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It took a handful of years, but they finally arrived at this moment.
If Arthur was precise – and he can’t help himself - it took four years, six jobs, and a bullet to Eames’ femur for their detente to cease and spill over into a relationship, or something like it.
He's hesitant to say it was a certainty – Arthur deals in variables. It’s what he’s good at, it's his job to map out all possibilities, create a contingency for every contingency - he doesn’t believe in eventualities. There was nothing in this life that he was willing to pin down to predetermination.
Except, maybe, for this. The thing he has with Eames, whatever it is. The first time they kiss it feels like the final destination after a long journey. Like every contingency lead to Eames, as if no matter what choices they could have made since they first met, all roads were going to lead to this point.
They were working a job in São Paulo when Eames is shot.
It was Arthur's fault. A street kid that he was paying to observe their mark had sold them out for a higher price. Eames found out first, tailed by the marks cronies, and sounded the alarm.
They cornered him and Eames managed to get away, but wasn’t quick enough in his escape, taking a bullet to the leg. Arthur got to him first and drove him to a safehouse in Campinas while Eames bled all over the back of his rental.
The team split, the job was dropped – and Arthur and Eames were effectively cohabitating while Eames recovered.
At first, he stays because he feels guilty. He could have left Eames to fend for himself and he would have managed. It would have been safer for Arthur to get out of the country. But, like the Fischer job, this is entirely his fault, he should have vetted his sources more carefully. He needs to fix it.
So he stays and tends to Eames night and day, helping him around the tiny safehouse. There is one bed and Eames needs help bathing and getting to the toilet so concepts like personal space and privacy quickly became a thing of the past. It helps to be able to help, but he mentally berates himself every time Eames so much as grunts in pain.
It’s undeniable after this job. Arthur's self-confidence has taken a hit. If Eames notices it, he doesn’t say anything. He’s strangely patient with Arthur, doesn’t grumble and complain about his like he would have before and sometimes it felt like Eames was looking after him instead of the other way around.
“You play a very good nursemaid, if you’re ever looking for an alternative career,” Eames says jovially, one day into their second week. He’s lounged back on the lumpy bed, propped up on the only pillow in the entire house while Arthur busies himself with changing Eames’ bandage.
“Is that a hint?” Arthur mutters, discarding the gross, old one, cleaning the still-tender wound with water. “I fucked up, I get it. You’re still going to be paid, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“On the contrary. I just think you would look fetching in scrubs.”
Arthur presses the back of his hand to his forehead. It’s warm, but he hasn’t got a fever so he probably isn’t delirious. Perhaps the boredom is getting to him.
He continues, raising a hand to Arthur's face, poking him in the brow. “Has anyone ever told you you look adorable when you concentrate? You get this,” he pokes him again, “little furrow here.”
Great. Just what he wants, for Eames to point out his forehead wrinkles.
“If you’re that bored I can dig out the cards again,” focusing on securing the new bandage, and removing his gloves, discarding them too. “But I’m throwing them away if I catch you cheating again.”
“I can think of something better we could do.”
“I’m all ears,” he mumbles, fixing the fiddly clip when it springs off. “We could play scrabble again, I suppose.”
“Arthur, you oblivious twat,” Eames groans, sitting up, batting Arthur away from his leg. With an extremely serious look in his eyes, he leans forward and takes Arthur's face in his hands. “I’m trying to flirt with you.”
Arthur blinks.
“Oh.”
“Exactly,” he says, then presses their lips together.
Arthur has to feel around blindly so that when he leans forward he doesn’t put any pressure on Eames’ leg, getting into a more comfortable position to kiss him back. The angle puts an uncomfortable strain on his neck and Eames' unkempt beard is a little distracting, but it’s otherwise a very nice kiss.
His lips are warm and wet with spit when they part. He looks beautiful, flushed and panting – although perhaps that has nothing to do with him.
“Lay back, idiot,” he sighs, pushing him back to recline on the bed. He passes a painkiller and glass of water from the bedside table to Eames, who swallows them with a grimace. “You’re not very good at flirting,” Arthur tells him.
Eames passes him the glass back, looking slightly put out. "Am so."
“Oh yeah,” Arthur rolls his eyes, shuffling beside Eames when he pats the spot beside him, pressing their sides together in the tiny bed. “I really liked when you called me an oblivious twat. Got me so hot, oh baby.”
Eames smiles at him, slow and lazy. “I think no one has pulled your pigtails before.” He punctuates this by reaching up and tugging a loose lock hanging over Arthur's forehead.
“Quit that,” he swats his hand away and tries not to sound petulant. But to be fair, Arthur is missing a lot of red flags lately. “If you’re bored just say so.”
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames beckons him, slipping down on the bedspread. “Clearly we are going to have to take this one step at a time. Come, lie down. I’ll go slow with you.”
He follows him reluctantly, mindful of Eames’ injury until they’re curled towards each other atop the bedcovers.
Arthur has wanted to push Eames down, straddle his stupidly thick thighs and ride him into oblivion since their first job in Osaka but he didn’t ever think the attraction was mutual. But he can do slow. He’s hardly going to go all in, given the medley of prescription drugs Eames is on now, though it might be nice, he thinks, just to pretend, for a while.
“Okay,” he agrees, already guarding his heart. “Slow.”
Besides, once he’s fully mobile and off the opioids, Eames will probably take off anyway.
----
It takes a solid month but Eames heals up. He regains his mobility slowly and has a puckered, pink scar right above his knee to prove his ordeal. The two of them book it out of Brazil once he’s capable of moving on his own again and in the airport Eames sides up to Arthur, wraps an arm around his waist and whispers into his ear.
Come to London.
Arthur has nowhere else to be, so he does. And three months later, he is still in London. He's still in Eames' flat, drinking his terrible coffee, taking up space in his home and life, waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop.
They’ve taken jobs separately in that time but most of it is spent in Eames’ neighborhood, living out of each other's pockets, just as they did in Brazil. Like Brazil, they develop a routine of sorts, as much of a routine as one can have as a career criminal. The bed is much more comfortable in Eames’ flat, in any case. Even if Eames does steal all the blankets.
Each passing day Arthur waits. Waits for Eames to slap him on the ass over a cup of coffee one morning, kiss his cheek and dismiss him in some cavalier manner, like, this was a lovely sojourn, hmm? Nice seeing you, call for me for the next job.
Arthur waits for days, weeks, sure of this eventuality over anything else. But it never comes.
True to his word, since his recovery, Eames had been something like a gentleman. They’ve been going slow, as promised. So slow, in fact, that if they were going any slower they’d be going backwards.
That’s not to say that these months haven’t been some of the sweetest, softest, most wonderful months Arthur has ever had with a lover - they’ve been incomparable. He didn’t know someone would be willing to spend time with him, kissing him until he’s breathless, just for the sake of spending time with him, enjoying his body without needing to take something from it. Kissing doesn’t come off as a transaction, like something to get out of the way before the main event – kisses with Eames are just kisses.
And, the worst part out of all it is that he’s gotten to know Eames on a micro-level. Arthur now has the intimate knowledge that Eames snores if he sleeps on his back and that the first thing he does upon waking up is to crack his spine, then his knuckles, and that he is a fiend for putting chilli in absolutely everything he eats.
Arthur knows how much he loves to kiss, to pluck Arthur like an instrument with his wandering hands, that no matter what happens now, Eames knows where all of Arthur's sensitive spots are.
“Hmm, look here,” Eames would stroke the spot on his throat, or his bare shoulder, before raking his stubble over it and peppering it with sharp kisses, more teeth than tongue. And it's nice - like, really fucking nice. If he didn't know Eames better, he'd say it felt a lot like courting.
It’s just –- the thing is, they haven’t had sex yet. Not once. And it's not that Arthur is like, dying for it, but Arthur saw more of Eames’ cock when he was helping him piss in Campinas and he has wanted to get up on that for years.
It's not that he can't wait; it's that ‘slow’, he decides, is severely overrated.
Sure, the first few make outs left Arthur feeling like a teenager all over again, all hot and bothered from rolling around on the bed or the couch, but it never goes further. Sometimes they would lose their shirts, but right at the point that Arthur would kiss his way down Eames’ torso Eames would get – well — polite.
“Let’s leave it there,” Eames would say before backing off.
Arthur didn’t want to push further if Eames was so insistent on keeping some of the mystery alive. Arthur thinks he could kiss Eames all day and not get bored.
But by the fifth hot and heavy make-out session Arthur was feeling that maybe it wasn’t all about old fashioned chivalry, or about Arthur's boundaries. There was something about the way that Eames touches him - or doesn't touch him - that had him thinking that just maybe there was something Arthur was doing wrong.
