It's Just A Twitch, And It's Part Of His Style
Eames has always believed that, when he finally manages to talk (coerce/bribe/incept) Arthur into becoming his lover, it will be a shallow affair kept to the confines of anonymous hotel rooms. Their's is a dark world, after all, and even if Arthur wasn't such a tightly wound stickler for paranoia, the potential for their enemies discovering the relationship and using it against them is very real.
And that's fine, really. It's worth it, being Arthur's dirty little secret, if it gives him the privilege of tearing off those gorgeous suits and sucking bruises into smooth skin. So he falls into Arthur's bed with his eyes wide open and his expectations tightly leashed.
It quickly becomes apparent, however, that darling Arthur has differently plans entirely.
The small touches start up the very next morning, with a kiss pressed to his neck as he wakes up sore, wrung out, and draped over Arthur's sleep-warm body. Turns out, a sexed up Arthur is shockingly, delightfully affectionate. He even cuddles.
They spend the next two days secluded in Arthur's hotel room, and even when they aren't busy snogging and fucking on every piece of furniture, Arthur touches him. Knees pressed together when they sit down for a meal. The brush of gun-calloused palms along his arms. He doesn't overthink that—Arthur has quite a thing for his arms, and Eames is vain enough to preen for attention at every turn.
He attributes Arthur's surprisingly handsy behavior to the flush of newly explored lust, something that will be buried underneath professionalism and bespoke waistcoats when the honeymoon ends and they come up for air.
Wrong, again.
It's bad enough when they go for drinks or pick up supplies—that first weekend taught them to keep the suite fully stocked with sports drinks, lube, and potato crisps. When they are in public, Arthur compounds the constant touching by ignoring all concepts of personal space. Plasters himself against Eames' side at the café around the corner. Breathes down his neck at the check-out stand. Even forcefully moves people that get between them on the tube. Turns out, Arthur is a possessive bastard, but Eames can't even pretend to mind.
But their first time working together since becoming an item is an experience in shock and awe. Eames thinks, for sure, he'll see Arthur revert back to his aloof self of old. Arthur will never want their relationship flaunted in front of the dream-share community. It would be professional suicide, not to mention dangerous to their health. So he holds back when they meet with the extractor, a chain-smoking woman named Jin-Yung that comes with Cobb's endorsement and her own architect. He's stunned when Arthur reels him back in and spends the meeting with his hand in Eames' back pocket.
The meet goes swimmingly if you discount Jin-Yung's witless babbling and how the architect's eyes budge out of his skull.
That night, Eames' phone blows up with texts from Yusuf, Ariadne, and the handful of people in dream-share he considers friends. Arthur just flashes his dimples and suggests Thai for dinner.
In the ensuing weeks, Eames and the team see that Arthur had just gotten warmed up that day. He finds them an isolated ceramics studio to work out of and spends the days stalking Eames around the place, rarely more than an arm's reach away. Arthur positions their chairs together and hacks government databases one-handed so he can absentmindedly caress Eames' knee. Breaks between work are filled with heady and occasionally pornographic displays of affection. And on those rare times that Eames manages to escape touching range, he struggles to work under the burning weight of Arthur's territorial stare.
That's how it goes topside. When they go under for practice rounds, things get very interesting, indeed. In dreams, Arthur is always hyperfocused and relentless. The frighteningly efficient point man who never hesitates to wade into a riot or set the world on the fire, if that's what the job calls for. His ability to be so very good at doing bad, bad things is only part of the urban legend that is Arthur.
None of them, not even Eames, are prepared for what happens when all that violent intensity is applied to a possessive lover. No one overlooks the protective stance or the feral gaze while they explore levels. And no one misses the way Arthur eye-fucks Eames while slaughtering Jin-Yung's projections. When they ride the kick back up, that heavy stare is always the first thing Eames sees.
