says, a little terse because he's so bloody tired of this argument already.
Arthur's hand crawls up to touch Eames' face. Eames turns into it, irritation fading to nothing. They move until they're lying on their sides, facing each other. "I know," Arthur repeats. "Look, I realize I'm being stupid here. But you asked, okay?"
Moments like these, Eames thinks he can't bear it, everything gathering inside him with no outlet. Words are insufficient, and there's nothing he can do but grab Arthur to him and hold on for dear life. In these moments, when Arthur's grip on him is just as fierce, Eames doesn't know what to do with all the affection he's filled with, doesn't know what he can give to Arthur to make up for it.
That's... very nearly a problem. These days, Eames shifts wildly between annoyance at the things Arthur wants from him, sharp pangs of heartache that he can't just give them to him and the occasional soaring joy when what he does find in himself to give is not found lacking.
Arthur's looking at him sharply. "I can hear you being an idiot inside your head," Arthur says. "Stop it."
"I didn't realize telepathy was one of your myriad skills, Arthur." Eames squeezes him. "I do wish you told me earlier. It would have saved us no end of grief."
Arthur laughs softly, or perhaps that's just the breath knocked out of him by the strength of Eames' grip. "You have that expression you get when you're thinking about noble romantic bullshit. I just don't know what you're thinking."
Eames pretends to ponder this. "Is that an invitation to share?"
Arthur smushes his face into Eames' collar bone. "Oh, God. You did not just say that."
The strange thing is, Eames does want to talk. It's easier like this, lying together in a room that isn't even real, words pushed up by the sheer volume of everything else Eames is holding inside. "Don't you miss fucking people?"
Arthur moves away a little, still close enough that Eames can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He looks at the ceiling and frowns. "Not that much. Given the choice, I'll take a mouth over an ass or a pussy, any time." He tilts his head away. "Kinda miss getting fucked, though."
Eames smooths a hand across Arthur's hair, just something to do while he thinks. He's not going to suggest other people; that solution has met... a less than happy response when last offered, and Eames likes to think he can learn from past mistakes.
An idea occurs. His hand stills on the back of Arthur's neck, drawing a muffled noise from him. "How long until the dream ends?" Eames says.
Arthur's brow furrows. "Dunno. Half an hour?"
That should suffice for what Eames has in mind. He gets up with a murmured apology. Arthur curls up on the mat, dark eyes watching Eames as he moves to face the mirror.
Constructing a projection is not harder than forging, exactly. The process is different, in some ways more similar to dream-architecture than it is to Eames' chosen vocation. You have to build it in your mind, to force reality into what you want it to be.
But as in forging, you need the correct mindset; and as in forging, a mirror helps.
Eames stares at his reflection and touches the mirror. The glass has a little give to it, like pushing a finger into a mixture of water and corn starch. With careful pressing, the face in the mirror changes. Eames modifies the nose into a straight patrician line, shifts the angle of the cheekbones.
This isn't the important part, though. It's just something for Eames hands to do while he tries, in his mind, to fall into a space where he is filled with the approximation of desire. It's nothing he hasn't mimicked before, after all, often to good effect. It starts from affection, and is combined with the desire to touch, to taste, to experience. These are easy.
The next part is harder, but in a strange way also enjoyable. Eames shifts the general inclination for contact into a wish to be touched here, an all-consuming urge to have into a fairly specific act.
When he's done, the projection steps out of the mirror, and Arthur springs to his feet, immediately wary.
The projection reaches for Arthur, wordless. Arthur looks at Eames, doubtful. Eames says, "Would it hurt you to try?"
"I really fucking hope not," Arthur mutters, but he steps into the projection's personal space. Eames should probably think of a name for it – for him. But he's a haphazard job, this projection, a makeshift creation of half-simulated lust, and Eames can't think of him as anything but a tool for a purpose.
Maybe that's why everything turns sour so fast. One moment the projection is kissing Arthur, gentle and respectful. The next, Arthur is pinned to the ground with his hand twisted behind his back, the projection growling something that Eames is quite glad he can't hear.
