[fic] What's the Time, Mr. Wolff. (4/8)

[kiyala.livejournal.com]

“I was—well, I was wondering if you had any plans for tonight.” Arthur doesn’t reply, and Eames curses the fact that he’s chosen to ask over the phone. They’ve spent the day apart, after having breakfast together, and god, Eames misses him already. It’s pathetic. Never mind the fact that Arthur had answered his phone on the first ring. “You know I don’t,” Arthur finally replies, his tone cautious. “Why?” “I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me to dinner,” Eames says, adding, “For research purposes, of course. It’s a very high-class place. Expensive decorations all of the place.” “…And you want to steal something,” Arthur’s tone says that he’s intrigued. “I know someone who may be interested in a particular vase they have. Very pretty thing, from what I’ve heard. I’d quite like to take a look at the area first and we may as well enjoy some fine dining while we’re at it. I just so happen to have come into quite a sum of money.” “You want me to go with you,” Arthur says, more of a statement than a question. “It would be preferable to dining alone,” Eames replies, thinking, for god’s sake, just say yes. “You drive, I’ll foot the bill, and we’ll have a good look around the restaurant so we can trade ideas over ice cream after. How does that sound?” It sounds like a date. Eames knows that, and he’s sure that Arthur knows it too. “It sounds better than staying at home,” Arthur answers, which is infuriatingly non-committal, but Eames is mollified when he adds, “Can you get us a reservation at such short notice?” “Without a problem.” Eames decides it’s probably best not to mention that he’s already made their reservation. “How does seven sound?” “I’ll pick you up at quarter to.” “Brilliant. I’ll be waiting.” “Oh, and Eames?” “Yes Arthur?” Eames is certain Arthur is smiling on the other end when he says, “Wear something nice. I don’t want to be turned around at the door because your shirt is too unsightly to warrant entry.” “Please,” Eames laughs, “that’s never happened before.” “It almost did. In Paris.” “When?” This time, Eames can actually visualise Arthur’s grin as he speaks. “Almost every time you showed up at my door.” “Smart arse. I’ll see you at quarter to seven.” “See you.” Eames hangs up, and realises that he’s grinning like an utter fool. It most definitely sounds like a date. • When Eames answers the door that night, Arthur stares. Eames is extremely pleased, deciding that this makes up for the half-hour he’d spent trying to remember how to tie a Windsor knot, far too stubborn to simply look it up. He’s gone all out tonight; a sleek, black suit, his best shirt with his only pair of cufflinks, and his hair slicked back. “You’re wearing a tie,” Arthur says intelligently, in a feeble attempt to cover up the fact that he is blatantly ogling. “Didn’t want to get turned around at the door,” he replies with an easy smile. “Shall we?” Arthur is glad to be back in the car, where he is actually required to look at something other than Eames. Yet, at every red light, he comes up with an excuse to turn in Eames’ direction. He does this so casually that if he were with anybody else, they would be convinced he wasn’t just looking for a chance to stare. But this is Eames, and even if he’ll never figure Arthur out entirely—or even half as much as he wants to—he knows all the little things. Like how Arthur wets his lips more often when he’s struggling for self control, his tongue lingering on his lower lip for half a second too long. The way his hands tighten their grip on the steering wheel as he battles his desires. Eames hasn’t felt this wanted since that time he’d had to outrun those three agents in Shanghai. The restaurant is beautiful, and so wonderfully suited to Arthur, Eames thinks, as he looks around and takes in the low lighting, the sleek and minimalist design of the place, made of polished wood and stainless steel, broken up by a painting here, a small sculpture there. The table reserved for them is beside a large window, giving them the view of a valley dotted with city lights. Arthur doesn’t look, his gaze settled back onto Eames, who certainly doesn’t mind the attention and returns it all too eagerly. They order drinks; a fine bottle of Shiraz, and Eames casually scans the restaurant, memorising the layout of the room and the position of the vase, before turning back to Arthur. “Any news of Cobb?” he asks quietly, because it’s impossible not to look at Arthur, at the lines on his face and the shadows under his eyes, and not think of the man responsible. “None. I’m beginning to wonder if there ever will be.” Arthur shrugs. “Maybe he’s just decided to move on.” “Nobody in their right mind would ever leave you behind,” Eames says with a vehemence that almost makes it possible to forget the fact that he had. “Not Cobb. He may not be in the best state right now, but he’s not stupid.” “Not like you,” Arthur says before he can quite stop himself. Eames gives him a tight smile, feeling more bitter than he has any right to. “Not like