Without asking outright, Arthur isn’t sure how to broach the topic.
----
“Do you want to fuck me?” he blurts out one evening.
They’ve been on a James Bond marathon and are on Tomorrow Never Dies. Neither of them liked this particular movie so they’d spent most of it necking. He’d spent the last act under Eames kissing, the man's broad fingers skating over his sides, toying with the hem of his jeans.
Above him, Eames pauses to send him a bewildered look.
“I mean, you don’t have to,” Arthur backtracks, suddenly mortified by his own forwardness. On the screen, Pierce Brosnan leaps off a bridge. Arthur wishes that were him.
“Or - I mean - I could fuck you. I just – this is nice –” he takes a deep breath, “-- I’m not a virgin, is what I’m trying to say. Unless you don’t want to. Fuck, that is. That’s okay, too.”
Arthur slams his eyelids shut, cringing. When he opens them Eames's lips are pursed, suppressing a smile. “I sound like a fucking pervert,” he sighs.
“You are a pervert,” Eames gathers Arthur's hands in his to press kisses to his knuckles. “Filthy. Disgusting. I don’t know how I put up with you.”
“We don’t have to. If you don’t want that,” he adds, suddenly uncertain, ”with me. We can just do this.”
“Arthur,” Eames drags him up until they’re both sitting, sides pressed together. He looks at him, suddenly serious in that way he gets sometimes, voice going low and rusty. “I want that very, very much.”
“Okay,” Arthur nods when they part, still pink with embarrassment. “That’s good. And, you know. Mutual.”
“What say we have a lovely dinner out, tomorrow night,” Eames slings an arm over his shoulder to bring him closer. “Then we come back here and you can deflower me all you like.”
“Can we get Japanese? At dinner, before we, you know,” his fingers crudely emulate penetration. “I could kill for some gyoza.”
“Gyo-za,” Eames says smartly, as if to correct him.
Arthur frowns.
“That’s what I said.”
Eames just smiles at him fondly. Arthur feels the outline of it pressed into his hairline. He feels so good, arm heavy over him, that he lets him win that one.
----
The following evening, after a perfectly ordinary day together, Eames drives him to some obscure, overpriced Japanese restaurant in London proper. Eames gets dressed up all nice and trims his beard and the atmosphere is all very ‘first date’ like.
After their waiter brings them sake Arthur produces a single rose from the inside of his jacket and presents it to Eames. It was worth being pricked in the chest by its thorns for an hour just to hear him laugh and look secretly chuffed.
They take a cab back to Eames’ place where they tumble into bed. Lights and clothes come off and at some point Eames turns over onto his stomach, presents his ass up and begs Arthur to fuck him just like that.
Head swimming with lust and alcohol, Arthur does just that.
At one point he reaches around to grip Eames’ cock in his hand but is slapped away, Eames taking himself in hand. He groans in completion before Arthur follows suit just a handful of thrusts later. He whites out for a moment, lost in the peak of his own pleasure before coming back to himself. He gently withdraws out of Eames and ties off the condom before discarding it. Arthur heads to the bathroom to wet a towel to clean up Eames, but by the time he returns Eames has already taken care of it, a wad of tissues already swiping his abdomen clean.
With a tired grin, Eames tosses the tissue behind him and pulls Arthur back to the bed and cuddles close to him, lazy self-satisfaction exuding off him in waves, like a cat who got the cream. He can feel the stretch of his mouth where it rests on Arthur's shoulder.
“Was that good?” Arthur asks tiredly, eyelids already heavy, fingers petting Eames’ hair.
“Perfect,” Eames presses a bristly kiss to his skin. “You were perfect.”
----
From there, it's as if a dam has broken. They have sex again the next night.
They’d been kissing and grinding like teenagers - again - the living room pitch black save for the movie playing on the TV - they’d been watching Die Another Day – Arthur is now forever going to have a pavlovian erection to Pierce Brosnan – when Eames pants against his lips, “Get the slick.”
Arthur scrambles out from underneath him so quickly that he nearly stumbles into the coffee table. Finally, he thinks, racing in the bedroom to grab the lube and a condom from his wallet, he’s going to finally get fucked. Tonight is the night he's been waiting for.
When he gets back to the living room Eames pushes him to the sofa and gets to his knees and wastes no time getting his mouth on Arthur's cock. And, god – Eames is good, so fucking good at this. His lips slide kiss the crown before working down, cheeks hollowing with exquisite suction. The thought of Eames crooked teeth nibbling on his foreskin has brought him close to coming before, and the near reality has him close to completion embarrassingly quick.
He swallows roughly to get his bearings as Eames pulls off. His cheeks are flushed and his lips, plush and pink, are wet with spit and pre-come. He looks fucking unfair.
“You should fuck me,” he says.
Eames smiles and kisses Arthur's palm when he extends a hand to cup his cheek. “I was quite hoping for a repeat performance of last night,” he rises on his knees, steadying himself with his hands on Arthur's thighs. “Is that alright?”
“Yeah,” Arthur breathes. “I mean, whatever.”
He’s a little disappointed, but he’s not going to pass up the opportunity to bury himself into the man again.
They fuck right there on the couch while the credits roll, Eames bent over the armrest while Arthur takes him from behind. Like the previous night, Eames slaps Arthur's hands away with a breathy let me do it. Arthur grips his hips harder and drives into him until Eames groans in completion, following suit a handful of thrusts later.
And like the night before, Eames has already cleaned up before Arthur can get to him.
Well, that’s fine. He just doesn’t like his cock touched while he’s being taken. It’s not uncommon – most guys have some kind of hang up when it comes to sex with another guy. Maybe that’s just how Eames gets off best. Besides, it’s difficult for Arthur to care too much when they’re both satisfied and a sleepy, warm kiss is pressed to the nape of his neck.
In bed that night, Eames' arms heavy around Arthur's middle, he can’t bring himself to feel much of anything except a swooping, free-fall-like sensation, as if he’d just dived off a building. Arthur thinks it might be affection.
His eyes snap open.
Goddamnit.
----
They don’t make any grand announcements about their new, cohabitation slash fucking to their friends, but when Eames introduces Arthur to his mates he calls him my Arthur or just Arthur.
He likes to think there’s a distinction.
Amongst coworkers, they’re careful to measure their interactions with one another, for their own safety, but Ariadne picks up on the change immediately. She doesn’t seem remotely phased, raising her eyebrows at the pair of them only once before getting back to work on a job together. Everything’s kind of good, if Arthurs honest.
Even if he’s still waiting for Eames to say he’s bored. Even though that pesky, insidious feeling of affection has been growing and growing over the weeks and months. He doesn’t know if Eames feels the same, or if he just really likes Arthur's body.
It helps that the man likes to cuddle. Like a goddamn teddy bear. Arthur, who has never been very physically affectionate, finds himself softening to it over time. Normally, he has solid boundaries. No snuggling after sex, definitely no kissing before teeth brushing and to never let anyone watch him groom himself. He shaves alone, he does his hair alone, no exceptions.
Eames, as usual, bulldozes over all of these in the way he always does - guileless and unapologetically.
Now he feels bereft without a brush to his lips first thing in the day, morning breath be damned. And after Eames plucked an errant hair from his chin he missed during shaving one morning, well, there really is no turning back. His self-confidence in his work is still shaky, but the supremely rigid self-consciousness he’s had about himself starts to soften too.
Arthur’s not sure that's a good thing.
It’s not perfect, sure, he’d be totem-checking hourly if it were, still does every week or so, just to be certain. They still argue ferociously, particularly when a job is involved, or whose turn it is to do laundry, or whether or not cilantro belongs in a dish. After a while, he stops referring to the apartment on the fourth floor as Eames flat and instead thinks of it as ‘home’.
Arthur feels comfortable around him, like Eames has forged him into the most genuine version of himself. That realisation hits him daily and it feels like swan-diving off that building over and over and over. While their sex life is a little one-note in flavor, Arthur doesn’t exactly have a right to complain. Sure, it’s always Arthur taking him from behind, but they’re both getting off. And not that Eames isn’t a generous lover. He’s gone down on Arthur and eaten him out as often as Arthur can stand it.
He trusts Eames to have enough confidence to tell him if he wants more, but it doesn’t do anything to ease the feeling that Arthur is missing something.
“It’s not that I don’t like to top every now and then,” Eames had told him one night, kissing the argument off his lips. “I just don’t make a habit of it, and besides,” he slithers down Arthur's body, stopping to nose at the zip of his pants, “your cock is very, very good at its job, wouldn’t you say?”
Arthur rolled his eyes and let it pass.
He’s kind of crazy about this strange man – even if he knows it's temporary. Whatever makes him happy. Arthur has had a shitty, lonely few years. He’ll take what he can get.
