Disclaimer: Property of others. No money (only good fun) in it for me.
Notes: These are my interpretations of the characters - not necessarily the same as their predominant characterizations. I hope it doesn't put any of y'all off, but this is the only way I can write them.
-You don't have to read my first Inception fic (The Way to a Man's Heart Is through His Coffee Cup) to understand, but it'll help with some of the references as that is how Eames and Arthur have gotten together in this fic.
Arthur's back. Eames knew it the moment he stepped into the elevator of his current apartment building and breathed in the ghost he'd been chasing around his rooms for the long weeks of his lover's absence.
Coffee, spice, and a whisper of musk: Arthur's scent, lingering in the trapped air of the elevator. Eames leaned against the back wall as the elevator doors slid shut, closing his eyes and slowly breathing in through his nose.
God damn, how he'd missed him. His calm, collected, but never cold presence at work. His subtle warmth and well-masked playful humor at mealtimes. And, more than anything, the passionate heat of his body in Eames' arms at night.
A tiny groan of anticipation and desire escaped him as the forger inhaled again. He could feel the slight pounding of his heart, the gentle glow of arousal in his lower abdomen, the shivery tingle of expectation throughout his body. He wasn't sure what he most wanted to do to Arthur the moment he saw him: hug him, kiss him, or fuck him.
Jesus… all three at once. Eames was a talented man. Arthur a willing and able lover. They could certainly manage it.
With a muted ding, the doors of the elevator slid open on his floor and Eames had to resist the urge to run – or skip, even – to his door. He couldn't hold back the smile – filled with equal parts vacuous joy and predatory excitement – that split his features, though. It was very fortunate for his reputation that he didn't bump into any of his neighbors.
Despite his eagerness, however, he paused at his door, key in lock, to compose himself. He brought his free hand to his face in an effort to mold his features into a welcoming, but lazy smirk (it was an expression that rarely failed to halt Arthur mid-sentence and draw his eyes to Eames' lips). He had only moderate success.
With a deep breath, he turned the key and pulled open his door. "Honey," he called, "I'm home!" Romantic reunion or not, he couldn't resist. "Arthur?" he called again when there was no response.
Eames switched on the light and looked around the front hallway as he set down his keys. There were Arthur's shoes beside the umbrella stand (he'd picked up the Asian custom somewhere) and his jacket hanging by the door. The forger pulled a sleeve toward him, inhaling Arthur's scent again, this time in a heady mix with leather. He moved his gaze further inward then and saw a suitcase with a garment bag draped over it. He came straight here… he came to my home first… So much for all Eames' hard work schooling his expression. With a quick step that was very nearly a skip, he bounded into the living room, hitting the light switch on his way.
"Arth-" he began, but the point man was not in that room, or in the adjoining dining area or kitchen… "Hm?" There was something in the kitchen that caught Eames' eye, however. He moved closer and looked at the dish rack beside the sink. There, resting upside down to dry, was a paisley print travel mug.
He actually used it… For at least the third time that evening, Eames felt a thrill of pleasant surprise. He thought back to the day before Arthur's departure.
"Happy birthday!" Eames said, placing a gaudily wrapped box on the desk in front of Arthur.
"Eames…" The point man's voice and expression were neutral, but hints of annoyance, embarrassment, surprise, and pleasure were there – if you knew how to look for them. "It's not my birthday."
"Well, as you still won't tell me when it is…?" He left the question hanging suggested in the air. "Fine," he sighed after a long silence. "Consider it a going away present - for you trip."
"Ah," was the noncommittal reply as Arthur began picking away the garish wrapping paper. His lips were curled slightly in disgust at the vivid orange and noxious green pattern, but there was a warm glow in his brown eyes when he glanced up at Eames. "You wrap this yourself?"
"However did you guess?"
With a silent roll of his eyes, counteracted by a tiny smile, the younger man refocused his attention on his gift. He got the last piece of tape open, removed the paper, and swiftly crumpled it and tossed it in the wastebasket.
A wide smirk curved Eames' lips. "I find it greatly amusing that you went to all that effort not to rip that paper when you-"
"Shut up," Arthur said quickly, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. He picked up the unwrapped box. "A travel mug?"
"For your coffee." Arthur raised his eyebrow sardonically. "So that even when I'm not there to make it for you, you can still think of me with every cup." Eames tried to smirk – tried to keep a cocky tone in his voice – but, by the softening of his lover's expression, he knew he'd failed. If the rosy hue of Arthur's cheeks were any indication, he'd heard in Eames' voice just how much the forger was going to miss him.
