paris is burning

by TheeMizKitty

It's a normal night in Paris until- A/E

Paris is burning.

Arthur/Eames

Disclaimer: I do not own Inception and related characters and it all belongs to amazingly creative Nolan. I will steal his brain.

"I'm on your side when nobody is, cause nobody is
Come sit right here and sleep while I slip poison in your ear

We are waiting on a telegram to give us news of the fall
I am sorry to report dear Paris is burning after all
We have taken to the streets in open rejoice revolting
We are dancing a black waltz fair Paris is burning after all

Oh no oh no"—"Paris is Burning" St Vincent.

---

It is a cold night and the city is dark and silent and appears to be sleeping when the door opens. In this then all hell breaks loose.

There is a flurry of movement near the window, dark eyes as sharp as daggers and fists as hard as granite as the vulnerable flesh of the intruder is attacked. Another fist swings into a jaw, uneven and rough with hair that lets him know exactly who his target is, not that he doesn't know anyway.

It only ever is one person.

And it only ever is this type of greeting.

Of course, this is only if there is a greeting to be had at all and by his estimations, and he is always right, it's been about five months.

Not nearly long enough, he likes to think as he dodges the fist, the retaliation that he know has been coming. It is no surprise; what does surprise him is how slowly that retaliation comes, almost half hearted. It makes thin lips purse as he pauses, feeling the dull ache in his cheek where the fist has impacted.

Beneath him the body is still, waiting and completely docile and at his mercy.

And it is all wrong.

"Are you quite done yet darling?" the accented voice asks, so quietly and damn subtly that he has to get to his feet, has to turn on the light by the couch just to make sure it really is who he thinks it is.

Eames' oddly, uncharacteristically blank face stares back at him and the lack of light in those grey eyes hits something inside of his chest. But he is a master at disguises, almost but not quite as good as the man staring back at him from the plush hotel floor.

"What are you doing here Mr. Eames?"

A simple question with a complex answer. Eames just continues to stare at him from the floor, the shadows adding an odd depth to his chiseled face. It makes his skin feel hot and constricted and he only glares harder at this man that dared to violate his peace without his permission; he is the only man that ever has and ever will.

"Well let's see," the forger began casually, propping himself up on his arms. "I could say that I was in the area, or that I just was looking for a good fight that I knew you would give me; which you did by the way my pet…"

The point man only continued to glower at Eames, thin lips turning up into a perfect sneer. "How many times do I have to tell you to leave me the hell alone before you actually get it?" he demanded.

Through blood stained teeth, Eames smiled softly at him. "Darling you should know by now that there can't possibly be a number because I'm never going to leave you alone."

"Because you love to harass me so much?" Arthur bit out, eyes small. "Because I'm the perfect amusement in Paris?"

"Ah yes," Eames sighs, falling back on the carpet gracelessly and daring to close his eyes. "Good old Paris. Never really understood your attraction to this city love."

"That's because you don't know what the concept of class is Mr. Eames," Arthur snaps, "Now I would like you to kindly leave and stop spilling blood onto my carpet!"

It is just a small amount of blood, a drop really, coming from underneath the shirt on Eames' right forearm. And although Arthur had hit him harshly and given him a number of bruises, he knew that he hadn't broken the skin, and certainly couldn't have been the reason Eames was now bleeding.

As for Eames, he seems unconcerned, just moving his arm a little so that it isn't touching the carpet. Arthur notices how delicately he moves though and the strain, the slightest strain, the movement has made around his still shut eyes.

"Eames?" he starts, hesitantly. Not his business, it's not, and he should just send Eames away, kick him out back into the cold Paris streets… "What's wrong with you?"

Eames lets out a low laugh, oddly muffled and oddly bitter as he opens his eyes, those bright grey eyes, and looks right through Arthur. "Frankly love, I don't even know anymore. Think you could help me figure it out?"

And damn it all, Arthur does.

It isn't even that severe of a wound, but Arthur cleans it for him anyway.

"Darling you always know what's best for me," Eames tells him as he washes the dried blood away to reveal the cut, 5 inches long and about 2 inches deep spreading across the broad expanse of Eames' right shoulder and part of his upper arm. To him it almost looks as if it could just be another tattoo on Eames, if it weren't bleeding all over his clean linen towels.

"Dammit Eames the bleeding's not letting up," Arthur growled in exasperation, pressing the towels in harder until he hears a hiss escape Eames' plush lips. "I might have to sew it up."

