Again, I want to start off by thanking you guys for all over the wonderful reviews! All of the positive feedback has been very encouraging. And sorry about this being a couple days late. Halloween parties and assignments are a hectic, dangerous combination.
I had a bit too much fun with this one. Toying with the concept of Eames being unpredictable is something I enjoy. Hopefully you guys agree.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
By the time he was buzzing up to Eames' apartment, Arthur had stopped shaking. Externally, he was as composed as ever, but perhaps wearing a slight bit more annoyance than usual. The autumn evening and a long drive through traffic had cooled him somewhat. Yet, it had not changed his mind in the least about what he was doing. There was no place in a city to let out frustration gracefully. As soon as he heard the door unlock for him, he pushed through and made his way towards the stairs in haste.
When knocking on the door and waiting in the hallway, he reached the point where he was able to think clearly. But no, he wasn't turning back. Nothing good would come out of returning at this moment. Arthur braced for a wave of rage to hit him as soon as Eames answered the door. He knew they had returned to their former ways when he simply accepted that the forger was going to annoy him immensely in some manner. Being made to wait when Eames knew he was in the building was a little irritating in itself, but after a few seconds the door was opened and held for him.
At that moment, the most heavenly smell struck Arthur. Any hesitation he might have had was eradicated by his stomach, which was on the verge of caving in on itself. It was the smell of cooked lamb, an array of spices and noodles. It dragged him through the doorway. It even took a second before his mind even registered the fact that Eames was smiling at him and handing him a glass of red wine. It was faintly chilled.
"Dinner in exchange for the information? Sounds only fair to me." Eames said, seemingly amused by how visibly perplexed Arthur was. The point man swallowed, noticing how much he had been salivating.
"I just came to give them to you." It was a weak response, and they were both quite aware of it.
"No, you didn't." Eames smiled shrewdly as he walked off back towards the kitchen, where something was still hissing in the pan. Arthur found that he didn't have the energy to be annoyed; he simply shrugged off his jacket, hung it up, stepped out of his shoes and followed.
For a temporary apartment, Eames had a very nice place. It was one of those older style buildings, with red exposed brick along at least one wall. The large, almost floor-to-ceiling windows and other faintly modern elements made it look like a young man's home. Hell, even the furniture looked clean and expensive. Arthur was beginning to wonder if he'd suffered from an aneurism during the cab ride, and this was all just his own broken mind playing tricks.
Although feeling a little guarded, he joined Eames in the kitchen after a quick glance around. The only thing that convinced him that the forger actually lived here was the sporadic clutter here and there, and the fact that everywhere, could faintly smell the almost permanent scent of the other's cologne under the torturous smell of good food. He eyed two plates on the small table at the opposite end of the kitchen, and played with the glass in his hand almost sheepishly. To serve red wine cold was like a sin amongst the sophisticated circles, but he loved it. He hadn't expected Eames to remember that.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, leaning against the island counter and forcing himself to look at the other man, who was turning off the range and giving the contents of the pan one more push around. He looked completely relaxed, perhaps even cheerful. It was almost unnerving.
"Because we've both had a bad day, and I think we deserve a treat." Oddly enough, there was no tone of innuendo attached to the word 'treat'. Was he actually referring to the meal, and not the inevitable furious sex on that expensive-looking leather couch? As if he felt Arthur's gaze on him, Eames turned his head to look at the point man and grinned. "Relax, darling. Have I yet to poison you with wine?"
Arthur fidgeted with his glass again, looking away. "I think you have good reason to, this time."
"And you have good reason to send Mrs. Cobb to my door with a shovel and a shotgun, but I'm still breathing." When he saw the instant wounded look on Arthur's face, Eames froze for a moment. It seemed to click within seconds. "Oh. So that's what happened."
"I didn't want her to know about you working against us. But feel free to poison my food, anyway." He mumbled this almost bitterly, staring down at the dark wine like it was suddenly interesting. It smelled just as tempting as the food. Eames seemed rather unbothered as he moved towards the table to load the plates. The food looked like something between stew and stir-fry, with large chunks of meat and vegetables sitting in ample pasta and sauce. Arthur felt his stomach ache again.
"So you told her I'm in town, left in a huff, and invited yourself over to my flat to make a peace offering of flash drives that you've already copied all of the information from." The forger didn't sound angry, or even annoyed. In fact, there was something of a chuckle in his voice. Arthur shifted on his feet uncomfortably.