With a cough to cover their mutual embarrassment, Arthur looked down at his present again. "Thank you, Eames," he told the box as he opened it. "You… you really shouldn't have." For once, the point man's face was as readable, as obvious, as a neon sign. Good God, paisley, his expression said.
"It was either that or a personalized one saying 'I love Eames.'"
Arthur looked up at the forger again, then back at the mug. Then, with a nearly inaudible sigh, he turned once more to his lover and, with a wry but warm little grin, said, "Thank you very much. I appreciate the thought."
As he didn't say he loved it, Eames knew he meant every word.
Still, Eames thought, back in the present, it would have been nice if Arthur had thanked him with a kiss. I should've asked. Either way, the outcome would have been interesting. Well, now's the perfect chance to make up for missed chances and lost time!
With gusto.
Eames made his way, quietly this time, to his bedroom. Arthur hadn't come out to greet him and there was no sound of the shower, so that probably meant that the point man was asleep. The forger wasn't at all averse to waking him, but there were far more… pleasant means than shouting or stomping.
The bedroom door was cracked and lamplight poured out in a soft, golden stream. Slowly, carefully, Eames pushed open the door and peered inside.
Only to freeze in the doorway, heart fluttering, knees weak, and groin warm, at the sight before him. Arthur was there, yes. Sleeping, yes. No surprises there. He just happened to be curled around Eames' pillow, his face buried in it, wearing nothing but Eames' pajama top.
Fuck… The forger wasn't sure if the thought was an expression of shock or of what he wished to do. Both, probably.
Hmm… The forger had a dilemma before him: wake Arthur and… celebrate their reunion (at the expense of the point man's rest)… or let the clearly exhausted man sleep (at the cost of a very unwanted delay).
Let him sleep, said the considerate lover in Eames. He obviously needs the rest.
Wake him, said the greater part of him (which, at this point, was probably mostly libido). He'll sleep better after a sound shagging.
Well… the considerate lover considered. He's clearly missed me, too…
Eames would wake him, but he'd at least let him rest for as long as it took the forger to shower and make coffee. With one last long look at Arthur's sleeping form (a look that would make a chaste shower very difficult), Eames exited the bedroom.
On his way to the bathroom, however, he was distracted again – this time by Arthur's man-bag ("It a satchel," the point man corrected prissily in his mind). There was a small, sturdy notebook sticking out of the top. Without the least hesitation, the forger pulled it out and flipped it open.
"September 5th," Eames read, recognizing his lover's compact scrawl. "Ended up waiting in the airport for 2 hours, waiting for those ineffectual morons from the client's office to pick me up."
It was Arthur's travel diary. He'd said he liked to keep one on business trips. Eames began scanning the pages, looking for any delectable tidbits. It actually only took him a few more lines to find his own name.
"Ended up in Starbucks(how could nine letters in black ink convey so much disdain?) of all places. I hate airports – so few choices and all of them bad. They had a special discount price if you use your own cup. Wasn't sure I wanted to be seen with a paisley mug, but… paying full price for Starbucks… The mug was the lesser evil. May have been my imagination – or jet lag – but the coffee didn't taste as bad. Not as good as Eames' – nowhere near – but palatable."
"Ah, darling, you write the sweetest things." Drawling to oneself was not the sanest thing to do, but it staved off less masculine reactions. Eames felt enough of a schoolgirl sneak-reading his boyfriend's diary. He skimmed a few more pages, looking for more appearances by his own name. Ah!
"September 8th. Hate our clients. Not only are they inefficient and stupid, but they carry everything to the ridiculous. Environmentally friendly = employee and guest unfriendly, apparently. No paper cups – not even for visiting consultants. Had no heart (the word was crossed out) time to buy another cup. Good thing I don't value these damn fools' opinions! In fact, it was worth it to shock something other than a "duh, what?" out of them with PAISLEY. Could even see Eames' se (there was a line through the two letters) infuriating smirk in my mind. Rest of the day wasn't so bad. Coffee still sucked, though."
"You were going to write 'sexy,' weren't you? You know you love it." Eames flipped through more pages.
"September 12th. Work = tedious, clients = most useless future Darwin Award recipients ever to walk the planet, coffee = the piss side of tolerable. Have bought some decent grounds for the coffee maker in my room. Drank from my own cup… It reminds me of one of Eames' shirts. God I hate that shirt.