He couldn't feel more claimed, more owned, than if Arthur trotted him out to the middle of Trafalgar Square and pissed on his leg for all and sundry to see. He finds the whole situation baffling, concerning, at times even demeaning.
And he loves every fucking minute of it.
The strange part is this: at the end of the day, when they are closed up behind a locked hotel room door, Arthur drops the caveman routine and becomes almost domestic. At least, as domestic as an international criminal with a fetish for Semtex can get. Gone are the jealous eyes and invasive touches. When it's just the two of them, Arthur is beautifully at peace. No one who knows The Point Man would recognize him then, especially not on those nights when Arthur—pliant limbs and indulgent sighs—lets Eames—strung out from having Arthur's hands on him all day—toss him on the bed and lick him open until he sobs.
It isn't until the job wraps up—successfully, of course—and they are safely in flight to the Caymans that Eames works up sufficient blood flow to his brain and finally asks, What the hell?
Arthur explains calmly, without a trace of chagrin.
"Even if I wanted to keep our relationship a secret, that wouldn't last very long in our line of work. People are going to know, and keeping a low profile won't protect you in the long run."
Eames feels embarrassingly squishy inside at hearing the words our relationship. But still… "Much as I appreciate the sentiment, darling, I don't need you to protect me."
Arthur gives him a steady, inscrutable look. "I know. But I intend to, nonetheless."
Eames stares back. Trust Arthur to come up with a calculated rationale for molesting Eames in the workplace. And he really doesn't know how to feel about all this. "So, what then? You stake your claim like some sociopathic white knight and put the fear of god in anyone who looks at me cross?"
"Yes. Exactly." A deceptively elegant hand reaches up to tangle in his hair, dragging their faces close enough to bite. "You are mine, Mr. Eames. Completely and utterly mine," Arthur declares in that perfectly level tone. "So I hope you weren't entertaining any ideas about cutting loose. You won't get far."
Eames tries to protest (whimper/beg/declare his undying love) but it's hard to articulate complex ideas with his heart trying to climb out of his chest and lay itself at Arthur's feet. "I—Jesus fuck, Arthur."
"Problem?"
"You can't just—I'm not…" he gives up the attempt to speak and tries, instead, to see how long Arthur can hold his breath with Eames' tongue in his mouth. The flight attendants aren't impressed, but the old lady across the aisle buys their drinks for the rest of the flight.
Months pass in a glorious blaze of traveling, high-stakes jobs, and toe-tingling sex. Eames can't remember ever being this happy. It scares the piss out of him, like that feeling he used to get making high-altitude jumps into warlord-infested jungles—pulse racing, balls throbbing, living and dying crammed into one heart-stopping moment.
He hasn't told Arthur he loves him. He knows he does—desperately—but stability isn't something Eames is especially good at. And he knows that, too. So he doesn't say it, and neither does Arthur.
But sometimes he wonders, when Arthur picks up his favorite egg rolls for dinner despite the fact that Arthur hates Chinese food, if Arthur hasn't been saying it all along.
Eames doesn't dwell on Arthur's white knight strategy until he gets in an argument with a self-important chemist in Rio. A contentious debate on timing for the kick degrades into schoolyard name-calling. Things are getting heated when Arthur walks in with a sack of pastéis.
Arthur puts lunch on his makeshift desk and asks calmly, "Everything okay here?"
The chemist, Gerard, swallows the insult about to fall out of his mouth and marches off. For the rest of the day, he keeps a wary distance from the two of them and only speaks when answering direct questions. Eames feels a burgeoning sense of emasculation but chooses to be amused, instead. Still, he corners Gerard about it two days later while Arthur is off running surveillance.
"You are joking, yes? Everyone knows what happened to the last man that shit you off. And I like my fingers as they are, you understand."
Eames thinks it through, but even in his crazy life that makes no sense. "What are you on about?"
"The arms dealer? Geneva?"
"Heinrich?" Eames scoffs, surprised. "What about him? I barely touched the guy. Don't tell me he's running around crying about a broken jaw. Which he very much deserved, I assure you."