me.” Their drinks arrive and Eames hums with appreciation at the first sip. “I haven’t tasted wine this good since Paris.” “That restaurant at the corner of my street,” Arthur says, remembering, “had the best wine.” “I loved that place.” “You dragged me there at least once a week,” Arthur says with a small smile. “Dragging is hardly the word for it. You were just as enthusiastic as I was.” Eames chuckles. “Are we reminiscing, Arthur? Is that what we’ve come to?” Arthur’s smile falters, but he holds it in place. “I just miss the times when things were simpler.” “You were never simple, darling.” Arthur looks up, holding Eames’ gaze. “Say that again, Mr. Eames.” “Are you gentlemen ready to order?” a waiter interrupts, and they both realise that they’ve been leaning into each other across the table. Straightening up and clearing his throat, Arthur orders his food and Eames does the same, not looking away from him. They’ve spent two years apart, Arthur thinks, and now, they’ve had not even four days together and it’s already come to this. It shouldn’t be this easy for him to just want to fall back into what he had with Eames. I love you, he thinks, looking into the dark, blue-green eyes watching him, and the thought is intense, heavy in his chest. It doesn’t make him want to run this time, but it isn’t something he can simply say, either. “Tell me about the vase,” he mutters, lifting his glass and fixing his gaze on the dark red wine. Eames sighs quietly. They both know that he’d been hoping for something else, but he hides his disappointment well, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. The owner of the restaurant is a collector of antiques, and the vase is one from her personal collection, he explains. “There’s a very high asking price for pottery of this particular period,” Eames explains delightedly. “If this went successfully, I would never need another job again.” “I was of the impression that was already the case,” Arthur says as their appetisers arrive. “Well, yes.” Eames grins at him, “but it’s the thought that counts.” The corner of Arthur’s mouth tugs upward at this, and Eames’ grin widens. It’s been far too long since he’s seen Arthur smile with his teeth, he decides. He’ll fix this tonight. Arthur is a difficult man to charm; Eames knows this from experience. But he also knows how it is done. It helps considerably that Arthur doesn’t stop staring at him with that wonderful look of appraisal in his dark eyes. They don’t even realise when they begin leaning across the table again as they speak. They don’t realise that this has stopped being about the vase entirely. And they don’t realise that from across the room, Phillip Wolff, heir to the Wolff Corporation and older brother of Arthur, watches them both with a mix of surprise and disgust. • They walk down to the street to Eames’ apartment. Arthur has parked his car farther away this time, claiming he can’t find space closer and they both conveniently ignore the fact that there are hardly any cars parked along the curb at all. Arthur is smiling in that open-mouthed, genuinely happy way that makes Eames feel like the entire night has been worth it. It may have something to do with the several glasses of wine Arthur’s had, but it’s more likely to do with the fact that Eames’ hand is resting against the small of his back. They huddle together, ostensibly for warmth, but there’s barely a breeze. “We have to go back to that restaurant sometime,” Eames says at the entrance to his block. “To do more research for that vase.” “You’re already asking me out again,” Arthur says, still smiling. “For research.” “For research,” Eames echoes. “You should let me kiss you.” Arthur laughs this off, but quickly stops when he realises that Eames is being serious. “No.” Eames’ brow creases in a light frown. “But Arthur—” Arthur shuts his eyes, eyebrows drawing together. He wants to give in; god, he wants to give in and have Eames back again, but he can’t let himself do that. He can’t put his relationship with Eames at risk like that when Mal is gone and Dom is nowhere to be found. “No, Eames,” he says firmly. “Good night.” Ignoring the hurt and confused look on Eames’ face, Arthur turns on his heel and walks back to his car. He’s so distracted by the confused thoughts that are swirling in his head and the pounding in his chest that he doesn’t notice the car parked on the other side of the street, or the two men inside, watching him. • From the passenger seat of the black car, a man watches Arthur leave, takes in the dejected slump of Eames’ shoulders, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Sir.” “What have you found out about my brother?” Phillip asks from the other end. “He’s dropped his acquaintance off at an apartment block and has returned to his car, license plate—” “I don’t care about that. You know where this other man lives, then? Follow him. Find his apartment number. Arthur won’t be willing to talk to me without some leverage.” “Yes sir.” • Arthur wishes he’d kissed Eames. It had bothered him the entire night and it bothers him now, as he gets