----
Once, Eames agrees to fuck him. Granted, they’re both exceedingly drunk after celebrating a successful extraction. They get kicked out of the bar after closing and stumble back to their hotel. Pressed against the mirrored elevator doors Eames whispers filthy things into his ear, promising to stretch him full, to take him, bare and pleading.
It’s a bit of a disaster. They get as far as getting their pants down, rutting against each other before Arthur comes all over himself, already too worked up, before conking out for the night.
It’s not his finest hour. At least Eames seems to have forgotten it.
They’re walking Eames’ sisters' three yappy dogs through a park when Arthur brings it up. Not that night, per se, but rather the availability of his ass, should Eames like to use it. It's worth a mention, is all.
“You don’t have to,” Arthur says, nodding along to a pair of jogging women as they pass. He tugs on the leash of the runt he’s responsible for to keep him on the path. “I’d just - if you wanted to retry that night in Salem, I’d like to be prepared.”
“Darling, you have your slick and rubbers labelled and organised in your bedside drawer by colour and category,” Eames side-eyes him, “how much more prepared could you possibly be?”
Arthur cheeks heat as a well-dressed pair with a stroller pass them. He waits for them to be out of hearing range before speaking. “I just mean, I might want to - you know - landscape.”
“Landscape,” Eames repeats.
“Yes. Like, wax. Or shave.”
“What for? I had my nose in your bush this very morning,” Eames says nonplussed, pausing as one of the dogs pee on the grass. It’s said loud enough that the couple with the stroller pause briefly before resuming, staring dead straight ahead as their shoulders shake with laughter. Arthur's face flames.
“I don’t mean there,” he huffs, annoyed. “I mean – christ, never mind.”
“Oh, you mean – ” Eames breaks off with a nod, exaggerating a sudden understanding. “The anus,” he says loudly.
Arthur cuffs him up the back of the head, glaring at him. “You’re such an asshole.”
And his bush is very neat and manicured, thank you.
“Well, I suppose you’re the authority on that,” Eames snickers boyishly, dodging Arthur's hand as it tries to swipe at him again. When he’s out of danger he sides up to him, slinging an arm around his waist and squeezing his hip. Dogs yap at their feet, zooming every which way. “You don’t need to be any more lovely than you already are,” he tells Arthur when there is no one else in sight. “You’re perfect as you are.”
“Stop it,” Arthur says, embarrassed. He elbows Eames when his hand slips from his waist to cup his ass fondly.
“Shant,” says Eames.
His stupidly big, warm hand remains fixed on Arthurs’ rear all the way back to his sister's house. They draw looks from several passersby. Arthur is stupidly pleased by this.
Eames' sister comes home as Arthur tries to bring it up again and the topic gets nixed. He takes it as a sign to let things be. Whatever will happen will happen, or won't.
----
An unfortunate feature of growing up queer in the late nineties and early millennium was that being in a homosexual relationship often meant being some closeted guy’s dirty secret. In fact, it wasn’t until Arthur was in his third year of college that he dated his first serious boyfriend.
His name was Matthew. He was an engineering major, like Arthur, except where Arthur was awkward and gangly, he was broad, beautiful and brash. Arthur liked him more than he’d liked anyone ever before. It wasn’t perfect, but he thought then, he was the one. After ten months of dating, Arthur walks into his dorm and finds him having sex with some girl. Turns out she was his girlfriend since high school and Arthur had been the side piece all along.
Arthur had gotten mad, called him a liar and a cheat. Matthew had said: 'Arthur, – look at you. I mean, christ, look at you. I can’t exactly take you home, can I? ’
Looking back now Arthur knows that he meant he couldn’t take a guy home. But at the time he thought he meant him. Couldn’t take home Arthur with his too-long hair, his baggy, thrift-store clothes, his bitten-to-the-quick nails. He fixated on that for a long, long time.
That relationship didn’t work out. Nor the one after that, or the one after that.
Perpetually being in the closet sucked, but Arthur understood and respected his partners' wishes; though it meant he rarely got to meet friends or family -and if he did, it was always as a ‘friend’.
This is Arthur, my school friend. My co-worker. My lab partner.
Some guys weren’t ready to come out. Some were out to friends, but not to family. And some guys were just assholes.
It’s taken him until he is thirty years old to be introduced as something else. Eames introduces him to his friends, to his sister Geri - like Halliwell, not Springer - not as a boyfriend, or as a partner, but as ‘my Arthur ’.
He knows Eames isn’t in the closet, but he likes to think it means something. It isn’t a declaration, but it’s a step up from ‘tolerated colleague’ at any stage.
“I think I have low standards,” Arthur observes sadly over dinner one night, apropos of nothing.
“Of course you do,” Eames says, twirling his fork around. “You’re shacking with me, aren’t you.”
----
In late February they take a job together in Darwin.
Arthur, who had only been home for a week after a month-long job, had been reluctant to sign on for it. But Eames had insisted, setting his pout and puppyish looks on Arthur, and well - he’s only human. Besides, he gets the feeling that Eames had grown restless of London, of being near his overbearing sister. Of Arthur, perhaps. Maybe he just needed a change of scenery. He agreed and they were on their way to Australia the following day.
The night before they leave Eames fucks Arthur with a dildo while sucking him off. Whenever his mouth isn’t on Arthur's cock he’s setting him alight with dirty talk, telling Arthur exactly what he would do if the dildo was his cock, then demonstrating it.
Arthur tries not to take this as evidence Eames is becoming more comfortable with the idea.
The job was to extract from a property developer, Terry Banfield, who was rumoured to be funding his projects with dark money from overseas investors. To avoid national embarrassment the local council had recruited Felix, who called Eames.
From the minute Arthur had arrived in Darwin, after two layovers and twenty-four hours in transit, he’d been miserable.
It’s fucking hot – it must have been at least ninety degrees with such intense humidity it felt like he was breathing in pure moisture. He observed the locals in their shorts and shirts and knew he’d be feeling out of place for this entire job. Arthur did not own flip flops for anything besides hotel showers and under no circumstance will not be purchasing them to fit in.
Eames, however, seemed right at home, barely even breaking a sweat. Eames loves Australia, Arthur knows. Eames says it’s because of the koalas and because the Queen is still on their money, but Arthur knows he thrives anywhere close to the equator as much as Arthur does anywhere far away from it.
His misery is exacerbated very, very slightly when they separate to go to different hotels.
“It’s only for a few weeks,” he rolls his eyes when Eames draws him into an embrace on the sidewalk. “Stop it.”
“I’ll miss you,” Eames sighs theatrically, surreptitiously sliding his hands down until they cup Arthur's rear.
“Text me if you’re desperate,” Arthur rolls his eyes, slapping him away. “Just know that I’ll be judging you.”
They’ve each worked with Felix a couple of times before, but an architect hadn’t been secured by the time they’d agreed to the job. Arthur had suggested Ariadne, but she was already in Chicago on another job. Arthur would fucking kill to be in Chicago right now. In any case, it was best not to be perceived as anything more than coworkers for now.
So Arthur goes to bed alone in a strange city, air conditioning blasting in his tiny hotel room, sleeping on a queen size bed that has no sides that sag or errant springs. He’s slept in so many hotel rooms. All have felt familiar and foreign, but this one feels the loneliest.
Right before he falls asleep Eames sends him a picture, evidently already enjoying the pool at his hotel. Arthur texts back his goodnight, casual and indifferent.
> See you tomorrow.
< Till then.
----
The next day they meet at an industrial office that used to belong to an automotive spare parts business that recently closed down. Next door is a tiling manufacturer and on the opposite side is what Felix declares a ‘tuck shop’. It’s a decent set-up, Arthur has to hand it to him.
“Who’s designing?” Arthur gets down to business after perfunctorily shaking both Felix and Eames’ hands.
“He should be here any minute now,” Felix says, just as a tall man enters the office, his flip-flops slapping loudly on the concrete floor. “Ah, here he is. Guys, this is–”
“Bobby?”
The man stops on the spot, features brightening. “Is that you, Eames?”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Eames swears, eyes wide as he strides towards the stranger, arms held out as he embraces him. “Bobby fucking Fletcher, is that you?” He holds him by the arms to take a good look at him, mouth stretched out in one of the most genuine grins he has ever seen from him. “My god.”
Arthur and Felix share a surprised look.
“I see you already know Eames,” Felix recovers first. “And you’re not drawing a weapon. Bonus.”
Arthur manages to smile at the joke, despite the unease rising in his throat. Eames smiles brightly, guiding the architect towards him with an arm to the small of his back.
“Arthur, this is Bobby – Bobby, Arthur. He’s fucking brilliant.”