"And you're making me dinner." he stated flatly, unable to help the smile that was creeping into his expression. "Sometimes I wonder how normal people go about this sort of thing."
"I haven't a clue, darling." Eames grinned as he moved to place the pan and wooden spoon in the sink, where the hot metal sizzled against the cool water. He then picked up his own wine glass, gave Arthur a shining look, and headed back to the table with an invitational sweep of the arm. "But I imagine it must be pretty bloody boring."
The food was amazing. It was a recipe that Eames had picked up in Greece, and had been dying to try. What was more incredible was the fact that the other man could cook. Arthur supposed that after the incident when he managed to unwittingly obliterate a coffee maker with an overflowing filter and a great amount of short-circuiting, the possibility of Eames preparing anything consumable became out of the question. But this was exactly what Arthur's stomach needed; something filling and home-cooked. As they ate, the forger inevitably got the story out of him. It turned into a bit of a rant on Arthur's part, as he explained that Mal had overreacted and she was still actually pretty unhappy with the whole matter from a year ago. He felt worse about lying to Eames about the situation than to her. Maybe there was something wrong with that. But at least the forger listened to why he tried to convince him that she had gotten over the past incident.
"I just thought I could balance the problem on my own. I usually can." Arthur finally said, feeling better yet quite tired after letting everything out. Three glasses of (excellent) wine was likely of no help to the latter. And it was almost criminal how easy it was to talk to Eames. He listened, absorbed, and actually offered insight. Alcohol wasn't even needed for that.
"I agree, you usually can. Nobody can juggle like you can." The forger was watching Arthur across the small table, loosely holding his fork so it stood on point in the middle of his nearly empty plate. "But this isn't something you could sweep under the rug, Arthur. She was going to find out eventually."
Oh hell. He used his name. When it was serious, Eames dropped the little pet names and endearments. True discussions between them had been few in the past, but it was something Arthur had kept in his memory. The point man chewed his bite slowly for a moment before forcing himself to swallow the food. His eyes moved elsewhere, looking at nothing in particular but anything that wasn't Eames.
"Well, what was I supposed to do?" he sighed, utterly failing to sound defensive and lacking the energy to care.
"Considering you're here and not there, I'll assume that this is harder for you than I thought it would be." The forger sounded quite sincere. "Unless this is a matter of your independence versus Mal's overprotective nature. If so, then you're not getting far by rebelling."
Arthur set down his fork and took a little more than a sip of wine. That wasn't it. Not in the least. But Arthur's lingering pride didn't want to admit it. He loathed to accept that he had come to see Eames because Mal had attacked him. Calling him 'absolute fucking trash' was not as bad as a punch in the nose, but it was still uncalled for. In some way, it hurt Arthur. Because despite their battles, their personality clashes and the utter frustration he felt around the forger, he knew that he was a good man. Just under the conman's smile was a gentleman. And Arthur had never, ever felt better than he did when he was with Eames, whether they were fighting or doing the complete opposite. God. He was such a mess.
When he didn't say anything, Eames patiently pressed on. "Why are you here, Arthur?" The point man had a feeling that he already knew. Because Eames could practically read his mind. It was annoying, but he could not be angry, because the other man was making a sincere attempt to help him. So he opted for the best excuse to be honest as possible; he picked up the wine bottle and refilled his own glass.
"Maybe I knew there was a free meal and a shag in it for me?" He tried to be flippant about it, to avoid the truth, but his companion was not wavering from his gentlemanly behaviour. It was almost unnerving, when any other time such a comment might have found him sprawled out on the table half-naked in about ten seconds.
"There's always that." Eames said with an amused and harmless smile, setting down his fork and pushing his plate aside. "But don't think that's it. You can get a free meal and shag out of me any time, without family drama and returning my stolen property."
Arthur chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, but couldn't hold down the comment. "You stole half of it from me in the first place."
"And you stole that from my place of employment. But you didn't come all this way to argue about the rightful ownership of confidential documents." Eames reached over for the bottle and filled his own glass. "You are here because you need something from me. A place to stay the night? A means to get back at Mal? Please, tell me what it is so I know we're both on the same page."
"You're awfully comfortable with the idea of being used." Arthur pointed out as he took another sip. The edges of his vision were blurring a little, and he was feeling like he could be painfully honest any minute. Maybe he should stop drinking. Eames cocked his head and smiled again.