"Ugh no needles love," Eames half heartedly protests, leaning closer to Arthur. "You know how much I hate them."

Arthur, although he knows Eames can't see him, rolls his eyes. "Don't be such a baby; you'll probably barely feel it through all your muscle."

Arthur knows that he accidentally slipped up by the brightness that suddenly enters Eames' cunning eyes. "Why Arthur darling," the Brit drawled lazily. "One would think that you just paid me a compliment!"

In answer, Arthur just presses further against the wound and tries not to look too smug when Eames' smirk slips as he grimaces. "Did I say muscle? I meant fat."

"You are epitome of hilarity," Eames smirks back, "and if I weren't in so much agony right now, I believe that I'd be rolling in laughter."

"I'm going to get the first aid kit," Arthur states, reaching for one of Eames' hands. He tries not to notice how warm and big and rough it is as he directs it up to the towel, presses those blunt fingers against it. Against the white and red of the towel, Eames' skin is a lovely sun-kissed hue that contrasts so sharply against his own pale hand. He lets out a heavy breath he can only hope that Eames doesn't notice. "Apply pressure while I'm gone."

"Right-o sire," Eames replies easily, his hand not moving underneath of Arthur's but his eyes, those grey eyes, are saying so much. Arthur forces himself to stand, to slide his hand off of the rough one and leave the room for the bathroom, where he finds his kit in its familiar place right on the lower shelf.

After taking a deep breath and taking a small glance at himself in the mirror—even for Eames he likes to look presentable after all—he finds Eames not on the couch where he'd left him but over by the window where Arthur had previously been seated, pressed up against the milky darkness that pounded against the window outside. His skin looked almost iridescent against the Paris night sky, the bruises that covered his face and chest that Arthur himself had kindly put on him standing out against the flesh like darkened stars.

For a second Arthur almost forgot who it was he is looking at and just stares, taking in the long lines of thick muscles and the darkened, twisting edges where tattoos and bruises combine. Even when Eames turns to him he does not look away, Eames' eyes like coals left over in a hearth as they stare back at him, challenging and filled with something else, something soft and flickering like the tiniest little flame—

"Darling, if I didn't know any better I would say that you were checking me out."

Arthur's dark scowl of irritation is immediate. "That is only in your dreams, Mr. Eames. Now come back over to the couch so that I can just get this over with."

"Mm but I don't want to go back over there love," Eames sighed, looking back to the window. "Paris is too pretty not to see at night."

"Even as you bleed out watching it?" Arthur raises an elegant brow. "Paris at night will always be there; you however will not if you continue to leave that wound unattended. Now sit down."

Truthfully it is not just the fear of Eames dying in his apartment that scares him, but the way Eames looks against the window, with the lights of the city down below flashing over him and accentuating him in all the wrong (right) places. The sight slips into Arthur's mind and stays there, hovering and as taunting as the man associated with it as Eames comes away from the window and situates himself on the couch. Arthur is irrationally angry with him as he begins the simple process of sewing skin to skin, trying not to think to hard about the way Eames' skin feels feverish, or how it is so smooth and soft compared to the rest of the man.

He needs a distraction, especially from the way he feels Eames is watching him, and the perfect one comes in the wound he is meticulously closing up in front of him.

"How did this happen?"

"Oh you know, how things normally happen in our line of work," Eames starts, and Arthur makes sure to pull extra hard on the thread at the sarcastic tone. "Ouch! Easy love, just stating a fact! I think they were watching me all night and decided to attack me when I got to my hotel. Bloody hurt like a bitch but I don't think they'll be coming after me anymore."

Arthur struggles to keep his tone neutral. "And why exactly are you in Paris to begin with? I thought you had a job in Switzerland."

"Oh, I did, I just finished it early and thought I'd take a stroll in the city of love. It was pure coincidence that you happened to live here."

"Indeed," Arthur grits out. He presses his hand over the stitched up part of the wound for a second until Eames lets out a small grunt of pain. "Utter coincidence. I'm sure just you showing up on my doorstep at two in the morning is coincidence too."

Eames' grin is roguish. "Well your used to it by now, darling!"

And the sad part is, Arthur really was. At least once a month Eames makes a habit in dropping by to see him, and as a result gets himself into a sometimes severe fist fight with him just out of principal. I mean seriously, Arthur thinks, who's insane enough to show up at someone's apartment at two, three or even four AM? Eames deserved every beating he got, even if now, as Arthur sews up his wound, there's a twisting in his stomach that feels strangely, unbelievably like regret.