"Vraiment? Do you not know?" At Eames blank stare, Gerard looks around them like he's searching for the sodding boogeyman and drops his voice to a quiet murmur. "Couple of weeks after the two of you left Switzerland, your friend Heinrich dropped off the map. All of his aliases burned, his accounts emptied. But not his doing, you understand? The entire outfit went under in a matter of hours. Then Heinrich finally reappears days later with all of his fingers facing the wrong way. Won't tell a soul what happened. But we know, don't we? So let me assure you and that branleur fou you sleep with, we have all received the message."
With that, Gerard scurries back to his workstation and avoids notice until the job is done. Eames takes to staring every morning while Arthur placidly fixes him a cup of tea. Brewed for precisely two minutes, one sugar, touch of milk. Just how he likes it.
It's true, he had gotten into pretty thick with Heinrich. And it's true that Arthur had taken a couple of days to himself after the Geneva job. To visit Cobb, he'd said. Eames had been more than happy to sit out because, as far as he's concerned, Dominic Cobb will always be the self-centered nutter that nearly got them turned into vegetables. He wasn't about to forgive that any time soon, not even for darling Arthur's sake. So he'd amused himself on a beach in Nice until his lover returned and never thought twice about it.
Shameful though it may be, being hurt that Arthur went behind his back is only his second reaction. He understands perfectly why Arthur didn't tell him and would have done exactly the same. (Well, maybe without the whole finger thing.) Concern or outrage over a mutilated arms dealer only comes fifth or sixth, and that's only out of mild worry that Heinrich will drudge up some kind of revenge down the line. His first reaction—his instinctual gut response to learning that Arthur is going around slaying dragons for him is a gleeful awe that, frankly, is more than a little embarrassing.
Eames wonders if this is what it would be like to keep a wild animal as a pet. As in, sure, that jaguar looks cute and fuzzy while it cuddles on your sofa and licks its spots, but when you aren't looking it's eating the neighbor's shih tzu and mauling the postman, and what is he supposed to do with that?
So Eames watches Arthur carefully for signs of dissociative disorders—and buggers him silly every available moment.
If Arthur is perturbed by or even notices the added scrutiny, he doesn't show it.
Things go awry when Eames gets picked up one morning in a Pharmasave parking lot. Arthur has a headache, and they're out of painkillers except for the Demerol they've got stashed for emergencies. He picks up ibuprofen and gummy bears and is unlocking the car door when a team of blokes smelling of government funding grab him and manhandle him into a van. Yes, they earn a few broken bones and sprained shoulders for their efforts, but they are eventually successful in whisking him away.
Within the hour, Eames has been tased, absconded to a very clichéd warehouse, and handcuffed to a metal chair with duct tape across his mouth. He knows it's been an hour because the idiots took his gun and switchblade but left his watch. He knows he's not in a dream because he can see part of his reflection in the watch face, and it doesn't change when he tries to forge Yusuf's shaggy mane.
There were at least five men in the team that picked him up, but only one comes to visit him when he comes to. This one's burly, if not very tall, and probably fancies himself the bloke in charge. Too bad his wiry hair and weak jawline make him look like a todger in a polo shirt.
The good agent tries his hand at being menacing—it doesn't work because he obviously isn't one of those types of government operatives—and blathers on about some elusive smuggling ring that's been running Interpol ragged. Not that Interpol needs help to look like incompetent tits. It's all very pedestrian, and Eames really can't be bothered to pay attention once it's clear that he's been kidnapped by rank amateurs.
He looks at his watch and wonders how Arthur is getting along. No doubt his sweet pigeon is causing vicious mayhem somewhere and getting himself all worked up, and with a headache to boot.
Eames sighs. They are supposed to go out for dinner tonight. They have plans. He was going to get dressed up and everything. But now Arthur is hardly going to be in the mood. The unfairness of it all, really.