out of the car and walks to Eames’ door, breakfast in hand. He only really has two plans for today: work out how they’re going to steal the vase they’d both been too distracted to pay proper attention to, and kiss Eames. Not necessarily in that order. He rings the doorbell, but receives no answer. He presses the button down again, and calls, “Eames?” but still, nothing. He waits for half a minute before growling under his breath, cursing Eames for being a sulking bastard, and tries the door knob. It opens easily. Arthur freezes as he takes in the state of the room. It’s entirely trashed; there is broken glass on the floor, furniture lying on its side, and blood on the carpet. Arthur swears loudly. He shuts the door before any neighbours can see and sifts through the wreckage for clues. He runs through his mental list of organisations and other powerful people who have reason to wish harm on Eames, but it doesn’t even take him half of the A’s before he finds the note. It’s a small, square slip of paper, sitting on the untouched dining table. The writing is vaguely familiar, which concerns Arthur deeply. It’s been left there knowing it will be read. That he will read it. Arthur, If you want him, come and get him. —Phillip. Arthur swears louder this time. He reaches for his phone and thumbs through his contacts. “Yusuf? I’m sorry if I woke you. Look, that knock-out gas you make for Eames? I’m going to need some. I’ll pay double what you charge if it’s ready in the next ten minutes. I’m coming over.” • Eames is woken up by a fist to his face. He turns his head to the side, spitting blood, and opens his eyes. He’s tied to a wooden chair in a well-decorated room. He recognises the two bruisers that had attacked him. He also recognises the man standing between them, who looks everything and nothing like Arthur. “You must be Phillip,” he says, grinning despite the fact that it hurts his mouth. “What do you know about Arthur?” Phillip demands. “That he’s the better interrogator,” Eames replies casually. “I don’t mean to offend you but really, if I wanted information, I’d send him over you.” “Don’t try to be clever,” Phillip spits, and one of the burly men punches him again. “Oh, I don’t try,” Eames replies, and grins through the punch that earns him. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself mixed up somehow. Arthur who? I don’t know any Arthurs.” “You’re in no position to be playing games with me. I saw you together at the restaurant last night. You’re perfectly aware of who Arthur is.” “So that’s his name. Such a pretty thing. Must have gotten all the good looks in the family.” Phillip’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t lash out. Instead, he sits in the comfortable leather chair across from Eames and narrows his eyes. “You can pretend all you want, but I saw the pathetic way he was watching you all through dinner last night. I left him a note, so he’ll know exactly where you are. He’ll be here.” • Three years ago, Arthur had left the Wolff Manor, intending to never see it again. Yet, here he is. For Eames. It’s very easy to break into a place he knows like the back of his hand. He remembers a childhood of sneaking out past the security at the perimeter. As it turns out, doing the opposite isn’t very different at all. He gets in through a door for serving staff at the back of the large house. Once inside, he makes his way to Phillip’s room, putting his gun’s silencer on as he moves. The door is open, but the room is empty. Arthur scowls, turning back and going downstairs, to Phillip’s study. The door is shut this time, and he inches closer. There are voices coming from the room. One that Arthur can recognise as Phillip’s, and one that he immediately knows is Eames’. Gun raised, he kicks the door open. “Arthur,” he is greeted with Phillip pointing a gun at him. “Have you forgotten how to knock?” “Let him go,” he snarls in reply. “I don’t think so, little brother. We should talk. Why don’t you take a seat?” “I have absolutely no intention—” With a loud sigh, Phillip points his gun at Eames’ head and takes the safety off. “Drop the gun, Arthur. And sit down. Please.” To Phillip’s credit, he doesn’t order the men to tie Arthur to his chair when he sits. Arthur waits for Phillip to lower the gun before he turns to Eames. Eames looks absolutely calm. Arthur hopes that his own fear isn’t showing. “That blood in your apartment,” Arthur says, “That wasn’t yours, was it?” “Oh, god no.” Eames nods his head in the direction of one of the men behind Phillip, with a bandaged arm. “That was Lackey Number Two. I thought you knew me better than that, Arthur.” Arthur’s lips curve upward. “Yeah, I do.” “I’d hate to interrupt your reunion—” “What do you want, Phillip?” Phillip falters at the interruption, and glares at Arthur. “I know why you’re here.” If Eames has ever thought there was even so much as a touch of condescension in the way Arthur has ever looked at him, it’s nothing compared to the look he gives his brother. “Oh really,” he says, voice flat. “Tell me.” “You heard that Father wrote you out of the will last month.” Arthur gives his brother a look of disbelief. “It took him this long?” Phillip frowns. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re here for money.” Eames is the one who laughs. “I sincerely doubt that.” “I’m not here for anything from you,” Arthur says, his eyes dark with contempt. “I don’t want anything to do with you. I thought I made that clear when I got up and left. So if we’re finished, let him go.” “Why would I?” Phillip sneers. “As long as I have him here, I can demand what I like from you. You wouldn’t want to see him get hurt now, would you?” “Now… even I wouldn’t go that far,” Eames speaks up, “and I tend to think fairly highly of myself.” “Shut up. He’s come all the way back here just because of a note. That gun, Arthur—you’d shoot your own family for this… man.” “I’d shoot you,” Arthur corrects. Phillip scowls and hits Eames across the face. “For this scum. I saw the two of you together at dinner last night. The way you were looking at him. You wouldn’t lift a finger for Wolff Corp, but for him—” “Are you jealous?” Eames pipes up, which earns him another punch. “You filthy bastard,” Phillip growls, rubbing his knuckles. “You faggot. If Father knew, he would have written you out of the will years ago.” “I know that,” Arthur says icily, and his glare hardens. “You couldn’t have liked girls like a normal person and just find a goddamn wife. You just had to go fall in love with some… some… whatever the fuck he is.” “Thief,” Eames supplies with a brilliant smile. Arthur sighs, deciding he’s had enough of this. Without looking away from his brother, he says, “Eames. Tell me you’ve untied yourself by now.” “A long time ago, my dear.” “Yeah? You could have told me. Yusuf said to hold your breath for ten seconds.” Phillip listens to the exchange in confusion. Arthur reaches into his pockets and withdraws two vials. They shatter against the floor. Phillip and his two men pass out before they even realise what’s happening. “Ten seconds,” Eames repeats, after taking two careful breaths. “He’s improved the compound. Used to be fifteen. Shall we?” Arthur nods, but doesn’t move. “Before we leave…” “Ah,” Eames follows his gaze to Phillip. “You’ve never liked leaving loose ends untied.” “I don’t want him in my life any more. I don’t want any of this, ever again.” Eames nods, propping Phillip up against the wall. “I’ll wake him. Same way they woke me,” and takes far too much delight in punching the man across the face, pinning him by the shoulders as soon as he regains consciousness. “You don’t make any sense,” Phillip says to Arthur, his words slurring together. “You threw everything away. You’ve always had so much, and you ignore it even when it’s right in front of you.” “Shut up,” Arthur orders, pointing his gun at Phillip. “I’m only going to say this once. I want nothing to do with the family, alright? You have no idea who I am, or who you’re dealing with. I have my own life, and I swear to you. If you try to follow me after this, there won’t be anything stopping me from putting a bullet between your eyes.” Phillip opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur takes the safety off his gun with a click. “Is that understood?” “…Yes.” “Good.” Arthur reaches across, finding the pressure point on Phillip’s neck to knock him out again. “Family squabbles,” Eames says, shaking his head, “always ugly.” “Mind your own business, Eames,” Arthur replies, getting to his feet. His words have no real heat in them, and even if Eames were offended, it would be promptly forgotten with the way Arthur smiles at him. “Considering we’re already here,” Eames says, following him out, “would you like to steal anything? Or reclaim it, in your case? Your clocks, perhaps?” Arthur shakes his head, not looking back. “I don’t need anything from here. They’ve probably thrown out my junk already. How about you? The art that you never ended up stealing?” Eames catches up to Arthur and gives him a fond smile. “No. I already have the only thing I want from here.” • Arthur has already arranged for a new apartment, under a different alias. It barely takes Eames an hour to pack his belongings to move. Most of Arthur’s belongings live in boxes, and the rest are packed with a speed that speaks of how often he’s done this before. Meticulous as always, Arthur has made sure that they are untraceable in their new apartment. They’re lying low, Arthur declares, and tends to Eames’ wounds, barely sleeping for two days as he keeps an eye out for Phillip and any other unwelcome company. Only Miles and Yusuf have been told of their new location. Eames is properly healed after two days and is tired of Arthur alternatively fussing over him and refusing to sit down and have the serious conversation they so desperately need, about what they have come to mean to each other. Of course, by the time Eames is out of bed, the swelling around his eye has gone down and he can walk without favouring his left leg, Arthur is completely worn out. His face is lined with grief and stress, even when he sleeps, curled on the couch that he’s more or less lived on while taking care of Eames. He wakes and falls asleep intermittently through the day until he’s finally caught up on all the sleep he’s missed; something he’s never had to worry about when working. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Arthur is spread out on the couch and Eames walks out of the kitchen with two large mugs of tea. Arthur reaches out with his hand, and the look in his eyes makes it clear he’s not simply reaching for his tea. Eames smiles at him, sets the mugs down on the coffee table, and sits on the carpet, just by Arthur’s head. “Eames,” Arthur says, still reaching out. “Right here,” Eames murmurs, taking Arthur’s fingers into his own and pressing his lips to them. “Were you worried for me?” “You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.” “Yes, but that isn’t an answer.” Arthur turns his head, looking into Eames’ eyes. He brings his hand to Eames’ cheek, thumb stroking over the stubble, and the fading bruise on his cheek. “God, I’m such an idiot.” “Sometimes,” Eames concedes. “And then sometimes you can organise two pockets full of knock-out gas, an apartment halfway across town, and drive to your childhood home, all in less than twenty minutes. Before your first coffee for the day.” Arthur laughs, and Eames sees the dimples he is in love with; the man he is in love with. “I worried,” Arthur admits, pulling Eames close and speaking into his hair. “I knew you’d be fine, and I worried anyway.” Eames chuckles against Arthur’s neck. “Perfect, point man Arthur, who never needs to worry about a thing? You worried about me? I’m flattered.” “Only you would be happy for causing me trouble.” “Darling,” Eames breathes, looking up, into Arthur’s eyes, with such sincerity that it makes his breath catch, “I’m only pleased that you care .” “Of course I care,” Arthur whispers. “I’ve always cared.” Eames smiles as Arthur pulls him close. They kiss, for the first time in far too long, and it feels like everything has finally fallen back into place. Eames’ lips are even softer than Arthur remembers and he kisses them again, even harder, licking and nipping them. Eames moans softly, getting up onto his knees and turning around to face Arthur. “Thank you for saving me.” Arthur laughs, pulling Eames down for another kiss. “I waited for you to untie yourself and then knocked everyone out with Yusuf’s gas. I hardly did anything.” “You know I hate hearing you sell yourself short, darling.” Eames grins affectionately and runs a hand through Arthur’s hair, “You know, I couldn’t help but notice that you’d gotten us a nice and spacious three-bedroom apartment, but it’s only got the one bed.” “I’m sure you’ll find it big and comfortable enough for the two of us, Mr. Eames.” “Most people sit down and talk things out before moving into an apartment together. With one bed. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” “Well, we’re not exactly most people, are we? With you, it’s never been a matter of sitting down and talking things through. We do things differently.” “So how do we do it? Like those pendulum clocks of yours, falling into sync?” Arthur smiles up at Eames. “I like that. Yes. Except we’re like pendulums swinging at different frequencies—until that one moment when we match up.” “Are you saying we’ll fall back out of sync again?” “You’re taking the metaphor too far. Luckily for us, we aren’t really pendulums.” “Oh really, now,” Eames chuckles and kisses Arthur’s forehead. “I love that you’re still the most condescending bastard I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.” “And you’re still maddening.” “In a good way or a bad way?” “Both.” Eames laughs, pulling Arthur up to sit. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, as much as I’d love to drag you to off to our new bed and break it in, our tea’s getting cold.” “You’re postponing sex for tea? Are you sure you weren’t hit too hard?” “Very funny, Arthur. You haven’t had very much to eat or drink all day, so humour me. You don’t want me to turn into a fussy mother hen on you. I assure you; I’m even worse than you are.” “I’m not a mother hen. And besides, you were kidnapped and beaten up,” Arthur points out, but accepts his mug without further protest. The tea is still warm and he takes a long gulp. “…You remember how I like my tea. I haven’t had tea with you since—I can’t even remember when. Paris.” Eames simply smiles in reply and drinks his own tea, finishing it in barely a minute. Arthur drinks his own much slower, sip by sip, humming against the ceramic mug as Eames nuzzles against his neck and kisses it. Arthur carries their mugs to the kitchen sink, and Eames gets up to follow him. He kisses the back of Arthur’s neck as he takes care of the washing, hands settling on the narrow, bony hips. Arthur leans back into the touch and turns in Eames’ arms once he’s done. “You can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?” “I thought I was doing extremely well, these past few days,” Eames grins and presses a kiss to Arthur’s lips. “Compared to what I wanted to do to you…” “Oh, now