Another moment, and the projection is lying on the ground, neck broken, then fading into nothing.
Eames stares at the empty space where it was. "That went well," he says, drily.
He expects Arthur to say something biting, to shoot himself out of the dream – their professional equivalent of storming out in a huff. Arthur just looks tired. "Sorry," he says.
"Sorry?" Eames repeats, blinking at Arthur. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm reasonably sure this was my fault."
Arthur shakes his head. "You couldn't have done that," he says. "I know your projections, Eames. They shoot to kill, not to maim."
Eames is very, very glad that this is mostly a metaphor. "So you're saying this must be your fault," he says, slowly, so Arthur can grasp the full ridiculousness of that statement.
"Yeah." Arthur's gaze is steady. If it weren't for the tiny twitches in his hands, tells he'd all but trained away, Eames might have thought Arthur is taking this calmly.
"Arthur – "
"Look," Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Words fail me, so I'll explain this with Venn diagrams, okay?"
He conjures a whiteboard. Eames stares, entranced. "You actually went and said that," he murmurs. "I may have to redefine entirely what I find attractive."
Arthur snorts. "Pay attention, Mr. Eames," and for a moment his clothes change and he's suddenly wearing horn-rimmed glasses. The image flickers back as quick as it had appeared, but now... Well, if Eames had ever wondered what Arthur might have looked like as a sexy librarian, he need wonder no more.
At a flick of Arthur's fingers, a dry-erase marker appears, and Arthur draws two circles on the board. Above the circles, he writes, 'People Arthur Has Been Involved With'. In one circle, he writes, 'Scary Mofos', and in the other he writes 'Sexually Disinterested'.
"By this point in time," Arthur says, and thank goodness he hasn't whipped out an actual time line because Eames would have had to shoot something, "my brain is hard-wired to believe everyone is one or the other, and generally to assume the worse."
Eames says, "So when presented with a lovely man who professes a wish to make gentle love to you..."
"I assume he's being paid by someone to stab me and dump my body in a ditch," Arthur says. "Or else he might just do it for fun." He glares at the board as though it offended him personally. "And what I believe, my mind makes real."
Eames eyes the intersection between the circles, which is marked 'Killers With a Type'. "That can't have been good for your dating prospects."
"Not very," Arthur says, grim.
Eames has been more relieved to hear the first strains of their cue, but not by much.
"But seriously," Eames says once they're both awake. "Your lovelife can't have been made entirely of traumatic mishaps."
"Want to bet?" At the look Eames gives him, though, Arthur's smile fades into something more rueful. "If it helps, I do realize my lovelife was basically one big self-fulfilling prophecy." At Eames' inquiring noise, Arthur says, "I don't think I can tell people are flirting with me unless knives are involved at some point."
Eames arches an eyebrow at that. "And here I thought I made my interest in you positively blatant."
Arthur sighs. "See, I can tell when people like me. It's the wanting to fuck me that's an issue." He looks at Eames, and loses the smile completely. "Sorry."
"You shouldn't be," Eames says quietly. He wishes he believed Arthur would listen to him.
~~
Eames is leafing through Arthur's research, taking his own notes – Mark appears to be fond of double-dealing, solitary man (choice or lack thereof?), art collector, likely militarized – when Arthur calls him from the study.
When Eames putters over, Arthur is going through his sketches of Alex. "These are good," Arthur says. "Could you show her to me?"
"Right at this moment?" Eames thinks it over. "All right, but you have to set up the equipment."
He waits until Arthur drags the PASIV from where it lives under their bed and uncoils the tubing before adding, "You know, it's commonly considered rude to go through people's private belongings like this."
Arthur frowns. "This is for work," he says.
"This is for me," Eames corrects. He doesn't want to make this into a fight, but it's an important distinction.
Thankfully, Arthur accepts this with a small nod and says, "Sorry," so Eames can smile and extend his wrist for the IV.