The monotony of Agent Todger's bluster is broken when a heavy door swings open and three men come into view. Ah, of course. An extraction team. No one Eames recognizes, but that's not unheard of. Unlike Arthur, who keeps a running profile of every player in the dream-share game locked away somewhere, Eames tends to stick with the same circles until those circles spin out.
The short, stocky fellow in an Arsenal hoodie is clearly their extractor. They all tend to squint like that. Tweedles Dee and Dum behind him could have been twins, sporting the same nondescript white button-downs and khaki trousers. No doubt, one of these bland-faced fellows is supposed to be their point man, likely the one clutching a PASIV case, and Eames is insulted on Arthur's behalf.
The lot trot forward, doing a credible impression of professionals, until they catch sight of him sitting there and stop short. Horror is perhaps too strong a word but is still fairly accurate. The Tweedles talk over each other while Hoodie looks frantically around the warehouse as if raging monkeys were going to attack then and there.
"Is that—?"
"Shit. Shit."
Hoodie storms up into Agent Todger's face, pointing a shaking finger at Eames. "What the sodding hell is this?"
Todger shoves him back and lifts his chin. "This is your mark."
Hoodie's face burns an angry red before shifting to an unnatural shade of green. "Are you fucking with me right now? Motherfucking shit nuggets. Are you insane?" He turns to look at Eames again and just sort of shrinks in on himself. "Unbloodybelievable."
Eames stares back and shrugs in sympathy. He can't believe he gave up his morning for this, either.
Dum actually crosses himself. "We're dead. We're so dead." Dee just hugs the PASIV to his chest and blinks.
Todger looks from one man to the other, then to Eames, and back to Hoodie. "What the hell is wrong with you all? Get over there and do your jobs." Waving imperiously at the bound and gagged forger.
"The fuck you say," Hoodie barks. "Do you have any idea who this is?"
"Of course. William Kingsley, aka Phillip Eames, aka our best damn chance at breaking this smuggling ring," Agent Todger recites. "Now stop dicking around and plug us in."
Hoodie shakes his head and visibly swallows. "No. No way. I'm cutting him loose and bugging out before loverboy catches up with us and skins us for shoe leather."
"What?"
"Eddie, let's just go."
"Maybe if we put him back?"
Agent Todger growls. "Would you morons shut the fuck up. You," he points to Hoodie—Eddie. "What exactly is your problem?"
Eddie takes a deep breath. Eames takes another peek at his watch. One hour, twenty seven minutes. "Look. Let me tell you how our world works. You don't mess with Eames. You don't so much as spit in his direction. You sure as fuck don't kidnap him, rough him up, and tie him to a chair in a sodding warehouse!"
"Would you just calm the fuck down. You're being paid a shit load of money to extract information from this man's head, not to wring your hands like a hysterical little girl."
Eddie lets off a laugh that, okay, yes, sounds pretty hysterical. "I'll spell this out for you, you gormless twat. This isn't some run-of-the-mill mark you've picked up for a daily go at corporate espionage. He's fucking Eames. He's been lighting up dream-share longer than I've had hair on my balls. Assuming we can even get into this guy's head without his subconscious annihilating us the second we're under—and assuming I can dig around deep enough and fast enough to get the information you're looking for—not one of us will live a day to do anything with that precious intel. Or your fucking money. As fucked as this situation is, I'm as likely to wake up with a gun barrel pressed to my eyeball as anything. Assuming he doesn't just kill us in our sleep."
Todger flails his arms about and hisses. "For chrissake, who is he?"
"He probably means me."
The smooth baritone—that same tone that always makes Eames shiver in the best ways—cuts through the arguing and makes the Tweedles cease their whimpering. As a group, they all turn their heads to where Arthur materializes out of the shadows like a goddamned spy movie.