"I'm comfortable with accepting that my value differs with the opinions of many, many people."
The comment stunned Arthur. He slowly set his glass down again and fixed Eames with a long, firm look. A sick, tense feeling coiled in his stomach, and he suddenly felt drained. A sour feeling was left in his mouth. His hands began to feel very cold and clammy. It was like some great illness swept down on him without warning, sucking the life out of him instantly. His voice was quiet, confused and almost pained as he worked up a response.
"You think I don't care about you." No, he didn't have the energy or the desire to lie and pretend that Eames was completely right in his assumption. Any other day, he might have. He would have done anything in his power to convince the other that he didn't care in the least, and that he was exactly what Mal had said – trash. But Arthur's proud malevolence had run out. He couldn't be anything but honest with the forger, who seemed to scoff before giving him a strange smile. There was warmth, but acceptance. Like he was telling them both that he was okay with the truth.
"You know why people call me, Arthur?" He sounded so unlike himself; serious yet deflated. "Clients, coworkers, bloody one-night stands; you know why they come to me? Because it's convenient. Because I drop off the face of the earth so often that commitment to anything is impossible. People like that about me, and I know that it's part of who I am. Forgettable, temporary Eames. To you, I am a challenge; a game. Maybe a safe place to crash for the moment. And I'm okay with that."
Arthur didn't know what he was doing, but he was on his feet in an instant. When Eames looked confused, he panicked internally. That was what he thought. That was sincerely, truthfully, how he thought Arthur saw him. It was exactly what he wanted; on any other day. The point man had consistently dished out abuse and acted so detached, because he wanted Eames to feel like he meant nothing. But that was untrue. What he really thought of Eames, he had no idea. Wine and upset and a lack of sleep probably had his common sense stretched thin. But he knew, for a fact, that Eames was wrong. And he would have loved to say all of that, so they were exactly on the 'same page', but his eloquence failed him. He could only manage his default words.
"You're an idiot." He mumbled with a distinct lack of strength. Much to his anger, Eames just laughed quietly and stood up as well. He was picking up the plates like there was absolutely no serious conversation at hand.
"You always say that when I hit the nail on the head." He seemed rather determined to remain nonchalant about something like this. It was more than a little upsetting for Arthur. He followed as Eames went to the sink, finding his equilibrium to be a little skewed. Eames looked back with a smile as Arthur almost collided with the counter. "Sit down, love."
No, he wouldn't let Eames brush this off. Arthur gripped the edge of the granite countertop to steady himself. "That's what you really think. Is that how you feel about me?"
"I just made you dinner. What do you think?" There was something odd about Eames' otherwise normal, teasing tone.
"Stop toying with me."
"Sucks, doesn't it?"
Arthur fumed at the forger for a moment before straightening himself and walking out of the kitchen. He didn't know where he was going, being well on his way to drunk and already at the last place he could go before breaking into the school library and sleeping there. But he was hurt. He didn't know what he wanted, but it wasn't where this conversation was going. It had all been alright before they started talking about it. Being honest with each other was just a bad idea, when they made their living lying to everyone else.
Before he could half-stagger to the door, Arthur felt a gentle hand grip his elbow and tug him towards the couch. He swore at Eames, told him to let go, but was just a little too intoxicated to swing a punch if he really wanted to. He was pushed down onto the couch, where his body conceded and simply lost all tension.
"You can go, but at least sober up first. Canadians are nice folks, but this isn't exactly a crime-free city." Eames said, sitting down beside Arthur. It bothered him more that the forger wasn't invading his personal space, but instead keeping a respectful distance. Arthur didn't know what to expect when the other wasn't being deliberately irritating. "Maybe we can talk this through, and you can see if you still want to go in an hour?"
Damn him. Damn him and how he could be a good person when least expected. Arthur was still fuming quietly, but he felt like he couldn't keep up the anger anymore. He was too tired. Nodding, he sank into the couch a little more and sighed. He rubbed at his face as Eames went to fetch him something to sober up with.
"So, why don't you enlighten me? Because I clearly have it wrong." Arthur winced at the invitation when the other returned, placing a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him. No, he didn't want to explain himself. It had been so much better when they didn't ask questions. When it was just allowed to be whatever it was, and they could just enjoy the arguments and the affection without wondering why. Running his hands through his hair, Arthur heaved a sigh.