They come under in one of Arthur's generic settings, a martial arts dojo that's extremely useful for showing off his creations' physical abilities. The wall-length mirror doesn't hurt, either. Eames tries to relax, to put himself in the mindspace where he can change his skin. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and reaching for focus.
Forging is a lot like singing, Eames finds, in that the training appears to consist mainly of metaphors people either swear by or declare to be complete bullshit. What works best for Eames is the dot method, in which one imagines the target to be forged as a matrix of coordinates similar to old motion-capture technologies. It's very effective but rather a lot to hold in one's mind all at once, which means Eames can't afford to be distracted by annoyance.
So Eames opens his eyes and pins Arthur with a look. "I just want to make this absolutely clear," he says. "I do not appreciate you looking at my private work. Please refrain from doing so without permission, and in return I won't invade your privacy. Is this understood?"
"Fine," Arthur says with a shrug. "There's nothing I can think of that I mind you looking at. Feel free." He narrows his eyes at Eames. "I said I was sorry already. Is this going to be a thing?"
Eames stares at Arthur. For once, Arthur is the first who breaks, coming close to rest his head against Eames' shoulder. "It's not a thing," Eames says, his hand rising to slide through Arthur's hair. "I just needed to know everything was clear."
"I promise to ask permission next time," Arthur says, and pulls away. "Okay. Now I want to see her."
There's something like hunger in Arthur's expression, an expectant look that warms Eames straight through. Arthur doesn't pay him compliments often, but this is better.
Getting into Alex's physical form is only a matter of spacial thinking. Her mindset is more difficult, her worldview a complex half-lit thing, changing by the angle it's viewed and yet always the same; mistrustful, hard and self-serving. Eames likes her.
Then Alex opens her eyes, and stares down the man in front of her. She sizes him up as an opponent, eyes darting glances at the spots where he's likely to be hiding weapons. She smirks when he gives her the same measuring look.
She should be polite. "Alex," she says, offering him her hand to shake.
He doesn't give her his name, only shakes her hand and nods. Then he blinks, and the everyday clothes he was wearing – jeans and a sweater-vest, comfortable house clothes – shift into a pair of loose black cotton pants and nothing else. The expression he's wearing is a challenge, and she's glad to accept.
She takes off everything she's wearing but the tank top and pants, and goes into position to face him, her weapons all discarded on the floor. He kicks at her without warning, high enough that he'd have hit her in the chin if she hadn't known to duck.
He moves in a pattern that makes sense to her, in some innate way she can't articulate. She punches and he dodges, he attempts a hold and she twists out of it; it's a fight and a dance and just plain fun, and he seems to sense this and turn it into almost a game. He feints a punch and reaches to grab her ankle; she does a backflip and comes to stand a few yards away, staring him down, the both of them breathing hard.
Arthur's the first to start laughing. Eames only realizes he dropped the forge when he finds himself joining him, delighted, nearly giddy.
"She's pretty decent," Arthur says. "Hey, did you base her moves on mine?"
"Guilty as charged," Eames says, cheerful.
Arthur shakes his head. "And to think you gave me crap for going through your papers."
"Shouldn't I have?" Eames gives Arthur his best searching look. Arthur is still grinning widely, though, the dimples Eames enjoys so much coming out in full force.
"Kidding, jeez," Arthur says. He lies down on one of the mats, arms behind his head. Eames lies down to join him. "No, really. She's good. What do you think you'll use her for?"
This is the problem with Arthur's normally admirable practicality. No appreciation of art for its own sake. "I don't know," Eames says. "Surely an opportunity will present itself."
Arthur turns to look at Eames, his eyes narrowing. "You want to use her for seductions, don't you?"
No point beating around the bush, even though a small part of Eames wants to groan, Not this again. "I might," Eames says evenly. "She is based on you in part, though. I'll understand if you don't want me to use her that way."
"I – no, that's not it." Arthur sits up, cross-legged, and rakes a hand through his hair. "I don't care about her. Or not her in particular." Arthur's expression is the calm one he wears when everything goes to absolute shit. "I don't want you doing seductions at all," he says, with a tone of finality. "I mean, I realize I don't have a vote in that. But if you're asking me, don't."