Eames's appreciative gaze absorbs Arthur in all his refined glory. Charcoal-colored trousers and waistcoat with a crisp white shirt. Amber silk tie perfectly knotted at his throat. Suppressed AR-15 rifle held loosely in front of him and trained on Agent Todger. He looks completely unruffled except for the bright red dash of someone else's blood on his sleeve and the very, very angry look on his face.
Arthur tosses a two-way radio at Todger's feet. "You're waiting for your men to ride to the rescue. Don't bother."
Eddie has his hands up, projecting waves of submission. "Arthur, man. We had no idea— "
"Shut up. You, step away from him."
Todger shuffles a few steps away from Eames's chair but proves himself to be Not Bright when he starts talking. "Whoever you are, you're interfering with a sanctioned opera—fuck!" Todger keens like a dying goat, hands clamped around his left knee, which is now sporting an impressive bullet wound.
"Yeah, it hurts." Arthur shifts his aim a few inches higher. "Next one is going to hurt more." He waits patiently for Todger to compose himself. Impressively, the agent manages to stay more or less on his feet.
"You can't—you can't do this. I am a fucking Interpol investigator!"
Arthur looks over the extraction team and, satisfied that they won't interfere, shifts the rifle to one hand, pulls out his phone and dials without looking. He passes the phone to Todger, who accepts it with a suspicious glare. Eames and the extraction team all lean forward, trying to hear the other side of the conversation. Arthur just waits.
"Who is th… look, this isn't… but I've been… no… no… but, sir… s… yes… I unders… yes, sir." He hangs up and tosses the phone back to Arthur, who catches it neatly and slips it back into his pocket.
"I trust I don't need to press my point."
"No," Todger grounds out, teeth mashing against pain and humiliation.
"Good. All the same," Arthur snaps forward and slams his fist into Todger's face, knocking him to the ground with a loud yelp.
Arthur steps over the sprawled agent, finally moves over to Eames and examines the bruises on his face. Eames sees his grip tighten fractionally on the gun, but instead of launching into a killing spree he rips the tape off Eames' mouth. He isn't gentle.
"Fuck, Arthur."
"Don't whine." But a hand smooths along his cheek. "Are you okay?"
Eames can hear the rage loaded into those few words, knows that his answer now determines the fate of a certain Interpol agent that is currently trying to drag himself away. Eddie and the gang have already hightailed it out of there, showing they have at least basic survival instincts. "I'm aces, pet. How's the headache?"
"Hurts like a bitch. Ready?"
Eames stands up easily, slips off the loosened handcuffs and tosses them to a sputtering Todger. "Ready when you are, love. Come on, we'll stop and get you something on the way home. Maybe have a lie-down. Might still even make our reservation tonight. That should be lovely, yeah?"
He takes Arthur by the hand, fingers laced, and leads the way out of the warehouse.
"Just for the record, I didn't need you to come flying to my rescue."
"I know. But I always will, nonetheless."
Six months later, Arthur closes the door to their hotel room. A charming little suite that looks over the Po River. "Well, it's safe to assume Steinle won't be working with us anytime soon."
Eames is too wound up to appreciate the view. He paces the small sitting area, hands fisted at his sides. "Too right. The fucker."
"Eames," Arthur sighs and watches his lover prowl the room. "You broke his clavicle."
"He touched you."
He sighs again and catches Eames on the next pass. "You do know that I'm perfectly capable of fending off unwanted advances on my own." Arthur strokes his hands up and down those tense—but, Jesus, the muscles—arms in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.
Eames growls—fucking growls and hauls him in tight. "Don't care. He touched you."
Arthur decides it will be easier (quicker/safer/godohfucksogood) to redirect all that aggressive energy towards more pleasurable forms of relaxation. The room is looking a little less charming, and management has already been sent away twice, by the time Arthur has enough oxygen in his brain to consider a smug and sleepy Eames.
"You're a little possessive, did you know that?"
A/N: All the usual disclaimers about how I, sadly, do not own anything. Title comes from the song "Twitch" by Bif Naked.