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Eames is eyeing up a Porsche when Arthur finds him.
“Good choice,” says Arthur approvingly, eyebrows raised as if this surprises him.
Eames smiles at him tightly.
“Glad it meets with your approval, Arthur.”
The indulgent smile Arthur gives him as he slips into the passenger seat sends a jolt of something electric feeling to the tip of Eames' cock.
“Just drive, Mister Eames,” Arthur says, and shuts the door.
-
In London it is a Ferrari that catches his eye, red and gaudy and impossible to ignore.
“Try again,” says Arthur, and dangles a key in front of his face. Technically, Eames thinks, having the keys is cheating, but he reaches up and closes his fingers around it anyway. The hint of a smile plays around Arthur's mouth.
Eames raises an eyebrow at him questioningly, and then he sees it, green and sleek and beautiful. He can see it's an Aston Martin, but the rest of it is lost on him. Eames doesn't really know much about cars; he can recognise the badges, will invariably steal the most expensive one he can find on a matter of principle, but beyond that he's never cared to learn.
“What is it?” he asks, watching Arthur dismantle a security post with familiar ease.
“DB4 GT.”
“You prefer this to the Ferrari?”
“This is way classier.”
“Hence my wondering why you preferred it,” says Eames, delighting in the scowl Arthur levels at him. “Also, 'way classier'? Arthur, really.”
“Fuck off,” replies Arthur, but it is lacking in bite. He strokes a hand over the leather seat before climbing in.
Eames doesn't mind Arthur cadging a lift - it's a curiosity rather than a concern - but as he lowers himself into the driver’s seat he can't help but feel that there is something more to this than just a means to get out of dodge.
They tear out of London on the M40, heading north where they plan to ditch the car and catch separate flights from Birmingham to somewhere undisclosed. At this time of early morning there is hardly anybody else on the road.
Somewhere south of Bicester, Arthur slides a hand over Eames' thigh, tips of his fingers grazing at his inside leg seam and the knuckle of his little finger just brushing against his testicles through his clothing.
Eames carefully doesn't move.
Eames is a gambler, but only when he knows he can win or it doesn't matter if he loses. Arthur has made the opening gambit, but this is a game Eames doesn't know the rules for, let alone the stakes.
Eames thinks about moving slightly; coughing, shifting forward under the pretence of something else, changing gear, anything that might result in Arthur moving his fingers so they were more than just a hint. He thinks about moving because that seems like the thing most likely to get Arthur to tell him the rules.
He presses his foot down ever so slightly on the accelerator, feels an answering flex in Arthur's fingers.
Arthur leaves his hand there, a warm weight; in the grand scheme of things it is a small move, yet it utterly dominates Eames' attention.
Arthur has nice hands. They reflect his moods. If he is tense about something the unfortunate object in his grasp is held tight, like perhaps Arthur hopes if he can crush it then he could do the same to whatever it is that has currently pissed him off, akin to the metamorphosis of limestone into marble.
At other times they give away a lie, that Arthur can be angry, but his hands will give away the truth; that he was worried rather than wrathful, sorry rather than spiteful. Actions speak louder than words, so Eames has been told, and he thinks for Arthur this might be true, because Arthur's actions have always shouted, even when his voice is raised.
Arthur cleans a gun with careful movements, as if he owes it a debt, as if he is trying to appease it so it doesn't feel the need to extract the payment. He takes care of his possessions, and he thinks Arthur's care might be made as offering rather than sacrifice, something given so that it may ensure good luck rather than a transaction he begrudgingly pays in full.
Now, Arthur's hands are still; his palm rests lightly as if suggesting he could decide to snatch it back at any second, a light tread in a dense forest that is hard to track. Arthur's hands are no more innocent than his own, and yet the weight of it feels light, unsettlingly benign. If Arthur's hands can give away a lie, then this truth is one Eames isn't sure he's ready for.
And yet he wants. He wants with an intensity that he wasn't sure he still possessed, as if having been reminded of the idea he is trying to backdate it, years of suppressed desire thrumming under his skin, pooling somewhere low down in his gut.
Eames' cock is stiffening, which feels faintly ridiculous because Arthur is barely touching him, and Arthur must be aware of this, but he doesn't move his hand.
It is too hot in the close confines of the car, and he really wants to open the window, but at the same time that would feel like giving in, only one step above asking Arthur what this is.