Eames stays where he is, only moving as far as he needs to meet Arthur's eyes. "It's a way for me to do my job, Arthur. An incredibly efficient way, you might want to bear in mind."
Arthur comes closer. He hesitates for a moment before lying down again, now with his head pillowed on Eames' stomach. Eames exhales, his hand coming to rest on Arthur's shoulder of its own volition.
"I know," Arthur says.
Eames rubs slowly up and down Arthur's back, consciously slowing down his breathing. "Are you jealous?" Putting it in softer terms won't help. Eames doesn't entirely understand Arthur's unwavering insistence on monogamy, but it seems to be important to him, so Eames plays along.
"What? No." Arthur pushes up to grace Eames with the full strength of his frown. "It's just something I don't think you should have to do."
"I hardly have to," Eames says, a little terse because he's so bloody tired of this argument already.
Arthur's hand crawls up to touch Eames' face. Eames turns into it, irritation fading to nothing. They move until they're lying on their sides, facing each other. "I know," Arthur repeats. "Look, I realize I'm being stupid here. But you asked, okay?"
Moments like these, Eames thinks he can't bear it, everything gathering inside him with no outlet. Words are insufficient, and there's nothing he can do but grab Arthur to him and hold on for dear life. In these moments, when Arthur's grip on him is just as fierce, Eames doesn't know what to do with all the affection he's filled with, doesn't know what he can give to Arthur to make up for it.
That's... very nearly a problem. These days, Eames shifts wildly between annoyance at the things Arthur wants from him, sharp pangs of heartache that he can't just give them to him and the occasional soaring joy when what he does find in himself to give is not found lacking.
Arthur's looking at him sharply. "I can hear you being an idiot inside your head," Arthur says. "Stop it."
"I didn't realize telepathy was one of your myriad skills, Arthur." Eames squeezes him. "I do wish you told me earlier. It would have saved us no end of grief."
Arthur laughs softly, or perhaps that's just the breath knocked out of him by the strength of Eames' grip. "You have that expression you get when you're thinking about noble romantic bullshit. I just don't know what you're thinking."
Eames pretends to ponder this. "Is that an invitation to share?"
Arthur smushes his face into Eames' collar bone. "Oh, God. You did not just say that."
The strange thing is, Eames does want to talk. It's easier like this, lying together in a room that isn't even real, words pushed up by the sheer volume of everything else Eames is holding inside. "Don't you miss fucking people?"
Arthur moves away a little, still close enough that Eames can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He looks at the ceiling and frowns. "Not that much. Given the choice, I'll take a mouth over an ass or a pussy, any time." He tilts his head away. "Kinda miss getting fucked, though."
Eames smooths a hand across Arthur's hair, just something to do while he thinks. He's not going to suggest other people; that solution has met... a less than happy response when last offered, and Eames likes to think he can learn from past mistakes.
An idea occurs. His hand stills on the back of Arthur's neck, drawing a muffled noise from him. "How long until the dream ends?" Eames says.
Arthur's brow furrows. "Dunno. Half an hour?"
That should suffice for what Eames has in mind. He gets up with a murmured apology. Arthur curls up on the mat, dark eyes watching Eames as he moves to face the mirror.
Constructing a projection is not harder than forging, exactly. The process is different, in some ways more similar to dream-architecture than it is to Eames' chosen vocation. You have to build it in your mind, to force reality into what you want it to be.
But as in forging, you need the correct mindset; and as in forging, a mirror helps.
Eames stares at his reflection and touches the mirror. The glass has a little give to it, like pushing a finger into a mixture of water and corn starch. With careful pressing, the face in the mirror changes. Eames modifies the nose into a straight patrician line, shifts the angle of the cheekbones.
This isn't the important part, though. It's just something for Eames hands to do while he tries, in his mind, to fall into a space where he is filled with the approximation of desire. It's nothing he hasn't mimicked before, after all, often to good effect. It starts from affection, and is combined with the desire to touch, to taste, to experience. These are easy.