I’m intrigued,” Arthur murmurs, tilting his head back as Eames kisses down his neck. “I was hoping you would be.” Eames takes Arthur’s hands, thumbs stroking over the soft skin, and pulls gently. Arthur follows, letting himself be pulled, occasionally tugging Eames back into a kiss. When Eames walks backward to the bed and sits, he’s smiling in a way Arthur can’t help but return. “I love you,” Arthur says, without quite meaning to put his thoughts into words. There’s an initial lurch of panic, but then he can’t find it in himself to mind when he sees the way Eames’ smile grows impossibly wider. “I had the sneaking suspicion you might,” Eames draws Arthur closer, pulling his knee up to brace against the mattress. “It feels wonderful to hear you say it, though.” Arthur smiles, straddling Eames and kissing him hard. Then, Eames pulls back just far enough to murmur, “Love you, Arthur,” against his lips, and Arthur realises that it does feel good to finally hear it. He files that information away for future reference, currently too preoccupied by the fact that they’re both hard, and Eames is grinding up against him. “Fuck, Eames.” Eames chuckles breathlessly, pressing kisses along Arthur’s jaw. Their bodies fit together as easily as they always had; Arthur pushes Eames down onto the bed, pinning his hands above his head and rocking their hips against each other. “Oh, Arthur,” he gasps, arching into the touch, craving more. When they’re pressed together like this, he can feel the muscles that have grown firmer in the time they’ve been apart, the flexibility, the confidence behind his movements. Arthur has always been these things, but lying on the large, soft bed beneath him, Eames feels like he’s noticing it all again for the first time. His breath hitches when Arthur untucks his shirt, unbuttoning it with one hand while the other slips underneath. He tries to help, fumbling with his buttons until they both manage to pull the lime green shirt off his shoulders and discard it onto the floor without a second thought. Arthur bites his lower lip, his gaze roaming across Eames’ bare torso. His hands follow close behind and Eames lets out a long, shuddering sigh when he feels them slide down, across his stomach, past his navel, and settle on the bulge of his clothed erection. “So hard, for me,” Arthur whispers, running his fingers along the outline of Eames’ cock. He smiles when Eames grunts, thrusting into the touch. “Do you have any idea of what I want to do to you?” “Tell me,” Eames gasps, his hips lifting from the mattress, his head spinning, and enjoying himself far too much to be bothered by the way Arthur can turn the tables against him so easily. “I’m going to strip you naked,” Arthur murmurs, still stroking him through his trousers. “I’m going to suck you off until you come, right into my mouth. I’m going to make you scream, Mr. Eames, and then I’m going to fuck myself on your cock. And that’s just the beginning.” “Oh god yes,” Eames moans, as Arthur unzips his pants and slips a hand inside. “Yes. I’ve missed that sinfully dirty mouth of yours, darling.” Arthur smirks, and Eames thinks that he might just implode right then and there. His fingers dig into the sheets beneath him and he lifts his hips obediently to allow Arthur to pull his pants and underwear off. Arthur looks up at him, holding Eames’ gaze as he bows his head, swallowing him. “Arthur,” he gasps, breaking eye contact and letting his head fall back, his eyes turned to the ceiling. Arthur’s mouth is hot, wet, and amazing, his tongue moving across the underside of his cock. Eames loosens his grip on the sheets, moving one hand to rest on Arthur’s head, his fingers running through the dark hair, massaging his scalp. Arthur moans appreciatively and the sounds sends a shudder through Eames’ entire body. Arthur pulls back until it’s just the tip of Eames’ cock in his mouth and he sucks slowly, licking and kissing it before he leans back far enough to say, “Look at you, dripping all over the fucking place.” His voice is low and rough, and his lips are wet. Eames doesn’t have the mental functions to even think coherently and he simply gapes, his eyes wide and mouth open. Arthur chuckles, which nearly sends him over, but then that glorious mouth is on him once again and this time, it’s accompanied by Arthur’s long fingers, massaging his balls and slipping further past them, trailing along the sensitive skin just underneath, and Eames is swearing loudly, his hips jerking of their own accord. “Eames,” Arthur gasps, pulling away, holding Eames’ hips still, licking his wet, swollen lips. “Eames. I want you to fuck my mouth.” The warmth surrounds his cock again and Eames tries to be gentle, he truly tries, but his grip on Arthur’s hair is too tight, his movements too jerky, and he doesn’t have the self control to do anything but thrust, swear, and moan a mantra of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. He can hear and feel the low moans that come from the back of Arthur’s throat and it’s this one final thing he needs, this knowledge that Arthur is