Disclaimer: I, obviously, do not own Inception or anything about it. Christopher Nolan is my God.
Warning: Foul language, boyXboy lurvin', sexual innuendos
A/N: I've been hording this story for a while, not sure whether I wanted to post it or not. It's just a simple little interaction between our favorite Point Man and Forger. Based off of the poem "The Flea" by John Donne.
"You're mad," he muttered, shaking his head as he continued down the sidewalk, as if he wasn't being followed.
Eames grinned cheekily, his roguish features appearing momentarily soft with affection as he pursued the Point Man. "As a hatter, darling."
That earned him a fairly withering flare. Arthur's dark eyes left him feeling a sense of excitement thrumming just under his skin. A feeling he'd been chasing since grade school. A feeling that often depleted over time. A feeling that never depleted around Arthur—and it was driving him nutters.
Once, he would have chalked it up to the thrill of the chase. Years of experience told him otherwise. A chase was all good and fun unless it took too long. Eames wasn't known for his patience. He knew that, after a decade of chasing, he should be sick of it.
The very fact that he wasn't clued him into his true feelings. Arthur was special. Always had been. Always would be. He doubted that, even if he could finally bed the dress-savvy man, the thrill would always be there. Just under the surface. Waiting.
"Go away, Mr. Eames."
The very fact that Arthur knew this difference was making it all the worse.
"Come, now, sweetheart," he couldn't let Arthur's indifference get to him. He never had before. "I'm just asking you out for a drink. No harm in it."
The slender man came to an abrupt stop, forcing Eames to scramble in order to keep from bumping into a passerby. When he finally righted himself, he looked up to meet a skeptical gaze. He ran his hands, almost self consciously, over the lapels of his tweed jacket.
Arthur's eyes flickered down to the movement, and distaste flashed across his features before he shifted and began walking again as he spoke. "It's never just a drink, Mr. Eames."
Eames let out an exasperated sigh, and he reached out to catch Arthur's wrist—a move he quickly, and subconsciously, deflected. His jaw clenched, and he stopped, pulling Eames out of the human flow of traffic. The Brit was happy to have him so frustrated—and to have him giving him such attention. Even if it was only to reject him. Again.
Just as Arthur had opened his mouth to speak, his eyes caught sight of a worse pest than Eames. The miniscule insect bit the Forger before hopping over and biting Arthur on the back of his hand. With a faint curse, the Point Man caught the bug between his fingers, ready to squish it.
"I hate New York," he muttered heatedly, glaring at the insect before Eames caught his hand.
He glanced up, faltering at the sudden pleading look in Eames' light eyes. "Don't do that."
Arthur tried to ignore the tingling in his fingers. "Do what?"
"Don't kill the flea," it was more of a command. Less of a request.
"Why not?" He asked warily, eyes narrowing as Eames shuffled closer until Arthur could feel the heat of him—something that was simultaneously inviting and overwhelming. Something that had Arthur debating with something in himself that was very precarious.
"Because this flea…" Arthur swallowed thickly at the way Eames' gaze darkened and raked over his lithe form. "This flea is sacred, now, darling."
The brunette shook his head, "Don't be ridiculous—"
"Listen for once, would you, luv?" And Arthur's mouth snapped shut. Eames looked grateful. "This flea, Arthur, is our matrimony. Our bloods are mingled, here. In this one little insect, we are intertwined. We are one. Two parts to a single whole.
"Killing this flea would be three senseless murders. The innocent life of a harmless creature—and the both of us. In killing this flea, you sacrifice our bond." Eames seemed to edge even closer; Arthur wanted to take a step back, but his found his legs unmoving. "In this flea, we are more than wed. There is no judgment there. No wrong or right. Just you and me. It's our temple. It's the bed in which we lay together…"
Eames licked his lower lip, voice husky and tempting, as his eyes focused on Arthur's own mouth. "The bed in which we would move together. Where our lips would meet. Where our skin would slick with sweat. Where all pleasures of the flesh would come to the fore. Where I would—"
Arthur crushed the pest between his thumb and forefinger, scowling as vivid images of Eames above him—of Eames inside of him—seared into his mental eye. "That's enough, Mr. Eames. I won't take part in one of your silly games."
The dark haired man tried to pull away, but Eames' grip held firm and even tightened. "Look at what you've done, darling. Bloodied your lovely hands for no reason but to spite me."
"That's the best reason in the world, Mr. Eames." Arthur replied bitingly, wrenching his hand free and reaching forward to grip the broader man's jacket collar.
Brow raised, he tugged Eames forward, and nearly smiled at his undignified squeak. "What now? You've already broken my heart. How could—"
Arthur pressed a tight-lipped kiss to the other man's mouth, shutting him up quite effectively. Big hands were instantly at his hips, coaxing him closer as surprisingly soft lips slanted over his. The Point Man's fingers curled in the roughness of Eames' paisley jacket as he nipped playfully at a full lower lip. The larger let out a faint groan, and Arthur drew back, looking as unruffled as ever.
Eames, however, was wide eyed and lusting.
"So, Mr. Eames," he smiled, almost coyly, as he brushed past him. "How about that drink?"
It took a moment, a long moment, for the Brit to process the request. But once he had, he was spinning quickly. Chasing after the other man with hurried steps. The name 'tease' hung in the air, even as the slender man laughed.
Fin.