Eames almost desperately wants to reach down and adjust himself, his erection confined uncomfortably in his trousers. He wants to press the heel of his hand to himself; wants Arthur to wrap his fingers around him; wants to pull over onto the hard shoulder and for Arthur to slip his clever lips around the end of his dick and fuck him with his mouth, Arthur sultry-eyed and flushed as Eames stuffs his cock into that pretty pink pout.
The air feels charged, fraught, and Eames is bloody boiling, but he doesn't want to be the one to admit that Arthur has put him into checkmate.
Every little sound seems magnified. They are both silent, the only sounds the purr of the engine, the faint creak of leather where Eames grips the steering wheel, his breath loud in his own head.
When Eames finally gives in and winds his window down slightly, breaking the tension, he catches sight of Arthur's triumphant smirk.
-
Eames is perusing his options in a private garage somewhere beneath their mark's ostentatious abode when he feels rather than hears somebody come up behind him.
“Pick that one,” says Arthur, breath ghosting over Eames' ear as he points to something blue and ridiculous looking.
“Wouldn't you rather something a little more... subtle?” asks Eames, not even attempting to hide the note of scorn in his voice.
“Yes,” says Arthur, “But he has bad taste, and that one cost him the most.”
Eames is inclined to agree, but he doesn't tell Arthur that.
They've left the fringes of Nice behind them when Arthur places a finger on Eames knee and drags it upwards. The thread of want that winds through him pulls harder than he would have thought possible, strings him up and binds him tight, all from the touch of a fingertip.
Eames breathes steadily through his nose. He can't help the way his body reacts, but he doesn't want to give Arthur the satisfaction of his face betraying the extent of this, because a change of expression would be more damning than any stiff prick.
“Don't stop,” says Arthur, as he curves his fingers over the growing bulge of Eames' arousal, heavy in a way that isn't physical. His voice pours over Eames like smoke, like treacle, getting into his head like he's been hypnotised, like it's all he can do to do as Arthur says.
“If you stop, so do I,” Arthur adds, looking Eames in the eye and then down at his hand cupping his erection, face a study in chiaroscuro, something unknown hidden in the shadowed contours of his face.
Arthur leans down and rests his chin on Eames thigh. There is barely any room between him and the steering wheel, and all he does is breathe, but Eames can feel warmth spreading out over him. He thinks if he could just move a bit then he would be able to press himself against Arthur's face, grind his hard cock against the fine curve of his cheekbone, make Arthur's mouth red where the material rubs against his skin.
Eames can't stop the noise that escapes his throat when Arthur pulls the fabric of his boxers down just enough to free his erection, the air cool on skin damp from his own sweat and the moisture of Arthur's breath. Arthur wraps his fingers around it, pulling his foreskin back slightly to expose the wet tip.
“Put your foot down,” says Arthur, and sinks his mouth down over the end of Eames' dick, burying his face against him.
Eames' breath punches out of him, his foot slamming down on the accelerator of its own accord, the only bit of him free to move in the cramped driver's seat of the hideous, ugly, gloriously fantastic car Arthur had him steal.
The car surges forward but he can’t bring himself to look at the speedometer, because if he doesn’t know how fast they’re going it is somehow a little less terrifying.
He daren't look down at Arthur, because he'd probably forget to look back up and drive straight off the road.
He rests his fingers against Arthur's face, feels the hint of his stubble, feels the movement and imagines what it looks like; Arthur’s mouth swollen and pink where it slides up and down, wet and wanting, his eyes half shut as he stuffs the entire length down his throat with the hint of a muffled moan.
Arthur pulls his head back slightly and tucks the head into his cheek. Eames presses his thumb against the bulge.
“I wish I could see,” he says, then squeezes his buttocks and tries not to thrust upwards into the hot grasp of Arthur's mouth, his hand coming round to rest against the nape of Arthur's neck, thumb slotting under his ear.
Arthur sucks him off with the same attention to detail that he uses to rip apart a contingency plan, a display of skill from his ruthless mouth.
“You could have chosen a roomier car,” gasps Eames, Arthur's head knocking into his arm where Eames has his fingers clenched around the steering wheel.
“You could shut up for a minute,” retorts Arthur, momentarily pausing, then pressing his tongue hard against Eames' frenulum as if waiting for a reply.
Eames' choice not to argue seems to be the right one, because Arthur swallows him down again. He thinks he might be starting to get the hang of this game.