Watching their extractor and architect shake hands and then his own, he’s not exactly sure who Eames is referring to. “Nice to meet you,” Arthur says, quickly drawing his hand away.
“We went to school together,” Eames says by way of explanation.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur says reflexively. Bobby throws his head back to laugh, sharing an openly conspiratorial look with Eames. It sets the architect off onto some kind of anecdote about their younger years that Arthur doesn’t care for, tuning him out to resume his work.
Bobby fucking Fletcher, he mimics in his head, typing harshly at his laptop. What kind of name was that? He sounds like an overweight accountant from the mid-west.
Still smiling, Eames looks between them, and suddenly Arthur understands why he was so keen to take this job.
He looks exactly what Arthur imagined Eames' type would be. Tall and svelte, conventionally handsome, dressed plainly in a t-shirt and shorts. His wrists are adorned with beaded bracelets and his hair is coiffed like he’s out of a runway. Arthur observes them for a long moment. For a long, silly, split-second, Arthur feels very overdressed in his jacket and tie in the middle of the Darwin heat, despite being perfectly comfortable until now.
They clearly have a history. Eames has never mentioned him before – and why should he? Arthur barely knows anything about Eames’ life before dreamshare.
It’s not that he doesn’t trust Eames. It‘s just that being ‘his Arthur’ doesn’t mean that Eames belongs to him, or that Eames wasn’t looking forward to this job for a reason.
----
At the end of the first day, Eames comes up to Arthur's desk, rapping his knuckles on the wood. “Bobby and I are heading for drinks,” he tilts his head back to where the architect is lingering at the entry.
Arthur's insides contort as he forces a smile onto his face. “Have fun.”
“I mean you should come,” Eames says, “both of you,” he adds, as Felix emerges from the back. The quicksilver look he sends him Arthur struggles to decipher.
“Maybe next time,” Arthur declines politely. He still has hours of groundwork to cover and probably isn’t going to make it to his hotel until after midnight as it is. Beyond that, it makes his stomach twist nauseatingly to think of disrupting their Eames and Bobby’s ‘reunion’.
Eames taps his knuckles on the desk again before nodding, mouth downturned. “Right,” he says. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“See you both tomorrow,” Arthur waves them off, Felix too. Once he's left alone he dives back into his work, adding data to his dossiers and updating his timelines and spreadsheets. His diligence lasts for all of six minutes until he's opening up a new tab and researching everything there is to know about Bobby Fletcher.
It's got nothing to do with whatever history he has with Eames- it's about safety. He hasn't been vetted by Arthur yet and who's to say this guy can be trusted? It doesn't explain why he gets more irate the longer looks into him, coming up with nothing. Besides working in dreamshare and a six-year old charge of resisting arrest that was later dismissed, this guy is squeaky clean. Arthur even does a reference check with some of his contacts. Good bloke, everyone says. Solid work.
Bobby fucking Fletcher probably wouldn't have messed up the last two jobs like Arthur did. No wonder Eames was keen.
----
That night around ten Eames sends him another text. It’s simply a picture of his upper torso in the bathtub, his face serene and submerged into the bubbly water.
Arthur doesn’t know what it means. If anything. Maybe Eames is sexting him. Maybe he’s telling Arthur to bathe. Fuck. He’s so bad at this.
Arthur sends back a rubber duck emoji. Eames replies instantly.
> come over?
Arthur locks his phone and doesn’t respond. He’s got an early start tomorrow. Besides, it seems he doesn’t need Arthur to boost his ego anymore.
Maybe he jerks off to the photo and feels a little sad about it after. So what, who cares. Who is Arthur going to tell?
–---
“So,” Arthur says later that week. He and Bobby are alone for the first time, making coffee in the break room. It just slips out. “You and Eames.”
Bobby raises his eyebrows, mixing his sugar into his coffee with a wooden stirrer. “Uh, I think you mean you and Eames.”
“Oh – no we’re not,” Arthur shakes his head, mindful of their cover. Heart racing, he unthinkingly adds an extra sachet of sugar to his drink. “We’re not.”
The architect raises his eyebrows, dubious.
Arthur panics. “I mean maybe we-” he makes a vague, handjob-like gesture that could be mistaken for salt-shaking, “-but it’s not serious,” he says. “It’s just release. It’s not serious.”
Or exclusive or emotionally involved. Except that they are. Or at least Arthur thinks they are.
“Ah, I see,” Bobby discards the stirrer into the recycling bin with perfect accuracy. “I mean, I’m married now, but I remember. Eames was always good at that bit. He’s not exactly the long-term type.”
He takes a long, burning sip of his too-sweet coffee, grimacing as it scalds the roof of his mouth. “So you two –?”
“Like, fifteen years ago,” Bobby shakes his head, “in secondary school when we were still kids.” Arthur feels his chest well with relief before the architect snorts. “But even then,” he shakes his head and gestures to his crotch, “like a fucking tripod, am I right? I’d be sore for days. How are you even standing, mate?”
“Perseverance,” he lies.
Luckily, Felix enters the break room before Arthur has to expand further. He excuses himself with his coffee, the cup burning the tips of his fingers.
Eames asks him back again for drinks that night. He refuses. But Bobby accepts.
----
That night Eames sends him another text from a bar. It’s innocent, just a perspiring glass of whisky on the rocks.
This one pisses him off.
Arthur doesn’t reply. He knows he’s got no right to be miffed that Eames is out for a drink with another guy, someone he used to fuck, even if said guy is married or whatever and that Arthur was invited. It’s the principle of the thing.
He knows he’s being stupid. It’s not that he doesn’t love what he’s had with Eames so far, or that he thinks Eames would be unfaithful, but it’s a stark reminder of the small unspoken fear that he has been harbouring all this time – that Arthur is a placeholder until the next best thing comes along.
Arthur knows he’s not exactly a walking wet dream. Not like stupid, perfect, can-take-it-like-a-champ Bobby.
Feeling sorry for himself, Arthur does what any normal person – or maybe just what his mother would do - and divests the entire mini-fridge of all its alcohol. Once he drinks all of that he orders a bottle of chardonnay from room service and gets started on that too. He’s halfway through the bottle when there’s an urgent knocking at his door.
Stumbling to his feet he peers through the view-finder. It’s Eames.
“This isn’t your hotel,” Arthur frowns, letting him in anyway.
“Oh, this is a nice room,” Eames comments, swaying slightly when he enters. He instantly spots the empty bottles littering Arthur's work desk. “And you’re drunk.”
“You’re drunk,” Arthur retorts smartly, closing the door behind them, fixing the chain. While Eames explores the room Arthur shuffles the empty bottles of spirits into the desk bin, as if that would erase that they were ever there. When he turns around Eames has helped himself to wine, neck tipped back as he sculls a mouthful. “Hey, that's mine.”
Eames grimaces as he swallows. “Christ, that is shit wine.”
Arthur tries to yank it back, but his limbs don't cooperate with his brain and he ends up slapping Eames in the neck. He huffs. “It’s not shit. It was forty dollars.”
Eames looks unimpressed, pouring Arthur a serving in one of the hotel's plastic cups and passing it to him, and then pouring himself a generous serve. “Forty dollars fucking wasted.”
“Yeah, well, not my credit card,” he takes a sip. God, it really is shit wine. He might order another bottle.
“I taught you that trick.”
“I know,” Arthur concedes drunkenly. “My aliases still get charges in Kenya. You’re lucky I’m like, in love with you.”
“Are you now?”
Eames grins boyishly, clearly proud of himself. It makes Arthur want to climb all over him and kiss the cocky straight out of him. With what he hopes is a sexy, smouldering look, Arthur sets his cup on the bedside table and sets himself upon Eames’ thighs. He’s a little unsteady, Eames warm hands instantly gripping Arthur's hips to support him.
“How was Bobby Fletcher?” He busies his fingers with Eames collar, undoing the first few buttons, grinding down on him a little.
“Ugh, you really have to start coming out with us. He's dreadfully boring,” Eames drawls, letting Arthur mess him up. “Marriage can do that to a man.”
“Yeah, who would want that,” he mutters darkly, then kisses him so he can stop saying unsexy things.
They kiss for a long while, too drunk to be coordinated as they tumble over the sheets, messing them up. Deft fingers remove and discard Arthur's tie. Too drunk to remember himself, Arthur takes this momentary distraction to drift his hand down to Eames crotch, startled when the man flinches.
He’s soft, Arthur realises.
“Oh, um,” he says, removing his hand. “Not in the mood?”
“Too much whisky, sorry, love,” Eames says, aiming for sheepish and cavalier, but he’s refusing to meet his eyes. Arthur's heart plummets as he furtively glances at Arthur with equal measures of guilt and shame. Arthur’s seen that look before.