getting off on this just as much as he is. He doesn’t even have the time to wonder at the fact that they fit together so well, like this; it sends him over, his grip on Arthur tightening, a wordless moan spilling from his lips, and his cock spurting hot, thick streams of come as Arthur swallows around him. “Good god, Arthur.” Eames is panting heavily, but that’s never kept him from talking before. “One would think you’d spent almost as much time tossing off to this fantasy as I have.” Arthur smiles, and doesn’t resist when Eames pulls him close to kiss him deeply. “Let’s get you undressed now, shall we?” asks Eames, already undoing Arthur’s shirt. “If that’s just the beginning, I’m terribly eager to see what else you have in store.” • They spend the following week—and then, by Eames’ persuasion, another—in a blissful daze, content to postpone work and all other concerns in favour of spending their time together. They’re reconnecting, relearning each other, and if that occasionally means they spend a great majority of the day in bed, neither of them are inclined to protest. The only times they leave their private little world of each other are when, every couple of days, they make the trip up to the Cobbs’ house to check on the children, and to speak with Miles and Annie. They settle into their new apartment together easily; it is big enough that they have their own space, and still cosy enough for them to be together. They spend an hour one morning setting up Eames’ office in one of the spare bedrooms; a desk, a swivel chair, and a cork board. Eames promptly pins a photo of Arthur onto it, smiling cheerfully and refusing to say where he’d gotten it in the first place, until he’s forced to take it back down. The second spare room becomes Arthur’s workspace, but aside from the computer desk he’s set up in one corner, he leaves the rest of his books and files in their boxes, spending three entire hours setting up his watchmaking table, hanging his clocks on the wall and sorting out the unfinished ones. “Ah, your clocks,” Eames murmurs once they’re all arranged to Arthur’s satisfaction. “Because of course, no home is complete without at least three timepieces in the same room, right?” Arthur swats Eames’ wandering hands away with a small smile. “Just for that, I’m going to lock myself up with my watchmaking tools all day.” “Is that a double entendre? I’m unsure whether or not I want it to be, depending on which side of this locked door I’ll be on.” “No, Eames,” Arthur snorts quietly. “It means I’m going to make a new watch, and you’ll have to find something to do for at least the next two hours.” “What? Without you? However am I going to survive?” “Go and find something fun for us to steal,” Arthur says, as Eames pulls him into a long kiss. “There’s still that vase waiting for us,” Eames points out, “but I’m more than willing to make an entire list of things to steal.” “Have fun with that. And don’t get into trouble you can’t get out of.” “And have fun with those clocks of yours. But not too much. I wouldn’t want to get jealous.” “I’ll try,” Arthur replies with a wry grin. Eames returns two and a half hours later with a list of paintings and sculptures, and a bouquet of roses that the poor, flustered shop assistant at the florist across town still hasn’t realised she’d forgotten to charge him for. “Did you find anything nice?” Arthur greets him from the couch. Eames smirks. “A gorgeous man in his mid-twenties lying on my couch, just asking to be ravished.” “So charming, Eames.” “C’mere.” “You come here,” Arthur replies, and Eames grins, crossing the room to the couch. “I saw these roses and thought of you.” “Really, now.” “Just look at them. All skinny and long, with prickly thorns all over.” Eames chuckles. “But still prettier than anything has any right to be.” “I may swoon, Eames.” “I finally have you all figured out, my dear. Condescension is your own special form of foreplay.” “Very funny.” Arthur sits up and pulls Eames down onto the couch beside him. “I made this for you.” Eames raises his eyebrows at the small, black box Arthur hands him. He opens it carefully, mouth opening in a silent gasp as he pulls out the silver pocket watch with the attached chain. “You—made this. For me?” Arthur shrugs as casually as he can manage, while ducking his head and looking away. “Well, I didn’t really need to make another one for myself, so—” “Arthur,” Eames interrupts, pulling him into a deep kiss. “Thank you. It’s wonderful.” Arthur smiles, and his dimples show. “Glad you like it.” Arthur gets up to find a place for his roses, and Eames follows him around, fiddling with his pocket watch and finally clipping it to his pants. Neither of them comment on the fact that they’ve both gone out of their way to exchange presents. They pretend to ignore the fact that today marks a month since Mal jumped from the ledge of a hotel room. They pretend they aren’t trying to distract themselves from the fact that it’s been a month and they still haven’t heard any more from Dom. If Arthur clings too tightly, or Eames is gentler than normal