But he hadn't known Eames had been hurt and it had been dark and… If he had known before his fists made contact, what would he have done anyway?

"Doesn't mean I appreciate it Eames," Arthur replies coolly, not letting an ounce of his sudden inner turmoil show. Eames wasn't the only one who could wear a face. "And if I hadn't been here what would you have done? Besides, of course, bleed out on the streets?"

The wound is closed now, sewed up in one neat little line that Arthur begins to clean with a warm washcloth. Eames leans into the touch. "Hadn't really thought that far love—"

"Of course you hadn't," Arthur interrupts, "When do you ever?"

"—But you're here anyways, so let's not think like that, huh? Oh and do you mind if I crash here tonight?"

"What?" Arthur sharply retorts, drawing the cloth of the wound. "No, absolutely not; you have a hotel room, you told me!"

"Yes love, a hotel room in which I was attacked. Clearly it would not be sagely to return back there for quite some time."

"You told me that you took care of them all!" Arthur glares, "and why can't you just find another hotel and rent a room there?"

"But darrrrling," Eames whined, and Arthur stiffened as he leaned closer. Those wicked eyes were inches from his own and Arthur could all but taste stale cigarettes and cheap whisky and the metallic essence of blood in his mouth as Eames exhaled against his cheek. "Where's the fun in that?"

Arthur swallowed, hard. "Being in a deadly situation, which you might bring to my door just by being here, is not supposed to be fun Mr. Eames."

Eames just throws back his head (taking all the warmth with him) and laughs, loud and hard through his bruises and his bloodied teeth. "I'd have to say you're wrong on that, love; I'm having plenty of fun right now, with you fussing over me like an old maid."

Arthur didn't know what to be angrier about; the fact that Eames was having "fun" at his expense or the fact that he had called him an old maid. Arthur decides that such insolence deserves double the punishment and smacks Eames on his freshly stitched shoulder, twice. He can't stop the smirking as Eames immediately starts cursing, all laughter gone from his face as he frowns and rubs the sore area.

"You sure do play dirty love," he mutters, "even if I do like dirty things…"

"Stop right there," Arthur commands, "You're not staying here; vacate my premises immediately."

Eames just stares at him in amusement. "Really? Who talks like that anymore?"

Arthur's chin goes up. "Classy people do. Now go, I took care of you like you wanted, so now you should leave. And possibly never come back."

"Why Arthur!" Eames mock-gasps, "It almost sounds like you're wishing for me to die or something! Why ever wouldn't I come back?"

Arthur narrows his eyes at him. "Haven't you figured it out yet Eames? I don't want you here." He stands in one jerky motion, not looking back at Eames as he walks to his apartment door, grabs the handle and opens it. A clear sign that Eames better obey. "I never wanted you here, and I don't know why the hell you keep coming back. It's the same every time. Leave."

Behind him, there is no sound. A heavy silence that Arthur's not sure is supposed to feel this awkward, this…charged. Shouldn't Eames being saying something smug and flirty back in reply? He always had before, always. But then, this wasn't like other nights, was it?

He looks back slowly to find Eames not on the couch but back over by the window, watching the city. His back is to Arthur. Arthur stays by the door.

"You know what's funny, pet?" Eames says at length, and his voice is quiet, subdued. Immediately Arthur knows that he doesn't like it this way, not at all.

"What Mr. Eames?" He answers back without really meaning to. He wants Eames to look at him for some reason, wants to look into those familiar (too familiar) eyes and know what the other man is thinking, even though he never has known and he never completely will know. But he needs to see.

But Eames stays by the window and stares out at the lights and the sounds he can't hear and the blurry shapes that through the darkness he cannot truly see. "When that knife cut through me, for a second I thought I was going to die. I don't get that feeling a lot, pet, because every time I'm injured like this it's in a dream and I know that everything will be fine when I wake up. But this… Well, mortality was the only thing on my mind when I left that place, and the only place I knew with all my heart I wanted to be, if I were to die, would be here, in your flat with your fists in my face, reminding me how real this all is. Do you understand that, Arthur?"

It's not often that Eames says his name, just his name. It makes something large form in Arthur's throat that he can't swallow down, makes him quietly shut the door he is still uselessly holding open. No, he doesn't understand. He can't understand why Eames is here, keeps coming here, and why there is this lump in his throat and why he can't stand the thought, the very thought, of Eames suddenly dying.