Arthur has one hand closed on what he can grasp of Eames' hip, thumb digging in over the crest of his pelvis and his tongue doing something incredible just under the head of his dick. Eames can feel saliva soaking into the waistband of his pants where they are pulled down to sit unflatteringly under his balls but he couldn't care less, because every time he hits the edge of Arthur's soft pallet Arthur makes a maddening little snuffling sound that sends something tingling along Eames' nerves, under his skin, into his fucking blood. Every little sound that Arthur makes drives him that much closer to the point beyond which he starts talking, telling Arthur exactly what he wants to do, what he wants Arthur to do, what it's going to feel like and how it's going to taste.
I bet your gorgeous like this, he wants to say. I can tell you’re so lovely with your mouth stretched around my cock, holding it in your mouth for safekeeping. I bet you'd hold it like you hold a gun, like you're grateful, like you owe it something, but you'd never say it, would you? You'd bite off your tongue before you asked for help, but your hands give you away every time.
He swallows the words, because he thinks that might be against the rules, though it isn't the thought of breaking them that keeps him quiet but the possibility that it might make Arthur stop.
The desire to look down at Arthur is almost overwhelming, warring with the instruction not to stop.
Eames needs to keep his eyes on the road. He wants to look down at Arthur, but don't stop echoes in his head, to the point that he is no longer sure if he's repeating the words to himself as a reminder or whether he's trying to project them back on to Arthur, an imperative turned plea.
He thinks he might be doomed either way, because the thought of Arthur stopping is more concerning than the possibility of crashing the car.
He desperately wants to fuck up into the wet heat of Arthur's mouth, wants to hold Arthur still with the hand he has on the back of his neck, but he doesn't trust himself to keep the car on the road if he does. He can feel spit running down his balls and hear the muffled noises Arthur makes as he does his best to bob his head up and down in the cramped confines of the car, and he barely resists the urge to thrust. Instead, he tenses the muscles in his legs in an effort to stave off the inevitable, tries to focus on the white lines on the road in front of him. Don't stop becomes a mantra he repeats to keep his mind off what it would feel like to come down Arthur's throat.
A steadily shrinking part of him is screaming that this is probably the stupidest thing they've ever done, might possibly be the thing that kills him, but it is losing ground. There is another voice that is shouting ever louder; that of all the ways to go, speeding through southern France whilst Arthur swallows around his cock and Eames tries not to go cross-eyed at the effort required not to look away from the road and get them both killed is probably somewhere near the top.
It's almost too much; the adrenaline of the job and then getting out of the garage unnoticed, racing into the night in a monstrously expensive stolen car only for Arthur tell him don't stop and then part his wanton fucking mouth over the head of his dick.
The skin on the back of Arthur's neck is starting to dampen with sweat, and Eames rubs his thumb along the vertebrae, dipping down under his shirt collar to stroke at the slickness he can feel there.
Arthur tenses when he removes his hand, and Eames shushes him quietly, before sticking the pad of his thumb in his mouth and tasting salt.
“I can taste your sweat,” he says, because fuck the rules; he needs to say it, needs Arthur to hear it. “I want to lick you all over. I want to run my tongue from your taint to the top of your neck and back down, dip my tongue into your hole and listen to you beg me to fuck you.”
He feels Arthur shudder at his words. His voice is a wreck to his own ears, and it's too much, he needs to see him, needs to see the way Arthur's lips stretch around him, see the mess Arthur has made of himself as he moans around the base of Eames' cock, see his face wet where he's been rubbing his cheek against the head and smearing spit and precome all over himself.
Eames curls his toes in his shoes. He can't carry on driving, even if it means that Arthur stops, he can't, it's too much. He can feel his orgasm coiling from the base of his spine, feel his balls going tight, and if he comes now he thinks he's probably going to crash.
He brakes, veering off the road and onto the hard shoulder, the sudden movement throwing Arthur off balance and inadvertently stuffing Eames' cock further into his mouth.
Arthur throws himself backwards like a startled cat as the car comes to a stop.
“Asshole, I nearly fucking choked,” he bites out, and he's glowering at Eames, but his face is wet and flushed and he still has his spit-slick fingers curled around Eames throbbing cock, grip tight.
Eames feels his dick twitch at the sight.
“Feel free to carry on,” he says.
Arthur's fingers tense slightly, then he lets go.
“You stopped,” Arthur replies. “I told you what would happen if you did.”
“You did,” acknowledges Eames, then wraps his own hand around where Arthur's had been, because sod Arthur's arbitrary rules, he's going to come whether Arthur likes it or not. He's watching Arthur's face as he does it, sees him swallow, and then he's moving his hand up and down his length, watching the way Arthur is looking at his dick with his lips slightly parted.
He plants his feet against the floor, starts bucking slightly into his hand.