“That’s okay,” he says, sobering quickly, sliding off of him and onto the bed. It seems like the alcohol catches up with Eames at the same time as he almost melts into the sheets, strings cut, an arm coming up to shield his eyes from the harsh light coming from the bedside lamp. He yawns loudly.
“Mind if I stay the night?”
His eyelids are already closed and it’s not as if Arthur is going to send him out at this hour when he’s six sheets to the wind, even if they don’t do this kind of thing while on a job.
“Don’t make a habit of it,” he says, only half-serious.
Eames cracks an eye open and sends him an odd, lingering look before shuffling onto his side, his back to Arthur. It takes him a few moments before his breathing evens and he falls asleep.
Arthur sits upright against the headboard for a long time, staring at his hands as reality slaps him in the face on a continuous loop. What they have is good – so good, but something has been missing, and Arthur thinks he’s just placed his finger on the pulse of why that is.
They work together well. They are undeniably compatible. Arthur, if left to think about, might say he is in love with Eames. Except, he just did.
But while Eames might like Arthur well enough, perhaps he’s not all that into him.
----
Arthur needs some time to himself over the following days to think.
He tells himself it's so he can concentrate on his work, and it is, at least partially, but it’s also to give his mind the room to put all the pieces together in his head. He stops replying to all texts from Eames, makes excuses not to be alone in the same room. There’s a marked shift in the way Eames looks at him, as if he knows what Arthur knows, he seems to want to speak with but stops himself at the last second.
Alone, everything clicks together. How Eames didn’t like Arthur touching him. Wanting to take it ‘slow’ when Arthur knows that has never once been Eames’ MO. Like every other fuck-up Arthur has made recently, it’s because he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Eames has been humouring him – he must have looked like such an idiot.
His love confession literally killed Eames’ boner.
Arthur feels very foolish indeed. So stupid. Stupid to recklessly catch feelings for a guy who doesn’t even really want him.
That’s strike three, Arthur.
He makes plenty of excuses to not be in the office and manages to avoid Eames for the rest of the week but Arthur's luck runs out on Friday afternoon. It's a miracle it even lasted that long.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or am I supposed to guess?” Eames corners him at the end of that first week, his voice low and urgent. Felix and Bobby have gone out to collect lunch for the lot of them so Arthur doesn’t even have the excuse of not wanting a public feud.
It's the first time they've been alone together since that night at Arthurs hotel and the proximity has Arthur's skin prickling. He busies himself with his folders, sending Eames a quick warning glare and putting some space between them.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“You know bloody hell what.”
He worriedly casts a glance around their office in case their teammates have come back, but they’re still alone. “We’re working,” he warns, voice low. “Can’t this wait?”
Eames ignores this, herding him against the desk. His voice is low, coloured with nerves.
“Is this about the other night?”
You’re lucky I’m in love with you.
His cheeks heat in belated mortification. God, Eames must be trying to set Arthur straight - that is the last fucking thing he needs to discuss. Especially at work. And maybe never.
“Eames, not now –”
“Look, I apologise, but – ”
Arthur’s heard enough. “I get it,” he puts a hand up to halt him. “You don’t need to explain.”
“Pardon?”
He looks around again to make sure no one is nearby, stomach twisting with embarrassment. “You should have just been upfront from the beginning.”
For a long prolonged moment Eames says nothing, mouth downturned into a frown as he visibly measures his next words. “Would that have made a difference?”
“Of course,” Arthur whispers heatedly. What fucking game was Eames playing here? It’s fine if he wanted to be colleagues-with-benefits but playing house with him wasn’t necessary. “How could you not think it would make a difference?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You clearly have intimacy issues, but you should have just told me the truth from the outset and saved us all of this,” he gestures between them. “We should have stopped whatever this was in Brazil.”
Eames looks as if he’s been slapped.
“You’re the most vain man I’ve ever met, but I didn’t think –” he stops himself, scrubbing a hand down his face “– actually, no I did,” he continues, voice paper-thin. I fucking saw this coming.”
Truly angry now, Arthur turns his back to him, clamping his eyelids shut, irrationally thinking if he can’t see Eames then he can keep the hurt from spreading further.
This is what you get for trusting a thief. This is what you get for letting your guard down.
“Yeah, well,” Arthur swallows down the feeling of his heart breaking. “You should have saved yourself the trouble then.”
“Christ,” Eames laughs darkly. “Typical Arthur. If something isn’t perfect, then you don’t want it.”
His fists clench on the edge of the tabletop, his knuckles paling with the effort to not turn around and sock him. White-hot fury lances through him until he can’t see straight. Eames has been stringing him along for months and he has the fucking gall to chastise Arthur?
Eames couldn’t even look at him in the face when they had sex. Arthur wonders how many other faces Eames imagined while he was inside him, if he had to bite his lip to keep from saying someone else's name, that to get himself off he could only do it by not looking at Arthur.
He’d let his guard down. He’d let Eames see him at his most slovenly, at his most defenceless. Of course Eames wouldn’t be into him, especially after seeing him like that. It should have occurred to him earlier.
You’re lucky I’m in love with you.
The realization of how oblivious he must have been has humiliation blooming all over again.
He feels Eames pause behind him, before feeling his persona shift almost tangibly in the air. Without looking Arthur knows Eames's face has already smoothed away its frown, that his posture has shifted into an insouciant slouch.
“If that's how you feel, we shouldn’t do this anymore,” Eames decides firmly. “Let’s just get this job done, hmm?”
There’s a lump in his throat so Arthur only nods, unable to speak. After a moment of silence he hears Eames footsteps retreating on the hard floor, the office door closing softly with a click.
He stands there for a long time, hands braced on his desk, hurt and impotent rage coursing through his body like a livewire. When the others arrive back with lunch he’s already schooled himself back into a professional veneer. He forces himself to breathe, to speak evenly as if nothing has changed, as if there isn't something dark and ugly expanding rapidly in his chest like a catastrophic oil spill.
Eames doesn't come back the entire afternoon.
Arthur sulks to himself the remainder of the afternoon, despite Bobby’s attempts to corral him into friendly conversation.
Fuck Bobby.
When Arthur gets back to his hotel room that night he’s got every intention of drinking himself into a stupor and ordering up an inadvisable amount of carbs, except there’s an enormous fucking spider waiting for him, right in the centre of his bed.
Godfuckingdammit. He can’t even bring a handgun into this stupid country.
He calls the front desk and asks for a can of bug spray. The spider dies, but the room stinks and he’s ruined a perfectly good pair of hotel slippers. Eames always took care of the spiders.
Arthur knows like he’s done the right thing, for once, and asserted his boundaries. Yet, somehow, he feels like a fucking asshole.
This job sucks.
----
For the remainder of their job, they work on separate ends of the office and speak strictly about work only. If Bobby or Felix notice anything different about them then they don’t say anything.
He doesn’t meet Eames’ eyes once the entire two weeks of preparation and he’s almost glad that his anger is still eating away at him because it means he doesn’t have room to feel lonely. Can’t feel lonely for something you never had.
To make things worse, the job has the temerity to be an absolute success. They all did good work, even Bobby Fletcher, and the extraction on Banfield goes without a hitch. It goes so well that Arthur doesn’t even get the opportunity to murder any projections. It's awful.
He just got paid fifty-thousand dollars and Arthur can’t even feel good about it. Not when he heads back to Paris to the apartment he hasn’t been to for months, alone. Not when there are no messages, no apologies from Eames, not even the pretence of an excuse. Not when it means being completely alone.
He spends a long time ruminating, reflecting. At the end of it, the truth is that Arthur really only can blame himself for the whole debacle.
Eames never made him any promises. This misunderstanding is entirely on him. But he’s too proud to tell him that. Eames has probably forgotten about him anyway and moved on.
So he does what he does best. He puts everything that Eames meant to him in a mental box and shuts it tight. Arthur is a whole person without Eames. He’s not the shy little boy he was growing up, nor is he the scrawny insecure young adult he was just before getting into dreamshare. That person doesn’t exist anymore. He refuses to be, no matter how sad he is.
So he buries himself in work, in things to do around his neglected home. He takes on a couple of consultation jobs that he can do during the night and work on remodeling his kitchen during the day.
He loses himself in dust and grout and coding and research and he goes to bed every night exhausted and thought-free and falls straight to sleep. He doesn’t have to think about anything else. The work is arduous and takes him outside of his head and makes him feel productive, like how he used to feel before Eames upended his entire stupid life. He plays Michelle Branch from his outdated speakers and angrily tears off cabinet doors. It's all very normal behaviour.
It’s satisfying. Who needs men like Eames when you can have a marble countertop, vintage pendant overhead light fixtures and a brand new set of santoku knives?