that night, neither of them make any mention of it. • Dom calls the very next day. Miles has given him Arthur’s number, and they talk for a long time, about the children, and about Miles and Annie. They save the most important part of the conversation to the very end, after they’ve already been talking for an hour. Eames is sitting on the couch, shoulder to shoulder with Arthur, who sighs and finally asks: “Have you found a way home yet?” There’s a beat of silence, and then Dom sighs. “No. Nothing that clear just yet. But I have an idea.” “An idea,” Arthur repeats, and Eames looks up, paying attention to the one side of the conversation he can hear. “There’s only one thing I can do right now, and that’s extracting. If I get enough money, or if I make the right connections, I can find a way to buy my way back. Pay off the authorities. Fix my charges.” Arthur’s shoulders slump. “Dom. Do you even know how long that’s going to take?” “No, I don’t. But if I’m going to get back into extracting, I’m going to need a point man, Arthur. I’m going to need you to help me.” Arthur catches Eames’ gaze and holds it when he says, “You want me to join you.” Eames frowns at this, watching Arthur intently. “Yeah. I’ll give you the details—” “I’m bringing Eames with me,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow at Eames as he says this. Eames nods, and he relaxes. “No.” “No?” Arthur repeats, frowning. “We’re keeping our team small. We don’t need a forger—” “We’ll find something for him to do. I’m bringing him.” “Damn it, Arthur, you can’t. It’ll be just the two of us—I’ll build the levels, you dream them, and I’ll extract.” “You’re not listening, Dom. Would you have left Mal behind if someone asked you to?” Eames’ eyes widen at this, at what it means, but Arthur doesn’t look away. “What does Mal—oh. You and Eames are…” “Yes, we are.” “That complicates things.” “It shouldn’t.” “I’m sorry, Arthur. I don’t trust Eames that much.” If he were speaking to anybody else, Arthur would promptly hang up. Instead, he takes a breath and replies, “Well, I do.” “I need your help for this. I’ll get this done as soon as possible, I swear. I know I can rely on you. For the kids. For Mal.” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and frowns. “Fine. We’ll get this over with as soon as possible.” “It’ll take us three months, tops.” “Three months,” Arthur repeats, for Eames. “At most.” They hang up shortly after, and Arthur throws his phone onto the table with a huff. “You alright?” Eames asks, already knowing the answer. “He doesn’t trust you,” Arthur growls, raking a hand through his hair and glaring at his phone. “He’s not letting me bring you with me.” Eames runs his thumb across Arthur’s lips with a small smile. “I don’t have very much of a right to be offended when I go out of my way to give off that very impression.” “I trust you. That should be enough.” “But darling, it is. Knowing that is enough for me.” Arthur sighs, his hands going up to hold the sides of Eames’ face. “It’ll only be three months.” Eames shakes his head, “Even if it takes longer than that, you’ll stay with Cobb until this mess is sorted out. You’d never turn your back on him, and hell if you’re going to start now.” “We’ll get this done as soon as possible.” “You’d better,” Eames grins. “I didn’t make an entire list of things to steal for no reason. And I really do want to steal that vase.” “You’re the one doing all the stealing. You don’t need me.” “Yes I do.” Eames kisses him on the mouth, lips smacking loudly. “So when do you need to leave? And am I allowed to know where you’re going?” “I have two days. Dom specifically told me not to tell you, but… fuck it, I’ll be meeting him in Zurich. I don’t know where we’ll go after that.” Eames nods. Two days, with a visit to Miles and Annie somewhere in between. He can handle that. But yet, once they’re parting ways at the departure gate at the airport, Eames is reluctant to let go of Arthur. “Promise me,” he says, his thumbs stroking the backs of Arthur’s hands. “Promise you’ll call at the first chance you get. In secret, if you must.” “When did you become so damn clingy?” Arthur grins a little, but they both know it’s forced. “Fine. I’ll call if it makes you that happy.” “Good.” Arthur looks over his shoulder at the departure gate and clears his throat. “…I need to go.” “Of course.” Eames’ grip on Arthur tighten before he lets go, his own hands disappearing into his pockets. His fingers close around the pocket watch he’s begun to carry with him, and he nods his goodbye as Arthur picks up his bags and turns away. Eames stands there, long after Arthur has disappeared in the press of people. In his line of work; surviving as long as he has, being as good as he is, he’s developed a keen sense for trouble. Even after he finally returns home to the apartment that feels far too big, Eames broods over the dull sense of panic at the back of his mind, telling him that something is going to go wrong. It’s only made worse by the fact that Arthur’s expression had told him that he’d felt the exact same thing. • (Part Four.)