"Can't we just leave it at the fact that you're an idiot?"
"Probably not."
Another sigh, and Arthur leaned his head back against the cool leather of the couch. He couldn't say it. Whatever 'it' was, he couldn't bring himself to admit it. All he knew was that Eames was not just a game to him. Under all that forced contempt and shallow attraction, he respected the forger. But could he even say that? He feared the fact that he would probably sign himself up for an eternity of mockery if he admitted that.
Silence hung heavy between them, as Arthur tried to decide whether he was angry with himself or just far too drunk for this nonsense. When he looked to Eames, the other was patiently waiting. A friendly smile and eager eyes. He wanted to punch him for managing to be so reasonable when Arthur himself was such a mess. The point man narrowed his eyes. Yet, under that infuriatingly good-natured attitude, there was something in Eames. If Arthur could dare to make assumptions, he would wonder if there was vulnerability in the other's eyes. Like there was something sincere and afraid under that incredible poker face.
As if Eames needed anything to make him even more magnetic. Arthur wasn't quite sure what sparked it, but they were tangled together on the couch in and instant. There couldn't possibly be something unconscious about straddling another man's lap, but that was where he found himself. This kiss was just as abrupt as the one from earlier that day, but it was not quite as violent. It was a heavy battle of mouths in a power struggle, but there was nothing downright hostile about it. Arthur could focus on the details, this time.
Beyond the food and wine, the taste was so inexplicably Eames. And the calloused fingertips dragging across his jaw and down his neck were so familiar that Arthur felt himself shivering. The shirt under his own hands was, much to his surprise, a soft cotton rather that the usual offensive polyester fabric. The subtle scratching of facial hair against his own skin, and the unmistakable blend of cologne and Eames' own scent plunged him into utter oblivion, as he was completely wrapped in the other's presence. Every little part of it felt like he was being welcomed back. Like he had been away from home for far too long.
It was heated, but not frenzied. The kiss was slow, deliberate and deep. They didn't grope blindly at each other, but instead just tried to establish as much contact as possible, as if they were both utterly freezing and dying for heat. But in fact, Arthur felt that he could combust at any given moment. If Eames still felt like a piece of meat after this, Arthur might seriously consider breaking his legs and leaving him in a ditch.
The hands on his hips tightened their grip briefly, before Eames pulled away from the kiss for a desperate breath of air. It was only at that moment that Arthur realized his own aching lungs. They panted for a moment, both dazed and quiet, before Eames' head leaned back against the couch and he laughed breathlessly.
"Well, that was informative-" The latter half of his statement was strained with surprise and a slightly higher pitch as Arthur dove for his throat. The point man had not forgotten his weaknesses, and he knew that a well-aimed bite a couple inches directly under his ear would have Eames seeing stars. It made him stop talking, at least. As the other groaned and tensed underneath him, he sucked at the skin mercilessly until he heard his own name being gasped. Sparks of predatory delight ignited at the base of Arthur's spine. He wanted to leave visible mark, because he knew that the other lacked the willpower to tell him to stop. He wanted everyone to see it. A year apart didn't mean a damn thing; he still had every right to claim the forger for himself.
As soon as he released the skin from his teeth, Arthur felt a tug at his hair that tilted his head back up to Eame's mouth. This time there was more ferocity in the kiss. And, judging by the overwhelmingly delightful feeling of nails raking at the skin on his stomach, they were no longer playing fair. Arthur was almost upset with himself for not thinking of doing this to get Eames to drop the 'gentleman' act earlier. Shirts were clawed at until they were less obtrusive. There was a brief wrestling match, until the other eventually conceded and allowed himself to be pushed down to lay on the couch. Shirt open and already looking half-ravished, he was perfect. He even appeared put off about being pushed down, much to Arthur's delight.
"I'll be good to you, darling." Arthur purred, straddling the other man again and promptly grinding his hips down. They were both already quite hard, which made the sensation even more delightful. The chorus of moans from both of them was a sound he had missed, and he greedily wanted to hear more. Eames said something incoherent. It was gasped and desperate, and Arthur wasn't willing to listen. He took his turn to grab a handful of the other's hair and kiss him forcefully.
He didn't want to hear it. He was finished with talking and thinking and questioning. They had done too much of that, lately. All he wanted was Eames, in all of his infuriating, beautiful complexity. It was something that, at this moment, he felt was truly his own, and the only thing he was still sure of.