Arthur, that’s who.
No, wait - fuck. No, he doesn’t. He needs the knives, not the men.
Arthur slides his gaze away from his freshly remodelled kitchen to his comparatively sad-looking living room.
Hmm. He’s always hated the carpet in there.
----
One day Ariadne calls him about a job while he’s moved on to his next project: ripping up the carpets -into tiny, tiny shreds - and sanding the floors in his entire apartment.
“I know it’s short notice, but I need you for a job next month,” she says a couple of weeks after the Darwin job. “Tell me you’re free. If not, I don’t care. Please make yourself free.”
“Where, why, who,” he lists off, removing his goggles and face mask. There’s dust still lingering in the air and he hurries over to his open window. His neighbor, an elderly woman by the name Tattiana gives him the finger upon sighting him. He flips her off in return.
“Pittsburgh. Don’t know. Pradeep is the extractor for this one.”
He sighs. He hates working with Pradeep. He’s so freaking anal about everything, and that’s coming from Arthur - but his jobs pay considerably well and even though he’s difficult, he’s one of the more professional extractors in the business.
Torn, Arthur glances around his dusty, uninhabitable living room and suddenly wants nothing more than to get away from the clutter. He could use a job.
“Fine.”
“Thank you — oh, hey, will Eames be joining us on this one? I think I can make room for a forger if he’s not otherwise booked up.”
Arthur stills. He clears his throat. “I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
“Ari – we’re not – we’re not going to be working together anymore.”
“What, no –” Ariadne sounds genuinely saddened. “Arthur, what happened?”
“We just, I don’t know,” he slaps a hand over his eyes, rubbing at his brow as he tries to delicately explain the trainwreck of their last encounter, “we wanted different things from each other, I guess.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss –”
“Arthur,” she cuts him off. “You were there when Vanessa broke up with me. You held my hair back when I puked on your awful three-thousand dollar shoes. We’re past inappropriate.”
Four thousand, Arthur corrects mentally. It was the first nice pair he’d ever bought for himself. But that’s neither here nor there. He drags his hand down and sighs into it. “I don’t think Eames was really into it for the long haul. Or that he was really into me.”
“What? ”
The volume of her screech has Arthur holding the phone away from his ear.
“It was just casual, Ariadne.”
“No, Arthur, really - what the fuck are you even talking about? You’re insane — Eames adores you.”
“I’m sure he does – or he did,” he says diplomatically, thinking of their short-lived cohabitation, how Eames would smile fondly at Arthurs organised lube-condom drawer, his morning-breath kisses. . Eames has always adored Arthur in some small way in equal measure to how much he disdained him - professionally or otherwise. “But my grandmother adores me. Cobbs kids adore me.”
Ariadne scoffs. She sounds like a cat coughing up a hairball. He tells her this.
“That’s not the same. And fuck you.”
“I’m just saying. He might like me, it doesn’t mean he wants to be with me. Romantically.”
Not the way I wanted to be with him.
“I don’t believe it.”
He swallows roughly. “Look, it’s alright, I’m already over it. Tell me about the job.”
“No. I’m coming over and we’re getting drunk.”
“You’re on vacation.”
“Yeah, in Greece,” he can hear her eyes roll on the other end. “Get some food. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
True to her word she shows up that evening with a tan over her skin and two bottles of ouzo.
She takes one look at his unfinished floors and declares she’s not taking her shoes off all night. Which is fair. He has several splinters embedded into his toes at this very moment. He probably should have covered them with sheeting or a rug, or something - he had owned a large Persian, except it had suited Eames’ living room so much better. It really complimented the color scheme of his flat.
Wait, shit. He’s not thinking about Eames.
“Wow, I love what you’ve done with the kitchen,” Ariadne's voice floats from down the hall, jarring him from his bitter internal musings.
They order Italian take-out and drink until they pass out. In the morning Ariadne is the one rubbing his back when he empties his stomach into his toilet.
It’s not his finest hour, but it makes him feel a little better about everything.
Just a little.
----
He takes the job in Pittsburgh.
For the record, Arthur loves Pittsburgh. Loves its funky little bars, loves the people, the landmarks, the food. It’s like home away from home. His grandparents grew up here before coming to New York when his mom was young and still has relatives in the area.
Despite having to work with Pradeep, Arthur has a good feeling about this job. It’s a typical corporate espionage job, and he could do it with his eyes closed, but it will be nice to work with Ari again.
A few days before he’s due to report for duty he stops by to visit his extended family. He spends time with his great aunt and visits the old haunts from his childhood summers, from the old arcades and the diners that still have the same owners, the same peeling signs. It’s comforting, and exactly what he needs.
He arrives at the job, refreshed. He feels better than he has in weeks. His head is clearer when he dives into his work, and even manages a genuine smile at Pradeep, who frowns at him dispassionately. Even that doesn’t deter him.
Nothing can, he decides.
That is until two days into the job when Eames rocks up at the office they’re working out of, hands shoved into his pockets, usual swagger in his step.
Struck too dumb to even speak he sends Ariadne a heated, betrayed glare before turning back to his desk, eyes trained on his paperwork. He bites his lip to stop himself from asking what the fuck, what the fuck.
“Well, well,” Eames drawls from behind him. His voice croaks, sounds gravely, as if he’d smoked a pack. “Pradeep, long time no see.”
“Yes. I believe you’ve met Arthur and Ariadne.”
“Of course,” Eames says smoothly. “You didn’t mention I’d be working amongst such fine company.”
Arthur turns around and manages a tight smile. He nods at him. “Mr. Eames.”
“Arthur,” he acknowledges, turning back to Pradeep.
He sharpens his gaze and slides it to Ariadne. I had no idea, she mouths. He surreptitiously slides a finger across his neck.
Unbothered, Ariadne rolls her eyes and turns away. Arthur tries not to be too miffed about that, she was never intimidated by him anyway. Probably never will be after he drunkenly made her listen to Belinda Carlisle on repeat and barely made it through a bottle of ouzo without getting melancholy. He's never getting his dignity back after that.
Later that afternoon Eames approaches him as he’s leaving for the day.
“I do hope we can still work together,” he says cooly, retrieving his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, flipping the latter between his fingers.
Gathering all his wit, Arthur sends him a sidelong stare. He looks different and the same all at once. Maybe it’s just the way that he looks at Arthur that is different.
“I don’t see why not.”
Eames nods to Arthur, then to himself, before heading off without another word.
This is good, he thinks, he can do this. If Eames wants to pretend like they don’t have a history that suits Arthur just fine.
They didn’t, really, after all.
----
Despite their agreement to get along for the sake of the job, it’s clear from the outset that there was going to be a tall order.
An uncomfortable tension lingers like static in the air throughout those first few days. At first, Arthur thought it was Pradeep getting his nerves, crowding him and second-guessing his work in his usual oppressive fashion. He’s snappy and more short-tempered as usual.
Similarly, Eames seems to grow more agitated by the day. By the end of the first week, they’ve gotten nowhere.
Their usual back-and-forth is sharper than usual. Instead of bouncing ideas off the other, their usual snark missing, jibes turn into criticism, and criticism escalates into rows. The anger that has been festering inside Arthur since the Darwin job keeps boiling over and his fuse gets shorter and shorter every time he has to look at Eames.
Arthur has never behaved so unprofessionally in his entire career. Even Ariadne and Pradeep have had enough by the time Friday rolls around.
“Sort it out,” Pradeep barks at the both of them before he leaves for the day.
This is bad, Arthur knows. This is worse than the time Mal's projection decapitated him with a rusty butter knife. This is his professional reputation at stake. Again. He pinches the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off his looming headache. He has to salvage what’s left of his professional reputation - and messing up a job because of personal dispute is not what he wants as the last straw for his career.
It’s clear they both can’t stay on this job.
Arthur can’t. It has to be him that goes. Really, any half-rate pointman could do this job, it’s a walk in the park. The forgery will require Eames’ level of finesse, that part isn’t negotiable. Disappointment aside, it’s a simple decision.
He stands then, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He turns to his remaining team.
Eames’ hands are on his hips, expression still pinched from their latest squabble. Ariadne looks up when he stands, brow furrowing with concern when she sees him packing up.
“Arthur?” she asks hesitantly.
“I’ll call Fatima,” he says, stuffing his laptop into his bag. “She can take over from me. She owes me a favor.”
“Hey, no, you don't have to--” Ariadne starts, darting a desperate look at Eames who avoids looking at the both of them. “Arthur, come on.”
“You’ll be alright,” he manages a grim smile. “It’s for the best.”
