Author's Note: Hey guys, hope you like this oneshot; I really enjoyed writing it, and I would love to hear what you think. Thanks go out to Paint Me Violent, who wonderfully beta-ed this for me, and to Christopher Nolan for creating these amazing characters.
You tell yourself, the times he hits on you are just that: a few sexually propelled seconds of Eames being the flirt that he is, teasing terms of affection tied closely with sexual innuendos, his eyes raking over you not at all discreetly.
You tell yourself, he is just being the same person he is around everyone else. After all, you have seen him seducing practically anyone who comes his way, why should you be any different?
You tell yourself, when his arm snakes its way around your waist one day in the warehouse, and suddenly you can't breathe, that it's just the strong smell of his incredibly intoxicating cologne.
You tell yourself, this time in a low lit, dirty looking bar in Paris, when his lips are right next to yours, when there are only a few fucking inches between Eames and you, and he is admitting things, crazy things, those words make a blush creep up your shoulders, that he's just pretending, right? Has to be. But he is so convincing, his hot breath sizzling against your skin.
And he keeps calling you, over and over:
Darling. Darling. Darling.
And you let him. You don't tell him to stop, not even when his mouth finally, finally, attaches itself to yours. You moan, you make these noises you didn't even know you could make, and he growls, the sound emanating deep in his throat, and you want, you want him so bad, but he just says, "Not here."
And he takes your hand.
You feel the calluses against your skin as you are pulled out of the bar, and you can't stop smiling, goddammit. Within minutes, you are in the back of the cab with him.
You have never seen it in his eyes before, but it is there now.
Lust. His eyes are bewitching, and his pupils turn wide with desire. When he looks at you, in the instant before he leans in for another open mouthed kiss, you feel infinite. It seems to you that you are the only man Eames sees.
He is gentle with his hands, in his kisses, but at the same time he is urgent, insistent. By the time you have been pushed backwards onto your own bed, your clothes are just barriers and you help him shed them as quickly as possible.
Hands are exploring, mapping each other's bodies, memorizing each other's touch. Tongues are loving, licking and tasting and making you moan out loud. Hearts are swirling, emotions and feelings are fighting to be heard over what has never felt more right.
When you come, and you literally lose vision for those few blinding pleasurable seconds, you collapse, breathing hard and feeling dazed. Eames comes not a moment after, and he can't stop himself from murmuring,
"I love you".
But you are still high and you don't notice. Only later, when you are lying in bed, and you can feel Eames's steady heartbeat drumming next to you, you will remember, and you will spend hours replaying it in your mind, wondering if he means it.
You tell yourself, he doesn't.
x x x
You tell yourself; maybe you and Eames can have breakfast together in the morning.
But Eames doesn't say anything to you the next morning, when he is pulling his boxers on. You don't either. The look on Eames's face says enough.
x x x
You tell yourself, maybe he just needs time.
Weeks pass. Eames doesn't acknowledge you, and vice versa.
You tell yourself it doesn't hurt.
x x x
You tell yourself, you should not even be thinking about this. You are in the middle of Inception, the Fischer job. Eames calls you darling, and you freeze.
Memories come surging back, and for a split second, you can't breathe. You stay silent as Eames pulls out his monster machine gun, eliminating your enemies in one fell swoop.
You give him a look, one of your infamous "Arthur looks", putting all of what you have ever felt for him in one stone-cold glare, and,
He doesn't even flinch.
x x x
You tell yourself, you are done.
You have finished the impossible; Inception.
All you get from Eames as you leave is a quick, expressionless nod.
You tell him, "You know what? Fuck off."
You are done being toyed with by this miserable sod, you are done with Eames, and a second later, you tell him that, because you really have nothing left to lose at this point.
Screw him and his emotionless face; the one that doesn't even pretend to be hurt, because of course, Eames isn't wounded by this. Why should he be? All you were to him was a one night stand, one that he probably doesn't even remember, and you barely realize it, but you are saying all these feelings to him, and,
He is just staring. The same blank look, and you feel your eyes getting moist, and you know what?
You don't need this.
You leave.
x x x
You tell yourself, you made a huge idiot of yourself, and, in the cab ride home, you cry.
You haven't cried in a while, actually, in years, and after you mumble out the address of your current hotel, you just run your hand through your hair, and you let it go. All of the
stress, all of the frustration, and you don't even know why you care so much.
x x x
You tell yourself, he will probably never speak to you again, as you are rolling your red die over and over and over again, making sure that this is indeed reality.
It is.
He calls you ten minutes after you have found your hotel room.
You stare at the phone, knuckles pressed against your face as you just stare, your breathing shaky and your heartbeat racing.
After the ringing stopped the first time, he calls again.
And again.
On the fourth time the phone beeps, you pick it up with hesitant fingers. You press the call button and bring the phone up to your face, and you say nothing.
"I love you, Arthur," Eames says, not even waiting for you to greet him.
You are silent.
"And I am so very sorry." You have never heard Eames this sincere, and it sends chills up your spine. "I have tried desperately to trick myself into thinking I am over you, but I 'm not. I don't - I don't know if you remember, but that night in Paris, when I said the words, I meant them, Arthur. I was scared of how much I loved you, and I just ran. I know that sounds incredibly foolish; trust me. And I realize I was a prick, and I just wanted you to know that."
There is knocking at your door. You flinch at the sound, but still get up to answer it. Eames has stopped talking, but of course, this one random moment, this one instance, you are speechless.
It's Eames at your door.
You tell yourself, when he closes the space between you without a moment's hesitation and kisses you like that night in Paris, you think you love him. You forgive him, right then, because you know, you just know how much he wants this, wants you.
You tell yourself, when his hands are working your clothes off with grace, and speed, and you are being pushed back onto the bed, and déjà vu is all too present, that you think you love him.
You tell yourself, when he is pressing kisses to the back of your neck, and whispering
Love you,
Love you,
Love you,
Into your ear, that you know you love him, too.
When you are both fully stripped of all clothing, and he finally pants onto your skin, "Make love to me, Arthur," you tell yourself absolutelynothing.
You turn your head towards Eames, a faint smile on your lips, and you kiss him. The kiss is quick, and sweet, and right after you break away, you tell him you love him.
He says it back, unhesitatingly.
You smile, and tell yourself, everything is going to be just fine.