He can't say anything, so he waits.

There is something in the air, something intangible between them and it makes his palms sweat, similar to the feeling he gets when there is a gun pointed at his chest in a dream. He knows it can't really hurt him and yet it still does, if only for a moment.

When Eames finally does turn to him, Arthur releases a breath he hadn't even known he'd been keeping, locked inside of him and waiting for the sight of the soft tug of those plush lips, the warm light (the life) in those irises. "I came to you Arthur because I knew that you would take care of me, just like I knew that you'd be waiting up for me."

"I did not—"

"And I knew that you would help me, even if I didn't want the help and even if seeing you right now is killing me because—"

He knows the territory in which Eames is entering; can see it in the way Eames bites his lips and looks away from him, the movement so subtle that only a point man could be able to see it as what it was.

He knows the territory in which Eames is entering, unspoken between them for so many years and yet he does nothing to stop it, nothing to retreat as he has always done. Maybe it's the dried blood still present on areas of Eames' torso, or maybe it's the army of bruises that stain his flesh that makes him stay quiet, makes his mind, always so resistant, start to accept that Eames has always been more than a pain in his ass and a co-worker. Yes of course he was that, but he is also so much and too much more.

Arthur lets the unsaid words hang between them, lets Eames' eyes, which are so oddly fragile, slide over him until their eyes meet and stick.

Arthur feels his lips part as Eames takes a small step forward. Arthur doesn't step back.

"You know what darling?" Eames murmurs softly, "I think I'm starting to figure some things out."

Arthur feels oddly breathless as he tries to glare at Eames. "What is there to figure out?" He finds that he can't muster up a true glare, not with that glint in Eames' eyes and the bruises and the vague remains of Paris at night lit up behind him.

Eames takes another step, and another, until Arthur can clearly see the bruises on his cheeks, lines of blue and black converging in a pattern that shouldn't have looked so oddly attractive, and certainly shouldn't have highlighted the undercurrent of blue in those grey eyes. "Oh I think you're starting to finally catch on love," Eames says gently.

Arthur still does not move. He tells himself that it's because he doesn't want to see weak but even his mind knows that this is a lie. He doesn't move back because he doesn't want to and he doesn't resist when Eames is inches from him because he knows that he is tired of running from whatever it is that is between them. And Eames is hurt and Eames blood had been on his hands, is still drying in little flakes along his nail bed and he thinks about all the things that could have happened to Eames if he hadn't been here, still wide awake and staring out at nothing and just waiting.

Arthur knows that he is a liar, but he never realized how much he had lied to himself until Eames is in front of him, smelling of concrete and a Parisian night and now Eames is the one that is waiting, waiting on him to make that move that will irrevocably change things.

Arthur finally begins to understand that Eames is the one that has always been waiting up for him. Always waiting for him to just let him in and maybe, just maybe, heal his wounds and wipe away the blood that will always perpetually stain them.

All it takes is one step forward and Eames is shuddering, a tidal wave of emotions and muscles and finally crashing into Arthur and then there is just heat and power and Eames' lips are so much better than his fists, and just as powerful as Arthur sways on his feet, grasping onto hot flesh and running faintly shaking fingers over the freshly stitched bicep.

Eames is leaning against him, panting burning air into his lungs and filling him with the flames of the passion that for so long have been kindling.

"Arthur," Eames is whispering, frantically and reverently and perfectly. "Should I check my totem? This is definitely better than getting beaten up by you…"

Arthur smiles and it is brighter than Paris will ever be, the city of love nothing compared to the influx of emotions entering his system and tingling through his limbs like the finest champagne.

"Someone already beat me to it tonight I'm afraid," Arthur nearly whispers, and wonders why. "And if I had known…"

When Eames kisses him again it is soft and tender and everything Arthur never knew he needed but suddenly, irrevocably did. "Bedroom," Arthur draws back just enough to mutter. "Now."

But Eames just grins at him, that fucking wonderful mischievous grin that makes Arthur's chest loosen and automatically makes him dimple back at him. "No, no darling, not the bedroom. We mustn't waste such a view in the bedroom…"

So when Eames pulls him down to the carpet by the window, in the exact spot he had been staring out at the city at earlier, he doesn't protest. As lips meld and hands roam and moans and cries and French fills the air, Arthur thinks that if Paris were to burn right now, right outside his very window, he wouldn't even notice as Eames draws him back down for more. A new brand of fighting, a new way to burn as a new kind of hell breaks loose.

Fin.