Maintaining a neutral expression he nods at Eames in concession, but the forger still isn’t looking at him, even after an awkward moment of expectant pause. The indifference stings, but he’s only got himself to blame, projecting his emotions into a situation that didn’t call for it. Like right now.
“Well, I’ll see you around,” he says, squaring his shoulders. He hugs Ariadne, promising to call her. Maybe when the job is over.
He manages not to look back when he leaves. It doesn’t feel like a success.
----
He gets back to his hotel and begins packing, mentally calculating what his next steps should be. If he had the luxury he’d spend some more time with his great aunt, maybe take the Amtrak to Altoona and go see his cousins and their kids, but he thinks it’s best to get out of the state - out of the country - as soon as possible.
He can go back to Paris and finish his stupid living room floors. And then he can go on a long, relaxing vacation. New Zealand, maybe. He hasn’t been to the South Island for a while.
It’s as he’s scrolling through his phone for flights that there’s a knock on his door. Thinking it’s the last of his dry cleaning, he opens the door without checking, only to find Eames on the other side, a furious snarl marring his features.
“Eames,” he blinks, startled. “What are you doing here?”
Eames takes advantage of his momentary surprise to breeze past him into the room. He takes one look around and sneers.
“So, that’s it then?” He gestures to his packed suitcase. “You’re just fucking off.”
“Yes, I told you,” he says slowly. “It’s for the best. ”
“You’ve never quit halfway through a job since I’ve met you,” Eames narrows his eyes in disbelief. “Come off it, Arthur.”
He feels his eyebrows raise of their own volition. “It’s clear we can’t work together, Eames. It was either me or you.”
“Oh, so you’re sparing me,” Eames presses a hand to his chest, eyes widening. “Well, how fucking magnanimous of you.”
He fights to keep his voice level. To keep twitching fingers busy, he stalks into the bathroom and starts packing his toiletries, shoving bits and pieces haphazardly into a bag. “The job doesn’t need me as much as it needs you.”
“Horseshit,” Eames follows into the bathroom, speaking to him through the mirror. “I can’t believe you’re behaving like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a fucking martyr.”
“I don’t think I’m a martyr,“ his fingers tremble with the effort to remain calm as he caps his toothbrush container. “I think we have some issues we haven’t resolved.”
“What exactly is unresolved, Arthur? You’ve made it very clear how you feel.”
Humiliation courses through him all over again. The jibe comes unexpectedly and swipes at him, right in the solar plexus.
“I’m sorry,” he clenches his jaw. “If I’d known from the start I would have made different choices.”
Eames shakes his head, looking at Arthur as if he doesn’t recognize him at all, like Arthur is the asshole in this situation. It makes him even angrier.
“Fucking christ, you really are a prize cunt. Should have walked out the minute I saw you on this job.”
Something in his chest splinters, then breaks.
“Well, why didn’t you?” he snaps. “We might’ve actually got some work done if you had.”
Eames suddenly crowds him against the sink, hands slamming down on either side of him. He hisses into Arthur's ear. “Far be it from me to get in the way of your perfect fucking life, Arthur. I took one look at you and I thought I am not letting this fucking prick dictate what work I take. You can’t take that away from me. You’re not going to ruin me over this.”
“I’m not trying to,” Arthur raises his voice, standing up straighter and elbowing Eames until he surrenders space. He turns around and pushes at his chest. “How? How am I the prick here? You’re the one who –”
“What? I’m the one who what?”
Arthur bites his lip, refusing to meet Eames' eyes. “Nothing.”
“Stop being such a bloody coward and say it. Go on.”
Even now, it’s difficult to be this close to him. He still smells like Arthur remembers, even though it's only been a handful of weeks. He doesn’t know whether to push him away or pull him in. He hates him for this right now. He'd forgotten how cruel Eames could be when he needed, or wanted to. It's never been directed to Arthur though, until now.
”Nothing. What happened in Darwin – I misread the situation. It’s my problem, I’ll work it out.”
“What part could you have possibly misread?”
“I said it’s my problem, I’ll deal with it.”
“Spit it out.”
Arthur's skin prickles under his collar. He looks at the ceiling as the hurt slips out, despite his attempts to bury it back down. “I didn’t realise that we were just – that there weren’t reciprocated, you know --” he looks to the tiled floor. “Feelings.”
“Feelings,” Eames repeats, staring.
“Yeah, I know,” his cheeks burn. “I get it now. As I said, it’s my problem. I’m not trying to make it yours.”
“Make what my problem?”
“Don’t make me say it,” he pleads. “Don’t be an asshole, you know what I’m talking about.”
“Arthur,” Eames holds his hands up in surrender, his eyes cooling in their intensity. “I say this from the bottom of my heart: I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.”
“That I’m in love with you and you’re not into me like – like that. And that’s totally okay,” he hurries to assure him. “I didn’t know and I should have asked. I kept pushing you when you wanted something simple.”
Eames stares at him like he’s an idiot. Arthur wants to sink into the floor and become one with the hideous hotel tiles.
“All of this,” he waves broadly between them, speaking very evenly, “is because you thought you were pushing me into a relationship I didn’t want?”
“Yes.”
“That I’m not attracted to you.”
Embarrassed, Arthur doesn’t say anything.
With a frustrated sigh, Eames turns on the spot, turning again, hands on his hips, as if he doesn’t know whether to stay or leave. Before Arthur can see him reaching for it, he removes the gun from the waistband of his jeans, tossing it into the sink in one swift motion. It hits the ceramic with a clang.
“I could fucking shoot you, Arthur, I swear to god,” he says into the palm of his hand, “I honest-to-god could fucking shoot you right now. Why would you ever think that? You met my sister. I got tested for you.”
“You weren’t hard,” he says, confusion and shame prickling all over him. “You have literally recoiled every time I’ve ever tried to touch you. I overstepped, Eames. I’m sorry.”
“Arthur, no,” Eames raises his hands to face, speaking into his palms. “Fuck. For fucks sake.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” he drags his hands down. Without warning, stalks over to grip Arthur’s head in his hands, shaking him a little. He presses his fingers into his skin, forcing him to look into his eyes. “Listen to me. I’m into you. I’m so fucking into you that in all our years I’ve never been able to get myself back out. You mean the fucking world to me, Arthur – how can you not know that I love you?”
He squirms in the hold, jaw set, not quite willing to believe him.
“You’ve never said, for one.”
With a weary slump of his shoulders, Eames presses a kiss to Arthur's forehead, he suspects, to avoid looking him in the eye before letting him go.
“I fucked this one up,” Eames sits heavily on the lip of the bathtub, rubbing his face.
Arthur approaches warily, forehead, still tingling. He carefully sits beside him on the bath's edge, feeling unmoored by the abrupt change. “I think I need you to explain what’s going on.”
For all of his bulk and broadness, Eames seems to shrink in upon himself, becoming smaller, his fingernails raking over each other as his thoughts visibly churn in his head. He never shows anyone his tells, and rarely Arthur. Eames smiles briefly as if the effort pains him.
“It’s not a lack of wanting you enough that’s the problem. It’s that most of the time I can’t,” he gestures to his lap and whistles. “Stand at attention, as it were.”
“You can’t –?” Arthur follows the direction of his hands and – oh. It clicks. “Oh.”
“Yes, that.”
“I didn’t… realize.”
“Well, I wasn’t very upfront about it, was I.”
“So, in Darwin, you –” he recounts his words, eyes closing when he realises how much of an asshole he must have sounded like. He puts his head in his hands. “Oh god, I must have sounded like such a jerk.”
Don’t make a habit out of it. It would have made a difference.
Jesus Christ.
Eames gently drags his hands back down, his lips curving into a sad smile. “I thought you finally figured it out and it was a deal-breaker.”
“No,” Arthur says, heart breaking a little. “I didn’t know,” he takes Eames’ hands in his, squeezing them tightly. “Look at me, it’s not a deal-breaker.”
“You wouldn’t be the first, if it was,” Eames cheeks colour ever so slightly. He clears his throat to try and cover it. “It’s not that I can’t get it up,” Eames continues, his voice rising buoyantly, before sinking again. “But it’s like a special occasion. Or it takes a while. Usually a party for one by that time.“
A horrible thought suddenly occurs to Arthur.
“Does that mean every time we had sex you didn’t – did I force you?”
“No, no,” Eames cuts him off, sharp and stern, tightening his hold on Arthurs fingers when he tries to tug his hands away to cover his eyes. “I never did anything I didn’t want you to do. I wanted you to feel good. I wanted to be with you. Just because I didn’t get off, doesn’t mean I wasn’t enjoying myself.”
“Have you always –?”
Eames shakes his head.
“Since the army. Yusuf thinks it’s one of the rarer side effects of the compound.”