The next part is harder, but in a strange way also enjoyable. Eames shifts the general inclination for contact into a wish to be touched here, an all-consuming urge to have into a fairly specific act.
When he's done, the projection steps out of the mirror, and Arthur springs to his feet, immediately wary.
The projection reaches for Arthur, wordless. Arthur looks at Eames, doubtful. Eames says, "Would it hurt you to try?"
"I really fucking hope not," Arthur mutters, but he steps into the projection's personal space. Eames should probably think of a name for it – for him. But he's a haphazard job, this projection, a makeshift creation of half-simulated lust, and Eames can't think of him as anything but a tool for a purpose.
Maybe that's why everything turns sour so fast. One moment the projection is kissing Arthur, gentle and respectful. The next, Arthur is pinned to the ground with his hand twisted behind his back, the projection growling something that Eames is quite glad he can't hear.
Another moment, and the projection is lying on the ground, neck broken, then fading into nothing.
Eames stares at the empty space where it was. "That went well," he says, drily.
He expects Arthur to say something biting, to shoot himself out of the dream – their professional equivalent of storming out in a huff. Arthur just looks tired. "Sorry," he says.
"Sorry?" Eames repeats, blinking at Arthur. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm reasonably sure this was my fault."
Arthur shakes his head. "You couldn't have done that," he says. "I know your projections, Eames. They shoot to kill, not to maim."
Eames is very, very glad that this is mostly a metaphor. "So you're saying this must be your fault," he says, slowly, so Arthur can grasp the full ridiculousness of that statement.
"Yeah." Arthur's gaze is steady. If it weren't for the tiny twitches in his hands, tells he'd all but trained away, Eames might have thought Arthur is taking this calmly.
"Arthur – "
"Look," Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Words fail me, so I'll explain this with Venn diagrams, okay?"
He conjures a whiteboard. Eames stares, entranced. "You actually went and said that," he murmurs. "I may have to redefine entirely what I find attractive."
Arthur snorts. "Pay attention, Mr. Eames," and for a moment his clothes change and he's suddenly wearing horn-rimmed glasses. The image flickers back as quick as it had appeared, but now... Well, if Eames had ever wondered what Arthur might have looked like as a sexy librarian, he need wonder no more.
At a flick of Arthur's fingers, a dry-erase marker appears, and Arthur draws two circles on the board. Above the circles, he writes, 'People Arthur Has Been Involved With'. In one circle, he writes, 'Scary Mofos', and in the other he writes 'Sexually Disinterested'.
"By this point in time," Arthur says, and thank goodness he hasn't whipped out an actual time line because Eames would have had to shoot something, "my brain is hard-wired to believe everyone is one or the other, and generally to assume the worse."
Eames says, "So when presented with a lovely man who professes a wish to make gentle love to you..."
"I assume he's being paid by someone to stab me and dump my body in a ditch," Arthur says. "Or else he might just do it for fun." He glares at the board as though it offended him personally. "And what I believe, my mind makes real."
Eames eyes the intersection between the circles, which is marked 'Killers With a Type'. "That can't have been good for your dating prospects."
"Not very," Arthur says, grim.
Eames has been more relieved to hear the first strains of their cue, but not by much.
"But seriously," Eames says once they're both awake. "Your lovelife can't have been made entirely of traumatic mishaps."
"Want to bet?" At the look Eames gives him, though, Arthur's smile fades into something more rueful. "If it helps, I do realize my lovelife was basically one big self-fulfilling prophecy." At Eames' inquiring noise, Arthur says, "I don't think I can tell people are flirting with me unless knives are involved at some point."
Eames arches an eyebrow at that. "And here I thought I made my interest in you positively blatant."
Arthur sighs. "See, I can tell when people like me. It's the wanting to fuck me that's an issue." He looks at Eames, and loses the smile completely. "Sorry."
"You shouldn't be," Eames says quietly. He wishes he believed Arthur would listen to him.
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Date: 2011-02-19 09:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-20 01:02 pm (UTC)