"God I miss Eames'coffee."
Eames didn't bother with words this time as he feverishly flipped through the diary.
"September 14th. Have finally made progress with the clients. Will probably finish in a couple days. Thank God! Work's been so dull, I've found myself just sitting sometimes, rolling my mug back and forth between my hands, staring at the paisley.
I miss Eames." (there were two dark lines drawn through the last part)
"I missed you, too, darling." The tight script was really tiring Eames' eyes – they were starting to mist up a bit…
"September 16th. Should have finished today, but those damn fools fucked up the schedule! NO PAYCHECK IS WORTH PUTTING UP WITH THESE FUCKHEADS."
"Such language!" The clients must have been thicker than lead blocks and three times as useless to get Arthur to swear like that.
"I MISS EAMES." (a half-hearted attempt had been made to cross out the last sentiment)
"September 18th. We got the job done. Fucking finally. They insisted on going for celebratory drinks. Don't know why I felt the strange urge to take my mug with me… The bar they took me to was decent: drinks pretty good and prices reasonable. And the bartender was hot."
"What!"
"He had long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, golden skin, beautiful bones. Part Native American, I think. Very sexy smile when I tipped him."
Eames furiously scanned the next few lines, but he didn't find any further mention of the allegedly hot bartender. Fingers almost ripping the pages as he turned them violently, he continued to skim. His attention was caught by a shift in tense and another familiar name.
"September 20th. Finally going home. Too bad it's not Saito's airline – they always give me a free upgrade to first class. Oh well. Business on this airline's alright. And the coffee's the best I've had on this trip so far. Flight attendant looked askance at me when I insisted on using my own cup. Don't care. Tastes even better this way. I sit here, holding it up to my face… breathing in the aroma… It's almost like holding Eames… Aroma of coffee rising off his warm skin and paisley shirt after he's been to the coffee roaster's. I can see him, French press in hand, smirking. Damn, those lips are so goddamn sexy when he does that. Makes me forget to be irritated. I hope you're wearing that stupid paisley shirt and that smirk and NOTHING ELSE when I get home. I close my eyes and breathe in the steam and think about what I'm going to do to you when I get home. I'm going to hold you while you make me the biggest damn cup of your best coffee. Then we're going to have sex. Long and hard. I wonder if we can drink coffee and fuck at the same time?"
Eames was starting to feel very warm… and his trousers very tight.
"Coffee and sex. Sex and coffee. Until dawn.
"Oh, and Eames? I was just kidding about the bartender."
"Damn right you were—what?"
"I knew you'd read it." Arthur's voice was low and husky from sleep.
"Arthur!" Eames whirled around, dropping the diary. "Welcome back," he said lamely as his eyes goggled at the sight before him. Arthur had looked pretty hot curled up in nothing but Eames' top, but… Standing up, hair tousled and sticking out here and there, with the pajama shirt hanging off one shoulder and tracing the curve of the opposite hip as the sleepy man raised that hand to rub at his eyes…
He looks fucking edible. Eames swiftly closed the distance between them and wrapped one arm tightly around his lover. His free hand went to the nape of Arthur's neck to draw him in for an urgent kiss. He was only just able to stop his hips from rocking against the other man, but the growing heat and tightness in his groin made it a tough battle.
"Arthur," he breathed, unable to say more. Instead, he used the kiss to tell Arthur just how much Eames had missed him.
And by the soft noises and enthusiastic return of the kiss, Eames knew the feeling was mutual.
But…
"Wait," Arthur said when Eames began maneuvering them back to the bedroom.
"Mm… why?" the forger groaned.
"Coffee first."
"What?"
"I'm tired, Eames. Coffee first. I can't wait any longer."
"Arthur, please. I can't wait any longer!"
Arthur stepped back, an infinitesimal, though infinitely wicked, smile on his face. "Then you'd better be quick."
With an inarticulate groan, Eames made his uncomfortable way to the kitchen. As he pulled out coffee beans, grinder, and press, he felt Arthur press up against his back, hand coming around to grip his shoulders. He heard his lover take a deep breath before releasing it in a drawn-out sigh.
"God, I've missed you Eames." His hands gripped tighter. "I love the mug you gave me, but next time, you are coming with me. Paisley shirt and all."
"Whatever you say, darling." Eames felt another undoubtedly goofy smile take over his face, despite his discomfort.
I'm all yours.