[fic] not a replacement

[kiyala.livejournal.com]

Title: not a replacement
Author: kiyala
Word Count: 1,228
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R (references to sex)
Disclaimer: Inception is the wonderful brainchild of Christopher Nolan.
Notes: Something quick I wrote on my way to work today because public transport + phones with QWERTY keyboards = OTP.

for 500themes theme #31: the winds of change

Arthur sleeps on his stomach, one hand curled loosely by his face, his breath deep and even. The sun has just risen and Eames lies on his back, warm and content, his face turned towards Arthur’s. There’s an alarm clock set to go off in half an hour, but they’ll both be awake by then. Eames wakes with the sun, and Arthur wakes shortly after; it’s a routine, and Eames no longer needs to check the time to know when Arthur’s breathing changes and he wakes up. Eames cares very little for the romantic implications of watching somebody sleep, or staying in bed for a few extra minutes to watch them wake. What he does has very little to do with romance and much more to do with curiosity. Watching a person wake up can be insightful; just like everything else they do. Eames has simply learned to pay attention. Arthur doesn’t linger in bed. He wakes up the same way he does when they’re working; a quick glance around their surroundings to familiarise himself with where he is, a second’s pause to confirm to himself that this is the real world, and then he’s up, getting out of bed. “Good morning, Eames,” he says quietly, because he’s learned by now that Eames is always awake before he is, even when his eyes are shut. There’s a look in his eyes that says he can’t quite believe Eames is still there the morning after, and he isn’t quite sure what to do with this information. Eames smiles warmly, getting out of bed and pressing a kiss to Arthur’s brow. “‘Morning.” They don’t speak again until they’re in the cafe down the street, eating breakfast. Eames is telling Arthur about the dream he’d had—they're always the most absurd stories Arthur has ever heard, each and every scene connected by a bemused and then, for some reason…—sounding for a moment like their entire lives aren’t built around dreaming. They have an hour before they need to meet with their extractor. Cobb is out of the business for now, preferring to spend his time with his children, and even if Arthur hadn’t realised it himself back then, Eames had known that he would miss the reliability of having a constant partner. Not that Eames is anywhere near as predictable as Cobb, but he’d suggested the partnership once, kneeling between Arthur’s legs, and the answer had been a gasped, “yes,” that may have had more to do with Eames’ tongue on his inner thigh, but they’ve worked together ever since. They’ve always had the tendency to fuck when they work together, and working every job together means that every night ends with them sharing a bed. They’d stopped bothering to book separate rooms after a while, and since then, whatever they share has become something more than a quick fuck between research. Not that they ever talk about it. The hour is up, and they walk to the workshop they’re working out of. Eames watches Arthur slip into his work mask, marvelling at all the subtle differences he’s learned to notice in Arthur across the day. He’s always been aware of the more obvious ones; like need-coffee Arthur, need-coffee-or-I-will-start-breaking-things Arthur, so-busy-that-I-will-snap-your-fingers-if-you-interrupt Arthur, and his personal favourite when they’re at work, fuck-this-shit Arthur. Now, he is learning to tell Arthur’s thoughts from his expressions, from the way he moves, what his hands are doing, and the set of his mouth. For example, Arthur is incredibly unimpressed by their extractor, and it shows in the way he taps his pen against his notebook, the slightly raised eyebrows, and the way his lips are turned down just a little at one corner. She continues outlining their plan, oblivious, and Eames decides that he’ll put her out of her misery, interrupting and pointing out all the flaws in her logic. He does it in a kind voice and with a warm smile, and she’s easily convinced that he’s really doing her a favour and that it would be a brilliant idea to let Arthur plan the entire thing instead. Arthur gives him a look of silent thanks, and launches into an alternate plan without even having to glance at his notebook. Their architect, a young man with a good eye for detail, listens on eagerly and makes suggestions for what he can build for each level of the dream. Arthur nods approvingly, glancing over at Eames, who takes charge of the job, allocating work and setting a rough timeline. This job is one that actually requires a forger, which is why they have a new extractor in the first place, and Eames spends most of the next two days tailing their mark’s best friend, returning to the hotel room he shares with Arthur to practice his forge and listen to a fresh set of complaints about their extractor. “I understand you don’t like her,” Eames says one night, when they’re lying beside each other and the only things they’re wearing are the socks they couldn’t be bothered removing. He wants to reach out and pull Arthur against him, but knows it won’t be appreciated. “…But when I listen to your reasoning, they all seem to have one thing in common.” “Enlighten me,” Arthur murmurs, his gaze following Eames’ tattoos, rising and falling as he breathes. “She’s not Dominick Cobb,” Eames says with a quiet sigh. Arthur’s gaze flicks up to Eames’ face, but he’s staring up at the ceiling, his expression volunteering nothing. “Well,” he says carefully, “She’s not.” “And neither am I.” Arthur doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he doesn’t. Eames lets out another, exasperated, sigh and turns onto his other side. “Good night, Arthur.” Arthur blinks, knowing he needs to say something. “Eames…” He receives no reply, and he doesn’t push. The next morning begins like any other, and each day continues as normal until they do the extraction. There’s something under the surface that is noticeably off-centre, but they don’t talk about it. The day after their job is the same as ever. The team splits up; Arthur and Eames meet several hours later in another hotel, in another country, and drag each other to bed. The adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off, and that’s what makes this so good. Arthur is so tightly wound that Eames can’t help but take him apart, making him beg, enjoying his moans. Everything feels extremely right, but Arthur is not a fool. He knows where this is going; he knows that if he doesn’t choose his words carefully now, he’s going to wake up to an empty bed, and that’s the last thing he wants. He can admit this much to himself. “Eames,” he says, when they’re showering together. He presses the other man against the tiled wall, hands on his chest, and says, “Listen to me.” Eames raises an eyebrow, and it’s all the invitation Arthur gets. “You aren’t Dom Cobb,” he says, his voice clear among the patter of the water around them. “You’re you and that’s—I think that’s better. That’s all I want.” Eames looks at him in surprise, and laughs. “Oh, Arthur.” Arthur is pulled into a kiss and he kisses back, sighing softly at the fingers winding into his hair. “Arthur,” Eames says again, sounding fond. “I bloody hope you’ve noticed by now, but you’re all I want, too.”

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