“That’s –” he tries, falling short. No one escapes somnacin without a cost. For many, it’s loss of dreams, paranoia, sometimes depression or chronic migraines. For Arthur, it’s moments of extreme, debilitating hypervigilance. Very few leave the industry to remedy it. He doesn’t dare suggest it.
Eames seems to understand anyway. “I took a year off in oh-six,” he offers. “Saw a real doctor – it could be genetic, they said. Could be PTSD. Maybe I should stop smoking, they said, ‘cept I already tried that,” He huffs, neck turning cherry red, self-deprecating.
“Eames.”
“I messed everything up. I should have told you.”
Arthur drags him into an embrace, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his nose into his throat for the first time in weeks. He pictures that walk in the park with his sisters' dogs, their easy flirting and banter. There is almost nothing he wouldn’t trade to have that again and feels terribly ashamed of his own ignorance, and angry at anyone who made Eames feel this way – including himself.
All this time he’d been so focused on his own shortcomings and insecurities; it didn’t even occur to him that Eames might not be as self-assured as he pretends, even with Arthur.
“You’re not messing anything up. I’m sorry I made you think that. That I didn’t want you.”
Eames nods, fishing his carton of cigarettes out of his pocket. He tilts his head to the balcony.
“Smoke?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
----
“You’re barmy,” Eames says later, on his fourth cigarette.
They’ve ordered room service, fancy steak dishes and fancier wine, splitting it between them, the evening air cool enough to be comfortable, despite the lingering humidity. Sweat beads on Arthur's upper lip, but he’s not uncomfortable.
Lighting his own cigarette, Arthur takes a drag and makes an enquiring noise.
“I don’t understand what could ever make you think you’re not the most beautiful thing in the room.”
He rolls his eyes. “Modesty helps. I know it’s a foreign concept to you.”
Eames exhales a laugh into the darkening night sky, a retreating sunset casts an orange glow on his skin. “And look where it got me.”
“I don't know. I just –” He pauses, flicking off the excess ash from his cigarette, feeling all kinds of stupid. “I thought you were finally bored. That maybe you didn’t want me all that much to begin with. Bobby came along and you had all this history. It made sense, at the time.”
“Bet Bobby couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
“He did have some stories about the good old days,” Arthur recounts wryly. "Bobby fucking Fletcher."
Eames winces. “I can see where you might have drawn your conclusions.”
“I get it. I’m sorry I pressured you about sex. About fucking me.”
Eames leans back to look at him straight on. “Arthur, it is genuinely my life’s goal to one day fuck you so good that you’re inspired to write a manual on it in one of your neurotic little books,” he nods at the stack of moleskins on the outdoor table. “I want to have sex with you, if you’ll still have me. I like it.”
Arthur pinkens faintly at the declaration. “Of course – I’m just saying – there’s no pressure. There are other ways around this.”
“Don’t say medication.”
“Well,” he tries, thinking, “we can put off the fucking me part until you’re –” he cuts himself off.
“Up for it?”
“Yeah,” he knows Eames is laughing at him. “But I mean, there are other ways to make you feel good,” he says. “I promise, we’ll find what works.”
“Could try the PASIV.”
That gives him pause. Sure, having sex in dreams is a viable option, but he is hesitant to say it’s the right one, or even a good one. He doesn’t want Eames to think he’s only having sex with him in dreams to avoid his perceived imperfections topside. He shakes his head. “Let’s get creative in reality first.”
“And if nothing works?”
“We go to Plan B,” he says firmly. “For as long as you want me, I’m not going anywhere.”
“I can’t believe we were both so stupid,” Eames brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales until the last of the paper burns before stubbing it out, grey smoke pluming from his mouth. “I mean it’s us, so I can, but god forbid we talk about it at the time instead of all this nonsense.”
That prompts a laugh from him. He meets Eames' eyes then, feeling a lot lighter as they share a smile. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Eames.”
“Thank you for not running away,” Eames says, voice soft. “Never, ever think that I don’t want you. I’m sorry that I made you feel anything otherwise.”
He leans over and takes Eames’ hand in his, threading their fingers together. “So – what now?”
“Now, you unpack your things and stay on the job.”
“And beyond that?”
“We play it by ear. Now, can you come here so I can give you a cuddle?”
Arthur doesn’t need to be asked twice. He immediately moves from his side of the slub-linen sofa, curling up beside Eames until their sides are pressed together. It creaks under their combined weight but Eames is sun-warm and smells like his heavy-tar cigarettes and a bit like sweat. Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, chest aching. He really, really missed this part.
Eames tilts his head to rest on Arthur's shoulder. At this angle the receding sun hits his eyes so that they look like they’re glowing, rays caught on the ruddy undertones of his lashes. They stay like that for a long while, unwinding into each other. Arthur wonders if it is going to be this easy, like nothing happened.
“Did you go back to London after the Banfield job?”
“Mhmm. Played with the pups. Was good therapy.”
“God knows you need it.”
“Oi,” Eames pinches his thigh, rubbing it afterwards to soothe the pain. “Says you.”
Arthur laughs. Yeah, they’re gonna be okay.
----
They stick together for the remainder of the job, most nights spent in the others hotel room. It’s a bit hard to be conspicuous with their team anyway. Ariadne already knows and as much as Arthur is loath to admit it, Pradeep isn’t a total idiot.
It’s not exactly like before. They dial back on sex and learn each other's bodies in ways they hadn’t before. There are still morning kisses and shared showers, but there’s also washing each other for the sake of intimacy and comfort in skin contact without intent.
When they do have sex, it’s not at all like before. It's often experimental, seeing what works, what doesn’t. And often, not much does; it takes a lot of work in those early days to get through it. There's a lot of defensive, self-affronting in those early days; it takes a lot of smoke breaks and awkward discussions but they get to a point where all ego and self-consciousness is set aside.
Arthur starts a manual. It looks like all his other moleskins, black and unassuming, except the ribbon bookmark is a deep red. He likes to bring it out in the office when Eames least expects it, just to see him smile.
As forecasted, Eames doesn’t always get hard, but he seems to enjoy himself. He enjoys the suction of Arthur's mouth, no matter the outcome, vocal in his appreciation. Sometimes he does get aroused and Arthur takes full advantage of it, but more often than not he simply enjoys Arthur suckling him even if he stays soft. Arthur enjoys it just as much, more than he thought, Eames fingers carding through his hair in the early morning or early evening.
Their sexual experiments, however, are not without hiccups.
“Arthur, if your fingers stay up there any longer they’re going to come out wrinkled,” Eames said dully one evening, completely unaffected by his attempts to stimulate him.
Arthur, whose wrist was cramping like a mother, had pulled out with a sigh.
And he can’t pretend that his self-confidence hasn’t taken a hit either, though he tries to set it aside for Eames. Arthur slowly re-learns to let his hair down around Eames and works to remind himself that the unkempt version of himself is just as wanted as the immaculate one. The job gets underway, with far fewer hindrances than the first week. There are plenty of their typical ‘artistic differences’, but after two weeks the extraction goes off without a hitch. Arthur gets paid and he’s not even mad about it this time. Things are going to be okay, he thinks.
That night, after a celebratory - and successful - prostate massage, Arthur slumps next to his boneless partner, plucking off his gloves and flexing out his sore wrist. Eames looks happy, flushed pink with pleasure.
“Shower,” Arthur hits at him weakly when he Eames mouths a line of wet, sloppy kisses up his sternum to his neck. “Come on.”
“Nope. Too tired.”
“That’s fine, I’ll go alone,” Arthur hums disinterestedly, already up and heading for the bathroom. When he looks back Eames has creaked an eye open to stare at his ass. He gets as far as twisting the dial in the shower before a naked Eames herds him against the tiles, arms snaking around his stomach, pushing them both under the lukewarm flow.
He grins, tipping his head back onto Eames' broad, warm shoulder. He’s rewarded with a bristly kiss to one of his dimples.
“Thank you,” Eames says into his skin. “No one has ever done that for me.”
“Believe me, it was my pleasure,” Arthur turns his head, allowing his lips to be drawn into a kiss, smiling into it. “Come to Paris, now the job’s over.”
“Come to London.”
“Come to Paris. I’ll let you sand my floors.”
Eames perks up. “Is that a euphemism?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” he reaches for his bar of soap. He breaks their embrace so he can turn scrub at his chest. He looks up through his wet lashes. “I want you to sand my floors so bad, baby. Get that finish all over my wood.”
“Oh, yes, I like this, tell me more,” Eames winds his arms back around his waist, tugging him in for a kiss, pressing Arthur back against the cold tiles. After a few minutes of kissing and rubbing together Eames pauses, abruptly leaning back to squint at Arthur.
“It’s not a euphemism, is it.”
Arthur grins.