He hears the breath catch in Arthur's throat. He can see the way Arthur's slacks are tented, the slightly dazed look on his face.
Arthur's fingers scrabble at the front of his trousers, freeing his cock, and Eames groans, watches Arthur fuck up into his own hand in the passenger seat of a stolen car as Eames pulls at himself with increasing desperation.
Then Arthur moves, and with a needy little moan he closes his mouth over the wet tip of Eames' dick again, and it's this that drives him over the edge, his orgasm overtaking and leaving him shuddering in its wake, breathing harsh and fast as he feels Arthur catch the hot spurt of come on his tongue.
Eames settles his hand on Arthur's neck again as his heart rate slows, and Arthur holds Eames' spent cock in his mouth as he jerks through his own orgasm, coming all over his own stomach and soaking his shirt.
“Next time, you're driving,” Eames says, when his breathing is mostly back to normal and Arthur is trying and failing to wipe up the worst of the mess with a napkin he found in the glove locker.
“There won't be a next time,” says Arthur, something with sharp corners in his voice, but his index finger is dabbing softly at the corner of his mouth, gathering up the traces of Eames' come and rubbing at it with his thumb, and perhaps it’s this that is closer to the truth.
-
In Stockholm Arthur settles for a BMW, the best of a bad lot. The look he gives Eames when he holds the driver’s door open for him is heated, and that's all it takes for Eames to slide into it himself. He's half hard even before he does his seatbelt up.
“If we're going to make this a regular thing I might do the gardening a bit more often,” Eames muses, fingers of one hand pulling lightly on Arthur's hair.
Arthur pulls back with a wet sucking noise, lips pouty and puffy and slick.
“Don't,” says Arthur quickly, voice rough.
Something warm and slightly jittery curls though him at the tone of Arthur's voice, something that his first instinct is to shy away from because it feels like the tip of an iceberg.
“Don't do that,” Arthur repeats, before pressing his mouth to the base of Eames' cock and inhaling deeply through his nose.
Oh, Eames thinks, and realises maybe the stakes of this game are high.
-
The next job goes south because Dmitri doesn't take kindly to his subterfuge being found out. Eames is forced to hot wire the first car he finds under less-than-ideal circumstances, his fingers fumbling over the wires in his haste to get them the hell out of there before somebody gets shot in the head.
They've been driving for over an hour, ragging the tiny engine of the car, when Eames breaks the silence.
“I can't help but notice that this isn't proceeding along the same lines as previously,” he says, somewhere on the outskirts of Lyon.
“Well observed, Mister Eames,” replies Arthur, voice curling round the words in a way that belies his lack of activity. It's the same tone Eames has heard him say 'you smell fucking amazing' in as he presses his face against Eames' balls, speeding away from somewhere, Eames’ hands tight on the steering wheel. “But a Fiat Cinquecento is not a getaway car.”
“It's a classic,” he protests.
“A Fiat 8V is a classic. This is just old.”
“I'm beginning to think you only want me for my choice in automobiles,” says Eames, aware that at least half of the time, Arthur has chosen the cars.
Arthur smiles at him, dark but not warm, a sliver of teeth visible in the orange glow of the streetlights, the contours of his face thrown into sharp relief.
“And I'm beginning to think you're starting to expect something from me,” he replies.
“Do you want me to?” Eames asks quietly, and this is definitely against the rules. He watches Arthur's eyes widen slightly before his expression shutters, the muscles in his jaw tensing.
He doesn't know whether Arthur intended it to act as a rebuke, but that certainly isn't the effect it has. By the time they get to the airport Eames has been thinking about nothing but the feeling of Arthur's mouth, the slick skin on the inside of his bottom lip as he drags it up the length of Eames' cock, his jaw glistening with smeared saliva. More than that, he has been thinking about what it might be like to lick the taste of himself out of Arthur's mouth, kiss him until some of the sharp edges have been dulled and his words match the way his hands clutch at Eames' skin.
“Arthur,” he says, after he stops the car in the long stay car park. His voice sounds rougher than he hoped.
It's dark inside the car, the security lighting of their surroundings not doing much to illuminate anything.
Arthur doesn't say anything, eyes glittering dangerously in the low light, and Eames thinks about the way Arthur had pressed his nose into the junction between thigh and groin and inhaled, the note of something vulnerable in his voice when he said don't do that.
Arthur leans forward then, surprising him, and presses a kiss to the side of Eames' mouth.
“See you in Berlin,” Arthur says, and gets out of the car.